The Gray House

WALKING WITH THE BIRD

Step, step . . . There goes Bird, the one feeding on carrion. He comes and he goes, and clomp-clomp goes his poor crippled paw. Way, give way! There’s never ever a day that we’re not here at this hour. But it’s useless to expect the populace to expect us. They still impede, they still interfere, running by, jostling and bumping. Not me, of course, but the shadow of my brother, which is almost as annoying. I’m strolling, divining the times to come. It’s only going to get worse. The new Law will take care of that. It will take care of many other things besides the aforementioned, but that’s not my concern, now is it? Or is it? Concern, that’s what we Leaders are made of. We’re supposed to nip the unnippable in the bud, or at least fret dutifully concerning the inability to thus nip. There’s exactly zero sense in that. And a lot of headache into the bargain.

Animals and birds hobble here and there, the inhabitants of the zoo and their keepers. Some greet me, some maintain silence. Snow sparkling on the ledge of the Crossroads window. I’m overwhelmed by the desire to Jump, to roam in the fields of the Underside of the House. But I can’t. For “by succumbing to your desires you lose the self and turn into their slave.” This maxim is all that remains in my mind of the old Jumpers’ Code, destroyed during the Troubles. Sightless One can probably quote it chapter and verse, but for me that one snippet is plenty.

I walk up the pain in my knee and return to the Nesting. My dear jungle. The pillars thereof of ivy, the bottom thereof of ferns. Bitter green flesh all the way around. What’s that smell? Someone’s indiscretion. Nothing to do with me. Everyone here lives on carrion, not just me. I hop on the roost to give myself a boost. That’s the only way to see anything in here, from up high. The inhabitants mostly cling to the ground, and there’re nooks galore. And we’re the ones called Birds, go figure. Whatever, it wasn’t us who dubbed us that. I take the red ribbon out of the plastic bag and tie it to the top rung. That’s a sign. Of the upcoming verbal incontinence of old Daddy Vulture. The awful racket dies down, the populace crawls closer and waits. All kinds of deformities, both external and internal, all of them staring at my beak. That’s the way they’ve been born, so what can you do? I drop a carton of cigarettes down, as a token of benevolence. It is caught jubilantly. I can toss them goodies all day long, and it’ll never be enough.

“Listen, children,” I begin.

They do. They’re good at it. All of them. Scary, that.

“Here’s the deal,” I say unto them, “concerning the girls. I seem to notice that you never invite anyone. That’s not good. Making friends and inviting them—that’s good. Look at Beauty, he’s got a girlfriend, but he doesn’t invite her. That’s the latest fashion here in the House, wouldn’t do for us to fall behind. Saunter forth. Give the Nest a bit of spit and polish, tidy up, throw away the rubbish. Clean and sparkling, and the only smell should be of Elephant’s violets.”

They get it. Nodding. Elephant more eagerly than others. He heard his pretty flowers mentioned, so he’s happy, poor soul. Butterfly flips his paw over Angel’s shoulder. Angel wrinkles his nose. Hilarious. What do those two need with girls?

Dearest giggles.

“I just lo-o-ove girls,” he proclaims in falsetto. “Such darlings! Could it be they would bring us something? Them being so kind and all.”

Sure, why not. They very well might. Lipstick, for example. I wouldn’t bet on kindness, though.

“Don’t even think about wheedling gifts from them,” I say.

Dearest rolls his eyes dolefully and preens his feathers.

“Wheedling? Eww-w! I’m not that way!”

“What the hell?” Lizard says. “Girls mean trouble. They go here, they go there, and then there’s gossip all over the House. Some darlings! They can take their gifts and shove ’em.”

“Don’t do anything worth gossiping about, then,” I say.

Beauty glows. Tries to dim the light show with the eyelashes, but it still shines through. One handsome guy. The only one here. He’s not going to invite Doll, of course. He’s got enough sense for that.

Lizard slaps him on the back and brays, “Our Ro-o-meo!”

Beauty goes livid, hisses and spits. The image is ruined for the next half hour.

“Shut up!” I shout from my aerie.

They do.

Every possible variety of senility, all in one Nest. You could come in with the medical reference and check off the symptoms one by one. I’ve got crazies to suit any taste.

Horse’s snoring. I toss a matchbook at him. He perks up and tries to look like he was alert all that time. Who’s he kidding?

“Hooray for Vulture!” Bubble suggests out of the blue.

I have to wait out the assortment of odd-sized hoorays.

“Was that clear to everyone?” I inquire.

They nod. They scratch. With grating and huffing noises. As I look over them, a thought occurs: a girl’s got to have no brains at all to accept the invitation. Horse’s glum mug. Bubble’s multicolored one. Butterfly’s, rotting from both top and bottom. Lizard’s, bumpy. Beauty alone is a sight for sore eyes, him and Elephant. And they are all uniformly green. That’s from bad lighting. I look at the lightbulb. Something’s buzzing around it. Something that has not yet croaked in this cold. I take a swipe at it and miss.

Lizard doubles down coughing. Choked on smoke. Eight flippers pound him on the back. A Boschian masterpiece. In the dark.

“Lord, thy will be done,” I say to the bulb.

Uproarious fun. It’s a chronic condition with the pack. Whenever I am serious they imagine that I’m joking. I untie the red ribbon, fold it, and stuff it back into the bag. The buzzer goes off. They startle. It’s time for Angel’s drops.

“Still. Why do we need this?” Lizard drones. “Girls! We were doing fine without them. We should keep it that way. Now what? With half a year left . . . Blind took a roll with Long, and hey, there’s the new Law? Now we can’t even walk the hallways in peace.”

Angel opens his mouth and waits. For his portion of dew.

“Blind is off limits. Hallways are not. Girls are for chatting up, and inviting whenever feasible. That is all. Understood?”

Angel is waiting. Elephant bashfully giggles and covers his mouth. Beauty nods. Bubble grins.

“That’s nice. Go with my blessings, children.”

I slide down from the roost and hobble away. Away from the Nest. Away from everyone. Elephant catches up with me and presents me with Louis in the pot. To buck me up and for general cheer.

So we are three walking now. Me, Louis in the crook of my elbow, and the stooping figure in Levi’s and black sweater. He treads limping on his left foot just as I am listing to the right. The soundless ghost of Shadow, brother of mine. This place belongs to him as much as it does to me. In fact, he’s even more of the House than I am, since he could never leave it. I can see him whenever and wherever I wish, he’s always around, but always occupied with some kind of posthumous business, always on the run. He never even looks in my direction. Could be that he’s upset with me. We only ever talk in my dreams, and in the morning I have to struggle to remember them. Max is the reason people seldom come closer to me than three paces when I’m not walking. Many of them feel his presence.

There’s Black. Walking slowly toward me.

He nods at me, I nod at him. We don’t like each other very much, but noblesse oblige. What it demands is that we greet each other and chat whenever we meet. What about? I don’t know. The weather? Each other’s health? Shadow makes a sour face. We move on. I start whistling softly. The daylight hours belong to the girls now. They’re also out strolling. Along with their hangers-on and gawkers-at. Flea-ridden Hounds in collars. Birds, bare-necked and in pajamas. Logs, ever fashionable, swarming. What do you call a Log’s girlfriend? Logess or Logmaid? Logette, maybe? They rustle and whisper, they laugh, throwing sharp stares from under the fringes. Their presence turns the corridors into something that I don’t know how to describe. The floorboards keep whimpering as balding Vulture treads them.

Plump Splutter sees Vulture, yanks off his beret, and assumes the Hound pose of respect. Head down, tail sweeping the floor. I go around him, Shadow plows through, and it’s not entirely clear what causes Splutter to shudder, his respect for me or the unpleasant feeling one gets when Shadow walks through him. I would have liked to bring clarity to this question, but my feet carry me on. I have lots of questions that will forever remain unanswered. We knew not what we were doing when we christened Shadow as Shadow. Wasn’t that inviting the fate that did befall him: to wander eternally, to cleave and be one flesh, to be always silent? Most of the other ghosts I know are quite chatty. He’s the only one to keep total silence.

The Crossroads sofa features beastly Gaby. Legs open wide, the skirt barely there at all. The connoisseurs of private parts huddle around, peeking in eagerly. Gaby’s having fun, swatting at them with her purse and squeaking coyly, but doing nothing to limit the view. When they see Great Bird it’s all silence and jerky jumps away. I part that silence and take it with me, the silence, the flushed cheeks, and the sickening feeling of being somehow involved. A stern grandfather happening on a granddaughter in a compromising position. Disgusting. And funny at the same time.

A familiar tune assembles thread by thread out of thin air and pulls me in. I slow down. The Coffeepot’s entrance. Guitar gently weeping. Rats swaying their motley heads blissfully, pressing into the tiled walls. All the slender-legged stools are packed, but mine’s free as always, projecting emptiness two seats deep. Only Shuffle, the troubadour of our youth, is pressing right against it, his nose buried in the strings.

I come in and sit down. Shadow takes the seat to the left of me. Louis goes on the right. An empty cup. I look in and it fills up. I nod, I drink, I take out the key ring and count the keys. Eighteen, just as expected. The same result time after time after time. Someone with gills and one nostril floats closer. Wheezing. Puts out a claw. A silver earring. Nice, but there’s no place to put it. It would ruin the general concept. The gills droop sadly. More wheezing. A tiny key, about the size of my pinky nail, is tendered. Silver as well. I try it on. Now this I have to get.

“How much?”

The claw extends four fingers. That’s as many as it has. I draw the wallet out from the secret pocket. I pay up. I have this soft spot for keys. Especially when they’re useless. Doggy breath behind my back. That would be Shuffle.

“I hope the music isn’t bothering you?”

“Not at all, old man. Quite the opposite. Pity you’re not singing. How about it?”

He smiles, a mute question in his eyes. “You, of all people, should know I don’t have the voice for it.”

I know. He only sings when he’s drunk now. Not having the voice doesn’t stop him when he’s not sober. He launches into “Immigrant Song.” By itself, without the singing, it’s harshing me, but I can handle it. By the time he gets to the end, the Coffeepot is packed. Rats’ skulls mostly, making my eyes see spots, but then Rodents are huge fans of the Big Song, wouldn’t do to throw them out of the dear old feeding trough. I put on dark shades instead. All there’s to it. One hundred percent improvement. The skulls acquire a gray uniformity, the nerves settle down. We can listen in peace again.

At the first strains of the Lady and her “Stepladder to the Skies,” Sphinx wanders in. Three perches empty in short order. He mounts one of them and goggles with his black beetles set deep into the virginally clean skull. An amazing specimen. I pull off my shades because he needs to be appreciated in color, and we continue listening. Sphinx begins to pipe in softly. Rats sway. Shuffle’s guitar picks up steam and breaks into arpeggios. Sphinx picks up steam and breaks into scream-whispers. I pick up steam too and start keeping time with my foot.

Someone jumps up and closes the door, just in time to prevent the invasion of more riffraff. This charming evening is going to end in a scuffle, because that’s the way it is with Rats, but we’re not there yet. We’re good. Especially me. Shuffle scratches his nose, Sphinx grins. Music is a perfect way of erasing thoughts, bad and otherwise. The best and the oldest.

We’re chilling for about half an hour, and then a depressed junior Rat suddenly bursts into tears and digs out a razor. They can’t help themselves. That’s about the only redeeming quality in a Rat, his constant readiness to off himself, anytime, anyplace. Himself or those around him. That old fart Don Juan Matus would be happy. But not many others would. I, for one, detest these things.

The Ratling is sawing at his wrist, drowning in snot. Shuffle, entranced by the performance, stares and bungles the melody. End of the fun. Rats file out reluctantly, hauling off the youngling to be patched up. Nice-looking scarlet puddles on the floor. Sphinx sighs. I put on my Number 5 shades, in the cheery orange-yellow range. They’re a big help when talking to the Poxy brethren.

Sphinx notices the freshly acquired nail-sized key and approves. It’s the little things that matter. We drink our coffee and shoot the breeze. First about Breughel. Then about Leopard. Neutral, inoffensive talk. Also a kind of escape. We’re swimming in cigarette smoke, coffee stains are barely visible through the white clouds, and here are the Birdies peeking in timidly, looking for their Leader. I snap at them without turning around, and they’re not there anymore, and never were.

“Obedience to the point of reflex,” Sphinx says. “What are they so afraid of, Yelloweyes?”

“My hulking bulk.”

I choke, cough, and it turns out that Birds didn’t vanish completely. Two appear out of nowhere to pat me on the back. Shadow’s ghost laughs on the stool next to me, also coughing. No one’s patting him.

The conversation drifts peacefully toward Santana. I’m ready to melt and dissolve in the nearest coffee puddle. It’s so pleasant that it gives me the creeps. For an inhabitant of the Nest, a conversation with someone who knows how to talk is a rare pleasure indeed. We’re yammering away. Shuffle is cleaning his travel bag. He keeps his finger picks in it, and it is, frankly, filthy. Scratching at it won’t help, it’s time for a washing machine. And Shuffle himself would benefit from being thrown in after it. I smile at my cup and fiddle with the ring on my finger.

Moonflower and Amigos, oh yeah . . .

The smell of the nearby toilet filters into the Coffeepot and spoils the mood. That’s sad. A learned discourse is a necessity. Especially for this one Bird I know. Poor thing . . . I pity him dearly sometimes.

Bald One finishes the coffee, or whatever passes for it in the Coffeepot, bids us good-bye, and leaves, taking care to step around the mess left by the young Rat cutter.

“So how about it? Are you coming tonight?” I ask Shuffle.

Doghead pales and fiddles with the crutch.

“Eh . . . I mean, I’d love to, but . . . Your place . . . You know, it’s kind of . . .”

“Disgusting,” I say. “Sure. If we’re so revolting to you, you don’t have to come.”

I climb down from the perch and take off. I am positive that he’s coming.

I hobble lively. The House is in the throes of spring madness. It’s contagious. You can come down with it in every nook and at every corner. I’m running from it as fast as I can, but they still manage to slither into the memory, the stupidly content faces with the winking slits of the eyes, the beautiful dazed faces smiling at each other. The soft jangle of chains on the girls’ slender necks, in lieu of the collars. The wheelers whispering to each other, locking fingers and wheels, reading palms, divining their wingless fates. This is not a good time to be abroad alone. The House belongs to them. All of it, the cracks and the leaking pipes, the walls and the writings on them, acquiring another, mystical meaning . . .

Sad. I’m hobbling, lame as that unfortunate devil. The leg starts to heat up. We’re in store for a night of torture, with my own bones doing the honors. It’s rare indeed to have such a strong stimulant at one’s disposal. Let’s be grateful for what we’ve got.

I take off the glasses and wait. I know that in another moment the White Rabbit is going to sneak by at the end of the corridor, galloping at full speed, late for his Carrollian shindig. And there he goes. Flashing for a fraction of a second. You just have to know where to look, or you’d never catch him. I rest for a bit longer and then crawl forward again . . . Step, step . . . There goes Great Bird, the one feeding on carrion . . .