Мариам Петросян - The Gray House

“Aha,” Sphinx said, regarding this matter. The “aha” was said in That Sort of Voice, and I immediately and bitterly regretted not saying it myself.

Sometime later it becomes clear that one simple “aha” by itself wouldn't cut it. We need to somehow make the “aha” known to Ralph.

Humpback suggests we send a delegation with a petition. Sphinx disagrees, because it would—get this—look like intimidation. I suggest we send me. Everyone disagrees, for some reason. Sphinx says that if anyone goes, it should be Blind. With this everyone agrees, except Blind. Blind suggests we write a letter and send Tubby to deliver it, the reason being that Tubby has this sincerity about him. I like the idea. I have my doubts concerning Blind. Concerning his abilities as a supplicant. He's not the right person to add a good quaver to the voice at the right moment, or to exhibit persistence and even a certain blockheadedness. Whereas I certainly am. And I am flabbergasted that the pack is seemingly unable to appreciate that. Tubby would be the next-best choice, our wingless messenger pigeon, innocence incarnate coupled with an exhaustive lack of any understanding of events around him. But they don't want him either. And what a subtle move that would have been! Ralph would be drowning in tears in his dusty office.

The majority of votes go to Blind.

In the meantime Lary returns, bearing the latest news. R One had a stopover in the Sixth. He's still there, and the Sixth is suspiciously quiet. Could he have gobbled up all Hounds in one gulp?

I decide to investigate.

The hallway is bustling. Logs flit hither and thither, bug-eyed, conducting whispered conferences. The door of the Sixth is already jammed solid with investigators listening in. Stuck to it with their ears and starting to turn blue in futile attempts at not breathing. There's clearly no way to infiltrate them. I drive back, slightly disappointed. On the way I get almost knocked off my Mustang by Lary and Horse, galloping away from the Sixth. Having pushed me and Mustang out of their way, they prance off, neighing happily and not even noticing that they've bumped into something. Much less what that something happened to be.

I am back just in time for Blind's departure. Sour faced, he grudgingly trundles away in the direction of Ralph's office. Humpback, Sphinx, and Alexander go out of their way to cheer him up and give him useful advice, but for anyone willing to look closely it's obvious that the Leader is far from enthusiastic. If not for Sphinx's chirpy “aha,” still lodged in my memory, I really could have become dispirited when faced with this spectacle.

Some part of my doubts must have rubbed off on Humpback.

Looking at Blind's receding back, he muses, “Are you sure we shouldn't have sent Nanette instead?”

“To have her crap all over Ralph's office?” Sphinx says.

I offer that it's very much uncertain what the effect of Blind's visit will be on Ralph's office.

“Blind has a well-developed sense of duty,” Sphinx says by way of response.

This sentence sounds so officious that no one has any desire to argue with it.

And then we wait. I gnaw at my fingers, feeling more and more downcast by the minute. Since Noble's extraction, the common bed has become disgustingly spacious and desolate. Smoker does nothing to ameliorate the situation. Nor would three or even four Smokers. Noble's emotions are irreplaceable. They had kept the environment beautifully charged.

don't you dare crawl over his covers, or breathe on his pillow, or fart by his ear! And what a pleasure it was to do exactly that, anticipating that his patience was just about ready to blow—and then watch the books, pillows, and general fur go flying. And to observe frightened Smoker. There's nothing to be frightened of anymore. We don't have another Noble in our midst.

I take out the harmonica and launch into three Waiting Songs in a row. I loathe waiting, so Waiting Songs are about the gloomiest that I have. I never could stand more than three of them together myself. And people around me usually run for cover after the first one. This time no one says a word.

When it becomes completely unbearable, I put the harmonica away and open a book of Indian fairy tales. I read them often. It's a very calming experience. I like the laws of Karma most of all. “Whosoever injures a donkey in this life, shall become one in the next.” And don't even start about the cows. A very neat system. The only problem is, the deeper you get into it, the more you wonder who it was that you injured the last time around.

The fairy tales distract for a while, and then I start fretting again. What's Noble to Ralph? Nothing. Especially now. Would R One agree to bother looking for him only because we'd like him to? And if he would, would he then let us know if Noble is not doing well wherever he is now? I keep asking myself these questions, more often out loud than not, so by the time Blind finally comes back, everyone is already prepared for the worst. No small feat on my part.

“No dice,” Blind says, leaning against the headboard. “I got no reaction from him at all.”

And that's it. We are left with the soothing option of observing Blind, who spreads his elbows and stares into the sightless void, and Smoker, who keeps creeping farther and farther from him—imperceptibly, as he imagines. Blind's reticence sometimes verges on pathological. We all wait with bated breath, and he's just hanging there draped over the headboard, as if that was the full extent of the information he has to impart.

We all look at Sphinx. Sphinx gets the message.

“What did you talk about?” he asks.

“That's right. Pliers,” I whisper to him. “And hooks.”

Blind shakes his bangs over his eyes and separates himself from the world.

“Wolf,” comes the indistinct reply from behind the curtain.

“And what else?”

“Only Wolf.”

This, I’ll have you know, is a man who is capable of recalling any conversation word-for-word, and acting it out doing voices. Regardless of how long ago it happened.

“What about Noble?”

“I mentioned Noble at the very end, when he told me to go away.”

“And?”

“And I got squat.” Blind hunches still further. Now we have a perfect opportunity to study the back of his head. “It's like he didn't hear me.”

“That's a good sign,” Sphinx enthuses.

I exchange looks with Humpback. Lary's eyes converge on the bridge of his nose, which for him signifies an increase in brain activity. Even Alexander looks puzzled.

Sphinx sighs.

“It's never the case with Ralph that he didn't hear when someone said something,” he explains. “Therefore, he mustn't have liked what Blind was saying. And why would that be? There was nothing out of the ordinary in what he asked for. But to actually find out how Noble is doing, it's necessary to get to him first. That is, travel somewhere and then argue with someone to get permission for a visit. I don't think any counselor would undertake a thing like this happily. But on the other hand, if he knew that he wouldn't be doing any of that, he would've just said so. Ralph is perfectly capable of saying no. So it's a good sign that he didn't.”

We exchange looks again, smug ones this time.

Lary scratches his chin and says, “There's only one thing I don't understand ...”

But what that thing is remains shrouded in mystery. We dutifully wait for about three minutes, but Lary only scratches himself and sighs, so we finally lose interest and return to the daily grind.

For some completely unknown reason, or for no reason at all, Black chooses this particular day to get drunk. When he appears in the room he's already made good on this decision, that is, he's totally plastered, so any objections are completely useless. Different people behave differently when drunk. Black becomes unpleasant. It's not that he's a picture of friendliness even when sober, but when he drinks he gets aggressive. So he shuffles around the room in circles, like a Terminator that's blown a fuse, and tries to pick a fight. He tries and he tries, never quite losing hope, right until the dinner bell. He even continues his pointless efforts at the table, so clumsily it pains me to look at him. His disgusting behavior finds any sympathy only from Smoker. Why—beats me.