“You know, Sphinx,” Smoker says, looking at Red’s receding back, “I used to play this game with myself: I imagined changing people’s clothes. Leaders, mostly. Undressed them in my head, shaved, changed hairstyles, things like that. It was very entertaining. Except I never could get anywhere with Red. I thought that was because of the glasses. Because they obscure most of his face. But now I see that I couldn’t because it is simply not him under those glasses.”
Sphinx looks at Smoker with sudden interest.
“Strange games you have, Smoker. Uncommon.”
He doesn’t ask any more questions, doesn’t say anything at all. He just leaves because someone called to him, but Smoker is so encouraged by this show of apparent interest that, on the way back to the dorm, his mood becomes almost sunny. Could it be that things are not as bad as he feared? That even Sphinx is capable of normal human interaction? His conversation with Red was almost friendly, after all. While rattling up in the elevator, he hears the giggling of a couple on the stairs and the wet sound of their lips separating. On the landing above them, someone’s playing the guitar.
Girls. The new Law.
In the Fourth’s bathroom, Lary, perched on the edge of the toilet seat, takes out an empty compact, opens it, and starts squeezing out the pimples using the little mirror, wincing and hissing in pain. Still hissing, he dabs on some aftershave, closes the bottle, and secretes it behind the commode.
Vulture is curled up on the still-made bed in the Third’s dorm. His pant leg is rolled up and the exposed knee is wrapped in a wet towel. It isn’t helping.
“More music,” he growls, not opening the eyes, and Birds trip over one another to turn up the boombox volume. Elephant looks at his Leader, then toddles over to the window. There, on the windowsill, in a festive red pot, stands Louis the cactus. Vulture’s favorite. Its flower hangs down forlornly, a sad shard of the desert.
“Well?” Elephant whispers to the cactus accusingly. “Can’t you see? He’s hurting. Help him.”
Snowflakes, barely visible, stream past the window. First snow of the year. Elephant lifts his head to admire them and forgets about Vulture.
In the First’s classroom, Pheasant Gin, with a black ribbon around his arm, calls to order the “Memorial service for the dearly departed brother Ard. Ghoul.” Pheasants rustle paper sheets with suitable poems selected for the occasion and sigh, waiting for their turn to speak.
In the library Black is thumbing through the encyclopedia, the entries starting with
Smoker is studying a catalogue of Bosch’s paintings. When he looks up he sees Tabaqui staring at him.
“Why the long face?” Jackal asks.
“Why not?”
Smoker listens.
“Why?” Jackal asks again.
“Sometimes it’s like I don’t know you guys at all.”
Tabaqui generously throws open both of his vests.
“Well, here I am! For all to see. What’s not to know?”
Under the vests he has on a grubby T-shirt. With red giraffes prancing on blue background.
Dinner is over. Counselors, up on their third floor, shut the House out behind double locks and try to convince themselves it doesn’t exist. Kitchen workers start their cars and roll out of the yard. The first snow, wet and sparse, becomes momentarily visible in the headlights.
At the bottom of the stairs going up to the girls’ quarters, Lary, wearing the prettiest of the shirts left behind by Noble, is saying good-bye to Needle, a tall blonde girl.
“There’s nothing to be scared of,” he keeps saying. “They’re nice guys, you’ll see. They are going to like you. I promise.”
Needle is shaking her head. Her bangs fall over her right eye.
“No way! I’m not going there. Don’t even think about it!”
Lanky Gaby stuffs the photograph of Marilyn back under the mattress and sits on top, pulling her black-stockinged legs closer under her to keep from the cold. There are three more identical pairs of stockings draped over the heater, drying. Gaby takes them one by one and puts her hand inside, trying to find two with the least number of holes, so that she can scratch together a decent-looking pair.
