Мариам Петросян - The Gray House

I walk up the pain in my knee and return to the Nesting. My dear jungle. The pillars thereof of ivy, the bottom thereof of ferns. Bitter green flesh all the way around. What's that smell? Someone's indiscretion. Nothing to do with me. Everyone here lives on carrion, not just me. I hop on the roost to give myself a boost. That's the only way to see anything in here, from up high. The inhabitants mostly cling to the ground, and there're nooks galore. And we’re the ones called Birds, go figure. Whatever, it wasn't us who dubbed us that. I take the red ribbon out of the plastic bag and tie it to the top rung. That's a sign. Of the upcoming verbal incontinence of old Daddy Vulture. The awful racket dies down, the populace crawls closer and waits. All kinds of deformities, both external and internal, all of them staring at my beak. That's the way they've been born, so what can you do? I drop a carton of cigarettes down, as a token of benevolence. It is caught jubilantly. I can toss them goodies all day long, and it’ll never be enough.

“Listen, children,” I begin.

They do. They're good at it. All of them. Scary, that.

“Here's the deal,” I say unto them, “concerning the girls. I seem to notice that you never invite anyone. That's not good. Making friends and inviting them—that's good. Look at Beauty, he's got a girlfriend, but he doesn't invite her. That's the latest fashion here in the House, wouldn't do for us to fall behind. Saunter forth. Give the Nest a bit of spit and polish, tidy up, throw away the rubbish. Clean and sparkling, and the only smell should be of Elephant's violets.”

They get it. Nodding. Elephant more eagerly than others. He heard his pretty flowers mentioned, so he's happy, poor soul. Butterfly flips his paw over Angel's shoulder. Angel wrinkles his nose. Hilarious. What do those two need with girls?

Dearest giggles.

“I just lo-o-ove girls,” he proclaims in falsetto. “Such darlings! Could it be they would bring us something? Them being so kind and all.”

Sure, why not. They very well might. Lipstick, for example. I wouldn't bet on kindness, though.

“don't even think about wheedling gifts from them,” I say.

Dearest rolls his eyes dolefully and preens his feathers.

“Wheedling? Eww-w! I'm not that way!”

“What the hell?” Lizard says. “Girls mean trouble. They go here, they go there, and then there's gossip all over the House. Some darlings! They can take their gifts and shove ’em.”

“don't do anything worth gossiping about, then,” I say.

Beauty glows. Tries to dim the light show with the eyelashes, but it still shines through. One handsome guy. The only one here. He's not going to invite Doll, of course. He's got enough sense for that.

Lizard slaps him on the back and brays, “Our Ro-o-meo!”

Beauty goes livid, hisses and spits. The image is ruined for the next half hour.

“Shut up!” I shout from my aerie.

They do.

Every possible variety of senility, all in one Nest. You could come in with the medical reference and check off the symptoms one by one. I've got crazies to suit any taste.

Horse's snoring. I toss a matchbook at him. He perks up and tries to look like he was alert all that time. Who's he kidding?

“Hooray for Vulture!” Bubble suggests out of the blue.

I have to wait out the assortment of odd-sized hoorays.

“Was that clear to everyone?” I inquire.

They nod. They scratch. With grating and huffing noises. As I look over them, a thought occurs: a girl's got to have no brains at all to accept the invitation. Horse's glum mug. Bubble's multicolored one. Butterfly's, rotting from both top and bottom. Lizard's, bumpy. Beauty alone is a sight for sore eyes, him and Elephant. And they are all uniformly green. That's from bad lighting. I look at the lightbulb. Something's buzzing around it. Something that has not yet croaked in this cold. I take a swipe at it and miss.

Lizard doubles down coughing. Choked on smoke. Eight flippers pound him on the back. A Boschian masterpiece. In the dark.

“Lord, thy will be done,” I say to the bulb.

Uproarious fun. It's a chronic condition with the pack. Whenever I am serious they imagine that I'm joking. I untie the red ribbon, fold it, and stuff it back into the bag. The buzzer goes off. They startle. It's time for Angel's drops.

“Still. Why do we need this?” Lizard drones. “Girls! We were doing fine without them. We should keep it that way. Now what? With half a year left... Blind took a roll with Long, and hey, there's the new Law? Now we can't even walk the hallways in peace.”

Angel opens his mouth and waits. For his portion of dew.

“Blind is off limits. Hallways are not. Girls are for chatting up, and inviting whenever feasible. That is all. Understood?”

Angel is waiting. Elephant bashfully giggles and covers his mouth. Beauty nods. Bubble grins.

“That's nice. Go with my blessings, children.”

I slide down from the roost and hobble away. Away from the Nest. Away from everyone. Elephant catches up with me and presents me with Louis in the pot. To buck me up and for general cheer.

So we are three walking now. Me, Louis in the crook of my elbow, and the stooping figure in Levi's and black sweater. He treads limping on his left foot just as I am listing to the right. The soundless ghost of Shadow, brother of mine. This place belongs to him as much as it does to me. In fact, he's even more of the House than I am, since he could never leave it. I can see him whenever and wherever I wish, he's always around, but always occupied with some kind of posthumous business, always on the run. He never even looks in my direction. Could be that he's upset with me. We only ever talk in my dreams, and in the morning I have to struggle to remember them. Max is the reason people seldom come closer to me than three paces when I'm not walking. Many of them feel his presence.

There's Black. Walking slowly toward me.

He nods at me, I nod at him. We don't like each other very much, but noblesse oblige . What it demands is that we greet each other and chat whenever we meet. What about? I don't know. The weather? Each other's health? Shadow makes a sour face. We move on. I start whistling softly. The daylight hours belong to the girls now. They’re also out strolling. Along with their hangers-on and gawkers-at. Flea-ridden Hounds in collars. Birds, bare-necked and in pajamas. Logs, ever fashionable, swarming. What do you call a Log's girlfriend? Logess or Logmaid? Logette, maybe? They rustle and whisper, they laugh, throwing sharp stares from under the fringes. Their presence turns the corridors into something that I don't know how to describe. The floorboards keep whimpering as balding Vulture treads them.

Plump Splutter sees Vulture, yanks off his beret, and assumes the Hound pose of respect. Head down, tail sweeping the floor. I go around him, Shadow plows through, and it's not entirely clear what causes Splutter to shudder, his respect for me or the unpleasant feeling one gets when Shadow walks through him. I would have liked to bring clarity to this question, but my feet carry me on. I have lots of questions that will forever remain unanswered. We knew not what we were doing when we christened Shadow as Shadow. Wasn't that inviting the fate that did befall him: to wander eternally, to cleave and be one flesh, to be always silent? Most of the other ghosts I know are quite chatty. He's the only one to keep total silence.

The Crossroads sofa features beastly Gaby. Legs open wide, the skirt barely there at all. The connoisseurs of private parts huddle around, peeking in eagerly. Gaby's having fun, swatting at them with her purse and squeaking coyly, but doing nothing to limit the view. When they see Great Bird it's all silence and jerky jumps away. I part that silence and take it with me, the silence, the flushed cheeks, and the sickening feeling of being somehow involved. A stern grandfather happening on a granddaughter in a compromising position. Disgusting. And funny at the same time.