Мариам Петросян - The Gray House

The papers wrote about the old swindler who'd managed to enchant scores of people. The Tube proclaimed it, so it must have been true. It was not true: he was just a dirty old man who lost his mind. But the Tube never lies, it is beyond suspicion, so they took me to the god's house, to rinse the traces of Gramps's sins out of me with holy water. They washed me and christened me, but still the letters kept coming, and the crazies with shaved heads kept stalking me and falling headfirst onto the pavement, grabbing me not by the hem of the toga, as before, but by the bottom of my sweater or coat pockets, tearing them clean off, and “Oh god, I am so tired of this! The coat was brand new! It cost us a fortune! We should not let him out of the house. Disgrace for the entire family!” So—curtains drawn again, lights always on, the Tube humming constantly, the shaved heads stumbling around outside the house, sniffing the walls, scratching at them, seeking the angel that became a kind of addiction for them. Therefore, what they were seeking had to be removed. didn't matter where to, otherwise it was simply dangerous; after all, “they urinate down by the elevator, the neighbors are furious, and that incessant knocking in the night, and the phone calls, intolerable, simply intolerable!” And so, my mother's house exchanged for the House. This exchange followed a prayer. The only genuine one out of thousands. The only one where I asked something for myself. I wasn't even sure what exactly it was I asked. But it was answered, or it just might have been a coincidence, even though I happen to know that there are no coincidences, and I entered Gray House. The place that existed for me and those like me. Those not needed or, if they are, needed for all the wrong reasons.

Once I saw it, I immediately understood that this was it, the thing I'd been asking for. The writing was on the wall. Literally. It read: WELCOME, ALL YOU ABORTED, YOU PREEMIES AND POSTIES! ALL YOU DROPPED, THROWN OUT, FLIGHTLESS! WELCOME, CHILDREN OF THE WEEDS!I knew how to read, even though those in the mother's house claimed otherwise. I entered, believing that I was given according to my prayer. Entered as Alexander, shedding both the Angel and the Moron, both of them forever, because “If you want to stay with us, there are going to be no miracles. None, you hear? Not bad ones, not good ones, and not even indifferent ones.” I said yes and, under the all-seeing gaze of those green eyes, became Alexander, as far from The Great as could be, the eternal shadow, the ever-ready pair of hands. I tried. I really tried, even though saying yes was much easier than always remembering that I had. The gray walls of the House talked to me through the graffiti: “Tired of being a slave yet, freckle-face?” No, I wasn’t, not at all, it was not slavery; besides, what do you know about being a slave? You just know the word, and you have this picture of a black man picking cotton. Uncle Tom, Uncle Sam, whatever. Have you ever seen those with shaved heads being led by the invisible rings in their noses? Have you ever heard about an angel in chains? Are you familiar with lemon-scented mornings, with chanting at dawn? Or the miracle of the exploding Prophet of the Holy Tube? Or the cat that decided to taste freedom, the least miracle in God's quiver of miracles; I did not enchant it, however much everyone was sure that I did, it was simply a miracle, given to it not by me but through me ...

Every house has its rules that must not be broken. Every house has its three-headed dog keeping order. Gramps; Mother; Sphinx. They all hemmed me in with proscriptions, installed barriers keeping me from myself, but only one of those worked, the one put up by Sphinx. Because that's what I wanted. Sphinx is not to blame here. He hadn't brought me into this world or sold me to insane relatives, and he never robbed me of my childhood or starved me half to death. All he did was give me this one rule, and he never demanded anything else. And... After all, it was I who wished for peace and quiet, for the new life as one of many, it was I who uttered the prayer that transported me to the House. That's why it was not slavery. Of my other houses I talked only to Sphinx. He was the only one who knew everything. He was the invisible thread tying me to the previous lives, and at the same time teaching me to live this new one. He was not afraid of me at all—I would know, I have long learned to distinguish the fear hidden in the thin shells of human faces. Why him? I have no idea. It just happened. He did remind me of the shaved heads at first. But all he had in common with them was the bare skull. I'd never ever seen that doglike expression in his eyes. “Find your own skin, Alexander, find your own mask, talk about something, do something, never stop, you must be there every moment, people must feel you. Got it? Or you’ll disappear.” Talk about what? Do what? Where to go seeking masks I've never worn, for words I've never known? He yelled at me, then calmed down. “All right, whatever. Forget it. If you can't think about anything, don't. After all, that's also a kind of mask. But when your body is present in this room, you have to be as well. Be present and busy, always, unless you want to be stared at or drawn into discussions.” And... Day and night, cigarette butts swept into the hand, a wet rag over the clumps of dust, a sponge over the coffee stains, a spoon into the waiting mouth, and always the eyes, more piercing than Gramps's. don't look into them, never look into them. Forbidden. Taboo. And “Al, air out the room,” “Get me the pants,” “Help me into that stupid shirt,” “Bring over the wheelchair.” Splinters in the fingers, always wet, aching, bleached white by the detergent. Scrapes. Fingernails, weeping. And “Look at this guy, he's switched off again. Hey, Alexander, what's that you're thinking about?” “The Conqueror's head has left the building. Give him the mop, that’ll bring him back.” “He's a card, that Alexander character. All he ever wants is housework.” The House walls, the House Laws, its memories, its fights, its games, its tales—that's all well and good, calm and soothing, if it were not for the fear that's always nearby, that only can be pushed away for a short while, very short, because sooner or later it returns, bristling with even more sharp spikes than before. It's the fear of the inevitable end to all this, the public flaying of the new, freshly grown skin. The fear of long-legged Sphinx carrying the secret of the real me. He who has power over someone surely would wield it?

“Are you afraid of me, Alexander?”

The green eyes leave smoking holes in me. I cringe. I shout back, “Yes! Yes! I am afraid! So? Wouldn't you be, in my place?”

“If I could be both you and myself at the same time, no, I wouldn’t. And you don't have to either. Trust me, I want nothing from you.”

It was the truth, but I could not allow myself to believe it. He was taming me, quietly, step by step, and I didn't realize it. He made me read and then discuss books with him. Listen to music and talk about it. Make up ridiculous stories and tell them to him. First to him only, then to others. He squeezed the fear out of me and made me trust him. I was happy, and not afraid of his eyes anymore. Not afraid of anything anymore, even though the oath was not lifted from me, I had to remember that. But I was too warm and cozy, it melted me, the warmth that he was giving me, gifting me, making up for everyone who'd withheld it from me before. The warmth I was receiving from all of them, receiving and giving back. I forgot. I never should have done that. My hands acted by themselves, quietly stealing their pain. I carried it, burning hot, and washed it off under the tap. It floated away down the drains, my legs were shaking, I was tired and empty; it was so beautiful, and it was not a miracle at all, honest, so I never broke my promise. That's what I thought then. A new world assembled itself around me, resplendent in golden sunrises and furious sunsets, I jumped up from the bed before everyone else and ran out barefoot into the hallway, to seize the most beautiful hour, to knead the dust with my feet, to feel my body, my running legs. I turned on a lukewarm shower and sang—both ancient hymns and the songs I'd learned recently, scaring the cockroaches, splashing in puddles. That was what I was. Alexander covered in freckles, Alexander pale and thin, Alexander unknown to anyone, Alexander who gnaws at his fingernails, Alexander who needs to eat more, Alexander with his buck teeth, Alexander who's going to be sixteen soon, who has the entire world and eight friends, who is happy.