Мариам Петросян - The Gray House

“What are you going to do without them? They're not going to bother ordering a new pair for you now.”

Sphinx nods, his eyes still closed.

“No, they're not. But I'm managing so far. It's even easier in some sense. Like I'm little and helpless again, and not responsible for anything. And no one is allowed to hurt me when I’m that way. I was absolutely convinced of that before I ended up here, imagine. That no one was going to hurt me. Ever.”

Humpback coughs and looks at Sphinx askance.

“You mean you returned to your Outsides childhood?”

Sphinx laughs.

“Almost. Or it's rather like senility. A person can only be saying farewell to everything around him for so long. Waking up, going to sleep, and even in his dreams. To every face, every object, every smell. You just can't do it. The day comes when it gets so exhausting that you simply stop feeling. Anything, at all. And then on top of everything else you lose your prosthetics. Say the solemn farewell to them too, and realize that this was the last straw. That it's time to start saying hello to at least something. And since you can't actually do anything, you say hello to your own self. The long-ago, helpless self. Whom everyone helped and no one dared to hurt. Cool, isn't it?”

Humpback shakes his head.

“I don't think I like your attitude. It smells of the nuthouse, it really does. The way I see it, it's better to just grieve inside, quietly, than laugh over things that aren't funny at all. More normal, I mean.”

Sphinx laughs.

“There's no such thing as normal here anymore. But don't worry, it’ll pass. By the way, why are your fingers bandaged? Were you banging in nails, from Here to Not-Here?”

Humpback looks at his hands. The left thumb and the right index finger are bandaged. Thickly and sloppily. The bandages are black with dirt and barely holding together. Humpback, slightly embarrassed, begins to unwrap them.

“Oh, that... It's nothing. Just bites. There's this little tot ...”

He tears off the bandages and studies the wounds. Sphinx leans in to look as well, and when he straightens up the look in his eyes makes Humpback shrink back.

“You are going straight to the Sepulcher,” Sphinx says icily. “Or rather running. No shower, no changing. No visiting the guys. The backpack you can leave right inside the door. Go.”

Humpback springs up and stuffs the pipe back in his pocket, swearing when it burns him. Straightens out the straps of the backpack clumsily and heaves it over his shoulder.

“You mean like this? Barefoot?” he says, but meets Sphinx's stare coming the other way again, nods and departs hastily, muttering under his breath.

Sphinx continues to sit motionlessly for a while longer, then gets up and slowly shuffles toward the House. The first drop of rain pecks him on the forehead when he's already on the steps. He turns to look at the shaved heads, to see if they are leaving yet, and to his surprise sees Red in front of them, on this side of the fence. Rat Leader is talking them up, smiling from ear to ear, all effortless charm. In cutaway jeans, barefoot, and shirtless, but with the bow tie around his neck and a bowler on his head. According to his, that is, Rats’, standards, he is dressed for the occasion. The shaved heads are apparently of a different opinion. It is possible they take the Alpha Rat for a village idiot. Sphinx cannot distinguish the expressions on their faces from this distance, but he's learned in the past three days that those expressions never change. They listen to Red, clinging to each other tightly, and no one is hanging on the fence anymore. Are they confused? Astonished?

Without a pause in his smiling and blabbering, Red pulls off his glasses. The enchanted zombies immediately take a step forward and get stuck to the fence. Sphinx, filled with contradictory emotions, rushes inside. No, he's not second-guessing Blind's decision to send down to them an angel that's so different from the one they were looking for. He himself was ready to do anything he could to make them go away. Still, he pities them a little. The poor, deluded, poisoned strangers.

There's a cat huddle by the trash can on the landing between the first and second floors. Smoker is also there. On the wall next to him, a charcoal portrait. A grotesquely scowling, ugly face that nevertheless looks very much like Vulture. Sphinx stops to look at it, and a gaggle of Logs thunders by on the way down, motivated by Jackal barking commands at their backs.

“Atten-tion! Squad A, search the yard. Squad B, reinforce the door defenses!”

Tabaqui notices Vulture's portrait and puts on the brakes.

“Yechh!” he says. “Sickening!”

Logs, pushing, shoving, and clattering, throng around for a look. Smoker, scandalized, smears the drawing with the palm of his hand, but even in the resulting blob, Great Bird is still easily recognizable.

“Tut, tut,” Tabaqui sighs. “Total disregard for the exalted stature of a Leader, imagine that! Sphinx, I sincerely hope that you shall explain it all to him thoroughly, because I have a much more important task ahead of me at the moment.” He points at Logs. “There. Volunteers. We're going to reinforce the approaches to the House. Lock ’em down so tight not even a mouse could sneak in!”

The volunteers stand to attention. Horse has a huge padlock in his hands. Monkey is carrying a bunch of wires, probably the remains of the alarm system.

“At ease,” Sphinx says. “It's just that there's rain about to start out there.”

Logs exchange excited glances and cascade down the steps, hooting and hollering.

“Quiet! Distance at two paces!” Tabaqui shrieks, rolling down the ramp.

It does become quiet for a spell. Then the door is thunderously thrown open and slammed shut again. Mona, dawdling around the trash can, instantly sprints down and catches the plastic bag blown in by the gust of wind. While she's busy disemboweling it, as if it were alive and could be therefore killed, Red saunters past Sphinx and Smoker, whistling, but not before saying to her, “Thanks, babe!” There's so much genuine gratitude in his voice that Smoker's eyes open wide, and they become almost round when Red, not slowing down and not even taking a good look at the wall, sweeps off the bowler and pays a bow to the dirty spot that had recently been Vulture's portrait.

“I thought this was a secluded spot,” Smoker says glumly. “I thought I could just sit here in peace.”

“Just sit and just draw,” Sphinx clarifies. “Never draw anyone's portraits on the walls, Smoker,” he continues sternly. “This is not done. Or were you aiming to start a rumor that you’re putting a hex on Vulture?”

Smoker, deathly pale, shakes his head vigorously.

“Then don't do this again. And if you are looking for seclusion, keep away from the stairs.”

Sphinx climbs up to the second floor to the accompaniment of the rustling that signifies the hurried and thorough destruction of the portrait.

The model for that portrait is sitting in the flesh in their dorm, playing solitaire. He has on a gorgeous brocade vest with golden buttons, there's a gold earring in his ear, and so many rings on his fingers that they barely bend. Next to him on the pillow are two chocolate bars. Great Bird always endeavors to make any visit an occasion by means of small offerings. For him, leaving the Nest for the twenty-step voyage down the hallway is reason enough to decorate himself and come bearing gifts.

“The weather, apparently, promises to be stunning,” Vulture says, sweeping the cards off the blanket.

His sour face sorely clashes with the festive attire.

Sphinx sits across from him.

“Where's everybody? Was it empty here when you came in?”

“Almost,” Vulture says tactfully.