The Gray House

“It has to do with the sea, for example, always bringing up the same things that are nevertheless always different. If this time you got a twig, it doesn’t mean that the last time it wasn’t a seashell. A wise man brings all of it together, puts it with what’s been collected by those who came before him, and then adds to it the stories of what came up in the olden days. And this way he would know what the sea brings.”

Tabaqui isn’t mocking me. He’s deadly earnest. Even though what he’s just said sounds like he’s delirious. Mermaid is hanging on his every word, eyes open wide, almost glowing from the inside. I think about how she’s still just a child, really, and so is Tabaqui.

“These things are nobody’s things,” Tabaqui insists. “They don’t have an owner. But there must have been a purpose to them lying forgotten and lost in some corner all this time, right? And then being found suddenly? They might contain some sort of magic. The answers to all our questions are right around us, all we have to do is find them. And then the seeker becomes the hunter.”

The sun forces its way in through the glass panes. I look out the window. It would have been easier were Tabaqui alone here, but they, the cracked hunters of junk, are two, and the other one is a girl who likes stories.

“Very interesting,” I say. “I’m not sure I understood everything, but it is all very likely just the way you described.”

Two tiny furrows appear on Mermaid’s forehead. Very light, almost insubstantial. Tabaqui cringes.

“You know, there’s no need to pity us,” Mermaid says. “We didn’t call you here so you could pity us.”

I take one last look at Tabaqui’s hunting trophies and drive out of the classroom. Looks like we just had a falling-out.

I spend the next thirty minutes looking for my diary. The notebook is nowhere to be seen. I check the desk drawers and the bookshelves, I open and close nightstands, I crawl down on the floor peeking under the beds. It’s not there. Finally I ask Alexander.

“Is it a thick brown notebook?” he says. “I think I’ve seen it somewhere around.” He goes to Tubby’s pen, leans over it, and says, “There you go. He’s been stockpiling fuel again. Give this back, you hear? Hey! It belongs to someone else.”

Tubby responds with indistinct cooing. Alexander turns back to me, holding the diary, wipes it off and says contritely, “Looks like he tore it up a bit. Is that all right? I should have watched him better. I’m sorry. I didn’t check what all that rustling was in there.”

I accept the mangled diary. The cover has been chewed, and it’s missing half of the pages. Empty ones, fortunately. Tubby started from the back.

“Thanks,” I say. “I think it’s still usable.”

Alexander just shrugs.

I thumb through the filled pages. There seem to be entirely too many of them. I read a random paragraph: The stems of cacti are susceptible to rot, viral infections, and infestations of the cactus moth and various aphids. The proper care for those is pruning the affected areas and spraying them with preparations containing cupric ions. Did Tabaqui unconsciously switch from Blind to cacti?

“I don’t understand,” I say. “What’s a viral cactus doing here?”

Alexander takes a look.

“That’s Vulture’s handwriting,” he explains. “I guess he chanced upon your diary yesterday and decided to put in something to remember him by. Does this upset you?”

I flip the pages, horrified. One, two, three . . .

Summarizing the above-mentioned circumstances, it is fair to assert that the highly targeted nature of the said disorder does not lend itself to any explanation within the framework of conventional medical science, affecting as it does almost exclusively those who are the least suitable for integration within the society that for the purposes of this discussion may be, within certain limitations, broadly described by the controversial term “Outsides.”

Dear Smoker, Tabaqui told me to write a message for you in this notebook so that you can read it and remember me. I don’t really know what to write . . .