The Gray House

THE HOUSE

INTERLUDE

The House belonged to the seniors. The House was their home—counselors existed to maintain order in it, teachers to make sure seniors weren’t bored. Seniors could make fires in the dorms and grow magic mushrooms in bathtubs, there was no one to tell them off.

They would say things like “a spoke of my wheels,” or “the lurch is stale in the bones,” or “vigorously present body parts,” or “liturgically challenged.” They were shaggy and motley. They threw sharp elbows and icy stares.

They could marry and adopt each other at will. Their malicious energy made the windowpanes rattle, but the cats luxuriated in it, acquiring an arcing glow. No one could enter their world. They invented it themselves. The world, the war, and their places in it.

No one remembered how their war had started. But they were now divided into Moor people and Skull people, into red and black, like chess pieces. On the eve of their rumbles, the House froze and waited with bated breath. The juniors would be locked in their dorms, and that’s why for them the rumbles were always a burning, itching secret behind the two turns of the key. Something beautiful, something into which, someday, they would grow themselves. They waited for the battles to end, desperately scraping at the locks and pressing their ears to the doors. The ending was always the same. The seniors would forget to unlock them, and the squirts would remain prisoners of their dorms until morning, when the counselors returned. Once liberated, they would rush to the battlefield, sniffing around for the traces—of what, they didn’t know, for there never were any. They would learn the details later, from the overheard snippets of conversations. Then the Great Game entered into their little games in the backyard, teased and twisted until they grew tired of it.

Once he reaches the doors of the Fifteenth, Grasshopper tiptoes like an enemy infiltrator. There are voices coming out of the room. Suddenly they stop, and all he can hear is soft rasping. Grasshopper peeks into the half-opened door.

Purple Moor sits with his back to the door, not two steps away. Grasshopper is mesmerized by the sight of his neck. If someone were to be covered with myriad little tattoos, and then they all mingled and ran together, it would look like this neck. The ears seem tacked on above this strange neck. Moor is wheezing softly, and the prickly words bubble out of him with each jerk of his head. The small pink rat ears move out of sync, as if of their own volition. Grasshopper looks at Moor, at the back of his wheelchair, which sports an umbrella holder and also some kind of hook and many other strange protuberances and implements he’s never seen on other wheelchairs. He also tries to listen to the wheezing more closely but still cannot make it out. A bespectacled wheeler in pajamas talks back, respectfully holding a hand to his mouth. Then he notices Grasshopper and his eyes open wide; his lips form the word “Out!”

Moor’s curly-haired head starts turning. Grasshopper shrinks away from the door and flies down the hall like the wind. He is the only one among the walking juniors who is barred from Moor’s rooms. Numbers 15, 14, 13. Others can enter, but not he. In the Moor’s room one can serve—carrying this and that, boiling water, shining shoes, or washing dishes. Or slicing bologna for sandwiches that Purple One consumes in enormous quantities, one after another. This is the price of socializing with the seniors. For those who fail at their duties, Moor keeps a belt somewhere in his wheelchair. This belt features prominently in the juniors’ nightmares. Moor’s belt, Moor himself, and his voice—the rasping wheeze of Livid Monster. The boys curse Purple One when returning from his rooms and parade the welts his belt left on their hands.

Grasshopper secretly envies them. Their wounds, their stories, and their complaints—everything that unites them in their hatred of Moor. It’s their adventure, their experience. He’s not a part of it.

Grasshopper slows down. Now he’s crossing into Skull’s domain. These three rooms equalize Grasshopper with the rest of the boys—they are just as barred from here as he is. They also sneak through on their tiptoes. They’ve never been there, but they know everything about how the rooms look inside. They know that one doesn’t have any beds at all, just the mattresses that are stacked in two enormous piles every morning. Then the wheelers while away the hours playing checkers on top of those mountains. The floors are sticky in there, and the windowsills are crowded with rows and rows of empty bottles. Everyone sits on thin red straw mats. Skull lives in this room. The narrow-eyed predator, the owner of the soul-deadening nick, warrior, Leader, and living legend. The idol of each and every junior, the hero of all their games, the unattainable ideal.

There’s also the Eleventh, with a real bamboo hut in the middle. With the star attraction—Lame’s hookah. With Babe the old cockatoo, who can swear in three different languages. The boys know the exact time to go past the open door to catch a glimpse of hunchbacked Lame blowing bubbles in his transparent water crock.

And then the third room, the one with the messages on the door. Where Ancient lives with his box of amulets and the two fish in the tank. Ancient, who can’t stand bright light. This room is more mysterious than the other two because its door is always closed. Grasshopper sees Ancient’s room in his mind as he goes past; it’s easy for him because he’s been in there and seen it for himself. He presses his chin against the amulet under the shirt, regretting that he can never tell anyone what happened to him behind this door. Ancient’s gift brings him closer to the seniors. Power that is equal to Skull’s; he carries it in secret, hidden from the world. Every day it becomes harder and harder to keep believing in it. He walks on, and the mystery walks with him, and also his pride and his doubt.

There are also two more packs of walking juniors in the House. They have their own dorms, and Grasshopper tries to avoid those.

The Singings pack is in a state of permanent cold war with the Stuffagers. Actual fights are rare, but both packs watch their sides of the hallway closely to warn the enemies away.

The inhabitants of the Cursed room are not bothered with that. Their room is considered the worst since it is the only one on this floor with the windows looking out. Outcasts live there. Those who were banished from the other packs. There are four of them. Sometimes Grasshopper thinks that this is what Sportsman is driving at. To force the Cursed status on him. So he never goes near that room. The mightiest amulet in the world would be powerless to turn him into a second Skull were he to become one of them.

For Grasshopper, the House resembles a gigantic beehive. Each dorm is a cell, and each cell a separate world. There are also empty cells—classrooms and playrooms, the canteen and locker rooms, but they are not shining at night with the honey-amber light from their windows, so they are not real, in a sense.

Sometimes he stays outside in the yard late into the evening, on purpose, to count the living cells in the coming darkness and to think about them. This always leaves a melancholy taste in his soul, because only four such cells exist for him behind the blazing windows in the entire enormous hive of a building. Four little worlds that are accessible to him: Elk’s room, Ancient’s room, and the two rooms of the Stuffage. This thought makes him a bit depressed. He knows all too well that Stuffage is not his home, never will be his home. He doesn’t want to escape from the darkness in it or to unwind after classes, and there’s no one waiting for him there if he’s late. Stuffage is a place in itself. For many it is home. They cordon off their beds, mark them with signs of their presence the way dogs mark their territory with urine. They pin up pictures over the headboards, make shelves out of old crates, and throw their things on them. For them the beds are private fortresses, bearing the imprints of their owners. His bed is bare and anonymous, and he never feels completely safe, whether lying down or sitting up in it.

Each window means a room, with people living inside. For them that room is home. For every one of them except me. My room is not my home, because there are too many strangers in it. People who do not like me. Who do not care whether I come back there or not. But the House is so big. Surely there must be a place in it for someone who does not like to fight? For two someones. This thought cheered him up. He felt like he’d stumbled upon something important. Found a way out. All he needed was a room of his own, a room without Sportsman, Whiner and Crybaby, and Siamese, and the rest of them. Naturally, there still would be more people living in it besides Blind and himself. A lot more, actually. Because all the living quarters in the House were accounted for. Every little nook capable of providing a bit of privacy was taken over by the seniors. Which meant that he needed a dorm. And a dorm meant at least ten people. If only he could find them . . . Even four would do! Then they could occupy the room where Rabbit, Bubble, and Crook slept. They only spent the nights there. Switch places with them and have it for themselves. That would be really cool!

Grasshopper sighs. He knows those are just idle dreams. Even if he and Blind did move into an empty dorm, it would still remain a part of Stuffage. And if anyone, say Humpback, decided to join them, Sportsman never would permit that. The place where three of his Pack sleep would be as much a part of Stuffage as the sleepers—a part of the Pack. Come to think of it, he might not allow even the two of them to leave. Isn’t there anything we can do, anything at all?

Thirty-four days after his first visit, Grasshopper once again stands before the door of the Tenth. He has on a green sweater over his shirt, boots instead of sneakers, and a zipped corduroy jacket instead of a blazer. His lips are moving as he reads the messages again. This helps him calm down. He moves closer to the door and raps on it softly with the tip of his boot. Then, without waiting for an answer, just like Blind did back then, he brings his heel down on the handle, opens the door, and enters. The smoky gloom falls on him like a stuffy tent.

The mysterious shiny world of the seniors smells. The room looks exactly the same as it did a month ago. Time stopped here, got tangled in the invisible net, caught in the glint on the bottoms of the bottles under the bed, precipitated in the bedpans, settled on the wings of the insects pinned to the walls. The butterflies, so pretty in the sunlight, are uniformly black in the eternal dusk of the room, resembling nothing so much as winged cockroaches. The boy’s breath is shallow; he is trying to tame his fear. The fish tank still glows green, the smoke still curls in the air. The striped mattress is still in the same place.

Ancient, wrapped in a blanket, turns his bony face around. He is wearing dark shades that make his skin seem even whiter than it is.

“What’s this?” he asks. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to ask about the great power. May I?”

Ancient frowns, then remembers and smiles.

“Have a seat. Ask. But make it short.”

Grasshopper approaches Ancient’s mattress and lowers himself to the floor in front of it. Since their previous meeting, he has become a month older, a full month at this age of rapid growth. His face is sad and somber; his nose still bears the traces of freckles, a reminder of the summer gone by.

Ancient smokes, dropping ash in the folds of his blanket. The mattress is covered in wine stains. The ashtrays are full of orange peel. The plate is occupied by the remains of a sandwich going stale. All of this has a calming effect on Grasshopper. Those things seem to bring a measure of domesticity. He clears his throat.

“This . . . Great Power,” he says timidly. “I can’t feel it anymore. For some reason. Could it be that the amulet’s broken? I’ve never opened it, I swear. I could feel it when I put it on for the first time. But not now. So I came.”

The black holes of the sunglasses glimmer teasingly in the dark.

“And you thought you were going to move mountains? Then you’re just a silly little boy.”

The boy bites his lip, unable to look up.

“I wasn’t thinking about any mountains. And I’m not silly. It’s just that I had something then, so I thought that was the Great Power. And now there’s nothing.”

Tears make his eyes sting. He holds his breath to gain control over them. Ancient, intrigued in spite of himself, takes off his glasses.

“Tell me what you were feeling. I can’t know that until you tell me. Let’s talk.”

“It was . . . like arms. Not like they grew out all of a sudden. More the other way around. Like I could choose to have them or not have them. As if arms are not something everyone needs.” Grasshopper is shaking his head and rocking back and forth. “I can’t explain. It’s like I was whole. I thought that’s how the Great Power was.”

“You were whole? When you left here, you were whole?”

“Yes.”

Grasshopper finally lifts his gaze and looks hopefully into the albino’s wine-colored eyes.

“When did it go away? When you returned to your dorm?”

“No. It was there through the night, and the next morning, and for a while after that. And then it went away. I thought it would come back, but it didn’t.”

Ancient’s colorless eyebrows shoot up.

“And even when you tried to do something that you couldn’t do by yourself, you still felt whole? Is that what you’re saying?”

Grasshopper nods. His cheeks are burning.

“I was a bird,” he whispers. “A bird that could fly. It may walk upon the Earth when that’s what it wants, but if it decides . . . as soon as it decides . . . Then it just flies.”

Ancient leans over to him, across the mat, the plates, and the ashtrays. His face no longer seems purely white.

“You felt that you could do whatever you want whenever you decide to want it?”

“Yes.”

“You are a marvel, my boy.”

“It’s not me! It’s the amulet!”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Ancient agrees. “I seem to have forgotten. Well, it looks like it came out even stronger than I thought. I wouldn’t mind making one like that for myself. Pity that’s impossible.”

“Why?” Grasshopper’s voice is full of sympathy.

“Things like that are only given to you once.” Ancient stubs the cigarette in the ashtray. “So you’re saying it stopped working?”

Grasshopper shifts uneasily and licks his parched lips.

“That’s why I came. I mean, I thought I’d wait at first. In case it returned. I waited and waited, and then I decided to come. Ancient, can you help me? Only you can fix it. Put it back.”

Ancient realizes too late that the trap has sprung. He makes a face and looks at his watch.

“I’d love to, but I’m afraid we don’t have much time left. They are going to return soon. And we can’t discuss things like that when others are around. So, some other time. And the power might still come back by then.”

“Tonight it’s a double,” Grasshopper reminds him. The suspicion that Ancient is trying to get rid of him drains all color from his voice. “The movie is a double feature,” he repeats softly.

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

Grasshopper gets up.

“You can’t help me,” he says and shrugs his shoulders, looking down intently. “I would have thought it was all fake, except I still remember the way it was in the beginning. And besides, the water pan fell down,” he adds desperately. “They were mopping the floor when we returned. It doesn’t just happen like that, when it all comes together, does it? By accident? It doesn’t, right?”

“No. You’re right, nothing happens by accident. Sit down.”

Grasshopper sits back down eagerly, legs folded. Ancient’s annoyed face stirs up hope inside him. The seniors are powerful and subtle. There will come a day when he’s going to be like that, too.

“Are they still bullying you? I seem to remember Blind telling me about it.”

“It’s less now,” Grasshopper answers readily. “They got bored, I guess. Just . . . pick on me sometimes, that’s all.”

“All right.” Ancient ponders something behind the closed snow-white eyelashes. “Tell me again how you felt that Great Power of yours. There must be a way to revive it. We may still find it. I need to hear one more time.”

Grasshopper shrugs his shoulders again to throw back the sleeves of his jacket and tries to explain everything one more time from the beginning. Ancient looks almost asleep, but he’s not sleeping. The lamp, turned to the wall, casts a golden halo on it. The fish bump against the glass of the tank with their puffy lips.

“I see,” Ancient says after Grasshopper stops talking. “I understand now. Well, this happens sometimes. I thought I was giving you power, but instead it was something else. Something much better. Only now you lost it. That happens too.”

Grasshopper’s lips tremble. Ancient pretends not to see that. The smoke writhes transparently between his fingers.

“And the reason is,” he continues softly, “that you are still too little for that amulet. I warned you, I never make them for children. But you can turn it back on. Even if you aren’t able to do it right away, I’m almost sure you will when you’re older. It’s for an adult, see.”

Grasshopper isn’t even trying to conceal his disappointment.

“And now? What about now? I can’t wait that long.”

Having caught Ancient’s rising irritation, Grasshopper rushes to explain.

“It’s not because I want it right now. I swear! But they all say that I’m not good for anything, and even those who don’t say it must think the same. They’re all stronger than I am because they all have arms. All of them,” he says with quiet horror. “And if I am going to remain like this until I grow up, there would be nothing I could do about it then. They are all going to remember that I was useless. Always. How am I supposed to become the next Skull then?”

Ancient clears his throat and waves the smoke away.

“Good question. Don’t you think you just might become someone else instead? Two Skulls would be a bit much for one House.”

“All right, not Skull,” Grasshopper agrees. “Someone else. But only if that someone else is like Skull.”

Ancient averts his gaze, unable to look at the empty sleeves and the burning eyes.

“Yes,” he says. “Of course.”

His face is angry now, scaring Grasshopper, even though the anger is not directed at him.

“Right,” Ancient says. “Tell me, who’s the most powerful man in the House?”

“Skull,” Grasshopper says without hesitation.

“And who’s the smartest?”

“Well . . . they say . . . you?”

“Listen, then, to what the smartest man in this big gray box is telling you. There is one way to give the amulet its power back. Only one. It’s very hard. Harder than anything. You’ll have to do everything exactly as I say. Not once, not for a couple of days, but for many, many days. And if you fail to do it completely and fully, even once, even if it’s the teeniest, tiniest thing . . .”

Grasshopper shakes his head vigorously.

“If you miss something, or forget, or just get lazy”—Ancient pauses ominously—“the amulet will lose all of its power forever. Might as well throw it in the trash.”

Grasshopper freezes.

“So think about it,” Ancient concludes. “You still have time.”

“Yes,” Grasshopper whispers. “Yes. I’ll do everything. I’m not going to miss or forget.”

“You didn’t even ask what it is that you’re promising to do.”

“I forgot,” Grasshopper admits. “What is it I’m promising to do?”

“Things,” Ancient says mysteriously. “Some of them may even seem dull or boring. For example”—his extinguished cigarette zigzags in the air—“I might order you to think magic words. Every morning as you wake up and every night before you fall asleep. Or say them to yourself very softly. They may sound simple, but you’ll have to repeat them like you mean them. Every time. Or here’s something I might say.” Ancient smiles at his thoughts. “I’d say, ‘Today you’re not allowed to utter a single word.’ And then you must be silent.”

“What about classes? I can’t be completely silent in class.”

“There are no classes on weekends.”

“What if the counselors . . .”

“You see?” Ancient throws up his hands. “You’re already arguing with me. Looking for an out. It doesn’t work like that. Either you agree or you don’t.”

Grasshopper blinks.

“Go hide in the attic, if you have to. But whatever you do that day, you do it in silence. And that’s one of the easy ones. They’ll get harder as we go along. For example, several days of not feeling sorry for yourself. Or not getting angry. That one is very hard. Not even Skull can do that.”

The mention of Skull cheers up disheartened Grasshopper.

“Are all the tasks going to be like that? Like . . .” He searches for the right word. “Brainy?”

“The spirit is more important than the body,” Ancient proclaims. “But if you are referring to the physical side, don’t worry. We’ll do that too. You’re not going to have it easy.”

“Will I have to fight?”

“Not for a while. It’s not essential, really. But for starters, you’re going to kiss both of your heels.”

Grasshopper smiles.

“How so?”

“Simple.” Ancient spreads out the blanket, shakes out the crumbs, and wraps it around himself again. “I’m going to say: ‘On this and this day you are to appear here before me and kiss your heels.’ One, and then the other. While standing, of course. Anyone can do it sitting down. And you’re either going to do it, or forfeit the whole task.”

“When are you going to say that?”

“Not today. And not tomorrow. First things first.”

In Grasshopper’s misty gaze Ancient reads the future, and it definitely includes attempts at kissing the heels. Very soon. Ancient hides his smile in a glass of lemonade. He takes a very long sip, and when he puts away the glass he’s somber again.

“All right, that’s enough,” he says. “I shouldn’t even have told you all of that ahead of time. It’s late. Go, think it over carefully. I’d drop the whole thing if I were you.”

Grasshopper rises up reluctantly.

“I’ve decided. I’m not going to change my mind. I will be silent, and I will be whatever else. Can you give me a task now?”

Ancient looks at his watch.

“That’s it for today,” he says. “The tasks will have to wait until tomorrow. I need to remember all the magic words. And a lot of other things too. Now go and think. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Grasshopper walks backward to the door, nodding all the while. Once he’s in the hallway he just stands there in uncertainty, as if not knowing where he’s supposed to go. The bright lights are hard on his eyes after the darkness of the room. Finally he turns and shuffles away along the corridor. His boots scuff listlessly at the floor. He is walking full of the innermost secrets and strange visions. Of magic words, of pitiless and angerless weeks, of big Skull and little Skull, of Bruce Lee kissing his own heels, of Blind asking “Why aren’t you saying anything?” Of voices around him: “He’s become so strange lately.” It lies heavy on Grasshopper, but also suddenly fills him with pride.

“Not even Skull can do that,” he mutters. “For him that would be too hard.”

Humpback is on his haunches by the doghouse, petting the resident dog and rubbing it behind the ears. Grasshopper comes over. Humpback gets up and follows him to the fence. To the place where the bushes hide the secret tunnel to the Outsides.

Humpback’s shirt is covered in stains and splotches. He’s wearing sunglasses that used to belong to one of the seniors; one side is cracked. They keep sliding down his nose, exposing the conjoined half-moons of his eyebrows. The yard is reflected in the twin round mirrors. His cap is covered in pins and badges. He takes off the shades and the cap deliberately, like a swimmer about to go into the water. On the other side of the fence, in the outside world, the five scruffy stray dogs all react to this gesture in unison: they whine and brush the ground impatiently with their tails.

“Down!” Humpback commands. “Sit!”

The passage into the Outsides was constructed by the seniors. When autumn arrives, the bushes around it grow thinner, and then it can be seen from a distance. That’s why dried leaves are piled around it. But the dogs still know where it is, and when Humpback approaches the right spot, they become even more agitated.

“Shall we?” Humpback says and reaches into the pocket of Grasshopper’s coat.

They exchange knowing smiles.

Humpback produces a grease-stained package, hides it under his shirt, crouches down, and crawls into the bushes. The camouflage leaves stream on top of him like a rustling waterfall. The hole in the fence is now evident, and the whimpering dogs jostle each other to sniff at the black-haired, shaggy head that has suddenly appeared on their side.

“Sit!” Humpback shouts, trying to make them back down.

Surprisingly they do sit, in a docile circle, with only their tails still thumping the ground. Each receives its share, and then there are just chomping noises. It doesn’t take long. When it’s all gone, Humpback lets them sniff him, at his hands and his pockets, to assure them that he’s not hiding anything. He goes back the same way and emerges covered in clods of wet earth. They shovel the leaves back into the bushes. The dogs snap at each other and run back and forth along the fence.

“Wild animals,” Humpback observes thoughtfully, watching them. “No one needs them. All by themselves . . .”

“Newbie!” the boys shout to each other as they run.

The word is passed down the chain, even the walls seem to vibrate as they absorb it. Wherever a member of the Pack was peacefully excavating his nostrils, or tossing a ball, or trying to coax a cat to come closer so he could tie a bottle to its tail, this enticing vibration in the walls and in his own legs prompts him to abandon all other pursuits and run, overtake the ones running in front, and pick up the airborne word: “Newbie!” And then, putting on the brakes in front of the door of the Sixth, elbow aside those who came first—to look, to inhale that scent that new arrivals always bring in. Only the children of the House can feel it. The fleeting scent of the mother’s warmth, of hot chocolate in the morning, of packed lunches, a dog, maybe even a bicycle. Scent of one’s own home. The farther it drifts back in time for the denizens of Stuffage, the sharper they sense it on someone else.

And so they run, they rush and hurry, only to freeze once arrived and sniff at the air and see just a scrawny little boy on crutches, smiling plaintively, showing his braces, a boy with a ragged haircut, with one of the shoes so strange that it obviously cannot contain a regular foot. Grasshopper runs with the rest of them, and gawks with the rest of them too. His eyes are open wide, he shoves and jostles those in front of him. He’s not after any scents, as he hasn’t learned to distinguish them yet. For him the newbie means simply a boy who looks strange and smells of the Outsides. What he also means is the end of the war, end of humiliation, a ticket into the Pack and the peaceful life. But when he hears that word tossed around in excited whispers, he still cringes, as if they were talking about him.

The boy is surrounded.

“Hey you, newbie!” they laugh.

One of the Siamese pulls up the boy’s pant leg, and the Pack examines the foot with the air of experts. The newbie sways uncertainly on his crutches.

“They’ll cut it off. Like all of it,” says one of the Siamese.

“Naturally,” affirms the assembled choir.

“Mama’s boy,” Hoover adds dreamily. “Gonna be without a leg.” And he forcefully inhales the sweet scent of home.

Grasshopper realizes that he’s waiting for the familiar insults: “Elk’s Pet” and “Blind’s Tail.” They are not uttered, but it seems like they will be in a moment. They really are on the tips of the tongues. The boys have got so used to shouting it out in a certain sequence that they are confused and angry at the sudden drying out of their reservoir of curses.

Grasshopper steps back. He is uneasy. The joy he was feeling is quickly overshadowed by despair. He is stepping closer and closer toward the door, until he’s out of the circle, out of the room, until he can see only their backs, and still he can’t erase the image in his mind, the image of the boy drooping on his crutches, the boy who has taken his place and assumed his horrible designation. Grasshopper is now standing behind everybody else. Farther behind than necessary, to show his noninvolvement. When the ritual runs its course and the boys start to drift off, he doesn’t move. He waits until the last one of them goes away, then waits a bit more and enters the dorm.