“In fact, you should cut down on smoking there,” Humpback jumped in. “Or you’ll suffocate. No ventilation at all.”
“There is that hole in the ceiling,” Noble countered. “Besides, it’s not like he’s going to smoke a pipe.”
“Pipe smoke is much less toxic,” Humpback said, taking the bait. “Yes, there’s more of it, but at least it doesn’t stink.”
“Depends on who you ask.”
“Quiet!” Tabaqui snapped. “This is vitally important information, and I would thank you to not interrupt with your petty squabbles.”
The lining went back in, concealing the stashes.
“Now . . . ,” Tabaqui said, raising his finger. “The second layer. All nice and legal. Observe closely, and whatever you think is extraneous we can remove. Although, to be honest, there is nothing extraneous here.”
The legal layer consisted of a Walkman with ten cassettes, a chocolate bar, a notepad of Jackal’s poetry, a packet of nuts, a pocket chess set, spare batteries, a deck of cards, a harmonica, and four horribly dog-eared paperbacks. It was little wonder that I found it hard to breathe once I donned the jacket. And even though it was Tabaqui who offered to get rid of anything extraneous, he was extremely critical when I said I’d like to leave behind the harmonica and the cards.
“I can’t play the harmonica,” I tried to explain.
“Exactly! This is the time to learn.”
“And I don’t do solitaire.”
“I’ll give you a guide!”
Sphinx jumped off the windowsill and joined us. Humpback extracted two stale rolls from the left pocket of the jacket. Tabaqui observed them sadly.
“They haven’t been there for that long. They’re still quite digestible.”
“Tabaqui, enough,” Noble said. “Who is going to the Cage, you or Smoker?”
“He is!” Tabaqui exclaimed. “Except he is a complete novice, and should listen to the wisdom of his more experienced packmates!”
From the breast pocket I excavated a stack of word puzzles, another notebook, and a pen.
“That would be mine,” Noble said and put out his arm. “You can leave it, it’s fine.”
I gratefully handed the wad to him and turned my attention to the books.
“The Poetry of Scandinavia,” I read on the cover.
“If you’re not into it, I’ll take that,” Humpback said eagerly.
It dawned on me that each of them contributed to the jacket when it was their turn to sit in quarantine. That’s how it became so heavy. Everything that they considered useful was in there.
Now it was Lary’s turn to astonish me. He was swaying indifferently back and forth on the heels of his monstrous boots while the jacket was being gutted, and then suddenly offered, “I have never been there, not once. I have this, you know . . . claustrophobia. I can’t even go in the elevators.”
I was so stunned I didn’t know what to say. It was the first time Lary had talked to me. I mean, not really, but the first time he addressed me as a human. As an equal.
“Oh,” I managed. “I see.”
“I’m afraid of it,” he continued in a whisper, drawing closer. “People tell things. But you’re cool. You’re on top of it.”
“Hey!” Tabaqui said. “Stop this defeatist nonsense on the eve of the departure. This is going to be rest and recuperation. Lary, leave him alone, take your morbid look somewhere else!”
Lary shuffled away obediently. Tabaqui continued his lecture. He said that there actually were two quarantine rooms. The blue one and the yellow one. And that the blue one was not for the faint of heart, but did wonders for the soul, while the yellow one was just pure bliss all around.
“The blue one makes you depressed, and the yellow stinks of urine, because the flush always gets stuck,” Sphinx said. “And they are both only blissful if you dream of being alone. Was that ever your dream, Smoker?”
“I think it is now,” I huffed, weighed down by the miracle jacket. I couldn’t even bend my arms, because of the stashes in the elbows. “Are they . . . coming for me soon?”
They did come fairly soon.
They were already wheeling me out like a motionless dummy when there came another surprise, this time from Alexander. He ran to me and handed me a flashlight.
“They say that the lights are completely out at night. Here, take this, in case you need to find something in the dark.”
I couldn’t bend my arms, but my fingers were in perfect working order, so I grabbed the flashlight. And I had a second to look into Alexander’s eyes. They were the color of strong tea. And they were speckled.
I also had time to say “See you” to the rest of them. To Jackal, who was waving to me sentimentally. To Lary, milling at the door. To Noble, who nodded from the bed. To Sphinx, sitting on the headboard. To Humpback. To everyone.
Cases, as they were called, were stationed on the first floor, two per shift. They lugged heavy stuff, if there was any to be lugged, transported the wheelers if it was suspected that the wheeler in question might object to his transportation, swept the yard, fixed this and that, and from time to time traversed the hallways with grim determination, carrying empty stretchers, for some reason. Also guarded the front door, instead of the actual guard, who was guarding the door to the third floor. But mostly they drank. Cases figured prominently in most of the local jokes, even those told by Pheasants.
The one accompanying me was too decrepit even for jokes. An old drunk with trembling hands and an unsteady gait. I was very concerned with the way he breathed. I couldn’t shake off the mental picture in which he keeled over before delivering me to where I needed to go, and then I would be stuck right there in this impossible jacket until they figured out the circumstances of his demise.
We crossed the third-floor hallway. In the tiny anteroom between two identical doors, he told me to turn out my pockets.
“Sorry,” I said earnestly. “I can’t bend my arms. You’ll have to do it yourself.”
Case decided I was trying to trick him.
“I wasn’t born yesterday, my boy,” he said reproachfully. “I’m too old to play these games with you. Come on, let’s go.”
And so I escaped being searched. As soon as the lock clicked shut behind me, I left the confines of the jacket and stretched out on the foam floor, relishing my new freedom. I was just lying there looking up into the ceiling.
It was not until about half an hour later that I suddenly understood: I was completely alone. And it was going to be this way for a while. Tabaqui really did give me a present. I just didn’t know enough to appreciate it at the time.
I was about to doze off but then remembered what Alexander said about the lights and willed myself to action. I needed to prepare. I wasn’t sure I could handle the extraction of the stashes from the jacket in the dark, even with the aid of a flashlight. I sat up, pulled the jacket toward me, and began disassembling it. Everything I took out I sorted into piles. I wasn’t even halfway through this when I needed a smoke, so I had to just shake the remaining stuff out and take care of the lining. There must have been a hundred different places I had to unfasten. I finally got to the cigarettes, folded the jacket into a cushion, put it under my back, and lit up.
The Poetry of Scandinavia, Dashiell Hammett’s The Glass Key, The Annotated Book of Ecclesiastes, Moby-Dick. All four extremely worn, with pages falling out. Shaking The Glass Key also produced Jackal’s notes on it and a withered slice of salami. Moby-Dick had a library stamp informing me that Black had checked out the book two years ago. The plastic cover bulged with paper scraps and also contained two photographs. I took out the photographs.
One was of Wolf. He was the guy who died at the beginning of last summer. I’d only been in the House for a month then, so I didn’t remember much about him. Skinny, frazzled, a frowning stare. An unlit cigarette in one hand, the other on the strings of a guitar. Rather grave face, as if he knew what was going to happen soon, although I guess we all have photos that could
be used for the “he knew” purposes if needed—just because a person refused to smile. And this particular photograph was designed to be funny. A baby bird was sitting on Wolf’s head, and this must have seemed amusing to the person behind the camera. You couldn’t see the bird all too well, though. The corner of a striped blanket hanging from the upper bunk was in the way. I figured that Wolf must have been sitting on the common bed and that Lary, as usual, had not made his, and that it was summer. After a more careful examination I recognized the bird as Nanette. Still a chick. I shivered.
They found Nanette sometime in early June, which meant that the guy in the photo had only a little time ahead of him before dying under mysterious circumstances. But that wasn’t really important for me. Not that he died, or the way he died. It was the way he looked. He was home. He had a home and he was in it. I was never going to be like that in the Fourth. Not until I’d lived there for many years.
Wolf had been a part of the Fourth, but no one ever mentioned him while I was there. There wasn’t anything in the room that was said to have been his. I’d forgotten all about him, to be honest. Pheasants were really fussy about their deceased, and I had gotten used to such treatment. Two photographs in black frames hanging in the classroom. Two cups behind the glass doors of the cabinet in the dorm, never to be taken out. Two towel hooks in the bathroom, eternally empty. The dead of the First lived in its rooms alongside the living. They were quoted, recalled fondly, their parents continued to receive the collective holiday greeting cards. I’d never seen either of them, but I knew all about their likes and dislikes. Whereas Wolf had never existed, never was in the Fourth. This photograph was the first and so far the only trace of him that I had seen.
I took out another cigarette. Started flipping the pages of The Glass Key to shake off the mood, and fell into it without even noticing. Caught myself finishing the fourth cigarette and decided that I smoked too much. Took stock of my reserves. I still had sixteen left. I thought that if someone were to come in right now, to bring in lunch, for example, he’d immediately know that I’d been smoking. And would take away everything. So I left three cigarettes out, preemptive sacrifices to a possible search, shoved the rest back into the jacket, and more or less covered the stashes with the lining. Then I tidied up a bit, spread out the jacket again under myself, and took out the second photo.
A bunch of kids on the steps of the back porch. Standing, sitting, hanging off the railing. It must have been a hot day. Faces in splotches of sun and shade.
I managed to recognize most of the faces. First of them—Black, of course. The heavy gaze, the blond bangs, the square jaw. All there. He looked a bit less imposing and a bit more round faced, and, if anything, even more morose than now.
Then I found Humpback, Elephant from the Third, and Rabbit from the Sixth. Rabbit hadn’t changed at all. Humpback was disguised by motorcycle goggles and was hugging a crossbow. Elephant towered above everyone, a smiling mountain, like a scaled Kewpie doll, with a rubber giraffe peeking out of the pocket of his overalls.
This was turning out to be an exciting activity.
The next one was Blind. He was barefoot, crouching in the corner of the shot so that half of his head was out of the frame. The top button of his shirt came down almost to his navel, and his hair hung lower than the end of his nose. If he were to stand up, the hem of the checkered shirt would have fallen below his knees. I thought it strange that the counselors allowed him to go around the House dressed like that.
I looked for Sphinx but couldn’t locate him.
There was Beauty, a tender angel; he was playing dead, draped over the railing. And Solomon, from the Second. Not yet the fat Rat he became, but already quite a plump young of the species.
Then I saw Lary and laughed out loud, choking on smoke. Awkward, big-eared, spindly Lary. He was standing with one leg proudly set apart, displaying the knee scraped myriad times, and no one, not even the sunniest romantic, would dare drone about “happy childhood” looking at this picture, because it was clearly impossible to have both a happy childhood and a nose like his. An owner of a matching nose, and bugged-out eyes to boot, was standing next to Lary. Obviously Horse from the Third. Of all the people in the photograph, Lary’s visage took the cake. I even felt something resembling tenderness toward him. Cruel was the life of little Bandar-Logs. And that made them grow up hostile. And suffering from claustrophobia. And stuttering. Because no one loved them. Because they weren’t smart, they weren’t handsome, they weren’t even cute. Lary and Horse were the last ones I could recognize. And Sphinx was still nowhere to be seen.
The two identical fair-haired guys in identical striped vests kept tormenting me. And a boy in front, with a perfectly spherical head, also was somehow familiar. I kept turning the picture this way and that, trying to match the faces to various inhabitants of the House, but wasn’t able to place five of them. Finally I grew tired of this and just looked at the picture.
It was a wild, ragtag gang. Dirty, shaggy. They all probably had worms. You couldn’t make them behave no matter how you tried, but at least no one was making a face. They wanted to look presentable, even though they could probably guess it wasn’t working.
Protective amulets and all that other crap worn around the neck was all the rage, even back then. I counted sixteen pouches, plus talons, teeth, and bones, in bunches and separately; bolts, nuts, nails, rabbit feet, and a wide assortment of tails. Lary and Horse preferred their protection shiny and clanking. Elephant was bedecked in little bells, while the blond twins wore keys. My gaze registered those keys and it finally dawned on me.
I closed my eyes for a second and looked again.
Of course! The cold, round, staring eyes, the hooked noses . . . Little Vultures! So alike that I wouldn’t even venture to guess which of them was the real one.
I wondered where the second one went. Immediately came a thought that even one was plenty, but I chased it away, ashamed, as I remembered the perpetual mourning of the Third.
It could be that Birds were not in mourning for Vulture’s lost twin. That they just liked black. Honestly, I didn’t really want to know. But in any case, Vulture had no twin brother in the House anymore, and thinking that it was good that he didn’t was a foul thing to do.
I put the photograph back and took out the first one again. Looked at it. Then lay back and stared at the ceiling.
The dead inhabited every room in the House. Hidden in every closet was its own decomposing unmentionable skeleton. When the ghosts ran out of space, they moved out into the hallways. Then came the protective sigils on the doors and amulets around the necks, to ward off the uninvited guests, while at the same time the resident spirits were welcomed and flattered, consulted and listened to, serenaded with songs and stories. And they talked back. With scribbles in soap and toothpaste on the bathroom mirrors. With purple-hued drawings on the walls. Also with night whispers, right in the ears of the chosen, while they were taking a shower or bravely catching some sleep on the Crossroads sofa.
The unholy mess of Pheasant stories, superstitions, House proverbs, and silly sayings chased itself around in my head, becoming more and more weird as it went. When I finally tamped it down, I realized with surprise that I seemed to know the House a bit better. A tiny little bit. At least, I understood some things I was never able to before. The passion of the House dwellers for tall tales of all kinds did not spring out of nothing. It was their way of coping, molding their grief into superstitions. Which in turn morphed into traditions, and traditions were really easy to accept. Especially when you’re a child. Had I come here seven years ago, I too might have considered talking to ghosts an everyday affair. I’d sit right there on Black’s old photos, with a crude bow, or a sling in my pocket, proudly displaying an amulet against poltergeists that I’d fortuitously acquired in exchange for some rare stamps. I’d avoid some specific places at some specific times and still go there on a dare. It might have led to a stutter, who knows, but at least my life never would
have been boring, unlike the one I actually had, the one that hadn’t been spent here. I was a little bitter that this untamed childhood had passed me by. Yes, it didn’t have any open spaces in it, no rivers or forests or abandoned cemeteries, but neither did my real one. I would have learned all of the House’s rules and regulations, and how to tell ridiculous stories, to play guitar, to decipher the scribbles on the walls, to read fortunes in chicken bones, to remember all the former nicks of all the old-timers. And maybe, just maybe, to love this crumbling building, which I now would never be able to. The longer I thought about this the sadder I felt. I took out the last sacrificial cigarette, lit it, and sat there tracing the tendrils of smoke floating up toward the lamp and dissolving in its light.
THE HOUSE
INTERLUDE
Sepulcher is a House within the House. It’s a place where the world works differently. It’s much younger; when it was created the House was already starting to crumble. It is the subject of the scariest stories of all. It is hated and reviled. Sepulcher has its own rules, and it enforces them without mercy. It is dangerous and unpredictable; it sows discord between friends and pacifies enemies. It unrolls a separate path for each visitor: when you travel it to the end, you’ll be either found or lost. For some it’s their last journey, for others—only the beginning. Time itself slows down there.
Grasshopper looked out the window at the snowdrifts and the black silhouettes on blue. The morning at the hospital wing began with rounds, before dawn. The cars navigating the icebound roads, honking impatiently, the stomping of feet in the hallway, the lit-up windows of the houses—all pointed toward morning. But if the sky were to be believed, it was still night. Classes had been canceled because of the snowfall, and the inhabitants of the House had been celebrating the unexpected vacation for two days straight. The windows of the hospital wing looked out to the yard. Each morning and each night, Grasshopper climbed up on the windowsill and looked at the boys throwing snowballs and building white forts out of the drifts. He could tell them apart by their hats and parkas. The voices did not penetrate the double-paned glass.