Мариам Петросян - The Gray House

I decide that I've had enough of the yawning and shivering, and ask, “What happened to Blind? Allergy?”

Tabaqui lazily puts away the knitting needle he's been using to excavate his ear.

“Actually, it's the Lost Syndrome,” he says. “But you can call it allergy if you'd like.”

I wait.

He also waits. For my questions.

He doesn't get them, so he picks up the needle again.

“LS is this thing that only we can get. The House people. If we suddenly find ourselves in the Outsides and get lost there. They say it's a mark the House puts on its own. On those who have no business being in the Outsides.”

I fall for it hook, line, and sinker, and open my mouth to beg him for the details, but Noble is quicker.

“That's new,” he says, frowning. He had to open his eyes for this, and he's not happy about it. “You never told me about this.”

“You never asked.” Jackal shrugs. “Or you'd get the same answer.”

Noble furrows his brow, assembling a spider's web of creases on his forehead. An ominous sign for anyone familiar with his habits. But not for Tabaqui.

“I personally witnessed LS only twice. One time was when Bison went chasing some Outsides kid who was teasing him and then couldn't find his way back, and the other when Wolf sleepwalked out of the House and something out there woke him up suddenly. All other cases I know are hearsay. Spiders have their own opinion about it, and if anyone's interested they can drive over and ask them, but I wouldn't bother. They’ll just present you with a booklet saying, ‘If you have a cat allergy stay away from cats,’ and what do cats have to do with it, or where have they seen an allergy that looks like that, it's useless even to ask, they're not going to answer anyway.”

“Wait,” I interrupt Tabaqui's soliloquy. “How did Blind end up in the Outsides? Does he sleepwalk too? What happened to him?”

“Ralph happened to him,” Tabaqui sniggers. “This is the most heartrending story of the last six months, believe you me. I couldn't even bring myself to make a song about it, I was so scared.”

He holds a cruel pause before continuing.

“Imagine, if you will, Smoker, one fine day, or rather night, good old Ralph, whom we all held to be a person of certain decency and composure, bursts in, grabs our Leader, and whisks him out of the House. And then, somewhere in the depths of the Outsides, conducts a cruel interrogation. I'd even say torture. Because LS is a very scratchy thing. And when you give in and start scratching it, it's a very bloody thing.”

I look back at Sphinx. Should I believe Tabaqui or not? Sphinx shrugs. Signs point to yes is how I read it, so I turn back to Jackal, who can't be stopped now, even by a direct shotgun blast.

“You are going to ask, what could have prompted this barbarity, this inhuman violation of the human rights of our Leader? And I am going to answer: I don't know. Because Ralph's true motives have remained a mystery to us. The stated reason was the resignation of counselor Godmother. The girls had her for a while. So she resigned and left, and R One imagined for some reason that we were somehow involved in this, risible as it may seem. We didn't even know her that well.”

“Then why would he think ...”

“Exactly,” Tabaqui says. “Why would he?”

“If she only worked with the girls ...”

“Exactly. That's what I've been saying!”

“But could it ...”

“It couldn’t!”

I finally blow up.

“Are you going to let me finish the question?”

“No! I mean, of course.”

“Her car was found a couple of blocks from here,” Sphinx joins in. “Then it turned out that no one has seen her since she left the House. So now she's officially listed as missing.”

“Where does Blind figure in all that?”

“Go ask Ralph.”

“Once a nutter, always a nutter,” Tabaqui summarizes. “I guess he just needed an excuse to torment someone. That's what nutters do.”

I stealthily pull my bag closer. My snitching diary is in there. Could it be I'm working for a madman now? Or did they really do something to that woman? But hard as I try, I can't think of a reason why they would. Tabaqui's right, Blind and the girlie counselor don't mix. Maybe it was the girls who did something to her?

I lower my head so that no one can see my face and hunt for the cigarette pack in my pocket. When I light up I immediately break out coughing. Should have quit long ago.

That's the House for you. In all its splendor. You sit staring at the wall. Or the ceiling. Listening to music, or not listening. Going crazy with boredom and chain-smoking to have at least something to distract you. While at the same time Leaders roam around covered in bloody scales, the House puts or doesn't put its mark on you, the only normal-looking counselor suddenly turns out to be crazy, the air is full of viruses unknown to medical science, and all this could very well be Jackal's fevered imagination, since he's well known to enjoy scaring people with his stories.

“Was it Blind who prettified Ralph's face?” I say.

Noble nods reluctantly.

“What did you expect?” Tabaqui jumps in. “You are kidnapped. Subjected to interrogations and torture. It's only natural to fight back. And it's only natural that someone can get hurt as a result. By the way, Ralph has opened himself up for liability in court, for unlawful imprisonment. And for premeditated interference with a Leader on the eve of graduation. Because what kind of life is that, when the Leader sleeps and sleeps, like a groundhog or something, and when he's not asleep all he does is scratch at himself, and can't even put two words together.”

“Or won’t,” Blind corrects Tabaqui from behind the door that's slightly open. “Maybe he prefers to leave it to someone who's better equipped for it.”

“Thank you,” Tabaqui says, not in the least concerned about Blind's presence in the conversation, and then asks why is it that the voice of his beloved Leader seems to be coming from somewhere below.

“Because I'm lying on the floor. I have this bath towel here and I'm lying on it. Carry on, don't mind me. Just imagine I'm not here at all.”

Alexander offers me a glass. There's something dark sloshing in it. Definitely not tea.

“Mountain Pine,” he whispers. “Drink carefully.”

That's when I remember the diary again. Isn't it time to start filling it, beginning with Jackal's stories? I thumbed through some diaries of famous people while in the Sepulcher (Ralph hauled in an entire stack of those from the library for me), and one thing I noticed was that they often skipped days and sometimes even weeks. I don't have that luxury, because the day after tomorrow I am supposed to present my first report. Which means it's time to accustom the pack to the sight of me writing in it. The sooner, the better.

Despite Blind's invitation to continue, everyone's silent. I put the glass with the brown liquid smelling of pine needles on one of Tabaqui's plates and take out the hallowed notebook. I open it, write today's date—and freeze. So here I am, back in the Fourth sounds unbelievably corny, but I can't think of anything else. I turn it this way and that in my mind and finally write it down, my ears burning with shame. Then I add: The reception was less than enthusiastic.

Tabaqui is reading as I write, snuffling and breathing into my ear.

“Ah, you've started a diary! Was it that boring in there?”

“Actually it's pretty useful,” I say. “In a couple of years I'm going to open it, read the things I wrote today, and remember everything that happened. I mean, not everything, but at least the important events of the day.”

“Like the reception being less than enthusiastic.” Tabaqui nods. “A major event, and what's more important, one that's pleasant to remember.”