The principal was talking of the school policies then. Of the way forward. “We prefer tempering those who have already been forged.” Something like that. I wasn’t listening too closely. Because of the fire extinguisher. It was getting on my nerves. Everything else was as well. The doll, and the notes. Maybe he’s an amnesiac, I kept thinking, so this is just his way of reminding himself of everything. And when I’m gone he’s going to write me up and pin that information somewhere close.
When I tried to tune in for a while, he was just getting to the alumni. The ones who “did well for themselves.” Those were the faces in the framed photos on both sides of the fire extinguisher. Irritable and mundane, all possessing trophies or diplomas that they paraded sourly before the camera. Even a photograph of some headstones would have been more fun. Perhaps they should put at least one of those up there, considering the school’s mission.
It was very different this time. The fire extinguisher was still there, as were the notes on every available surface, but something had changed in the office. Something not directly related to the furniture and the missing doll. Shark was sitting under the extinguisher and going through papers. Shriveled, mottled, and shaggy, like a lichen-covered stump. His eyebrows, also shaggy and mottled, fell over his eyes like filthy icicles. There was a file in front of him. I glimpsed my own photo between two sheets of paper and realized that the file was full of me. My grades, performance reviews, snapshots from different years—all the parts of a person that could be distilled onto paper. I was partially on the desk, bound in cardboard, and partially sitting before him. If there were any difference between the flat me on the desk and the three-dimensional me in the chair, it was the red sneakers. They were no longer just footwear. They were who I was. My bravery and my folly, a bit faded after three days but still bright and beautiful like fire.
“It must have been something really serious for the boys to lose all patience with you.” Shark waved a piece of paper at me. “I’ve got this letter here. Fifteen signatures. What’s this supposed to mean?”
I shrugged. It meant whatever it meant. I wasn’t about to explain about the sneakers to him. That would be ridiculous.
“Yours is the model group.” The mottled icicles drooped, obscuring the eyes. “I really like that group. I cannot ignore their request, especially seeing as this is the first time they’ve asked such a thing. So, what do you have to say for yourself?”
I wanted to say that I was going to be happy to be rid of them as well, but decided not to. What good would my lonely voice be against fifteen of Shark’s exemplary pets? Instead of offering pleas and explanations, I just studied the surroundings.
The pictures of the “well for themselves” were even more disgusting than I remembered. I imagined my own pitted, crumbling mug among them, with paintings behind me, one more hideous than the next. “He was dubbed the next Giger when he was just thirteen.” It made me sick.
“Well?” Shark waved his spread-out fingers in front of me. “Are you asleep? I am asking if you understand that I have to undertake certain actions.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
That was the only thing that came to mind.
“Me too. Very sorry,” Shark growled, snapping my file shut. “Sorry that you were so brainless as to manage to lose the trust of the whole group at once. Get out and get your things.”
Something jumped inside me, like a toy ball on a string.
“Where are you sending me?”
He was enjoying my fear immensely. He basked in it for a while. Shuffled things around, inspected his fingernails, lit a cigarette.
“Where do you think? Another group, of course.”
I smiled. “You must be joking.”
It would be easier to drop a live horse into any other House group than somebody from the First. The horse would have a better chance of fitting in, size and manure notwithstanding.
I should’ve kept my mouth shut, but still I blurted out, “No one would have me. I’m a Pheasant.”
“I’ve had enough of this!” Shark spat out the cigarette and smashed his fist on the desk. “What’s this Pheasant stuff? Who invented all that crap?”
The papers scurried from under his fist, and the cigarette butt missed the ashtray.
I was so scared that I yelled back at him, even louder, “How should I know why they call us that? Ask those who started it! You think it’s easy, remembering all those idiotic nicks? You think anyone explained to me what they mean?”
“Don’t you dare raise your voice in my office!” he screamed back, leaning over the desk.
I glanced at the fire extinguisher and immediately looked back.
It was still hanging there.
Shark followed the direction of my gaze and suddenly whispered, as if taking me into confidence, “It won’t. The bolts are this thick.”
Then he showed me his disgusting thumb. This was so unexpected that I was stunned. I just sat there ogling him like an idiot. He was smirking. It dawned on me that he was simply bullying me. I hadn’t been living in the House long enough to easily address everyone by their nicknames. You had to be pretty open minded to call someone Sniffle or Piddler to their face and not feel like a complete jerk. Now I was being told that the administration did not approve of it either. What for? Just to have a good yell and see how I’d react? And then I realized what had changed in the office since my first visit. It was Shark himself. The unassuming body hiding under the fire extinguisher had turned into a real shark. Into exactly what his name was. The nicks were given for a reason.
Shark lit up again while I was considering all this.
“I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense,” he warned, fishing out the remains of the previous cigarette from my file. “Of these attempts to disparage our best group. To deprive it of its rightful status. Understood?”
“You mean you too consider the word to be an insult? But why? How is it worse than simply Birds? Or Rats? Rats. I think that sounds much worse than Pheasants.”
Shark blinked at me.
“That’s because you know what those who say it actually mean, correct?”
“Right,” Shark said severely. “That’s enough. Shut up. Now I understand why the First can’t stand you.”
I looked at the sneakers. Shark was much too generous toward the Pheasants’ motivations, but I decided not to say so. I only asked where I was being transferred.
“I don’t know yet,” he lied. “I need to think about it.”
No, he wasn’t called Shark for nothing. He was precisely that. A blotchy, slit-mouthed fish with eyes looking in different directions. It was getting old, and the hunting was not what it once had been, which is why it was entertained by chasing after minnows like me. Of course he knew. He had even just been about to tell me, but then decided not to. Just to make me squirm. He overdid it, though, because the group didn’t really matter. They all hated Pheasants. Suddenly it came to me that this might not be so bad after all. I now had a chance to escape. The First threw me out and the others were going to do the same, whether right away or not. If I really applied myself I could make it as quick as possible. Think about how much time and effort I’d spent trying to become a good Pheasant. Convincing another group that I didn’t belong there would be much easier. Besides, they were all sure of it already. It was even conceivable that Shark thought so himself. This was me being expelled in a roundabout way. And afterward he could say that I wouldn’t fit in anywhere, no matter how hard they tried. Because heaven forbid any blame would attach to Pheasants.
This calmed me down. Shark caught that moment of enlightenment and didn’t like it.
“Go,” he said with visible disgust. “Go pack your things. I am coming tomorrow at half past eight. Personally.”
As I was closing the door to the principal’s office behind me, I knew that he was going to be late tomorrow. An hour, maybe even two. I could see right through him now, him and his petty shark pleasures.
�
�The students just call it Home, succinctly combining in this word everything that our school means to them—family, comfort, care, and understanding.” This was what it said in the promotional booklet. I was planning to frame it and put it on the wall once I was out of there. Black frame. Maybe even gilded. It was quite a piece of work, that booklet. Not a word of truth in it, but also not a word that was a direct lie. I don’t know who had written it but he was a genius, in a sense. It was House, though, not Home. But we did succinctly combine a lot of stuff into this word. And it was quite possible that a Pheasant really was comfortable here. And that other Pheasants were a family to him. There are no Pheasants in the Outsides, so I could not say for sure, but if there were, the House would be the place they would all fervently seek out. But there aren’t any, and I had a suspicion that they were created by the House itself, which meant that before getting here they all might have been normal people. A very disconcerting thought.
But back to the booklet, page three: “More than a hundred years of history and lovingly preserved tradition” are all present and accounted for. One look at the House is enough to realize that it started falling apart in the last century. There were also bricked-in fireplaces with a complex network of flues. When it was windy the walls moaned like in a medieval castle. Total immersion in history. Oh, and traditions, it’s certainly right about those. The absurdity that is the House was definitely a product of several generations of not-quite-right people. Those who followed needed only to “lovingly preserve” and reinforce.
“A massive library.” There was one. Game room, swimming pool, movie screen . . . all there, but each “there” came with its own little “except,” and then it turned out that actually using those luxuries would be impossible, dangerous, or unpleasant. The game room belonged to Bandar-Logs. That meant no Pheasants allowed. The library was the card players’. You could wheel up there and take out a book, but you were unlikely to want to return it. Swimming pool? Under construction for the past couple of years. “And it is going to be at least two years more, the roof is leaking,” as the Little Pigs had kindly clarified. Oh, they had been very kind for a while. Answering questions, showing and explaining. They were sure that they lived full and interesting lives in an uncommonly wondrous place. This had me completely floored. I shouldn’t have tried to convince them otherwise, I guess. Then maybe we’d still be friends. But as it was, the kindness was soon over, together with the budding friendships, and the three almost identical signatures appeared at the bottom of the letter demanding my transfer. They had still managed to teach me a lot. Almost everything I knew about the House I had learned from them. The life of a Pheasant was not conducive to new information. To anything new, really. Life in the First was rationed minute by minute.
In the canteen, think about food. In the classroom, think about learning. At the doctor, think about health. Shared fears, of catching a cold. Shared dreams, of a mutton chop for dinner. Uniform possessions, nothing extraneous. Every gesture automatic. Four parts to the day, divided by meals—breakfast, lunch, dinner. Movies once a week, on Saturdays. Assemblies on Mondays.
“Should we?”
“I could not help but notice . . .”
“The classroom is undoubtedly not aired out enough. It affects all of us.”
“That odd scratching noise . . . I am afraid it is rats after all.”
“Lodge a protest regarding the unsanitary condition of the premises, potentially leading to the spread of vermin . . .”
And slogans. Endless painted slogans.
In the classroom: When in class, think about class. Everything else—out of the way! In the dorm: Maintain silence, respect your roommates and Noise contributes to nervous disorders.
Steel cots in neat rows. White doilies on the pillows. Keep it clean! Cleanliness begins with your pillowcase! White nightstands, one for each two beds. Remember where you put your glass. Mark it with your number. Folded towels on the headboards, numbered as well. From six to eight the radio is on. Nothing to do? Listen to music. All those wishing to play chess or bingo, move to the classroom. When a television was installed in the classroom, there was a drop in the number of people in the dorm after classes. The television was moved. The blue rectangle now shines in the dorm until night, which for a Pheasant begins at nine, by which time he must be in bed, pajama-clad and ready to drift off to sleep. If you suffer from insomnia, seek medical help.
And it all begins anew in the morning. Calisthenics, sitting up. Making your bed. When dressing, help your neighbor and he will help you. Ablutions. Six sinks, rust rings around the plugholes. Wait for your turn, then be mindful of others waiting. Distorted faces in the puddles on the tiled floor. Breakfast. Classes. Lunch break. Homework. Quiet time. And so on, ad infinitum.
As I wheeled into the dorm, it turned out that I was no longer a ghost. The First knew of the transfer, I could see it in their faces as they stared at me. There was something slightly depraved in their curiosity. As if they were planning to eat me. It was all I could do not to turn around right there at the door. I wheeled to my bed instead and looked at the TV. A woman in a checkered apron was explaining how to make honeycakes. “Take three eggs, separating the whites . . .” Such programs were very beneficial before dinner. They stimulated the appetite. By the time the bell rang I knew how honeycakes were made, how they were served, and what kind of smile you were supposed to wear when serving them. I was, however, alone in possession of this new knowledge. Everyone else was ogling me, participating in the preparation of a completely different dish.
The departure from the dorm was organized three-in-a-row, as usual, so as to be able to take positions in front of the sinks without jostling and wash hands before the meal. I did not fall in. This was duly noted, with knowing glances all around.
I began shaking at the table. I was feeling the Pheasants’ stares on me. Which way would they turn once they’d had enough? But they couldn’t turn away. Or maybe they really didn’t know where I was being transferred.
Time stretched out into eternity.
Mashed potatoes. Carrot fritters. The fork with a bent tine. The lady in the white apron pushing the food cart, plates clanking as she goes. White walls. Deep arches of the windows.
I like the canteen. It’s the oldest place in the House. Or, rather, the least changed. Windows, walls, and the cracked tiles were quite probably the same as seventy years ago. And the tiled hearth, taking up one of the walls, with the locked cast-iron door. It’s beautiful. The only place where the exhortations stop, where you could tune out, look at the other groups, and imagine yourself being a non-Pheasant. That was my favorite game once. Right after I arrived. Then it got boring. And now it occurred to me that I could play it for real, that it wouldn’t be a game anymore.
Mashed potatoes and carrot fritters. Tea. Bread. Butter. Our table is in black and white. White shirts, black pants. White plates on black trays. Black trays on white tablecloth. The only colors are in the faces and hair.
The next table belongs to the Second. It’s the rowdiest and the most colorful. Dyed mullets, sunglasses, and beads. Thumping earphones. Rats, a cross between punks and clowns. There’s no tablecloth, no knives, and the forks are chained to the table. If a day passes without one of them pitching a fit, trying to tear off his fork and stab his neighbor with it, for a Rat that day is wasted. This is purely for show. Everyone in the Second always carries a switchblade or a razor, so all that fuss with the forks is just a way of showing respect for traditions. A little entertainment for the benefit of the dining public. At the head of the table sits Red. Enormous green shades, shaved head, a rose on the cheek, and a constant stupid smirk. Rat Leader. The second one already, that I’ve seen. Rat Leaders don’t last long.
The Third has its own show. They all wear huge bibs with kiddy designs and always lug around the pots with their favorite plants. Considering their perpetual mourning and sour countenance, this also looks like a circus, albeit a sinister one. Probably only Birds themselv
es are entertained by it. They grow flowers in their room, do embroidery and cross-stitching, they are the quietest and politest after us, but to even think that I might end up among them is horrifying. When I was still playing my favorite game I always skipped them over.
I suddenly have a vision, so palpably ghastly I can almost touch it.
I see myself in the dank and gloomy dorm of the Third. Ivy-covered windows let in very little light. Plants and more plants, in pots and tubs. The center of the room is occupied by the crumbling fireplace.
Birds are wielding needles, all in a row on low stools. On the mantelpiece sits Vulture, seemingly mummified and clad in moth-ridden ermine robes. He is puffing on a hookah and sending clouds of smoke our way.
From time to time one Bird or another gets up and demonstrates his handiwork to Vulture. I feel sick. Both from the heat and from the fact that my stitching looks hideous. The threads are all tangled, bunched, and tattered, I can’t even find my needle in that mess, but I know that sooner or later it is going to be my turn to go and present it, and I am deathly afraid. One careless movement and my elbow upends a pot standing nearby, it jumps off and breaks into pieces. The enormous geranium falls down, clods of earth and shards of pottery everywhere.
In the middle of the carnage on the floor—a very white, very clean human skull. The lower jaw is missing. Everyone freezes. They look at me, then at the skull. I hear a disgusting cackle.
“Why yes, Smoker, you are exactly right,” Vulture says, hopping down from the mantelpiece to hobble toward me. “That’s our previous transfer, may he rest in peace!”
He laughs, demonstrating his unnaturally sharp, almost sharklike teeth . . .
The Gray House Page 2