Мариам Петросян - The Gray House

“You need to keep away from mirrors for a while, Smoker. At least until you get over feeling sorry for yourself. Have a talk about this with Noble. He never looks in the mirror.”

“How come?” I said in astonishment. “I wish I could see in the mirror what he sees when he looks in it.”

“How do you know what he sees?”

I tried to imagine that I was Noble. Looking at myself in the mirror. Massive attack of narcissism.

“He sees something like young David Bowie. Only more beautiful. If I looked like Bowie, I'd —”

“Whine that you look like elderly Marlene Dietrich and dream of looking like Mike Tyson,” Sphinx said. “That's a direct quote, so don't think I'm exaggerating. What Noble sees looking in the mirror is completely different from what you see looking at him, which is only one example of reflections behaving strangely.”

“I see,” I said. “Makes sense.”

“It does?” Sphinx sounded surprised. “It still doesn't quite for me. Even though I spent some time researching the subject.”

I was suddenly overwhelmed by desire to ask him something. Something that had been gnawing at me for a while.

“Listen, Sphinx. Alexander... How come he's like that? Did you just feed him to Lary? Or is that how he was when he came in?”

“How come he's like what?” Sphinx frowned.

“You know. Helpful.”

“Oh man, not another one,” Sphinx drawled. “What horrors did we inflict on him? We didn't. But you don't believe me, so there's no point in my telling you this.”

I didn't believe him. Not for a moment.

“Why is he always cleaning up after everybody? Bringing people things? Does he like it?”

“I don't know why. I have an idea, but I don't know for sure. I know one thing, though: it's nothing to do with us.”

The expression on my face must have been telling. Sphinx sighed.

“All right. I guess that's how he sees his purpose in life. His previous job was much harder. He worked as an angel, and he got really fed up with it. So now he's doing his best to prove his usefulness in any other capacity.”

“Worked as a who?”

Sphinx was the last person I expected to be pulling a stunt like this. It just wasn't his style. Now, Tabaqui I would understand, that would be his area of expertise.

Sphinx wasn't about to elaborate.

“You heard me,” he said. “I'm not going to say it again.”

“OK,” I mumbled. “Got it.”

“Just observe. You’ll notice that he's always trying to preempt our requests. Do something before he's asked to. He generally doesn't like it when people talk to him. doesn't like to be personated.”

“To be what now?”

“He. doesn't. Like. Being. Noticed,” Sphinx chanted. “Being talked to. Asked. Paid any attention. It annoys him.”

“How do you know? Did he tell you that?”

“No. I live next to him.”

Sphinx bent over and scratched his ankle with the prosthesis, like he was using a stick.

“He likes honey and walnuts. Likes seltzer, stray dogs, striped awnings, round stones, worn-out clothes, no sugar in his coffee, telescopes, and a pillow on his face when he's asleep. He doesn't like when people look him in the eye or stare at his hands. doesn't like strong wind and flying cottonwood fluff, can't stand white clothing, lemons, and the scent of chamomile. All of that would be obvious to anyone with a working pair of eyes.”

I decided not to mention that I hadn't been living in the Fourth long enough to distinguish the fine details in the most inscrutable person in the House.

“You know what, Sphinx, don't say anything to Lary. I changed my mind.”

He lowered himself to the mirror again.

“Why?”

“It was all your idea. And I don't want him to think I'm a snitch.”

“Really?”

Sphinx appeared suspicious of my reflection, which did in fact look unpleasant. Furtively snitchy. Confused and distrustful. And at the same time I was feeling nothing of the sort.

“Really,” I said nervously. “I don't want to be a snitch, whether real or imaginary. And you promised to leave my reflection alone.”

Sphinx looked back at me over his shoulder. Like he was comparing.

“I did. I am just fascinated by the contrast. Sorry. Won't happen again. So, I am not to talk to Lary? All the assurances go out the window then.”

“To hell with them.”

I sighed with relief. I was almost sure I was doing the right thing. And did it in the last possible moment, almost when it was already too late. It all had to do with mirror Smoker. He was a nasty character. A veteran snitch, an expert even. And my talks with Sphinx in bathrooms were becoming a nice tradition. Just him and me, surrounded by sinks and commodes. We'd have a talk, and then suddenly everything would be different. Upside down, or maybe the other way around. Somehow I sensed that there was going to be no such upheaval this time. That I managed to avoid it.

Sphinx was examining his pants, having finally noticed their sorry state.

“Lary has been asking for it anyway. Look at this mess.”

“How do you know it's him?”

“Who else could it be? Thumbtacks in the sheets, gum in the shoe, toothpaste on the sink, that's right about his range. Tabaqui operates on a different level altogether. Jackal's pranks lay waste to half the House. He's not into the small stuff. So it must be Lary. See, he's just a child really.”

I laughed and said, “A child that shaves.”

“What's so unusual about that? A very common occurrence.”

He scratched the leg again, wincing.

“What's with the scratching?” I blurted.

“Fleas. Definitely. Did they get to you yet? No? Strange.”

“Fleas?” I was a bit lost. “You mean Nanette's got fleas?”

“I wish. We could hope to get rid of them then. No, it's Blind hauling them in. We can't exactly spray our Leader with pesticides, now can we? And fleas aren't even the worst of it. Sometimes he comes in covered in ticks. In the dead of winter. And not a couple, mind you, several different species at once. Have you ever extracted a tick? The trick is never to pull too abruptly, otherwise the head breaks off and stays inside.”

“You must be kidding.”

“Of course I am,” Sphinx said gravely. “I'm the resident joker, didn't you notice?”

“Why can't you just tell someone to shut up if his questions are getting on your nerves? Why this rigmarole?”

Sphinx did not answer. He sighed, scratched his leg, and walked out. In a wet shirt and with toothpaste blobs on his butt. The toothpaste was not really visible and the dripping shirt only added coolness. So it wasn't about the clothes at all, it was about Sphinx. About his self-esteem.

I stared at my reflection.

The mirror Smoker was looking better, but still noticeably spiteful. I struck a pose. He assumed an even more idiotic stance. I guess my self-esteem still sucked.

“So what,” I said. “Even Noble doesn't like himself in the mirror.”

I finished the coffee that really was cold by now and wheeled back to the dorm.

The House is walls and more walls of crumbling plaster. The narrow passages of the staircases. Motes dancing around the lantern on the balcony. Pink sunrises through the gauzy curtains. Chalk dust and untidy desks. Sun dissolving in the reddish clay of the rectangle that is the backyard. Shaggy dogs dozing under the benches. Rusting pipes crisscrossing and twisting into spirals under the cracked skin of the walls. Rows of small boots with battered toes, tucked under the beds. The House is a boy disappearing into the emptiness of the hallways. The boy who is falling asleep in class, who is striped black-and-blue from endless fights. The boy of many names. Head-Over-Heels and Prancer. Grasshopper and Tail. Blind's Tail, never more than half a step behind him, treading on his shadow. To anyone who seeks to enter, the House presents its sharpest corner. Once you've bloodied yourself against it, you are allowed inside.