The Gray House

I lower my head so that no one can see my face and hunt for the cigarette pack in my pocket. When I light up I immediately break out coughing. Should have quit long ago.

That’s the House for you. In all its splendor. You sit staring at the wall. Or the ceiling. Listening to music, or not listening. Going crazy with boredom and chain-smoking to have at least something to distract you. While at the same time Leaders roam around covered in bloody scales, the House puts or doesn’t put its mark on you, the only normal-looking counselor suddenly turns out to be crazy, the air is full of viruses unknown to medical science, and all this could very well be Jackal’s fevered imagination, since he’s well known to enjoy scaring people with his stories.

“Was it Blind who prettified Ralph’s face?” I say.

Noble nods reluctantly.

“What did you expect?” Tabaqui jumps in. “You are kidnapped. Subjected to interrogations and torture. It’s only natural to fight back. And it’s only natural that someone can get hurt as a result. By the way, Ralph has opened himself up for liability in court, for unlawful imprisonment. And for premeditated interference with a Leader on the eve of graduation. Because what kind of life is that, when the Leader sleeps and sleeps, like a groundhog or something, and when he’s not asleep all he does is scratch at himself, and can’t even put two words together.”

“Or won’t,” Blind corrects Tabaqui from behind the door that’s slightly open. “Maybe he prefers to leave it to someone who’s better equipped for it.”

“Thank you,” Tabaqui says, not in the least concerned about Blind’s presence in the conversation, and then asks why is it that the voice of his beloved Leader seems to be coming from somewhere below.

“Because I’m lying on the floor. I have this bath towel here and I’m lying on it. Carry on, don’t mind me. Just imagine I’m not here at all.”

Alexander offers me a glass. There’s something dark sloshing in it. Definitely not tea.

“Mountain Pine,” he whispers. “Drink carefully.”

That’s when I remember the diary again. Isn’t it time to start filling it, beginning with Jackal’s stories? I thumbed through some diaries of famous people while in the Sepulcher (Ralph hauled in an entire stack of those from the library for me), and one thing I noticed was that they often skipped days and sometimes even weeks. I don’t have that luxury, because the day after tomorrow I am supposed to present my first report. Which means it’s time to accustom the pack to the sight of me writing in it. The sooner, the better.

Despite Blind’s invitation to continue, everyone’s silent. I put the glass with the brown liquid smelling of pine needles on one of Tabaqui’s plates and take out the hallowed notebook. I open it, write today’s date—and freeze. So here I am, back in the Fourth

sounds unbelievably corny, but I can’t think of anything else. I turn it this way and that in my mind and finally write it down, my ears burning with shame. Then I add: The reception was less than enthusiastic.

Tabaqui is reading as I write, snuffling and breathing into my ear.

“Ah, you’ve started a diary! Was it that boring in there?”

“Actually it’s pretty useful,” I say. “In a couple of years I’m going to open it, read the things I wrote today, and remember everything that happened. I mean, not everything, but at least the important events of the day.”

“Like the reception being less than enthusiastic.” Tabaqui nods. “A major event, and what’s more important, one that’s pleasant to remember.”

“It’s a diary, so it’s supposed to be honest. If there’s no enthusiasm, then that’s what you write.”

“What if there were, but hidden deep inside the heart?” Tabaqui persists.

“I write what I see, not what someone’s hiding from me somewhere.”

“Got it. Were you planning to write up my theory? About the Syndrome?”

“I’ll try.”

“You’re going to bungle it. Definitely. You’re going to twist it the way it suits you. Scribblers always do that. Not a single word of what was, only what they thought they saw.”

I shrug.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Nonsense!” Tabaqui grabs the notebook. “You can’t. I’ll do it myself. That’s the only way I can be sure the wisdom survives intact.”

“Hey! Wait! At least let me finish the introduction!”

“What for? You think you won’t be able to figure out that it was me who took it? Were you planning not to open it until you go totally senile?”

The snitching diary is dragged to the other side of the bed, where Tabaqui is free to properly expound on his creepy theories, but not before hiding from me behind a pillow.

That’s surprise number one for Ralph.

I take a swig from the glass and choke. The liquid burns my lips, it’s bitter as wormwood, and it does indeed stink of mutilated pine. It takes me a while to get my breath back.