You'll have to throw out all your ties, said his mother.
Not all of them, he replied. I haven't changed that much.
G.K. stood in front of the mirror getting ready to go out.
You've changed color, that's the main thing.
That bothers you? he asked.
No, but you'll have to make adjustments.
You've said "you'll have to" twice in ten seconds.
Mom went out of the room, but it made no difference, something of her lingered behind.
Some time in late October, quite suddenly, or so he thought, he had changed color and become gray. Not in the morning, but in the evening, at bedtime, while he was brushing his teeth and looking at his face in the mirror. There he had turned gray, but he didn't panic immediately—he thought it might be anemia, or a hard day, and anyway he rarely got excited. He did have problems with women; Mom knew that so he had found out from her, later. He was going out for New Year's Eve, the blue tie was the right color, but he'd already worn it too much, all his friends, all the women, had seen it before too often. He didn't actually have friends, or women. Well, the people at work, but everyone would split after work, they didn't want to sit around with him, have a beer, maybe a whiskey, he'd treat, screw the expense, his mom drew an enormous pension, his pay only went for…
Put on the red one, he heard his mother's voice from another room.
Everybody wears red! he retorted.
Who's everybody, his mother returned as if she were standing next to him.
All the whites.
A few days after discovering that he'd become entirely gray, he'd dropped in at the doctor's. They had a long talk, he gave blood samples, urine samples, opened and closed his mouth. Nothing helped. They sent him to a psychiatrist—then to a dermatologist, then they ordered a brain scan and waited three weeks. At the end of November, just in time for Republic Day, they told him there was nothing wrong, that is, that it was normal that he'd turned gray. Nothing to get excited about, his blood pressure was fine. He ate well, his mom cooked regularly, he had a surplus of hemoglobin. All the same, instead of red, he went out in gray.
Whites wear what they like, mom replied.
He didn't hate whites. Time passed. People at work didn't seem to notice at first, or else they didn't want to let him know how different he was from them. What even he didn't grasp was that difference, in his favor perhaps, that superficial quality that would bring an unexpected girl into his bed, a starring role, promotion at work. …Instead of enjoying all that, he hid himself. He wore shirts and underwear with long sleeves, jackets and overcoats, and gloves even at the beginning of November.
It depends who all will be there, mom was heard again.
I don't get it, he said.
If they're nobody special they won't notice whether you match or not.
That irritated him: before his color had blended with his clothes, now he had to work around the color of his skin. The superfluity of clothes he had to wear in his new condition had a purely physical effect. He felt warm and swaddled. When he would walk for hours through the city in his full armor, all matching of course, he was almost ready to forget that new condition, that is, that under the covering he wore not white, but gray skin.
They're important, he agreed.
Then wear the red, mom snapped, almost like an order.
I just put it on, he whispered.
He didn't want to talk to her about it. She drove him to deep-seated paranoia, mostly fear of sex, then of the gray skin which she said would seep into his soul and bring him gray thoughts.
What about blacks? she went on.
We already talked about…
I know, cried mom. You never catch on that the point is the difference, not the sameness. That's why they're the best athletes, fighters, lovers too if you like.
Better I should have turned black, he said.
What?
It's shittiest of all to be in between, he cried.
He'd been thinking of that ever since the day when they told him that it was perfectly normal to turn gray. Not just the doctors—all the family turned out, you could never keep anything from them—even the neighbor from the ground floor—he's seen a case like that when he was on temporary assignment in Zambia—someone, a young man, maybe twenty years old, had fallen into a nearby lime pit where we were building something.
You're not in between, you're your own self.
That depressed him. Maybe Mom actually thought that, but as for him, he knew perfectly well that at age 29 he couldn't even fart without her, or turn around, or wash his hair or make a cup of coffee, she was always there, tailing him, noticing things, advising… He was his own about as much as the paper in a public restroom. But not quite white, gray. He put on the red tie and left the room. Then he quickly returned, took another look in the mirror and took some money from a drawer. The bills were scattered, Mom must have been counting them, recently, not only his pay but also some extra, like a bonus, for good workers he thought, in fact a little tip for the New Year holiday. Mom wasn't interested in how much he had, just what or who he spent it on. Paying women was shameful, likewise drinking in bars, but tonight she was content. He was going out with important people.
He went into the living room where she was sitting quietly and removing her nail polish with an unbearable smell of acetone.
You were yelling something…
Don't talk to me like that, she scolded.
I'm choking from your nail polish remover and you want me to be polite?
Silence fell. Gray felt sorry for Mom, and she for him—it was a vicious circle. He'd met his dad once, he'd been ready to repeat the occasion but never had another chance. They'd grabbed him off the steps of the Vienna train so the whole thing flopped. Dad was pale, of medium height and proud bearing, but some unknown characters had had him declared black and taken him off the train. Later, they'd taken him off altogether, they'd found the birth mark under his left nipple, a molar ready for extraction and a scar on the pancreas. He'd signed the autopsy report personally, even though he was underage according to Mom. With Mom he'd come of age at last at 24, even he didn't know why, she'd made him a cake and sung a little song that he quickly forgot. That year he graduated, men filled the room, the only woman was the neighbor from across they way, with a long nose and freckles all over, her mouth gave off a terrible smell that day, he recalled, that indicated she had won.
Will there be women there? she asked.
No, just some important people.
Mom was drawing a small brush over her white nails. Pale pink on white.
And what would…
He wanted to ask, he'd already worn himself out in the past two months. Maybe he had already asked, considering that she removed her nail polish and put on fresh every other day. He must have asked her because she hadn't changed the color of the polish.
What? She raised her head with interest and halted the brush. Nothing. Always the same polish.
If I were gray, she laughed comfortably, if I were gray like you, you know what I'd change?
I know, he said. The color of my skin.
Nooooo, she laughed. I'd change the polish remover. This kind takes everything down to white, so…
Mom, why don't you go out somewhere tonight?
Before he had been much gentler with her; he would ask from time to time, cautiously, about things going on, without the bitterness and unnecessary brusqueness that already made a bridge between them.
With you? She felt herself invited.
No.
And thought, not that.
By yourself, he went on.
In fact, she never went out anywhere by herself. Some of her friends, women she's worked with at the "Jelen" company, all formal and buttoned up at the throat, they'd shriek at meeting and cry at parting. He considered them parts of a musical ensemble: from soprano to baritone in under two hours. Any opera in the world would be glad…
I used to go out, she said.
She never did. He knew that, and his memory worked deeper than hers. She would always complain to him that there was no one left who would go out with her, with just her. And that wouldn't be so bad: to force her to leave the apartment and take herself away. Then he could open all the windows and… The windows were closed on his account, sunlight might exacerbate his condition and force his skin to change from light gray to black or at least dark… No, opening windows was not the point. He would more gladly open a door and go outside: once he used to do that much more quickly and explosively, he had a standing wardrobe he could put on speedily, all things that went with his light complexion. Now the problem began with the choice of color and went on to the tie…
You speak in the past tense. Just the way you live, he said.
Mom closed the pale pink polish bottle and put it aside. She began to wave her hands in the air.
Happy New Year, she laughed.
This could mean that from now on she would live in the future or at least in the present, it seemed to Gray. She wanted to do that, but she couldn't. Her mosaic was deep in the past, to start off on a new one would require clearing the tiles from the old one, the present was empty, the future out of reach. To borrow a few pieces from the old mosaic and stick them into the present one, that was a technique she had no conception of. When had she renounced the present? Gray had three rational answers: dad, retirement, and menopause. He'd heard about this last one evening when she was sitting at the table with her friends, talking loudly enough for him to hear even in his own room. Though it wasn't really HIS room because the door was always open, sometimes he would fall asleep on the couch and mama would come in to cover him up or carry him to bed. That evening…
They ought to have a toast. She didn't drink; he would have had one but they didn't keep liquor in the house. There were a few bottles, from ancient times, some even open, but they belonged to the old mosaic and so, half-full as they were, were declared finished. The point wasn't so much the alcohol, the clinking of glasses, of course, for the sake of custom, as for the sound, to make a noise that would wake the household, that is, himself and Mom.
Don't drink tonight, she said, lowering her hands to the table. Not for your sake—think of the important people you're going to be with. She was partly right: the important people were notorious drinkers and for that very reason, showing their importance, they didn't let others drink with them. It was all the same to him, although he did have a burning desire to become important.
He already did stand out from the rest and perhaps that would be enough. They had even invited him to join them tonight because they counted on his gray color; they will know how to cash in on the phenomenon and he will surely do well out of it because he'll sign contracts, talk with newsmen and maybe even appear on TV. They'll have to photograph him in color because on black and white TVs you can hardly tell gray from white, that is, black. He'll reply to questions coolly and in generalities, he'll behave as though it were all the most normal thing in the world. That's better than bragging about his grayness and raising a ruckus about it. Better to be modest also about your awareness of a distinct and ineradicable difference. Let people call it false modesty, it will all be the same to him because he will have already received an entry in the medical encyclopedia, Webster and Guinness. That too will have to be a color photograph, but so what, he's not paying either for the photo or for the expense of printing.
You know I don't drink, he answered.
They'll be testing him: These are no ordinary or ordinarily important people. The date was arranged through the Agency, the choice of New Year's Eve was surely not a coincidence. Perhaps he'd been wrong to say he didn't care, he could have asked for the second or third, to give himself a chance to enter the new year entirely gray. Nevertheless, he had agreed. Maybe because of the good-looking woman who worked in the Agency. It had been a long time since he'd had occasion to talk with good-looking women—this one had patience and small breasts with large nipples. He'd always liked that kind best—he leaned over her shoulder two or three times to read all the points in the contract sitting in her electric typewriter. So they chatted too, over the shoulder, but it didn't bother him. She rustled a bit as she talked, he had style, it seemed to him. Then she even sort of brushed him with her arm as she handed him a pen to sign the contract.
Maybe it was on purpose—he didn't want to burden himself with such trifles—later, he realized this could degenerate into a relationship in which she would drain all his forces, his strength, and of course, his money. The contract comprised several provisions: it was valid for exactly one year and required in any case that he be gray at the time of signing, a condition he easily fulfilled. It was no problem for him because they asked nothing of him other than to be gray.
I'm going to watch TV, said Mom.
He'd thought of that too, when she already had no choice, he'd thought of spending his first gray honorarium on a new TV for her, some quality foreign make. Maybe that woman at the Agency could advise him, she would meet the electrical engineers and traveling salesmen. SABA was a good make, but it bothered him that the name sounded feminine. Besides, he rambled further in his thoughts, when he started appearing in various programs, it wouldn't be a bad thing to have a VCR, to record everything and keep it on tapes. How much would one cost now? There are different systems, he'd gathered from the porter at the entrance to his building, he'd have to see which kind picked up gray best. Maybe some domestic make? That could wait; it's better to be a millionaire with money than without. After that it would all be easy.
I'll look for your horoscope, she said. A new one came out today.
He wasn't thinking about that— He liked horoscopes, they generally wrote nice things for him, perhaps he had a lucky birth date— He'd been thinking of something else, from that moment, it seemed, when he glanced over that woman's shoulder at the contract in the typewriter… the gadget appealed to him, something that had never attracted him before, the possibility of writing. How about writing a handbook for whites describing his experience with gray, his life, actually help people not feel threatened because they have remained white. To write a book, yes. And if that one turned out well, then to do the same for the opposite case, for blacks.
Are your tears gray, too? he recalled the question the woman in the Agency had dropped in passing.
Of course they are—only it wasn't easy to find out. When at the beginning he had forced himself to cry, the gray tears were imperceptible on his gray face. Later he had cried onto a mirror, the little mirror he'd kept from his Army days, it was clear to see how the gray color spread and depending on the amount of tears, poured to the edge of the glass, which was decorated with the picture of a local pin-up girl. He'd been young then, in the Army, it was no wonder that some of his superiors only declared that he'd never amount to anything.
For form's sake he tried to answer, though the question was directed more at herself than at him—should she wait up for him or not.
You go to bed, he answered.
Outside it was cold. He would put on the overcoat he'd recently bought; the coat was hanging in the hall, with a pass good for several rides in the right-hand pocket. He'd have to change twice to reach the Agency people. He might take a taxi, he could afford it, but he wasn't in a hurry and New Year's Eve would by now have emptied both the city and the transport. He would wave to passersby from a bus. He knew the bus would be half empty and he could open the window without fear that someone would complain. There was no snow— so that reduced the appeal of walking.
I'm off, he said, and stopped at the door.
His mother fixed his scarf, wrapping it more tightly, needing to swaddle him. Only as he was going down the stairs he heard the telephone.
He ran back, he had to unlock the door he'd closed behind him, losing a little time, and in the hall he heard his mother already speaking.
For you, she said. It was the people from the Agency, just as he'd suspected. He'd taken off his coat as he entered and here he was already sweating. They were brief, and pleasant enough, it was only that they'd changed the rendezvous. He might not have been home—what an idiot—that's why smart people wait until the last minute and then grab a taxi. Just because of things like this. He went back outside without even saying goodbye to his mother. There were a few people on the street, still rather quiet; he was expecting the ones with the funny hats and noisemakers, maybe a song from a nearby restaurant. It hadn't begun yet. Now he'd have to walk to the tram stop and thus get to the appointed place with only one change. He didn't like trams on account of the current, he was frightened of the huge metal boxes and the electricity—it would only take a second…
Some character came up and asked for a light. He carried cigarettes and matches even though he didn't smoke. He figured that one of the important people might find himself without cigarettes so he could jump up and offer his. Such contacts are very valuable. He struck the match holding it away from his face, no point in revealing his color, although the person appeared to be drunk and it's well known that drunks often become colorblind.
The tram was fairly crowded, fortunately the light on the rear platform was flickering and nothing could be seen but a sort of bustling that didn't bother anyone. He jumped off at the next to the last stop, avoided a muddy patch, and turned around the corner. That was how he'd always imagined his life: running around a corner, not bothering anybody and begging them not to touch you.
You got here, said a person in a white coat.
It struck him as funny that white people should wear white coats. It would be like him insisting on wearing a gray tie.
Maybe I'm a bit early, he said.
The white took him by the arm, he smelled of perfume, not a trace of alcohol. In the car they were soon old pals. White complained how boring it was for him to be like all the rest, he laughed and cracked jokes. Gray at first listened to him attentively, then began to find it funny even to him and took off his hat, scarf, and gloves. Suddenly it was warm—the car had excellent heating—White turned on the music and for a while they were silent until the car stopped.
Here's where we get out, said White.
Gray didn't recognize the building, but immediately knew it was a prison. It was gray, with bars on the windows and an iron gateway with even a pair of guards. He could run away. White was walking ahead of him, strangely for a policeman, if that's what he was; he didn't even turn around toward him but continued with even step toward the gate. He could dash into the next building and from there, across the roof or through an alley, flee into the next street. He'd never done that, but he'd seen it in films; that's what people always did when they got in trouble. He looked at the entrance and figured how far he would have to go to get to the next building.
That's a prison too, said White.
Not even then did he turn around. He reached the gate and guards opened the double doors.
Why didn't they just drive in? Gray wondered. Then the searchlight lit up the space ahead. Gray thought it was normal lighting, then realized that it was aimed at him. Now everyone plainly saw that he was gray. How many kilowatts did it take? He'd never had time for technology. He followed White in and the guards slowly closed the gate. Perhaps he wasn't being arrested, White was behaving so casually toward him. Maybe he wasn't that important, maybe he was being called as a witness. Maybe someone had counterfeited his grayness and was selling it as his own. He would explain everything to the Agency people, who had been so warm and enthusiastic over the telephone. There was no one in the reception room, they went immediately down some steps to the cellar, where White asked a third guard to open the door. There were plenty of people inside, the rooms were not large, without beds, with just one window with bars on it. He didn't recognize any of the people, they were going around in a confined circle and generally looking at the ground.
What's going on, he asked the first one as soon as the door closed behind him.
The guy looked at him and turned his head away.
Gray didn't find anything strange in that, only after a second or two he jumped up and frantically began peering into their faces. With one he even had to lie on the floor, the man was so bent over, as if praying. They were all gray. Was someone making a fool of him, or was it all just a dream, or was there an epidemic going on, or did those people from the Agency…
So what? he declared suddenly. Out loud. You understand—he began tugging at their sleeves—it's a good thing that there's more of us. Soon we'll be crowded here, more gray people will come, we won't be in prison any more, the prison will be out there, where the whites are, get it? We won't be different any more, they will!
And he began to laugh. Not so loudly and not so deliberately, but enough that those Agency people could hear him. And it set up an echo, the whole cellar resounded, whether with just his own voice, he was not sure, or had the people up there begun to respond to his laughter.
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Lissa Tyler Renaud, Ph.D., is a founding co-editor of Critical Stages
