“Should we?”
“I could not help but notice . . .”
“The classroom is undoubtedly not aired out enough. It affects all of us.”
“That odd scratching noise . . . I am afraid it is rats after all.”
“Lodge a protest regarding the unsanitary condition of the premises, potentially leading to the spread of vermin . . .”
And slogans. Endless painted slogans.
In the classroom: When in class, think about class. Everything else—out of the way! In the dorm: Maintain silence, respect your roommates and Noise contributes to nervous disorders.
Steel cots in neat rows. White doilies on the pillows. Keep it clean! Cleanliness begins with your pillowcase! White nightstands, one for each two beds. Remember where you put your glass. Mark it with your number. Folded towels on the headboards, numbered as well. From six to eight the radio is on. Nothing to do? Listen to music. All those wishing to play chess or bingo, move to the classroom. When a television was installed in the classroom, there was a drop in the number of people in the dorm after classes. The television was moved. The blue rectangle now shines in the dorm until night, which for a Pheasant begins at nine, by which time he must be in bed, pajama-clad and ready to drift off to sleep. If you suffer from insomnia, seek medical help.
And it all begins anew in the morning. Calisthenics, sitting up. Making your bed. When dressing, help your neighbor and he will help you. Ablutions. Six sinks, rust rings around the plugholes. Wait for your turn, then be mindful of others waiting. Distorted faces in the puddles on the tiled floor. Breakfast. Classes. Lunch break. Homework. Quiet time. And so on, ad infinitum.
As I wheeled into the dorm, it turned out that I was no longer a ghost. The First knew of the transfer, I could see it in their faces as they stared at me. There was something slightly depraved in their curiosity. As if they were planning to eat me. It was all I could do not to turn around right there at the door. I wheeled to my bed instead and looked at the TV. A woman in a checkered apron was explaining how to make honeycakes. “Take three eggs, separating the whites . . .” Such programs were very beneficial before dinner. They stimulated the appetite. By the time the bell rang I knew how honeycakes were made, how they were served, and what kind of smile you were supposed to wear when serving them. I was, however, alone in possession of this new knowledge. Everyone else was ogling me, participating in the preparation of a completely different dish.
The departure from the dorm was organized three-in-a-row, as usual, so as to be able to take positions in front of the sinks without jostling and wash hands before the meal. I did not fall in. This was duly noted, with knowing glances all around.
I began shaking at the table. I was feeling the Pheasants’ stares on me. Which way would they turn once they’d had enough? But they couldn’t turn away. Or maybe they really didn’t know where I was being transferred.
Time stretched out into eternity.
Mashed potatoes. Carrot fritters. The fork with a bent tine. The lady in the white apron pushing the food cart, plates clanking as she goes. White walls. Deep arches of the windows.
I like the canteen. It’s the oldest place in the House. Or, rather, the least changed. Windows, walls, and the cracked tiles were quite probably the same as seventy years ago. And the tiled hearth, taking up one of the walls, with the locked cast-iron door. It’s beautiful. The only place where the exhortations stop, where you could tune out, look at the other groups, and imagine yourself being a non-Pheasant. That was my favorite game once. Right after I arrived. Then it got boring. And now it occurred to me that I could play it for real, that it wouldn’t be a game anymore.
Mashed potatoes and carrot fritters. Tea. Bread. Butter. Our table is in black and white. White shirts, black pants. White plates on black trays. Black trays on white tablecloth. The only colors are in the faces and hair.
The next table belongs to the Second. It’s the rowdiest and the most colorful. Dyed mullets, sunglasses, and beads. Thumping earphones. Rats, a cross between punks and clowns. There’s no tablecloth, no knives, and the forks are chained to the table. If a day passes without one of them pitching a fit, trying to tear off his fork and stab his neighbor with it, for a Rat that day is wasted. This is purely for show. Everyone in the Second always carries a switchblade or a razor, so all that fuss with the forks is just a way of showing respect for traditions. A little entertainment for the benefit of the dining public. At the head of the table sits Red. Enormous green shades, shaved head, a rose on the cheek, and a constant stupid smirk. Rat Leader. The second one already, that I’ve seen. Rat Leaders don’t last long.
The Third has its own show. They all wear huge bibs with kiddy designs and always lug around the pots with their favorite plants. Considering their perpetual mourning and sour countenance, this also looks like a circus, albeit a sinister one. Probably only Birds themselves are entertained by it. They grow flowers in their room, do embroidery and cross-stitching, they are the quietest and politest after us, but to even think that I might end up among them is horrifying. When I was still playing my favorite game I always skipped them over.
I suddenly have a vision, so palpably ghastly I can almost touch it.
I see myself in the dank and gloomy dorm of the Third. Ivy-covered windows let in very little light. Plants and more plants, in pots and tubs. The center of the room is occupied by the crumbling fireplace.
Birds are wielding needles, all in a row on low stools. On the mantelpiece sits Vulture, seemingly mummified and clad in moth-ridden ermine robes. He is puffing on a hookah and sending clouds of smoke our way.
From time to time one Bird or another gets up and demonstrates his handiwork to Vulture. I feel sick. Both from the heat and from the fact that my stitching looks hideous. The threads are all tangled, bunched, and tattered, I can’t even find my needle in that mess, but I know that sooner or later it is going to be my turn to go and present it, and I am deathly afraid. One careless movement and my elbow upends a pot standing nearby, it jumps off and breaks into pieces. The enormous geranium falls down, clods of earth and shards of pottery everywhere.
In the middle of the carnage on the floor—a very white, very clean human skull. The lower jaw is missing. Everyone freezes. They look at me, then at the skull. I hear a disgusting cackle.
“Why yes, Smoker, you are exactly right,” Vulture says, hopping down from the mantelpiece to hobble toward me. “That’s our previous transfer, may he rest in peace!”
He laughs, demonstrating his unnaturally sharp, almost sharklike teeth . . .
Here I snapped out of it, because I felt my real self in the center of attention, not of Birds but of my own dear Pheasants. They were watching me with great interest. Vulture’s sharp-toothed rictus withered down to Gin’s lopsided grin, turning my stomach. I bent down to my fritter, hating them so much I nearly threw up. My daydream was just that, a dream. The real scavengers were sitting right here, scanning my face in search of traces of sweat, wetting their lips in anticipation. I suddenly realized that I would rather become a Bird, right this moment. Wear black, learn embroidering, dig up a hundred skulls hidden in flower pots. Anything, just to leave the First. What really upset me was that these feelings could also look from the outside like a panic attack. “That’s it,” I told myself, “no more games. Wait until tomorrow. Only thirteen hours left.”