The Gray House

In short, it’s quite a hubbub, but my own time has frozen in a little lump. And while a part of me is hamming up the unquenchable sorrow, this devious and cunning lump senses through the shirt the two warm bumps, positioned so frighteningly close to each other. Soft and firm at the same time. And if a man in the throes of agony would draw spasmodic gasps, no one would suspect that he is in fact desperately sniffing something. Because it’s quite likely that never again in my life will I have an opportunity to smell a girl this close, in direct contact, and it would be a crying shame that my nose is full of snot, except that if it weren’t for the snot she wouldn’t be pressing me to her breasts.

But I must have shifted wrong at some point, because Ginger pulls away abruptly and looks down at me like I’ve just bitten her. And goes red. Terribly red, the way gingers do, when you expect them to burst into flames at any moment. I must have gone red too. Ginger narrows her eyes. I close mine, waiting for the well-earned slap across the face, but before I do I have time to notice that our little pantomime didn’t escape Noble’s attention, while completely escaping Mermaid’s, who’s too busy being upset.

Still there’s no slap coming. This is a bit insulting. She can’t be pitying me, can she? I open my eyes. Ginger has traveled to faraway places. She’s fingering the wet shirt and looking in my direction, but not seeing me at all. Mermaid pushes a handkerchief at me.

I blow my nose loudly.

Ginger snaps out of her trance and says, “Tabaqui. It’s OK.”

And goes back to her chair. That’s it. Still, it would’ve been satisfying to receive the well-deserved thrashing. That would put me on the same level as all other full-blown smart alecks sniffing at other people’s girls.

Mermaid keeps petting my head and whispering that I am not at all old and that no one is planning to say good-bye to me and be forever nowhere.

“You silly child. You little naïf. That’s their destiny. And my destiny is to look at them receding in the distance and wave the wet hanky. It’s life, baby.”

Viking has disarmed Hybrid. Now all Hybrid can do is to stare at me with puffy eyes and transmit secretive signs and winks. Probably inviting me to join him in the hallway so we can hang ourselves together or something.

The Hound table is deep in a heated argument concerning whether it’s possible to get drunk from one sip, and if it is, what should be in the cup. Another minute, and they’re going to be driving over to check, so I take a hasty gulp of the Doom. Their inspections are always bad news.

Hound Rickshaw, having split right at the beginning of my attack of melancholy, now returns with Sphinx, Alexander, and Smoker in tow. If that’s how he’s been planning to intercede and save me, he’s way too late.

Alexander, still white as a polar mouse, dives behind the counter straight off. Sphinx joins us, grabbing a free chair on the way with his foot and plopping it down next to Mustang.

“There,” Noble says. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s one of the proud men who’s been permitting us to trample their self-respect. Sphinx, please stop permitting it, it interferes with Jackal’s nervous system.”

“Wait, what was that? Trample what now?”

“It’s not my quote. Self-respect. Assorted riffraff trampling it blatantly, and you tolerate it.”

“You snitch!” I fume. “Dirty stoolie!”

Noble smiles beatifically. It’s Mermaid who goes red instead of him. Smoker, ensconced in the corner, takes out his diary, maintaining his customary sour grimace.

“Time affects different people differently,” Gnome shrieks at the Hound table. “Just look around, and you’ll see . . . some grow up and change, and the others don’t. Why’s that? Tell me!”

“Crazy stuff,” Noble says and takes a nonchalant swig out of my cup.

“I found this strange tape in your nightstand,” Smoker informs me, bent over his daily toil. “With crunching sounds and some kind of snorting. And nothing else. Is that supposed to mean something?”

So he stumbled on one of those six tapes ruined by the pursuit of the elusive ghost cart. The last one that I didn’t bring over to the classroom. I try explaining it to Smoker. He keeps looking at me with the same “you can’t convince me and don’t even try” expression that’s really started to grate on me lately.

“Time is not a solid substance and can’t therefore act on some and not others,” Owl expounds in an edifying voice. “It’s fluid, one-directional, and not subject to outside influence.”

“Not subject to your influence, maybe,” Gnome says, pointing in our direction. “And those who do have influence over it would never say anything, and that’s why we think it doesn’t happen.”

“Wow, people sure hold entertaining opinions about us, don’t they,” I say in surprise. “Did you hear that? I’m blushing.”

“It’s your own fault.” Noble scowls. “That’s what you get for publicly hinting at exclusive abilities.”

“I was in mourning!”

“It didn’t have to be that ostentatious!”