Мариам Петросян - The Gray House

“Why grandmothers?” Ginger says.

“What is it?” I call to them. “What happened?”

The only one to turn to me is Sphinx.

“Tents. Right next to the House,” he says. “Four of them.”

“It's a camp!” Tabaqui screams, hanging onto the window bars. “A camp of revenge!”

I start dressing. In a great hurry, for some reason. I wouldn't be able to climb to the windowsill even if all the rest of them climb down from it, but I still behave like I'm going to get up right now, muscle my way through, and have a look for myself.

Noble is the only one besides me who stayed back on the bed. Smoking and pretending like he doesn't give a hoot.

“It's unlikely grandmothers would want to live in tents,” Ginger says. “At least that's what I think.”

Ginger is standing with her feet on the windowsill, in a cut-off spaghetti-strap top and briefs. The top does not even come down to her navel. The undies are bright red, the color of her hair. The moldy bear is in its usual place, under her arm. I realize that Noble must hate what he sees. That the reason for him sitting glumly on the bed is Ginger parading herself half-naked in the window. If I were him I'd be grateful she at least has something on. She could have just as easily climbed up there topless. I happen to know that for a fact.

“Blind is just paranoid.” Tabaqui giggles. “Imagining grandmothers lurking behind every corner. They have robbed him of his peace of mind.”

“Why not grandfathers?” Mermaid says.

“I wonder when they're coming out,” Lary says.

I am already dressed, so I crawl closer to the edge of the bed. If I can't see it, at least I can listen to them talk. Alexander notices my movements and comes over to the bed.

“Would you like to have a look? Come to the window, I’ll lift you up.”

“Never mind,” I say.

As I crawl toward the window, Mermaid slides down from it. She is wearing men's pajamas, about three sizes too big for her. She turned up the sleeves but the pants legs still flop around. Ginger gives me a hand and hoists me up on the windowsill, almost without any help from Alexander, who's pushing me from below.

I see them now. Four tents. Two camouflage green, one orange, and one dusty blue. They really are right against the fence, as if the House has sprouted them overnight out of itself, like mushrooms.

“I wonder if it's not the survivalists from the Sixth,” Sphinx says uncertainly. “Could be that Black decided to train them for the rigors of the Outsides. In stages.”

“Who's coming down to the yard?” Ginger calls. “To look at them up close?”

“What about breakfast?” Jackal says indignantly. “You have all been neglecting it! It's boring, going to the canteen by myself.”

I end up looking at the tents longer than anyone else, because I was the last to see them and because I can't climb down. Gradually they tire of discussing this event, and soon I am alone on the windowsill. When Alexander comes to help me, I notice that he is very careful to avert his face.

“What's wrong?” I say.

He shrugs.

“Nothing. I'm just not interested.”

It doesn't sound very convincing, not at all.

Once in the hallway everyone darkens, and some put on sunglasses. The walls are not scary anymore. They are uniformly the color of malted milk, smooth and squeaky clean. The stench of paint is overwhelming.

“We are a continuation of the Sepulcher now,” Lary says ruefully. “You call this life?”

No one else says anything.

A good half of the House is already down in the yard. Many are still in pajamas. At least it's clear that Sphinx was wrong. Hounds of the Sixth have nothing to do with this. They are as eager as everyone else to find out who's been hiding in the tents. Even the Brothers Pigs are here, all in a row, wheel to wheel. Identical stares and identically opened mouths. No one has risked approaching the wire fence yet.

Finally the flap on one of the tents is thrown open, disgorging three inhabitants. Bulky camo overalls. Cleanly shaven heads. Empty eyes, staring exactly like Ginger's bear. It doesn't look like anyone is eager to make their acquaintance. On the contrary, those closest to the fence take several steps back. When I look around a couple of minutes later, I feel that there are significantly fewer of us here.

One of the tent people presses against the fence, contorting his face in a smile. I zoom backwards toward the porch. Only when the wheels bump into the lower step do I realize that never before in my life have I driven backward at such speed. Lary overtakes me and flies up the stairs.

“An empty skin,” he mumbles as he runs. “An empty skin!”

Logs quickly disappear inside.

The tent man puts his fingers through the netting and says something. Still smiling. I wish he'd stop doing that. I'd prefer it if Ginger's bear smiled suddenly instead of him.

The Brothers Pigs drive by me, each jostling my wheelchair, because I'm right there in the way at the bottom of the stairs. Then Zebra and Corpse run past, pushing crying Elephant before them, and almost flip him over. One of the last to evacuate is Jackal.

“What do they want?” I ask him. “Who are they?”

“Empty skins,” he answers, busily unspooling his hook on a rope. “They are looking for someone who they think would fill them.”

“I don't understand!” I cry after him, but he's already up on the porch, hotly arguing with Red.

He doesn't hear me.

Blind crosses the yard that's been imbibing the heat all day. The asphalt is warm under his bare soles, and the stubble of the lawn prickles them gently. The grass is thicker under the oak, thicker and softer. He comes up to the tree and allows his hands to enter it. The bark leaves wrinkled indentations on his palms. He climbs slowly, even though he could fly up like a cat. But it's not his tree. Today he is merely a guest. To the right of the entrance extends a wide corridor, leading to the place where the swing was once attached, until Elephant tore it off with the yelp of “I’m flying!”—and to the left, a narrow passageway that only the thin and small-bodied could use. That branch is cooler to the touch than the others, because they all keep the traces of every ascent and descent, and Blind likes it best. He whistles as he climbs, sending up a warning.

Humpback says hi and rustles the twigs. The greeting is not welcoming, but Blind didn't expect it to be. Humpback settled up here in the hopes of being left alone, not to entertain guests. But Nanette, rushing through the leafy thickets to meet Blind, is ecstatic. The wings brush his cheek and his shoulder is bestowed with a blob of gelatinous guano. She's become heavier, and she smells of a fully adult bird now, that is, not exactly nice. While he and Nanette exchange pleasantries, Humpback asks what Blind is doing up in the tree.

“Nothing much, really,” Blind says. “Would you play for me?”

Humpback doesn't answer.

Nanette flies a little way off, attacks the canopy, sings with abandon, dances above their heads, making noise and pretending she's three birds at once. Blind wipes off his shirt. His hand becomes sticky.

“Why?” Humpback says.

His voice is different here than in the room. A confident voice, even when he's speaking softly.

Blind takes a step forward. His face is a frozen mask, his hands bear the traces of the tree's undulations.