Мариам Петросян - The Gray House

The house is spookily dark and seemingly asleep. Eyes do not get accustomed to darkness this deep. Walls loom suddenly ahead in places where they aren't supposed to be. Tabaqui and Smoker move slowly. Sometimes they think they hear steps, either ahead or behind them. They stop and listen. The steps immediately stop as well. Maybe they're just imagining it. Then they bump into something and switch the flashlights back on. It's an empty wheelchair. There's no trace of its owner, as if he's been abducted by the spirits of the night. Tabaqui fingers his amulet.

“It's like someone is trying to scare us on purpose, right?”

His voice is a mix of being terrified and reveling in it.

Smoker does not join him in the reveling part. He doesn't like this empty wheelchair a single bit. Tabaqui spends some time studying it but is unable to determine the identity of the owner.

“It's totally faceless,” he says. “Abandoned.”

They put on the sweaters, leave the wheelchair behind, and move on.

Barefoot Elephant in striped pajamas wanders past the Crossroads. His eyes are closed, his face upturned. His long pajama bottoms are collecting the hallway dust as he goes. Elephant is asleep, but his body slowly hobbles from one window to the next, stopping at each windowsill and feeling it with chubby palms before proceeding. The floorboards creak under his weight.

Blind floats along the corridors, not touching the walls. Even the wary rats don't feel him approaching until he's almost on top of them. He inhales the scent of damp plaster and the scent of the House denizens ingrained in the worn-out floorboards. When he hears steps he freezes until the night drifter passes by—a large animal in the thickets, crushing the ground underfoot and bumping into trash cans. Then he continues on his way, even more watchful and cautious than before, because those who wander at night drag dangerous secrets and fears after them. He approaches one of the dorms. Under the words carved with a knife, his all-seeing fingers feel for a crack. He presses his cheek against it. This way he can hear even the breathing of the sleepers and the groans of the bedsprings. Everyone's asleep inside. Blind passes through more empty rooms and comes to another wall. There's a place here where a large chunk of plaster fell down, and behind this wall nobody's sleeping. Blind listens for a long time, paying more attention to the voices themselves than to the words they're saying. He turns his head away at regular intervals, takes in the sounds around him, relaxes, and presses back against the wall.

Someone searching for a place to sleep sneaks down the ante-Crossroads stretch of the hallway. Someone pale and large-eyed, with patchy rust-colored hair.

Red is frightened. Asleep or awake, day or night. He's dreading and waiting. He gnaws down the caps of his pens and chews up the filter ends of his cigarettes. He thinks and considers. This has got to end at some point. Plump Solomon, and Squib with his face red from the burn. They keep scaring him with their meaningful sniggers. Their smirks, their glances and winks. Squib, Solomon, and Don. The rest of them are submerged in the electronic ocean of sound. They float in it, swaying on the spot when they stand and jerking to the beat when they lie down, and they don't care about anything that is not coming from the earphones plugged into the thundering emptiness.

They are always hostile, always hungry, always covered in spots from the sweets they consume to cheat hunger. They dye their hair and alter their pants with multicolored patches. Red is hopelessly older. Not in years, but in questions he asks himself. Young Rats are not concerned about tomorrow. Their life begins and ends today. It is today they need that extra piece of toast, it's today they need that new song, it's today they need to take the only thing that's on their mind and scrawl it in huge letters on the bathroom wall. Rats suffer from constipation but they'd still eat anything anytime. And fight over food. And over who sleeps where. And after the fight is over they'd listen to more music and eat again, with even more delight.

With all their complaints they come to Red. With the most painful zits and abscesses they come to Red. Busted Walkmans, drained batteries, lost possessions—they all come to Red. Except Squib, Solomon, and Don. Those three despise him. With each day their whispers become louder, laughs more insolent, conversations more hushed. They keep him constantly terrified, relishing the effect immensely. Red wanders at night, sleeps in uncomfortable places, and dreams of slitting the throats of all three, one after the other. Sometimes he twists open all faucets in the bathroom and plugs all drains. Then takes a shower in his clothes and leaves, the squelching sneakers parting the waters. He goes to the card players. He plays, dripping water on the cards. The players don't say anything, because he's a Leader.

The outfit Red has chosen for tonight's stroll is completely black. Only the white sneakers flash in the dark as he goes, two bright spots betraying his presence. A sleeping bag dangles off his shoulder. It's blue with yellow dots. Red is looking for a secluded corner where he could sleep, wrapped in the warm cocoon. He stops at the Crossroads. Elephant is moving through the space, barely illuminated by the moonlight, inspecting the windowsills. Red watches him. Then puts the sleeping bag down, sits on it, and lights a cigarette. And waits. Patiently waits.

Four card players are cooped up in Vulture's tent. It's cramped inside. Every awkward movement makes the canvas shudder and the multicolored lights sway under the triangular roof. Shuffle's collar is bristling with dull spikes. There's a trail of blood down his cheek from a scratched boil. He touches his finger to the spot and examines it.

“Not that damn thing again!”

“Got anything to drink?” Noble says, rubbing his eyes, tired of the lightbulb rainbows.

Dearest is swishing something hastily in a tin cup.

“Soon, very soon, dearest. In the meantime there's plain water, if you'd like.”

He hands Noble a flask. Noble drinks and returns it. Dearest sighs mournfully. The cigarette in Vulture's teeth drops down a column of ash, showering the blanket in sparks. Crickets chirp in the speakers of the boombox.

Smoker and Tabaqui drive down the dark corridor. Suddenly a red cone flashes in front of them. It becomes blue the next moment. Then yellow. After cycling through six different colors, the cone blinks off, and it's dark again.

“What's that?” Smoker whispers.

“Vulture's tent,” Tabaqui says.

They drive closer. Now the tent is shining and twinkling in every color at once, and it's possible to hear voices from inside it. The entrance flap is pushed open and someone crawls out on all fours.

“Hey,” says the someone as he bumps into them. “I'm bailing out. Wanna play?”

“Hey, Shuffle,” Tabaqui calls back, turning to Smoker and handing him the backpack. “Listen, my friend, could you manage hanging around here by yourself for a bit? I need to talk to the guys, if you don't mind.”

He tumbles out of Mustang and speedily crawls inside the tent.

Shuffle's flashlight runs away, jumping from side to side. Smoker is alone. He listens to the voices coming from the tent and waits for Tabaqui until he runs out of patience. He drives closer, pulls out the brake, and slides down. Then he lifts the flap.

“Hey. Can I come in too?”

Beauty and Doll are kissing on the stairs. The trash can next to them and the cigarette butts strewn about concern them not at all. A pocket radio buzzes softly under Doll's sweater. They devour each other with fevered mouths, opening wide like hungry chicks. Their kisses are passionate, interminable, and painful. From time to time they let go of each other and rest, touching their foreheads and furtively wiping their wet mouths. Their lips are swollen and sore. They only know how to kiss. Or maybe they don't even know that.