Мариам Петросян - The Gray House

“You’ll know when you're older. Or not. Depending on your luck.”

“That's the song I've been hearing all my life from all sides,” she scowls. “And surprisingly, the ones singing it to me are uniformly way older than I am. Not.”

I gather the cardboard toys and return them to the backpack.

“Let's go. Nothing more is happening here. Lightning never strikes twice in one day. We can go check how it fits with the rest.”

Mermaid collects the cups and takes them to the counter. I fiddle with the ties on the backpack.

Time doesn't flow the same way in the House as in the Outsides. This isn't talked about, but there are those who manage to live to a ripe old age twice in what for others would feel like one measly month. The more often you fall through timeless holes the more you've lived, but only those who've lived here for a while know how to do that. That's why the difference in age between old-timers and newbies is so drastic here. It doesn't take a great feat of perceptiveness to see that. The greediest can Jump several times a month, and then trail several versions of their past after them. There probably isn't anyone in the whole House greedier than I am, which means there's no one here who's lived through more loops than I have. It's not something to be proud of, but still I’m proud. Greed this extraordinary is an accomplishment of sorts.

Mermaid returns and looks at me expectantly. I say that I'm ready, and we depart the Coffeepot leaving Guppy snoozing at the now-empty table.

Every time I pack and unpack the things I realize that this is a completely pointless endeavor. The actual contents of the backpack play almost no role in it, the important thing is the process itself. Take something out, smell it, put it aside. Take out, feel, put aside. And then when you try to stuff everything back it won't fit. That's an interesting but separate conundrum. And so on. It acquires an almost meditative quality.

It used to be called “One Bag Syndrome.” A very serious disease. As I observe its symptoms in myself, I don't quite understand what could have caused it. There are no luggage restrictions, either by weight or by size, for the graduation. And still I fret immensely that the backpack obstinately refuses to accommodate the kite. I guess that's the mind playing games. A distracting tactic. You huff and puff and count the loot, and gradually forget what it was you started the whole repacking over. Instead a lot of other things bubble up to the surface, because each item means time, events, and people compressed into a solid form and requiring a proper place among its own kin.

My backpack must be at least forty years old. No one makes them this sturdy anymore. Real leather patches, heavy brass buckles, ten pockets on the inside, five on the outside, and a dedicated knife holster. It's not a backpack anymore, it's a cave from “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.” Twice I had it stolen, and both times I managed to return it, and I myself stole it so long ago there isn't anyone left who remembers that it hasn't always been mine.

I'm relating all that to Noble as the backpack disgorges its contents and I slap the deflated sides affectionately.

“See this pocket? There's a safety-razor blade inside, coiled and ready. As soon as you pull on the zipper, out it jumps, and then it's good-bye.”

“Good-bye what?”

“Good-bye, fingers. That's how I got it back both times after the thefts. You look around the canteen, spot whoever has a bandaged arm, wheel over and tell them nicely, ‘Give it back, you dirty bastard.’ And they do. Because they know it would be worse for them if they didn't.”

Noble peeks inside, intrigued.

“It's a mystery to me how come you haven't soaked it in poison. It doesn't sound like you, giving a thief an even break.”

“Nah,” I say, putting back the woolen blanket and the mug with my initials on it. “One of the burglars was Lary. You realize, of course, how much whining ensued, now imagine what would've happened if it had been poisoned.”

The archival album with the cuttings and stickers goes on the bottom. The clay whistles nestle in the mug. The camp pot, the binoculars, the purple vest, the box of glass beads ...

Noble drags the pillow closer to the pile, flops on it with his belly, and observes. For about a minute and a half. The next time I raise my head he's already out cold. Feels like a door that's been slammed in your face. You are talking to someone, and suddenly he's gone.

I sigh and pull off his mirror glasses. The envelope with the stickers hasn't gone inside the backpack yet. I go through the specimens. Pick out the two most appropriate for the occasion and peel them off. A large strawberry goes on one of the mirror lenses, and the other gets a cartoon boy with his pants down. I thread the glasses over his ears and lower the lenses back on his nose. Noble's look takes a definite turn toward festiveness.

“My soul longs for music,” I say to Smoker. “But we don't have anything that hasn't been listened to hundreds of times. So, that calls for bright colors to liven up things.”

“You can decorate me,” Smoker suggests glumly. “Or start a fire.”

He's flat on his back, staring at the ceiling and only occasionally gazing down at the world below. And that reluctantly, as if there's something extremely important just about to happen up there. He probably dreamed of being a pilot when he was little. At least that's the impression I'm getting.

“You know,” he says after a pause, “I would never in my life even dream of opening your backpack. Never.”

And falls silent. Sounds like a very definitive and somewhat threatening statement. Like I've spent the past several years imploring him to get a good rummage in there, and today is finally the day when he conveys to me his firm and unyielding refusal.

“Why's that?” I ask.

Silence. Of a very meaningful kind. Likely in stern disapproval of my tamper-detecting devices. There isn't anyone else I know who can be silent as meaningfully as Smoker. As exhaustively covering the entire issue.

I continue to pack, reverently listening to the ominous silence. Noble is still sleeping.

A deck of cards, spare bulbs for flashlights, compass, saltshaker, earplugs, feather for the hat, suspenders.

Yes, yes, I'm a philistine, I'm bloodthirsty and somewhat paranoid, and generally far from perfect. But I have my good moments when I'm nice and caring, and Smoker's prosecutorial silence does not allow for that at all. Having had my fill of it I finally snap and declare that he's being ridiculously unfair and prejudiced.

Smoker lifts his head lazily.

“Oh, really? I don't think so.”

I open my mouth to present him with the authoritative proof of my point, and this is where Alexander enters. Seeing him sends my thoughts and words scattering, screaming.

Alexander sits down on the bed and smiles at us. He's wearing the whitest pants and a white T-shirt. His freshly washed hair is brushed back. This is the first time since the day I've first seen him that he put on anything brighter than the color of a dirty mop. Or bared his forehead.

“What? Why are you staring like that?” he asks, shifting nervously back and forth on the edge of the bed.

“You're a vision in white, Alexander,” I say. “Like a snowflake. What's happening to you? Talk to me.”

He doesn't really look like a snowflake. Rather a white knitting needle. Because today's clothes fit him normally, while everything else until now hung like a sack. This fact is no less strange than the others. Like here's someone who's been hiding in a dark corner somewhere all his life, and suddenly shot out of there howling, dressed to the nines. On the other hand, if he's shooting out it means he really needs to, and that's that.