Мариам Петросян - The Gray House

Smoker cringes, scared by his sudden outburst and also by Sphinx's face, which is suddenly level with his own.

“Smoker,” Sphinx says. “Do you like crawling on the floor?”

Smoker shakes his head in desperation.

“Somehow that's what I thought too,” Sphinx says, straightening up and bumping the wheelchair away with his knee. “In which case, please behave yourself and don't raise your voice at me. I can understand that it's fascinating stuff: probing the limits of Sphinx's patience. I am often fascinated with this myself. But not today. I'm not in the mood. So let's get one thing straight ...”

He resumes the stride without finishing the sentence, and what the thing is that should get straight remains a mystery.

Smoker wheels after him, even though he's not sure he should. It seems that Sphinx is already regretting the company. On the other hand, he hasn't told Smoker to stay back either. Upon reflection, Smoker decides that he should go forward, as if nothing has happened. He loses sight of Sphinx near the stairway, but when he drives down the ramp to the first-floor landing he discovers him standing there, waiting.

“No offense, Smoker. When I ask you what you think, it always has only one purpose: I would really like to make you think. Let's go back to the beginning. Was I serious when I told you that it's better to listen to Tabaqui than not to listen to him?”

“Come on. That was not really a question.”

Sphinx peers into the trash can full of cigarette butts.

“Do you like this smell, Smoker? The one emanating from this vessel? I doubt it. Even taking your nick into consideration that would be a... perversion.”

“Why do you ask, then?”

Sphinx kicks the can and sniffs at the air.

“How about the soot of the streets? Answer me this one, and I’ll answer yours. Did you think I was taking you into the Outsides? That I regularly take strolls there at night, when I'm in a bad mood, and that this time I decided to take you with me? Dressed like this?”

Smoker takes out a pack of cigarettes.

“I was just wondering what it was that you called the soot of the streets. Was that so wrong?”

“But you didn't ask it that way. You asked if we were going outside.”

“Why are you picking at my words? You understood perfectly well what I meant.”

Sphinx kicks the can again.

“Smoker. This is really bad. When your questions are more stupid than you are. And when they are much more stupid, it's even worse. Like the contents of this trash can. You don't like its smell. And I don't like the smell of dead words. You wouldn't try to turn this over and shake out the butts and the spit on my head? But you’re willing to bury me in rotted empty words without a second thought. Without a first thought, in fact.”

Smoker, pale and frightened, teases a cigarette in his fingers. “All right, I'm getting on your nerves. You could just say so. I won't be asking any more questions, then.”

“Ask about things you don't know.”

“Right. Mother Ann, for example. And get answers that I can't understand. Very enlightening.”

“Tabaqui tried to tell you. It's not his fault that you were determined not to believe a single word.”

“Because it was perfect nonsense. Why is it that his trash is fine with you, Sphinx? How come his words don't feel dead to you? He's constantly running his mouth. If every word he said were a cigarette butt, the House would be buried under them. It would be one huge mountain of butts.”

Sphinx sighs.

“Only for someone who doesn't know how to listen. Learn to listen, Smoker, and you’ll see how much easier your life becomes. Jackal can teach you a thing or two about that. Pay attention to what he says. To the way he frames his questions. He takes only what he needs. And as for running his mouth... Yes, he does that. And yes, he likes to embellish the truth. But in that avalanche of words there is always the answer, somewhere in the middle. Which means it's not empty words anymore. Yes, listening to Tabaqui takes a knack. But it's definitely not impossible. Others seem to manage.”

Smoker looks at Sphinx indignantly.

“Sphinx, don't make Tabaqui this great guru figure. Please! Just admit that he's of a privileged class. That he can get away with things others can’t.”

Sphinx nods.

“He is of a privileged class. And he can get away with things others can’t. Happy now? I didn't think so. What is it you actually want?”

Smoker doesn't answer. Sphinx leaves the landing and starts down the first-floor corridor. Smoker follows him a few feet behind. He's so hurt he can't speak. He drives along and thinks about how hard the black sheep have it. How no one likes them.

“Maybe I'm spoiled,” Sphinx says, not turning his head. “By Alexander. His wordless understanding. Or even Noble, who was too proud to ask questions. Maybe I'm biased, or simply irritated. But I also see you behaving very strangely, Smoker. Like there's something I am supposed to ask forgiveness for. From you.”

Smoker catches up with him.

“Is it true you used to beat Noble, forcing him to crawl?”

Sphinx stops.

“It is a truth. Black's truth.”

“But did it happen?”

“It did.”

The first-floor corridor—lantern-like lights, linoleum crisscrossed by wheelchair tracks. Someone is torturing the piano in the lecture hall. Hounds yip in the changing room. Sphinx takes a quick look inside all the doors they're passing. He's looking for Blind, and he keeps thinking: Is it possible that Smoker doesn't see how like a street this place is? doesn't smell the soot in the air, doesn't feel the snow falling invisibly?

They meet Blind at the very end of the corridor. He is knocking the stuffing out of a vending machine, hoping to get back the coin it swallowed.

“Thirsty?” Sphinx asks.

“Not anymore.”

One last punch, and the machine spits out a paper cup. Blind picks it up.

“Nine,” he says. “Nor a drop to drink, in any of them.”

“Blind, this machine has been dispensing nothing but empty cups for the past hundred years.”

Next to them Bubble, from the Third, is roaring down the highway, slamming into the oncoming cars and shaking the game console.

“You wouldn't happen to have met Red in these parts?”

“What happened to your voice?” Blind inquires. “You sound hoarse.”

“Safeguarding the pack's property from long-legged sluts,” Sphinx says darkly.

“Oh? Gaby has been?”

Sphinx is overcome with a burning desire to kick Blind. Shatter his ankle, make the dear Leader lame for a while. A long while.

“She has,” he manages, restraining himself. “And I sincerely hope that she won't again. That you are going to take care of that.”

Blind listens intently, head to one side, then steps behind the machine, taking his legs out of Sphinx's reach.

“My bad,” he says. “I shall be more careful next time. Who's that with you? Smoker?”

“Yeah. I took him out for a walk.”

“He's uneasy, isn't he,” Blind says indifferently. “didn't I tell you? Black damaged him.”

Smoker, mute with indignation, looks up at them both. Two shameless, self-absorbed bastards discussing him as if he weren't here. Bubble's screen switches off, the machine squeaks the first few measures of the Marche Funebre at him. He listens to it bare-headed.

In the lecture hall, pimply Laurus pushes the stool away from the piano and dabs his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Now do something less boring,” the audience demands.

Laurus smiles haughtily at no one in particular. These people know nothing about real jazz, and there's no use in trying to explain. The wheelers in collars burst out in applause. They applaud the smile, not the music.