The house in which... Volume 3. Empty nestsText
An amazing old man lives and lives in the world. He lives in a secret place. This place is difficult to find, and even more difficult to find an old man in it. He has many houses, or perhaps the same house, changing for each person who enters. Sometimes it is surrounded by a garden, sometimes it stands in an open field, sometimes on the bank of a river, and it looks different, only occasionally repeating its previous appearance. It also happens that there is no house, and the old man huddles in one room in an apartment building. It also happened that he chose the hollow of a rotten tree for housing. That’s why it’s so difficult to find it. None of those who visited him will be able to describe his home to someone else, will not be able to show the way and explain how to get there. There are many who wish, but only those who search tirelessly, who know how to walk along invisible paths, read secret signs and see prophetic dreams, find the right place. But even they, having achieved their goal, often leave with nothing, because the old man is stubborn, intractable and does not like to give gifts. All the old man’s houses are different on the outside, but very similar on the inside. They are crowded with a huge number of objects. Sometimes there are so many of them that the old man himself has almost no place to settle down. But he always has everything at hand. It is difficult to invent anything that he does not have. He hides music in shells, in the skulls of small animals and fruit pits. The smells are in bean pods and nut shells. Dreams are in empty gourds. Memories are in boxes and perfume bottles. He has hooks of any shape and ropes of any thickness, pots of all shapes and sizes, except very large ones, and jugs - also small, but varied. Whistles, ocarinas and pipes, buttons and buckles, boxes with surprises, precious stones and pebbles, the price of which only he himself knows, seasonings, seeds and tubers of plants, tattered geographical maps with marked sunken treasures, flasks, earrings, horseshoes, playing cards, fortune telling cards, figurines of wood, gold and ivory, crumbling pieces of meteorites, bird feathers, bracelets and bells, eggs kept warm, insects in amber and a few toys. And almost each of these objects is not only what it seems. Those who come to the old man do not need any spices, no myrrh, no incense, no precious stones. All they need is gears from broken watches. Something the old man is extremely reluctant to part with. Some of the guests fall into the traps he sets near the house. He refuses others for a variety of reasons. He has a list of questions, without answering which you will not receive a gift, and he refuses them with particular pleasure. The most unlucky guests find in the house only the mummy of an old man who has long since passed on to another world. It lies in a stereo box, surrounded by dried bouquets, painted nutshells and faded postcards. Some guests bury him before leaving, others shake him out of the box and beat him, taking his soul away, there are also those who remain waiting for something unknown, maybe another old man, a replacement, since this one has died. They all leave with nothing. The old man can remain a mummy for as long as he likes, this does not bother him. There are many legends and rumors about him. In places near, far and very far, tales are told about him. In the oldest ones he is described as sitting on the top of a mountain, with two balls - white and black. He winds one, and the second unwinds, replacing day with night, and night with day. Later tales say that he is forever turning a huge wheel, one half of which is summer and the other half winter. And that the summer part of the wheel is red, and the winter part is white, like snow. There are other stories, but they all end the same way - with the presentation of gifts. The one who finds the old man receives a gift from him, and everyone who is looking for him is hunting for these gifts. He gives lucky guests wheels from broken watches. The luckiest one is a heron feather. The first means one thing, the second means something completely different. Everyone asks him for the first, but no one asks for the second, because no one knows about the second gift. He is not mentioned in any legend. A watch wheel can be lost, exchanged, or given as a gift to someone. The heron's feather disappears, falling into the hands of the new owner, and therefore, it can only be owned. The old man gives gears reluctantly, the feather is too rare, and they almost never ask him for other gifts. Only once was he asked for sleep. A very tricky dream - it teaches you to see other people's dreams. A little boy asked him and took with him one of the gourd pumpkins with the neck plugged with dope grass. A few years later, the same boy, now grown up, came with an even stranger request. The old man was intrigued. He chose the most beautiful egg he had - green with white specks. “They are very delicate,” he warned. - Be careful. Gray it near your heart, and when it hatches, put it in a stream where there are no predatory fish. On the fortieth day it will ripen. - And on the twentieth? - asked the boy. It was a very strange boy, and the old man was a little alarmed by the fate of the embryo in the egg, but he loved to give unusual things, and the boy was the only one in many years who asked for something that was not what everyone else was asking for. It was not boring with him. The old man is afraid of boredom more than anything in the world. Sometimes, tired of the monotony of his gifts to others, he gives something to himself. Choosing the simplest items. Nothing valuable, nothing special, but it’s nice to receive something unusual as a gift, especially if you don’t remember that you’re giving it to yourself
SPHINX
Visiting the Burial Ground
I look into the eyes of my reflection. Stare intently, without blinking, until your eyes begin to water. Sometimes you can achieve a feeling of complete detachment, sometimes not, this is a good cure for your nerves or a waste of time - it all depends on how you approached the mirror and what you take away when you move away from it.
Mirrors are mockers. Lovers of evil pranks, difficult to comprehend by us, whose time flows faster. Much faster than it takes to appreciate their humor. But I remember. I, who countless times looked into the eyes of a downtrodden boy, whispering: “I want to be like the Skull”... now meet the gaze of a man much more like a skull than who once bore this nickname. And, as if that weren't enough, I am the sole owner of the trinket that gave him his nickname. I can appreciate looking-glass humor because I remember what I remember, but how many people have spent that much time dealing with mirrors?
I know a most beautiful man who avoids mirrors like the plague.
I know a girl who wears a whole collection of small mirrors around her neck. She looks into them more often than around her, and sees everything in fragments, upside down.
I know a blind person who sometimes freezes warily in front of his own reflection.
And I remember a hamster rushing at its reflection with the fury of a berserker.
So don't let anyone tell me that there is no magic hidden in mirrors. It is there even when you are tired and unable to do anything.
Having ceased to alienate myself, I meet my gaze with my reflection.
“My God,” I say. - What a monster... You should at least get dressed, brother.
The monster is naked, ragged, with eyes crazy from insomnia, looking reproachfully. There is a band-aid on his right eyebrow, his left ear is protruding, flaming purple, his split lip is covered with a crust of dried blood.
Ashamed by his silent reproach, I turn away.
- OK, sorry. You are handsome. Just a little out of shape.
Diving under the bath towel hanging on the hook, I pull it onto my back and straighten it over my shoulders with my teeth. Draped in a shaggy white toga, I leave the bathroom.
“Some people live as if as an experiment,” said the blind man regarding the latest events. It’s just not clear why so many people feel the desire to experiment at the same time? Almost no pauses. Lord, then Black and finally myself. A certain pattern can be traced. Maybe it's like a flu epidemic? The virus of aggression and discontent flies from person to person, rapidly multiplying. A dark streak in the life of the pack, from which it is quite difficult to emerge.
I freeze, closing my eyes, and try to catch it - rubbish that leaked out from nowhere. Feel what it smells like, catch it and return it back to where it came from. But I feel nothing except fatigue and two sleepless nights pressing on my eyelids. Although, perhaps, there is also the smell of someone’s boots and sneakers socks buried in a heap. It’s high time to clear out the shoe cemetery under the coat rack before it gets infested with toxic-addicted mice.
I open the door. The bedroom is empty and quiet.
This makes it seem smaller, although it should be the other way around. But we are not like people. If Gorbach, wherever he is, is surrounded by trees, and Macedonsky is accompanied by an invisible choir leading out “Lacrimosa”; if the Lord is always in his castle with mossy walls and only occasionally lowers the drawbridge, and the Jackal is capable of multiplying up to half a dozen individuals at any moment, and thank God that Larry doesn’t drag the corridors here, and Fatty only conjures in the depths of his box... if you take into account All this, it is not surprising that, empty, our bedroom cluttered with worlds seems smaller than when we are all here.
I sit down on the bed. I'm hungry, but I want to sleep much more. I lean my forehead against the bars of the backrest and doze off for a while. Until the quiet knock of the door and the rustle of tires in the hallway.
This is the Smoker.
Glowing and renewed after the Cell. A nice man who doesn’t clutter up the room with anything but himself and his nightmare questions.
I look at him like a bird, with one eye. The second one is hampered by a bandage hanging from his eyebrow.
- Hello! - he exclaims, and immediately turns gloomy. - What's happened?
I feel ashamed. Those returning from the Cages are greeted with jubilation. This has been customary since the time when no one went to them of their own free will. And I’m too tired and too much like a scarecrow to do all the necessary movements.
— Didn’t get along with Cherny. And how are you? Everything is fine?
Plump-cheeked, ruddy Smoker, with shiny bangs right down to his eyebrows. Passed the Cage Test. Of course, everything is fine with him - this is immediately obvious, but just in case, I’ll clarify. Cages are a bad place. Not the worst in the House, but one of the bad. And I'm glad that the Smoker didn't understand this. Although, in general, it is not customary to rejoice over such an occasion.
“Wonderful,” his tone confirms my guess. - It’s like being born again, honestly! Thanks Jackal.
- I'm glad you feel that way about it.
He drives up close to the bed and looks at me warily:
- Why did you fight?
Implied: how did you and Cherny manage to fight? My capabilities in this field are a sealed secret for him, but it is still easier for him to imagine me in a fight than a respectable phlegmatic person, as Cherny probably seems to the Smoker. He is also terribly afraid of hearing something like: “You see, we have some disagreements, baby,” and nothing more. He is afraid because quite often he hears exactly this kind of explanation, and they depress him. They make it difficult to feel like an adult. In fact, he has reason to be afraid. The temptation to get away with a couple of meaningless phrases is great. Explanations will only entail new questions, which I will no longer be able to answer. But it’s hard to turn away the Smoker. He stretches himself out on an open palm - the whole thing - and hands it to you, and you can’t throw your naked soul away, pretending that you didn’t understand what they gave you and why. Its strength lies in this terrible openness. I have never met anyone like this before. And I sigh, saying goodbye with the hope of resting until the pack returns.
- You see... The Lord decided to try one thing, “Moon Road”. And the effect of this liquid on the human body is amazingly unpredictable. Some people feel bad. Others begin to behave strangely. There are also those who feel completely happy. From the outside it looks unpleasant. One of my friends, after “The Road,” began to explain himself in poetry. Another completely forgot how to speak...
The Smoker listens with such intense attention that I can hardly resist the temptation to retell the consequences of all the cases of use of “The Road” that I know of.
- In general, you understand. Drinking it means becoming a guinea pig.
He nods:
- I understand, Sphinx. This is dope. So what happened to Lord?
I glance briefly at the crumpled blanket in the corner of the bed, where the frozen dragon sat. More like a scarecrow.
- He was numb. Turned into a pebble. Didn't react to anything. By the way, not the worst of reactions. The main thing in such cases is not to touch or interfere. But someone has to be there. Just in case.
The smoker breathes a sigh of relief. He did not admire the living sculpture with wide open eyes for five hours in a row, did not hear the lamentations of Larry and the prophecies of the Jackal. For him there is nothing scary in my story.
I try to stick the damn bandage back in place by rubbing it against the bars of the backrest, but to no avail. Breakfast will end soon. It's time to wrap up this story.
— Black volunteered to stay with the Lord for lunch. When we returned, the Lord was no longer there. This cretin sent him to the Boneyard. I don’t know if I called Spiders or carried it myself. Yes, it doesn’t matter. That's all, actually.
As I expected, this is clearly not all for the Smoker. He looks with such amazement that I guess: something bad has leaked from me to him. It seems to me that I spoke almost without emotion and, of course, far from what happened to me yesterday, but some feelings are difficult to keep to yourself, they somehow break out. My dislike for Black is just one of those. As, indeed, his dislike for me. A smoker doesn't need to know this, although in my case I seem to have been too late. He already sensed something.
“I think,” the Smoker’s gaze runs away, hiding under his eyelashes, “maybe he wanted the best?” Maybe he was afraid for the Lord and decided that it would be safer this way. In the infirmary they know how to bring people back to their senses after... after all sorts of things like that.
- Certainly. They know a lot of things there. And Black wanted the best. In his opinion, it is better for us to do without the Lord. He's too restless.
- You speak somehow strangely, Sphinx... As if the Lord will be eaten there.
The most unbearable thing about beginners is that they constantly have to explain obvious things. At the same time you feel like a fool. Especially if you are naked and wrapped in a damp towel. You can, of course, not explain anything. But I am not a supporter of such behavior, because sooner or later we all face problems that arise from misunderstandings. Because some of us are misunderstood.
“In the medical histories stored in the Burial Ground,” I begin courageously, “there are special stickers.” Yellow, blue and red. They are pasted into personal files. I won’t talk about yellow and blue now, but one red stripe means that you are antisocial and unbalanced. Two - that you are suicidal and need increased supervision from a psychotherapist. Three - that you suffer from an incurable mental disorder and need inpatient treatment, which the House is not able to provide you with.
The Smoker frowns, trying to remember if he saw any stripes in his papers. It’s funny to me, although, God knows, there’s nothing funny about it.
“Alone,” I tell him. — Since you were kicked out of the group, it’s almost certain. But almost everyone has one, so don't worry. Only Tolstoy managed without it.
- Does the Lord have them?..
- Three. And I'm afraid that this time, unless a miracle happens, someone will pay attention to it.
- So he's schizophrenic, right?
I draw more air into my chest, but then I hear the growing rumble and roar of an avalanche rolling along the corridor, and all the bad words remain with me. The smoker also hears the approach of the diners.
“Oh, I’ll go somewhere,” he says fearfully. - It's free there for now.
He just manages to escape when the avalanche reaches the bedroom. Creaking, clanging, voices, slamming doors. Jackal flies in first on a Mustang. A sour cream mustache under his nose and a bag of sandwiches in his armful.
- Hello, Sphinx! Have you started a solo striptease? I could wait for my comrades!
The hunchback pushes him away, puts a bottle of juice on the nightstand and goes to get Nanette to feed him.
“Wonderful sandwiches,” Tabaqui seduces me. “I can even pour sauce over them.”
Makedonsky squeezes towards me with a heap of clothes in his hands.
— One with cheese, one with cottage cheese. “I worked on them myself,” the Jackal continues.
— The smoker is back. Maybe he's hungry. Ask him.
With a joyful cry, Tabaqui rolls backwards into the doorway and, judging by the roar, rushes to storm the toilet door.
- Smoker! My sun! Are you here? Answer me!
Macedonian buttons up my shirt.
-Will you go to the Lord? he asks.
Well, of course. Now I only have to go to the Lord. With explanations of how and why he ended up in the Burial Ground.
“Leave me alone,” I snap. “I’m not in any condition to go there.”
He silently holds the jeans in front of me. He doesn’t object or argue, which only makes his soul more painful.
The jackal - a sunny, lively creature with a sour cream mustache, an enthusiastic squealer - is returning. With the Smoker, chewing a sandwich from a bag, and with the Hunchback, who excitedly hits the Smoker on the shoulders, preventing him from getting enough of questions about how he spent his time in the isolation ward.
- Well, how is the Cage, damn it?
The smoker nods:
- Yes. Costs. Hasn't changed at all. What will happen to her?
Swallowing my saliva, I watch the rapid disappearance of the sandwiches.
“You’ve lost weight,” Larry notes sadly. — Was it hard?
The smoker nods again, chewing. He mutters through his sandwich:
- I hate these yellow flowers!
Which immediately triggers an explosion of memories between the Hunchback and the Jackal about the hours they spent in the isolation ward:
- But I remember last time...
- Why was it there for a day, I once sat there for four...
- Yellow is nonsense, but Blue...
While they are sharing their impressions, I find the Blind Man’s hand on my shoulder.
“In my opinion,” the Great-and-Terrible says thoughtfully, “it makes sense for you to take a walk to the Burying Ground.” Talk to Janus, you are friends.
And this one goes there too. The route remained unchanged, the task became more complicated, and Blind, unlike Macedonian, cannot be sent to hell. That is, it is possible, of course, but it is not advisable.
- That's an order? — I clarify grumpily.
The blind man is surprised.
- Of course not. Just a suggestion.
He lets go of my shoulder and walks away without even giving me a chance to grumble. It's time to run to the Burial Ground. Right now, until Tabaqui decided to join the advisers, until Gorbach expressed everything he thought about this, until Larry offered to accompany me. We've been living side by side for too long. The sides have almost grown together, and everyone’s habits have become the same. Soon there will be no need to open your mouth to express your opinion on any issue, and so everyone will know everything.
The lessons pass silently, without bothering me in any way. The rain is knocking on the windows. Drops slide down the glass like gray ribbons. Sleepy. I find myself falling asleep with my eyes open and even dreaming.
Dim passage through underground corridors. At the end there is a window. A dim window, covered with flies, with glass covered with chalk. There is a Wolf on the windowsill. With your back to me. In his old patterned sweater with holes in the elbows.
- Wolf! - I call out.
He turns around and looks at me. White scar on lip. The lips do not move, but the voice is heard.
“In a hole under my pillow,” he says in a whisper, “a mouse hanged itself.”
I wake up from Mymra’s squeal and see her round button eyes in front of me. Completely crazy.
- Where is the mouse? — with a tremble in her voice, she aims the pointer at my nose. - Where is she?
Then they put me out the door, and I am free to do whatever I want. Or rather, he is not free. We must go to the Burial Ground. I go into the bedroom in search of the remains of the Smoker's meal, find nothing but crumbs, and, saddened, leave. The corridor floats by without revealing anything new. Perhaps he is reporting, but I move as if in a vacuum, deaf and blind to his messages, and even pleasantly surprised that this turns out to be possible. All the way to the Burial Ground, on the threshold of which I still shake myself. Behind this door is not the territory through which it is worth wandering with all your might. In the Burial Ground one should demonstrate vigor and cheerfulness. Even if you're dead.
The corridor is impeccably sterile. Everything sparkles white. And imbued with an eerie medicinal spirit. Two round and menacing female Spiders are rolling towards them on the polished parquet floor.
- What's happened? Who allowed? Go away!
My unrecognizably pathetic voice:
- I'll just be a minute. Submit the teacher's instructions. This is very urgent.
- To the manager! - a plump one, pointing a finger towards the end of the corridor.
I sweep the floor with my tail, grin flatteringly and run on.
The spiders stare with hostility. They are happy with a person like me in only one state: swaddled, suspended and entangled in wire tubes. To make it easier to suck blood. And an armless man running free is a disgrace and a crime. Mentally I show them the bullshit. A rake, unfortunately, is not capable of this. Then I run at a gallop.
Janus's office. Ian is the cutest and most decent Spider in the world, and I love him dearly, but lately our relationship has deteriorated a little, so I'm worried. I knock with the rake and open the glass door.
- Can I come in?
“Oh, it’s you,” Spider turns on his swivel chair. Horse-faced, grey-red and floppy-eared, with an amazing smile that he rarely shows. Because of her, he was nicknamed Janus. When he smiles, he becomes completely different.
- Come in. Don't stand in the doorway.
I enter. The office is not as white as the rest of the Burying Ground. If you try, you can even imagine that you are in some other place. On the walls are Leopard drawings in thin wooden frames. Janus's office is the only place in the House where you can see in a civilized manner what Leopard painted. What is preserved on the walls is closer, clearer and more fun, but a wall is a wall, it is difficult to preserve anything on it the way it was once drawn. And if they suddenly start a renovation and repaint everything, the drawings will disappear forever. Only these will remain. And those that are hidden with me. Here there are continuous webs and trees, on the largest leaf there is a white, long-legged spider with an easily recognizable Janus-like face. Hanging dejectedly in the center of a torn web. Not everyone would hang such a portrait on themselves. Ian hung it up. Both this one and the others, although they still smell of the Leopard’s hatred of the Boneyard. I approach a white table covered with glass.
-Can I see the Lord?
Janus is silent. It is obvious that he is not in the mood to let him in. But he will never simply say - get out. It's not like him.
- Who did you fight with? Come, I'll look at you. — Ian pulls out a desk drawer and begins to rummage through it. - Come, I said. Do you like it?
- What exactly?
- Fight. Kicking someone in the face.
He picks up something and drags it onto the table. White and turquoise Velcro bags.
“That dirty bandage hanging in your eye needs to be changed.”
Ian gets up, sits me down on a swivel chair, and peels a piece of plaster off my forehead. I see that he is really dirty. It's not fatal, but Janus has to be pleased, and I sit quietly while he does whatever he sees fit.
“You see,” he mutters, torturing my wounds. - He needs to be alone. Sometimes a person needs this. You understand, right?
I understand. This is true. But let him explain this to the Macedonian, the Blind and everyone else.
“I understand,” I say.
- That's good. Go back to the group and tell the guys not to come anymore. Maybe later, not now. This is the director's order.
I shudder:
- Why? He doesn't usually seem to interfere in your affairs?
Janus's gaze is firmly riveted to the landscape outside the window.
- Sometimes he interferes. In exceptional cases.
I feel bad. This is a sentence. I look at Janus, and he suddenly moves away from me, along with the table, and the entire room, shrinking and blurring. The walls slide past, taking him further and further, and the paintings, on the contrary, grow larger, approaching, and the cobwebs on them spread from floor to ceiling in eerie twisted rhombuses. I close my eyes, but it’s even scarier because I hear voices. The barely audible whisper of those who got caught in the web and did not leave here. Leopard. Shadow. This is a scary place. The worst thing in the House. No matter how much you wash and polish it, it smells like carrion. I shake so hard my teeth chatter. The face of Janus is in front of me, the cobwebs have disappeared.
- What happened to you? he asks. - Are you okay?
“Don’t do this,” I say.
He lets go of me and straightens up.
