Мариам Петросян - The Gray House

Electric light assaulting the senses, faces in sleepy torpor. Lary clucks excitedly, kindling into the fire of Jackal's imagination. The House is tightly wrapped in the blackest blanket up to its roof, making me wonder how much air we still have left here, inside it, and what is going to happen when it runs out.

The pajama-clad, crazy-eyed pack, the dying embers of the feast in honor of Ginger, who is sitting between Noble and me, I count the minutes, the hours, and even allow myself to hope that maybe, just maybe there is enough air for all, enough night straight on till morning, but here comes the gaunt, doleful silhouette, Vulture holding a coconut, nothing but mourning in his clothes, his eyes, and his voice, he looks like a somber Hamlet with Yorick's skull all withered from a long stint in the grave. With his arrival, all hopes of time finally getting unstuck are on hold, at least until we get to hear the dismal news he's about to impart.

Vulture rolls the woolly orb around in his hand.

“I am loath to have to tell this to you, I really am, but there is no one else I can turn to at this juncture, so... Long story short, there's a stiff in our bathroom. I have just discovered him there.”

Jackal's harmonica squeaks forlornly.

“My sincere apologies,” Vulture sighs. “I am truly sorry about this.”

Crab, whom we are carrying to the first floor an hour later, in life was a greedy but discreet creature, with but two fingers on each hand. Then he, who knows why, quietly found himself within the realm of the Nesting and quietly met his death there from who knows what. And became the mystery of the Longest, one that was never unraveled.

We would carry him, wrapped in the Crossroads window curtain (the off-white train ostentatiously dragging on the floor behind the procession), to the lecture hall and leave him there, surrounded by lighted candles in tin cans, very festive and very alone, and on the way back Black would feign insanity. Or maybe really go nuts. Yes, I know how it feels to play a patient observer and wait, wait until that singular moment when you can finally act. Anyway, he'd loudly and unequivocally proclaim his opinion of the situation. The impossible night would be ripped in two, and into that gash in the blackness would pour the swarm of fireflies, the flashlights in the trembling hands, and the raging creature in the middle of the hallway would crouch and scream, his squeals penetrating through walls and ceilings, up and down and in all directions, piercing the immovable Time itself. I thought then, and remain sure now, that it was this clamor that started the seconds flowing, as if someone, jostled by it, woke up in a world that has domain over this one, stretched sleepily, banged on the clock that was stuck and got it going again.

It is possible that Black should be thanked, for that if for nothing else, but I somehow don't have the slightest inclination to do so. It would become a matter of habit for many, when remembering the Longest, to mention the frayed nerves of poor little Black. What exactly happened to his nerves to make them so much more frayed than anyone else's, including my own, I do not quite understand. As for his lost marbles... I've never before chanced to see the marbles that, having been lost, were then found so quickly and restored to their proper place without any visible detriment to the owner. It might even be argued that by pitching that suspiciously convenient fit he made the first step in the direction of the throne vacated by Pompey, though at the time it looked more like a quick saunter toward the tender embrace of a straitjacket. I understand, it's comforting to shake one's head sadly and point out the tough guys, like, say, Black, snapping under pressure—implying, of course, your own mental toughness that's quietly superior to his. “We've seen things worse than that. Yeah, rough night, that one was. Poor Black ...” Luckily, I don't have an elevated opinion of my own toughness, so I'm naturally doubtful when I see Black's nerves snap, especially when it happens so unexpectedly and so dramatically, but all that would come later. Back then, when I heard his squeals, I felt only numbness and an overwhelming desire to extinguish that sound. Many would share it at that moment. The human mass, clinging to Black like ants to a caterpillar—“Murderers! Enablers of murderers!”—would roll down the hallway, muffling the screams. By our doors he'd manage to shake us off and even stomp on some, increasing the amount of loud cursing in the dark even more.

As I make my way toward Black (to disrupt, to seal, to stamp out forever and ever that screeching orifice!) I would stumble, knock out someone's tooth with my shoulder, and bite my own lip clean through. By the time I reach the door to our dorm there would be no Black, or his victims. They'd all have filtered inside, and there, on the territory that's been out of bounds for strangers since the beginning of time, the Night would unspool another loop of its interminable tail while Black and Blind entertain the assembled public by staging a “delectable rumble,” kicking dust and blood out of each other. The spectacle that would inspire certain Logs, Jackals, and other sundry historians to reach unsurpassed levels of excellence. Tabaqui, to pick a name at random, would in all seriousness claim that the most damaging blow Black delivered was with the words “Love me, love my dog!” To which Blind, though busy parting the floorboards with the back of his head, still managed to yell “Dream on!”—prompting Black to thump his chest, roar, bend the iron bars of the headboard, and bark, “In that case, prepare to die!” Fascinating, isn't it. The bending of the bars especially. No one bothers to inquire to what possible end Black might have wanted to do that, they just open their mouths and take it all in rapturously. And so do I. I don't recall Black specifically banging Blind's head against the walls, but it is possible that when Blind fell a couple of times he might have bumped his head. I emphatically do not recall Blind tearing Black's jaws (that scene is obviously borrowed from Greek myths). And I am pretty sure Black did not tumble down with a cry of “I'm finished,” and Blind did not then place his foot on the fallen body before wearily lighting a cigarette.

I too feature in those stories, quite prominently. I'm always somewhere close, beside myself with rage (that's actually a realistic touch) and “waiting for the most opportune moment.” I wonder which moment that was. I guess I expected Blind to quickly lay him out (or the other way around, though far less likely), and then I'd jump in and throw them all out of the room, all those scowling, drooling gawkers, most of whom at any other time would not even dare dream about entering our place, but once there immediately felt themselves at home, covered the floor in spit, and even started rummaging in the back cabinets under the radar. This made me break out in horrible nervous hives right then and there. We never could find some of the tapes, cups, and ashtrays after, to say nothing about cigarettes—those were swept clean. I anticipated that, and wasn't much surprised. I also anticipated the outcome of the fight. No one has ever managed to lay out Blind one-on-one, so I wasn't too worried until it became obvious that he was ending up on the floor more often than Black was, and was taking more time to get up, too. That's when I remembered he'd already taken damage from Ralph that night, and became really nervous. Time after time Black pounded his leaden fists into Blind, and Blind doubled over, and Black waited until he straightened up to pound again. The third time around, Blind crashed to the floor. There wasn't much more noise from him falling than there would be if a bar stool fell, but the spectators gave out an almighty yell that continued all through Pale One's attempts to restore the supply of oxygen to his system. I tried to picture in my head the nightmare that living under the Leadership of Black would be, failing utterly, which convinced me that if I couldn't even imagine it, then it couldn't exist in this universe. I flogged my imagination, scratching myself with my chin in all places I could reach, while all around me handkerchiefs and beer-bottle caps went flying, tossed by the ecstatic audience. I've never seen anything more disgusting. Blind got his breath back and stumbled a bit while getting up, grabbing the headboard of the bed near where I was sitting.