Мариам Петросян - The Gray House

“I don't know,” Mermaid says, downcast. “I'd like to find out myself.”

“I doubt she would work as a lucky charm,” Needle says, crouching on the floor with the rest, “if she doesn't know herself. Those who are happy are usually more or less aware of it.”

“Maybe, but they would also never tell. Or it can get jinxed,” Bubble argues, defeated but still hopeful.

Needle has on a leather jacket now, like all other Logs. Except instead of jeans she's wearing a cotton print dress, exposing her matchstick legs. She must have gotten over her hang-ups about them. She also looks loads happier than before, and Mermaid wonders why would counselors be so against girls being friends with boys. Look at Needle, turning into something reasonably cute and worry free.

Logs look away from Mermaid and turn their attention to the beat-up toy, whirring across the landing. Mermaid looks at it too. Short of the wall, the car veers into the railing, hits it, and overturns. Logs bolt up, shouting and whistling.

“Whose wager was that? And who was the dolt that aimed it? Termite, how about using your hands once in a while?”

Mermaid quietly leaves them to it.

She treads the boys' hallway, very slowly. Now she's level with the Fourth. She's going all the way to the Crossroads. There she’ll sit on the sofa for a while and then go back. Pass by the Fourth again. Then maybe do the whole trip over. Or not. She needs to be sure that no one sees her when she goes inside, that she has enough time to replace the stolen amulet and sneak out undetected. Otherwise she may as well forget the whole thing. She is walking, becoming more and more flushed and beautiful with each step. The little bells woven into her hair tinkle softly. She is going to find out soon if she could work as a lucky charm.

Rat is curled up in a gorgeous armchair. It looks like a hippo with glistening black skin. It's so cozy that she is able to relax completely in its embrace, almost dozing off. Only her leg, draped over the armrest, is in continuous motion, swinging back and forth. The foot is clad in a splendid black-leather boot, built like a tank, in perfect harmony with both the chair and Rat's cut-off jacket—shiny leather everywhere, exactly the way Nature intended.

The boot is infuriating to PRIP for some reason. He can't seem to look away from it. I wonder why, Rat thinks. What's so irritating about it? The size? Or that it's swinging all the time?

During his previous visits, PRIP kept ogling her tattoo the same way. You'd think he'd get used to it after all this time. The tattoo is more than two years old. Rat hadn't worn long sleeves ever since she got it, because how can you hide that . The rat looks almost alive. It even itches sometimes. Because of that, and to avoid confusion with her own nick, its owner named it Fleabag.

So now every time PRIP directs his full-of-loathing stare at his daughter he meets Fleabag's rictus instead. Which is only fair, since Rat herself never looks at him directly. Only through her badges, the little round mirrors slung around her neck. She's been seeing him in small fragments for so long now she can't even imagine him in any way other than a series of reflections. She can't perceive him as a whole. Not that she'd wish to.

“I am sick and tired of your continuous absenteeism,” PRIP enunciates. “Your constant tardiness. Are you trying to get yourself expelled?”

Rat takes a sideways glance in the badges. She sees the jiggling pink spots of his cheeks and the piggy snout between them. Nothing else shows up anywhere. Then PRIP jumps up, freeing himself of the badges' attention, and proceeds to stomp and wail like an insane banshee.

“Put-that-disgusting-boot-out-of-my-sight-and-sit-straight-the-way-a-daughter-is-supposed-to!”

Rat takes the leg off the armrest.

“Stop yelling,” she says. “Pull yourself together.”

PRIP, short for Primary Progenitor, has a hard time controlling his runaway feelings. Rat closes her eyes and sighs. She needs to wait out the forty minutes allotted for parental visits. Good thing the chair is so comfy.

“... no direction in life! You are completely passive! I'm surprised you even managed to learn how to talk. Must be only so that your mouth could spew forth all those vile abominations!”

“Would you please open your eyes, my girl, when your father is talking to you,” Sheep bleats.

Rat opens them, reluctantly.

“Talking? To me?”

Sheep sighs pitifully.

Rat takes the largest badge and catches in it raging PRIP's reflection. Now his shiny red visage fits neatly between her thumb and forefinger. Is he ever going to shut up?

“... procure those disgusting clothes and shoes and cover your body with sacrilegious graven images, contriving to look even more repulsive than you already are ...”

Rat covers the paternal countenance with her thumb and presses on it, but the voice keeps wheedling.

“... useless trinkets... Be so kind as to look at me when I am ...”

She makes a fist around the badges, all four of them, but PRIP continues to squeak, tickling the palm of her hand, and then with surprising agility jumps on the buttons of her vest. Rat is mortified. She is covered with PRIPs, they crawl over rivets and buckles, they are on the steel toes of her boots, sliding on the shiny armrests—PRIPs everywhere, multiplying uncontrollably, screaming.

“The execrable foulness of your soul is reflected on your face! Out of every orifice you stink! Stink!”

She jumps up and tries to brush them off.

“Stink! Stink!” the PRIPs scream as she sheds them on the floor.

“Ow!” yelps the original PRIP, he who begat the rest of them, and he also darts away from her.

She can't see him do it, but she can definitely hear. The original PRIP is bulky, and his maneuverability is inferior.

Rat looks herself over, closely examining every button. Her hands are still shaking. At the other end of the room PRIP is trying to convince Sheep that his daughter is possessed by demons.

“Please calm down,” Sheep says sweetly. “She is just upset. Nervous. Your girl has such a sensitive nature.”

PRIP gulps the water he poured from the pitcher. He is aghast. Could Sheep really be as stupid as she seems? He starts to suspect that he's being played for a fool.

“That's enough!” he exclaims. “All the time I've wasted on her I could have spent on my other children. I have six of them, I’ll have you know. Six!” he repeats significantly.

Sheep quickly gets to oohing and aahing.

PRIP likes that. Rat knows that he's lifted his eyes to the ceiling. Presumably because all of his six children dropped on him from above, without him being involved in any way.

“Why didn't you put on a condom if you couldn't hold it in,” she remarks. “Might have helped with the children situation.”

PRIP is speechless. Usually that only happens when he's asleep. He can't remain in that condition when he's awake; it's mortally dangerous, since he's so thoroughly unaccustomed to it.

“Now that was uncalled for,” Sheep fumes. “For shame! Go on, leave now before your father gets upset.”

PRIP finds his voice and starts screaming how upset he is. He's so upset that he can't possibly be any more upset. He'd be lucky to make it home safely, because he definitely can feel a stroke coming on.

Sheep pushes Rat out the door and rushes to assist stricken PRIP. In her flower-print dress Sheep resembles a pincushion. Very agitated, but completely harmless. Rat can afford not to even look back at her. She leaves.

Yes, the chair was very nice, but she'd prefer a bed of nails anywhere else. It's exactly a week until the next time PRIP comes here, and Rat knows that he is not going to miss it for the world. He adores visiting her. It must be his most favorite activity. Rat goes up the stairs, not taking her eyes off the boots, the target of repeated abuse. She always looks where she puts her feet, wherever she goes—this way she can be sure her feet won't carry her somewhere she wouldn't like to be. All kinds of people have all kinds of issues. This is hers. The other House maidens prefer lugging their mattresses around, like snails and their shells. They are extensions of the mattresses. Or is it the other way around? Anyway, they seem to like it that way, always being anchored to something familiar, something that smells of you. Lately several of these mattress-trailers have been parked at the Crossroads.