The Gray House

“Can’t,” Goldenhead says. “The descent for a man in my condition is significantly harder than the ascent. And by the way”—he turns to me—“my time was better, so the bet is decided in my favor. Arms beat legs, it has now been established beyond any doubt.”

There’s horror in Chimera’s glance directed at me.

“How is it possible you haven’t killed him yet?” she asks.

I look around the attic: gray lumber walls, dilapidated cabinets in the corners, broken furniture. Everything is covered with a thick layer of dust—that is, except the blanket on which Chimera is sitting. That looks almost new, as does the coffeemaker on it, even if it has seen some heavy use. Noble notices the coffeemaker too.

“Oh! Would you treat us to some coffee?” he says.

“Get lost.”

I go back to the hatch. All the way down there, Jackal wheels back and forth fretfully on his Mustang. When he sees me he slams into the wall and almost overturns.

“Go bring someone who can help us get down!”

“Who is that there with you?” Jackal asks suspiciously. “Who are you talking to? I am not deaf, I’ll have you know. I hear everything. Sphinx, what’s going on? You’re having a date with someone, aren’t you? By the way, if you’re still interested, you lost.”

“Go get help,” I say and walk away from the hatch, to stanch the stream of questions. I can hear him swearing generously and bumping the wheels against the base of the ladder.

“Who was that?” Chimera asks.

“Little Tabaqui,” Noble imparts majestically. “He was keeping score.”

“He’s not going to barge in here too, is he?”

“It is safe to say that he indeed will not be doing that.” Noble clamps the water flask into my rake. “He has not advanced his abilities far enough.”

Chimera rolls her eyes.

“You’re overdoing it,” I say to Noble. “She’s already on edge, I wouldn’t provoke her further.”

“As you wish,” Noble agrees. “It’s just that I’m slightly at a loss concerning the correct mode of conversation with someone who swears at me blue before I even had a chance to look at her.”

Chimera looks at him, then at me, then bites her lip. It appears to be dawning on her that she’s been behaving somewhat oddly all this time. She shrugs—her dress doesn’t have any straps, it’s a mystery how she manages not to fall out of it—and produces a packet of ground coffee from behind the coffeemaker. Grabs a handful and tosses it in.

“Coffee coming right up,” she says, doing her best to appear gracious.

The graciousness grates.

Noble clears his throat and looks at me askance, in the sense of What did you do to her? Own up.

“Nothing,” I reply aloud. “On my honor.”

Chimera gets up, hobbles to the furniture cemetery in the corner, and switches on the television that’s standing there. In front of the television there’s a procession of empty plastic bottles. She kicks one, sending them scattering.

“Almost out of water,” she says. “We might be a bit tight.”

Her bright dress looks screamingly out of place among all this detritus, while its hem allows a peek at the brutal boots underneath when she walks. A Cinderella who’s not quite completely transformed.

I sit next to the blanket, but not on it. Noble crawls closer. On the screen some bearded guy in an orange safety vest explains something, bobbing up and down on an inflatable raft. It’s impossible to tell what he’s talking about.

“I couldn’t get the sound working,” Chimera says darkly. “I did tap the antenna feed, but there’s no sound. Could be why it got tossed.”

Noble and I exchange glances.

There’s nothing special about the coffeemaker, there’s lots of people lugging them around the House in their backpacks. But attempting to fix an old television is something entirely different. It says that Chimera has spent a considerable amount of time up here.

“Did you have a fight with somebody?” Noble inquires carefully.

“With your ass,” comes the rapid-fire answer. “Keep your nose out of other people’s business, OK?”

“OK.”

We get about half a dose of coffee for the both of us. Chimera gleefully passes a plastic cup with some liquid on the bottom to Noble and says that she’s giving us her share. We each take two sips, and then the cup is pointedly crumpled and thrown away.

Goldenhead is irritated, but you wouldn’t know it looking at him. He lies down, propped by the backpack, and begins advancing conjectures.

“Well, it’s clear that she’s here not because of a quarrel,” he says thoughtfully. “A girl like this would sooner smash the offender’s brains out than run away to the attic to mope.”

“Don’t forget the dress,” I add. “Could it be she has a date up here? That would explain the cheerful reception.”

“A date? That would mean that someone is not in a great hurry to arrive to it,” Noble says, nodding at the bottles. “I’d say, late by a couple of days?”

Chimera has turned to stone. Her hands, seemingly dark in contrast with her face, are clasped on top of her knees. Noble and I don’t even have to look at each other to continue this game. We’ve spent enough time paired up in poker.