The Gray House полностью

Someone stopped in front of the door. Two of them. Then more. He heard the muffled conversation but couldn’t make out the words. The meeting ended. The heavily shod boots of the Log messengers disappeared with the reports, and Ralph switched off the radio. He went to the door, one of those delivering a smack to the face when opened. But they were in time to jump away.

“Oooh . . . Oooh . . .”

At the opposite wall, two awkward, big-eared Logs were bowing to him respectfully.

“You are back! You are listening to the radio . . .”

“Yes,” he said. “As you can see.”

They proceeded to simultaneously bow and shift imperceptibly to the right. Quick, run, tell, be the first to inform everyone! The biggest story of the day was standing right there, in the flesh, but the rules of etiquette prevented them from storming off, racing each other and yelling at the top of their lungs, announcing the news to the entire House. They suffered in silence, flaming ears, bitten lips, and all, while their eyes continued the feverish examination of Ralph. Whoever noticed something extraordinary would be king for the day. Those who already left were the first to know and were now going to be the first to tell, but those who stayed were the first to see, and they were trying to squeeze out every last drop of this feeble advantage now that the option of surprise was taken from them. The eyewitness accounts were supposed to be elaborate and deeply moving, and Ralph felt himself being mined for the moving and elaborate details, the greedy tentacles of their probing eyes burrowing under his skin.

“Dismissed,” he said.

Bandar-Logs didn’t move an inch, only upped the degree of passion in their stares. He decided to take mercy on them.

“I am going to the Third.”

Logs gasped and galloped away, treading on each other’s feet, all glistening black-leather vests and clanking rivets.

Ralph walked slowly, giving the couriers time to fulfill their purpose. Walked and looked at the walls.

The domain of the Second. Headless female forms, impossibly ample hips, spherical buttocks, bountiful breasts . . . The spaces between those were given to public criticism of the artists’ abilities, verses discussing the same basic concepts, and, of course, swearing.

BY HIS OWN TAIL, SOLOMON RAT

LOOK OUT! YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN!

Swim canceled due non-stndrd clthng

DID IT AGAIN. WILL DO AGAIN.

Rats were standing in the open doorway of their classroom, giggling, bowing and scraping in unison, as if their strings were being pulled simultaneously by one invisible inebriated hand.

“Good afternoon . . .”

Fresh from a dive in the dumpster. Scalded gray fur, glassily vibrating whiskers, the stench of garbage and naked tails covered in slime.

“Welcome back. How are you?”

Ralph walked past.

Foreheads, cheeks, and chins covered in drawings. Dark shades of any and all shapes and sizes. Rats detested bright light and shielded their eyes from it.

“Welcome back,” the wall sneered at him next. The greeting was accompanied by a veritable picket fence, eight exclamation points in a row. When did they have time? He left the Second behind. The scenery changed to red triangles, bulls, and antelopes. The writings here were few and compact. Leopard’s drawings were protected from encroachments. Ralph did not look too closely. A green arrow, pointing straight ahead:

THE PATH OF THE DRUID. FEEL THE GROUND IN FRONT WITH A POLE.

S.CE EVERY FRIDAY AT FULL MOON.

What does “S.ce” mean? Could it really be “sacrifice”?

The doorframe of the Third remained unoccupied. Ralph entered and immediately heard the crunch of seeds underfoot. Seeds and dead leaves. Pods bursting noisily as he stepped on them, spreading whitish dust. Birds in the shadow of verdant vegetation, smiling. Fleshy leaves and thick trunks of various plants masking the window frames. And the smell of freshly dug earth.

Enormous, red-cheeked Elephant nodding his head, surrounded by potted violets. Purplish end of the spectrum. Beauty over the withering geranium, Butterfly under the lemon tree. Vulture perched on the stepladder, floating over the classroom all the way up to the ceiling. Two small pots with cacti kept him company there. Lizard’s desk, home only to a plate of sprouted wheat, looked austere.

Birds smiled. Chirping in the thickets . . . There was no fear, no hostility. It could almost seem that they were glad to see him again.

Ralph sat down at the teacher’s desk. A thick, whitish sprout plopped in front of him, like a grub that’s lost its grip somewhere above.