by Joshua Cohen
“This one was special. To me at least.”
“The Juden books I don’t know.”
“Don’t hold back.”
“They are wrote to not be read I think.”
“Just bought, you mean? Guilt purchases?”
“I mean—no, no,” and he rubberbanded his hair back, “that they are wrote by writers who do not live today for readers who read who are not the people today with the problems,” and picked his scalp, “totally not like life, or like nothing has happened between the war and date of publishing,” and peeled a scab, “my English is not so good to conversate—identität ist nur rassismus, ein buch für juden ist kein buch für den menschen,” and he reeled in his chair—definitively, undoubtedly, indubitably, perturbed.
“A shame you feel that way.”
But he jumped up and backhanded smacked himself, his watch imprinting buttons.
He yelled, “My life is fuck—it fuck—scheiße, I am sorry fully, apologize fully, I never meant to do not,” and he covered his mouth with his hands.
“Please.”
“I hope I did not insult because this is a job I require and the series is wunderbar and Crown to me and Mrs. Janet Dofts at Crown Books has been wunderbar.”
“Of course, of course.”
“This is living money for me.”
“Obviously, no offense.”
But his jaw convulsed, “Two girls, one translator, Dietmar Klug.”
He turned, I sat, as the waitstaff bared the table and plied its cloth.
As I slung my tote through the lobby and out, litzened doormen doffed their laureled caps.
Danke, guten tag.
It was a dank gutted tag, no sun toward noon. I wended around polygonous planters, barrier hollies unberried. Men adjusted wool blends, their tieknots the size of the Kaiser’s scrotum. Women long and thin lightered long thin flavored cigs and exhaled into their phonecalls. Deathmasked Hungarians. Serbs or Croats, unplaceables or just Danes. Their scents were cloved smoke, buffet borborygmi, and olent Hofbrand unguents, and the languages they conferred in were all, or none—Euroenglish, Euronglish spraying like water not from the fountain, drained beyond the colonnade. And I was the only American among them—the only American to still be dawdling the day away with a fair on.
I followed the delegates from the smaller lesser nations of smaller lesser languages through the Platz der Republik, a dull hub of officespace like deserted barracks, bunkers exhumed. Every Mercedes M-Class 4×4 ever made rolled by, windows up. The access to the Messe was meshfenced and coned between signs indicating the airport, Lufthansa billboards vandalizing the orisont tethering inflatable jets. The forecast called for a 100% chance of flurried schedule sheets and complimentary bookmarks.
The newest structures formed a quad, or tetrad—four halls numbered consecutively, 1 and 2 projecting from a concession terminant in screeningroom, a massive A/V ark whose presence and purpose demonstrated the lack of confidence bookpeople have in their product—why read? why not just grab a seat in the theater and conk out?
Halls 3 and 4 were of architectural interest, roofed in gently sloping metal dunes. Impressions: each mirroring metal wave resembled an abdominal segment of a robotic roach, a cuttlefish’s iridescent cuttlebone, or a toucan’s beak cast in dental amalgam, an armoring scute of an armadillo, while the total effect was that of a multizeppelin crash, or a mashup of the Decepticon mothership Nemesis and the Autobot derelict planet Cybertron, from the animated TV series and liveaction movies, respectively, of Transformers.
Not just four halls—on the back of the backpage of the schedule was a map—everything was a mirroring. My fellow Americans were all in Hall 8, apparently.
Halls 5 through 8 inclusive reminded me of malls, best measured not in square meters but in parsecs. I walked through them and sidestepped their conveyors. I walked between them, and there was Frankfurt’s skyline, like apocalypse does Dallas. Your friendly neighborhood global banking headquarters—Deutsche Bank’s logo of a blue square slit diagonally has always read to me like the desolate vagina of a war widow.
She was being positioned, canted, bolted, this survivor of the gender wars, arm up, arm down, legs spread wide as if to imply a corresponding wideness of taste—a mannequin of Charlotte, whether her first name or last they’d only posted that, the first female printer in history. Paris, reign of Francis I. Alongside her pose was pasteboarded a polyglot factsheet about homosexuality and publishing. Friedrich Koenig, no umlaut for him, invented the first nonmanpowered, but steampowered, press, an unwieldy replica of which anchored the display. The Asians, despite all their advances, their innovation of paper and ink and styli before Europe, were underrepresented, inevitably. Theirs was just another but scanty polyglot boardtext noting all their innovation of paper and ink and styli before Europe. Clay and wood and bronze. Lead and tin and antimony. Samples. Gutenberg and his moneylenders were dummied prominently, don’t doubt.
The translation’s typography was blackletter Textura, Fraktur, the spelling unstable, incunabular: “Johanes.” Mainz was referred to as “the once rival of Frankfurt.” Once upon a time. Snobs. The installation featured animatronics, rather inside the cases were Poles and the murmurs reverberant from behind the plastic sheeting were in Polish responding to yelled German. They were running late. They were running with screwdrivers to tighten the screw on a press. It was the same as the oil principle, the crushing of seed, nut, olive. Smithing. Gemcutting. Platen. Windlass. Gutenberg’s father, Friele Gensfleisch zur Laden, was employed by the ecclesiastical mint. My speculation, exactly. Chirography, typography, money mania. A coin is minted by mold, the metals are poured into it, and an image is stamped on the surface. Given that a nickel now is just a quarter nickel, it’s strictly the image that coins the worth, glyphs of tetrarchs and portraits of feudal royalty, with time becoming kitschy graphics of livestock and wheat. Given that paper’s still paper it’s the scripting that authenticates the bill, the signatures of presidents or primeministers, treasurers, reserve chiefs. Pecuniary inscription being a residuum of the regent’s seal or signet ring, the guarantor of authorship and so, of authority. Sphragides, sigilia, specie and fiat currencies, movable type, all systems of writing to date, in each instance an arbitrary materiality is forcibly impressed with transitory value. Proof of identity. Colophons of self. I told the registration guards my name was Aaron Szlay, and though I’d left my pass back in the room I could show them my swipecard in its sleeve with that name on it. They consulted their list, credentialed me, couldn’t have been nicer.
I entered under scaffolding. Let history record that in my lifetime most major public spaces were being renovated and not many ever utilized their main entrances.
Stamping through literatures familiar and not. Books everyone in America who reads has already read, now finally new again in translation. Books that nanocosm of literate America will pretend to be familiar with, if given the opportunity. The same book in multiple editions, the memoirs of a writer, his wife, her lover, of some kidnapped juvenile who grew up to become the first democratically elected female CEO of Muslim Africa, each language’s copy cut into the shape, the mapshape, of the land in which that language obtained, the books arranged to puzzle Europe. They were cutting the final books, the jigs and jags of Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, with saws. Still on the schedule was when they’d gather the 10 thickest volumes published since last fair and toss knives at them or shoot them. As if to determine the densest. A banner tugged taut, into an expressionless mouth: this year, the fair’s theme was either the Future of Books, or the Books of the Future—sometimes with German all I get are the nouns.
America, at last.
Stomping past my publisher, expecting Finn, his bosses. Other publishers had pavilions, mine had a breakaway republic. Hostile sovereign Midtown territory. I wouldn’t have been surprised by a functional military. An intense assisterhood whose mufti concealed all variety of weaponry. The jaded. The coy. The derisive. I
kept my head down to flatter myself. The intern of my enemy is not my friend, the extern of my enemy is, forget it.
Finn must’ve been elsewhere.
The agencies all had the same style of booth crowded clustered at center hall, foldingchairs but upholstered in oxblood, foldingtables but teak. Placards bearing agency name and Messe directory number propped atop. To be a truly venerable publisher you have to be European or owned by Europeans with a vast backcatalog of pogrom tracts or Nazi agitprop to rely on. To be a decent agent all you have to be is American and social. Convince, be competent. Smile.
“Seth,” which wasn’t my memory but his lanyarded tag, was skinnysuited with a skinny tie, a quiff. Hipbony, hipstery, novelty Masonic tieclip and links.
“I’m interested in making a bid for rights,” I said. “I’m an editor at a discerning house in Sri Lanka.”
But Seth’s face was off wandering behind me, as if Sri Lanka were there.
“The new book by Caleb Krast, specifically. I’m told it’s a novel. We’ll bind it in coral. Dustjacket of leather, porpoise or whale. Targeted advertising and outreach to blogs. We’re the best and only operation on the island—I’ll translate it myself.”
Even Seth’s wince was forced, as he came around the table and said: “First off, Sri Lankans are a linguistically diverse people who tend to read Anglo-American writers of quality in the original. Second, Sri Lanka, as a former colony of Britain, is a member of the Commonwealth, and so its territory is typically covered under the terms of a UK agreement, which we’ve already concluded, prefair, in the case of Mr. Krast.”
“Concluded lucratively?”
“With all respect, Mr. Cohen,” but then she ran between us and cut him off.
She: Seth held her and shook her, and only then did I have her—it was Lisabeth Block. She was shaking crying and holding her nose, emulging. Seth let her go. He was diligent with a tissue.
Lisabeth was a bucktoothed and fawnish blonde braided by the better schools. Aar had hired high, and highstrung. She’d never needed this job, she’d only needed something to blame, to have some purpose to the days between breakdowns, ballets, Montauk, and Maine. She’d had a relative on the Mayflower but only Aar ever remembered his name. She was 22 years old, rather she’d been that age in my mind for over a decade. Not much more than a voicemail, the voice that put me through. I’d try to banter, I’d flirt with myself. She’d kept her distances, played close to the varsity vest, pencil skirt snug at the thighs.
But now she clung to me, and because I wasn’t sure why, it was my fault—I read all of Rach’s grievances graven across her cheeks, inconsolable.
“What’s wrong?” I said. “Why don’t you pick that up?”
Lisabeth stepped away and dabbed her lipfuzz, “What?”
I said, “A very small person’s having a conniption inside your very small purse,” and then Seth said, “That might be her.”
By the time Lisabeth’d broken a nail to her Tetheld the ringtone had stopped. “I can’t,” she said, but went to ID what she’d missed and as she did the ringtone started again and with her crying the effect was of sirens.
“Achsa,” she said to Seth, to me, and with a jagged thumb accepted the call.
“Achsa,” she said, and heeled toward the exits, “Hello?—Frankfurt, in Frankfurt—hold on, I’m taking you with me.”
“What’s with the hysterics?”
Seth unfolded a chair, “Sit down.”
“Where’s Aar?”
“Joshua, please.” He went back around the table and I sat tote in lap creaky across like I was begging for a temp job. “We’ve been setting up here since yesterday morning,” he said. “Mr. Szlay was to have flown in last night.”
“But?”
Seth fluffed his tietips, and his beltbuckle was a square and compass—“Why are you here?”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“Does Lisabeth?”
“We haven’t had the chance to discuss it.”
“So, what? Aar’s missing and I’m the mystery?”
“What I’m telling you isn’t public. But you’re his friend?”
“Guilty, yes. But you know this.”
“I know that when an agent takes such an interest in a client who isn’t writing, he has to be a friend.”
“So?”
“Mr. Szlay.”
“Go on.”
“Had a heartattack.”
“Fuck? Where?”
“Up in the plane. Midflight.”
“Is there a number where I can reach him?”
“He went, Josh, before they even landed.”
“What—he went?”
“All agency travel lists Lisabeth as emergency contact—the airline notified her, and she’s been trying ever since to contact Achsa.”
“But where is he?”
“They diverted to Reykjavík, Iceland.”
“Aar’s where in Reykjavík, Iceland?”
“Understand me—he went, left, died. Before they even landed.”
“Where?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, where fucking exactly did he die?”
“Up in the air. He died in midair.”
“But above what where? Motherfucker, why won’t you tell me?”
I both can and can’t explain my focus. I needed something fixed, some fixed grounding at the time.
Aar died smack in the middle of the ocean. Aaron Szlay, in the middle of a cloud.
“I’m sorry,” Seth said, “but why are you here again? I don’t have his schedule—were you two supposed to meet?”
Now. I can’t write this.
Can’t. Cut.
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a-bintel-b.tlog.tetrant.com/2011/30/06/thedumpydump1
if you go online you can find out a lot about mummies. fact: the oldest mummy ever recorded is actually of a south american child. two millennia older than anything egyptian. double fact: when the mummy of ramses ii was so deteriorated that the egyptians had to fly it from cairo to paris where it got modern preservation the mummy was issued an egyptian passport listing its occupation as king (deceased).
even if youre going to get more specific and tetrate “mummies in the department of egyptian art of the metropolitan museum of art on the upper east side of nyc” youll get too much to handle. fact: that actually the mummies arent the most important artifacts of the metropolitans egyptian collection but instead the small little wooden models of the thebian servants who were supposed to come to life to serve their pharaoh in the afterlife are. double fact: the big big temple building reconstructed at the tip of the wing wasnt looted from egypt as my x2b told me the many times we visited but instead was given by the egypt government to the met as a token of appreciation because it was going to be drowned by the construction of the aswani dam (the nile).
but despite any terms you tetrate one thing youll never get is that the associate curator of the department of egyptian art of the metropolitan museum of art on the upper east side of nyc is a whore. shes a mummy coordinator how perfect is that responsible for the linens or like the wrappings of the mummies that have like hieroglyphic or hieratic demotic writing on them that help if not identify them by name then at least by date region because of the materials and let me say also I got all this not from my x2b but online. because j always lied. its like sites were invented just to call him on his bullshit.
at the met he was always into the fatties and this one wasnt any different she was chubbs chubbseroo like a sacrophagus. also dark enough that i prejudged from tetrating her that she was egyptian herself but the last names persian though im not sure jewish. on her cuny faculty homepage her titles listed along with a list of her publications on femininity and exhibitions curated like the one in washington dc last fall but im getting ahead of myself. i got her home addy too in excellent school district but trainless tribeca her parents def had paid for and her workphone and workemail at least but im getting ahead of myself n
o links.
id been prepping a new campaign for a sportswear client unmentionable in this context except it has all the cool hip eurosport feel of an adidas but also the vintage made in america brand identity of a converse despite it being neither so use your imagination and also unlike converse it doesnt just specialize in shoes. i was going around in their clothes for a while just to get a feel and remember thinking even a size or two bigger the clothes would be so comfortable i thought they would be kickass maternitywear. they were!! i wore them to work and that was acceptable because everyone else was wearing them like they wanted to be anywhere but at work like playing golf or tennis or taking couple strolls through the wetlands preserves or playing lacrosse with the 2.5s against the garage before refinishing. advertising is all about that aspiration and planning for the move you want to be when you grow up even though only grownups really have the real money to spend on the products and services especially advertised. like when you sit next on the bus where you can parse the ads and the cheaper the campaigns the cheaper this is evident. that chica doesnt actually want to go to that shitty profiteering technical college for an associates degree in underpaid midwifing as a second language what her pose communicates from the zoomy cleavage and the way her tush juts directly toward the older whiter professor photomanaged next to her is that she actually wants to marry up just like in the jewelry ads the men are always much older but more tanned and rested and successfully physically heavier and thicker than the women because the ads are intended to communicate to men that if you take care of your woman and take the relationship honest into metals and gems this is what youll live to. But this is all kindergarten stuff and I worked on the larger accounts that had to be more subtle while being less subtle too and in every way larger but anyway the basics are the basics.
wed been having our appt sex with such regularity like they were fertility doc i or shrink doc m appts and maybe we got too regimented maybe we got too strict im an invertebrate scheduler. but ive covered this extensively before. to recap. it was gyms and no gyms diets and no diets mucus boosters ph levelers organic boli from the corsican homeo who said she worked at equinox but she worked behind the desk at equinox i guess also i got a bit freaky tossing out all the cleaning products convinced they were the problem and then stopped cleaning and hired a cleaninglady w referral but fired her before she came out of guilt then felt guilty about it and called around to get another referral but d picked up the phone while she was chasing her daughter trikeing down the hall i hung up i couldnt i couldnt take it. we made checklists and went to appointments and the problem was tubes or azoospermia zoospermia or motility tensions and stress and their effect on hormones and phobic overexpectancy in which failure to fertilize is attributed to failed desire like only feelings can fertilize like sperm and egg can only lambada when theres love and then he flipped when he researched that the potency boosters i had him on damiana and conium were versions of hemlock but everythings a version ok. the manuals with their clipart diagrams and advice motto slogans that were bad but also good routinize romance lust or bust porn is worn jerking for it isnt working for it getaway to get your way have only one reservation and thats at 8 practice worshipfulness cultivate a rapport with your mother or a member of the clergy. courtship. civalry. ovulation apps eggtimer apps basal thermometers next the precoital stretching the positions with the pillow under my tuchus and legs elevated wondering what color to do my nails in the air while he fantasizes about the anchors on ny1 on in the background liz viv or lew or lou the news guy with the moustache and john david the chief meteorologist with all the tides before the sports. or after the sports.