Мариам Петросян - The Gray House

“Oh, wow,” he whispered, holding a bundle of yellowed invoices. “Jackpot.”

We pored over them, trembling with anticipation, just to add another tiny detail to the picture that was invisible to everyone except us two.

Cloth, gray.

And the children of the House of old dressed up in gray uniforms.

Wool, skeins.

And Sisters Mary and Ursula, each on her own stool, started clicking the knitting needles, one sister per dortoir , one stool per sister, and woolen socks, hanging lower and lower, snaked out of the hands roughened by incessant washing and cooking.

Step by step, scrap by scrap, we reconstructed the House. That House. We knew how the rooms looked, knew what its occupants did, and not even M. A.'s passion for stretching the stores of apples long into the winter could hide from us. Why would she insist on that? We didn't know. But we burrowed into the contents of that basement like two insane moles. From 1870 to the last graduating class. Throughout our research we lugged to the dorm reams of what Wolf termed “hopeless garbage,” with Lary serving as the muscle. The previous graduating class was the only part of it all that interested the pack. I compiled two scrapbooks out of the most fascinating documents, and then we cooled a bit on the whole excavation enterprise.

So now it falls on me to tell Smoker about Mother Ann. I almost have to laugh, because it's impossible to explain without explaining what the House was back then. I continue to deliberate whether I should try, while my mouth keeps running on autopilot. At some point even I myself become curious: What's that I've been babbling about all this time?

“To get on her good side you had to be very God-fearing, and know a lot of ancient texts by heart, mostly the ones that are impossible to remember, and when she was dying in her bed she made the sisters bring all the linens in the House to her room and counted and recounted them. But then she was already not right in the head. And when she died and her assistant became the principal, they said they saw the ghost of Mother Ann going from dorm to dorm, checking, counting, and rechecking, in other words, not resting in peace at all.”

Smoker blinks and frowns. It takes him some time, because he's busy, but I notice it anyway.

“What? You don't believe me? Sphinx, tell him!”

“It's true,” Sphinx says. “It was exactly the way Tabaqui's telling it.”

“How can you know that?”

“We know everything. Anything and everything that is the House!”

I deliberately don't mention the basement, but my bragging suddenly rings true. I sense this truth and marvel at it. There. That's what we were looking for. For everything that is the House . There comes a time in the life of everyone to start asking who their great-grandfather was and to listen to the family lore, so Sphinx and I descended into the basement and told the musty tales to ourselves. I shiver. We became too much a part of this place—and it, of us. It's almost as though we had created it. There was nothing in the basement where it mentioned the ghost restlessly roaming the rooms looking for linens to count.

That night I finally manage to escape into the hallway. Under the pretext of going to dinner, but most likely because Sphinx got bored guarding me. No girls in sight, and my dragon looks really tiny from below, barely visible. The eye glistens, but to distinguish the details you'd have to be a giant. On the other hand, the stains from the overturned paint can are quite readily visible. One might even say eminently visible. I drive over them on purpose, to declare my involvement.

Dinner is disgusting mashed potatoes, all lumpy. A person such as I, who gorged himself on nuts and raisins all day, can only look at it with contempt. The girls are right there when I wheel back. Two of them at once. They sit on the Crossroads sofa, picking at the exposed foam rubber and flinging the pieces out the window. There's a gaggle of Hounds assembled around them. Nothing really interesting. Besides, they're blocking the way so I can't move closer and hear what they're discussing, or otherwise take part in the proceedings. I only can note that they are Succubus and Bedouinne, and that the evisceration of the sofa is being performed rather gracefully. That's the extent of my research for tonight. Long doesn't make another appearance either, even though I spend the rest of the evening waiting, desperately hoping that she does.

Racing club. Heartily recommended for any wheeler seeking excitement. Wheelchair races over hard terrain. Scheduled competition dates. Seasonally awarded cup, “The Silver Whee.”

Cooking club. Weekends, Biology room. If you can cook something, anything, you're welcome to join. If you can't but would like to learn, you're especially welcome. Note: ingredients usually not provided.

Poetry society. If you can string together a couple of lines, you're in. If you can't manage even that, do not despair. Your ability to listen will be enough. Preferably with appreciation. Note: if you can't do appreciation, find yourself another place. Poets are touchy!

Enthusiastic bodybuilders. Advantage—the only prerequisite to join is athletic trunks. Disadvantage—you guessed it: they’re enthusiastic!

Card players. This one is members-only, with very strict entry requirements. If you're not in yet, forget it.

Also:

—Astrologers, Cof., every Wednesday;

—Swap, Tuesdays, first floor;

—Billiards, game room, anytime;

—Guitarists, laundry, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday;

—Novelists, Cof., every Saturday and Sunday;

—Contacters, every month on Friday the 13th, Crossroads at night.

WHILE JUMPERS AND STRIDERS DO NOT REALLY EXIST!

Have a nice time.

“Stop it,” Smoker says. “No one can know those things.”

“We know everything,” Tabaqui enthuses. “Anything and everything that is the House!”

Sphinx smiles at Jackal and nods. Jackal smiles at Sphinx and nods. They're both grinning, making Smoker want to throw up. He again feels that everyone here has conspired to torture him.

“don't ask, then,” Sphinx offers. “Keep quiet and be happy.”

“Would you like it better if I were a mute?”

Sphinx jumps up.

“Let's go. We’ll have a stroll. Smell the soot of the streets. You look a bit pale.”

Smoker reluctantly climbs off the bed.

“What do you mean, soot of the streets? Is that another joke?”

“Why is it that you never listen when people tell you things?” Sphinx asks on the way. “Even when they're answering your questions?”

Smoker is trying to keep up.

“Listen? To who? Tabaqui?”

The hallway allows them to squeeze through the gauntlet of compassionate chuckles. The walls shout at them: KILL YOUR INNER CUCKOO! ENTER THE NEXT LOOP!

“Tabaqui would be a good start. He answers questions better than any of us. Tries to, at least.”

Smoker slows down.

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

Smoker reddens if his eyes accidentally fall on girls. Sphinx strides widely and purposefully toward some unseen goal, and Smoker recalls the mysterious soot of the streets, about which he never got an explanation.

“Are we really going outside?”

“What do you think?”

“Damn! Stop brushing me off with those what-do-you-thinks! I don't! I don't think! Would it kill you to actually say something when you open your mouth, for a change?”