The Gray House полностью

When he passes the Coffeepot, where Logs sway amid the clouds of smoke, he sees Lary waving at him from his perch at the bar and wheels in.

“What’s with staying back in the canteen? Secret talks?”

Horse picks his ear with a sharply filed fingernail.

“Lary, tell me, who’s more free, an elephant stomping across the savanna or an aphid sitting on the leaf of whatever plant?”

Lary scratches his chest under the numerous crosses, nuts, and bolts hanging on it.

“How should I know, Smoker? I guess that would be the eagle who’s flitting about over all of that. Why?”

“Eagles don’t flit,” Bubble from the Third jumps in. “They soar. They plow the sky. They own it and have it in all possible respects.”

“Idiot,” Lary spits back. “Never talk about things you don’t understand. It’s the ships that plow the oceans. And plows plow the earth.”

Black-vested Logs sigh in unison.

Smoker continues along the hallway. He sees a poster, bordered in black: In loving memory of Ard. Ghoul, our dearly departed brother. Memorial service for the deceased. Classroom 1. Poems, songs, dedications. Everyone who knew and loved him is invited to join the First on the 28th of this month at 18:00 hours.

Smoker recalls the sallow face with protruding horselike teeth, and the interminable harangues on the dangers of smoking and the attending illnesses tied to this nasty habit. Who knew and loved him . . . What about those who knew and hated him?

The piggy little visage of Pheasant Sticks peeks from behind the poster.

“Are you coming?” it says. “You especially are invited.”

Sticks is holding the poster up by means of two wooden handles. It’s made of heavy-gauge cardboard, too heavy for him, but he’s so proud of the task entrusted to him he’s positively glowing.

“As someone who knew him. Even though you’re in that other group now. You should come.”

Smoker can’t restrain himself in time.

“Isn’t that supposed to be ‘drive,’ not ‘come’?”

Sticks’s face contorts in a grimace.

“You’re a mean one. Good thing they threw you out.”

He yelps and lets go of the poster. Then leans over, grabs one of its ends, and quickly wheels off. The flapping end rattles against the floorboards.

Smoker regards his fist thoughtfully. The knuckles are skinned in one place. He licks the raw pink spot.

What is it to which the person in question is trying to draw attention? It would seem that it is just his footwear . . .advertising his handicap, putting it in everyone’s face. Therefore he is accentuating our common unfortunate condition . . .

Smoker starts laughing. Very softly.

Tiny spots everywhere, aphids spread over the leaves, the leaves are covered with multitudes of aphids, the leaves, the trees, the forests.

He laughs. He drives along.

You should come. How should you come? Go on wheels, but never mention it.

A MESSAGE, the wall cautions. Smoker stops to read it.

BOYS, DON’T BELIEVE THE TALK ABOUT THERE BEING NO TREES OR PINECONES IN HEAVEN. DON’T BELIEVE IT’S ONLY CLOUDS UP THERE. BELIEVE WHAT I TELL YOU. FOR I AM AN ANCIENT BIRD, AND MY BABY TEETH FELL OUT SO LONG AGO I CAN NO LONGER REMEMBER THEIR TASTE.

ALWAYS WITH YOU IN MY THOUGHTS. YOUR DADDY VULTURE.

Trees. Pinecones. An old bird with teeth. Looks more like a pterodactyl.

By the time he wheels into the dorm, Smoker is hooting hysterically.

“That’s no leaf!” he shouts at Sphinx. “And no savanna either! Aphids, elephants, and toothy pterodactyls! What kind of savanna would hold all of that together, huh?”

Sphinx stares. Smoker is extracted from the wheelchair and deposited on the bed. His laughter gradually becomes more subdued. Then he just lies there looking at the ceiling. A wet rag plops on top of his forehead. It smells of spilled coffee. I think they wiped the table with this thing before putting it on me.

“Smoker, what’s wrong?”

He’s silent. Sniffing at the rag.

“That’s just the autumn blues. It’ll pass.”

“Or it won’t.”

“The siren call of home,” Jackal sighs. “He misses his birthingplace. Wait, that can’t be the right word.”