by Joshua Cohen
Take the keystone out, the Guide says, and this wall’ll fall.
And how the Island might, too.
Stick together, stay near.
Workers break for their brunch, which is tough rolls, gristly salami no harder than vodka…they’re silent behind the velveteen ropes hung from scaffoldings’ stanchions, makeshift brasspoles—how they’re almost exhibits themselves…
Please, no video, or flash photography. Tarnished, tarnisht.
This way, just this way—after you.
After the Group’s done with all of the Great Hall above, then the tunnelings of the Great Hall below, they’re led out to the rim of the Island, the Groups, toward the fall of the ice, daily marked at its thinning: there to pay their respects, it’s suggested, to the dead sunk beneath, to their dead beyond death, beyond theirs; which respects, however, and their prayercards and candles, aren’t included in the price of admission: according to their Guides, it’s another ten shekels to visit the Island’s wonderfully dilapidated synagogue, shul (which had never been a synagogue: there’d never been a shul on the Island, or one that ever was used—how they’d davened wherever they stood: in bunks, in clods of snow, amidst whirlwinds); which structure had been merely a trash facility recently redone to meet expectations, anticipatory of its legitimizing appeal…to there mourn reflection, it’s offered, upon the death of their—Ancestors, I’m sorry, slicha: many of them saying a Kaddish they’ve recently memorized, or tried to, whether in the original or translated, whether in transliteration Yisgadal or Yitkadash no matter, as many won’t register the difference, in meaning, in tonguing—to pronounce His Name Magnified and Sanctified, to magnify then sanctify high the Name of He Who Makes Peace a rote Shalom’s Amen. And let us say, you’ve been a wonderful Group. Applause. The best Group I’ve had. Thanks. Yet today, ever. Give yourself a hand. Clap fists all around. Across the Island, a tourist from the next Group—there’s always a next Group or else, there’s always another group of the Group—whichever neophyte ben Avraham with small needly eyes, colder lips marred with eschars, and beginning a beard, he not seeking the merit of any mitzvah, not even thinking that old do unto others: just do—he kicks out a shoe, nudges a pebble from the path up ahead, which is ice…the slate submerged, leading up toward the foundations of B’s house, exposed; so that the kinder coming up from behind won’t trip on their ways to the basement’s exhibit, then fall.
6
Welcome to Whateverwitz
ABOVE IS ABOVE, AND BELOW IS BELOW.
The Rambam says in the name of Rabbi Eliezer: The things in the heavens have been created of the heavens, the things on the earth of the earth…hence reinforcing the doctrine of two Substances, and anticipating an argument v. Spinoza’s interpretation of Aristotle—too long a story, for now.
They’re in the middle, though, the mittel, we’re saying.
Purgatory, if you want, a strange land without land, and without firmament either, domain of a third Substance, don’t ask.
Above is the sky.
Below, it’s the ocean.
The middle of the ocean, the mittel: halfway here, halfway there, maybe this, maybe that, and maybe…maybe yes, maybe no, and perhaps—all up in the air.
Above the ocean, stillnesses, the sun’s twin among waters amid water, fishes, the Leviathan and the whale, kelp and salt—enough salt to keep any Lot in wives for a long lot of hereafter, it’s said.
Below the sky’s waters—the flying thing, a refitted, updated chariot of sorts.
Above the ocean below they’re thousands upon thousands of an archaic measurement above, flying in an aeroplane now but in the wrong direction. Opposite. In return.
As for the aeroplane—it’s old, ancient, it’s losing things, rickety rack. Aisles of desolate plane.
Flappity, flap, flap—it’s shedding wings, the engines might stall at any moment; inquire as to the status of the landing gear, it’s not like it’ll do any good.
To any Omnipresence worth the Name, wandering would seem just like staying put—and, for a moment, a day, a week, a moon…they’re fixed there, they’re frozen, stayed in the sky like the sun of Joshua’s day: and the earth rests its spinning, and the stillwater’s stilled, from floor to surface of the deep nothing’s flowing anywhere, as stilled and as stilling as it’d been the day before the second day, precreationary still, a Sabbath from turbulence, in flight their Shabbos from flight, they’re just, staying, put…and all this Mittel’s dead to them, invisible, clouded and blue and white and wisped, though they peek through their misted windows anyway; they’re fingering rosaries, mumbling their prayers in American, and in infelicitous Latin, too, Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison, Hail Mary Mother of Our Fathers Who Art, but many are Unbelievers, if you can believe, still; some abstain, others drink…all try to understand.
They’re in the air. And the air is also above them…and the air is also above the air, then above that air, less air, and then through that lessening, no air, and the Above is more like an Around: there’s air inside in which they’re enplaned, there’s air inside them in their gasps, groans, moaning, prayers, and then there’s air outside, though that that separates the two airs is anyone’s guess: this separation, whatever it is, whichever’s it is, whether of heaven or earth, is the shell after shelling, the husk or the hulling, a movable mechitza, stay with me…the indigestible tubing of an unctuous salami slung through space & time; they’re the thick mixedmeat stuffed inside the inedible, indelible, tubing; they’re the nuts inside the shell, rattling around, the seeds inside the husk. Hulled. There’s one air on one side and there’s another air on the other, the air inside laden with virus, heavy with flu, stifling, I can’t breathe, I’m choking…the air outside’s pure and open, but they need the air inside, they need it to live. If pressure’s lost, oxygen will fall. Rubberized masks. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be at all. Make sure to fasten yours first, and only then those of the kinder.
They’re in the air inside in the outside air, with air above that and above that air less air, then above that air lessening itself into no air and then above that around, only space; they’re wandering, sort of, kinda, not astray or any other species of lost, they know their ultimate destination, terminus, the end territory, Niemandsland’s ever, the antipode poles…it’s printed on their tickets, what’s not printed’s the route: the route is known and the route is unknown, it’s known to be unknown; there’s an ocean to arch; they’ve risen in the air, then they’ve unleavened, evenedout: they’ve left the light and will leave it again later that day, only to…so long, too long, forever, never; they’re fixed like stars, they’re unfixed like stars falling; they’re migratory snowbirds flown east, the wrong direction, don’t squawk, opposite, gone opposed; they’re schooled fishes, scattering return with a flap of the tail; they’re shooting here, slingshotted there, through wisps of precipitate, high and thin nimbi, flying an arc through the arcless air—out over the ocean, and to the Other Side.
Many of them are flying Class; these people have plenty of food and drink, entertainment, magazines and newspapers the headlines of which inform fate. One interpretation holds that Class is the only way to wander, better to go out in style, what’s your time worth, what’s your money worth, now. In Class, they’re packed two, three to a row aisle depending, reparating their armrests, adjusting their position of recline: though the available positions of recline would seem at least theoretically infinite, mechanically, mundanely, there are only two, which are fully reclined and partially; no one is unreclined, it’s unthinkable. A Mister Sanderson is fully reclined, his shoes off, his socks a shade of night three hours lighter than the aisle upholstery, five hours lighter than the outside at present; they’ll fly through the night, and the morning; next to him, and presently asleep, a Misses Sanderson née D’Agostino (at whose insistence both she and her husband had been upgraded following the presentation of the deed to their home) is only partially reclined, minding the goy sitting behind her: that goy, a Mister Sells, wi
th nearly adequate legroom, is not as thoughtful with regard to the passenger just behind him: he’s reclined fully, and the woman one row back is arthritic, and overweight. Deep Vein Thrombosis. Pulmonary embolism. Lost luggage, don’t forget what’s stowed underseat. O the overheads. Remind me, or don’t. This to be worried about, too. That woman behind him, a Misses Sims, is able to recline without guilt: no one’s behind her at present; that seat’s occupant, a Mister Smart, has been on the toilet for hours. This Mister Sells, obese, morbidly, bound in buckle, is unable to sit still, he shifts in his seat, which movement wrests Miss Sims’ tray loose, Miss Sims slams her tray up, fastens it, hoping only that the adamancy of her slam, and her murmurs of annoyance, might keep him still, whoever he is, stop his shift, whoever he thinks he is, and it doesn’t, nothing does, ever will; they’re all nervous if stupid and neurotic if smart, despondent and full of demands, and this despite the ministrations of any attendant, the stewards and stewardesses in their uniforms freshly ironed if not, also, stiffly starched, stalking the aisles with hot moist towelettes draped over their arms strong and outstretched, as if involved in their own personal Ascensions, with complimentary blankets, and pillows and, though only upon request, slippers and eyemasks; limbs and heads ache, they’re shouting to hear one another over the air, the airs, the air of the air; they’re all praying, though only some of them know that they are, while others opt for the prayer that is distraction, diversion, talk talk talk; the aeroplane entire’s one inestimable noise of many noises, and air.
A goy graced with ideological facial stubble rises, walks to the front of Class, then screams he’s planning to blow up the plane.
No one’s listening.
No, he insists, you don’t understand, none of you, shema, listen up: I’m strapped with explosives, I’ll blow us all right out of the sky…and still, no one hears, and so he stomps his foot, pulls down the microphone to the PA, feedback—the stewardess takes it from him with a stern reproach, return to seat; he yells even louder, shrieks through an accent who can hope to identify.
I have enough explosives wired on my person to blow up ten aeroplanes, one hundred, I don’t know.
And I won’t hesitate, not for a moment, don’t think I will, and still the talking goes on, a Babel of chatty.
I’m serious, he’s promising he’s serious now…I’m warning you, he warns, I pull this, motioning to a small pin protruding with a wink from his vest, and, honest to God, we’re in serious trouble.
And then one woman, sitting directly in front of his stand in the aisle, there at its head, this passenger whose attention’s flitted in and out of this outburst, insane and as such, ignorable, ignores, too, her husband’s response to one of her questions—Are we there yet? and motions instead to this enraged terrorist, who leans into an audience with her he thinks and, grabbing at his vest, she asks him another: Aren’t you hot in that? like why don’t you take that thing off? and then, without waiting for an answer, drops her hands, returns to her husband, to resume an even earlier discussion pertaining to what.
Okay, he says, one more time…I’m only going to say this one more time, listen up: I’m prepared to blow this aeroplane right out of the sky—if you don’t listen to me, I’ll end it right now, honest, and then when the light flashes on, seatbelts, turbulence, ding, ding, the goy quickly returns to his seat, fuming, and mortified.
Amid the rare silence, a Mister Smith asks loudly for a refill (water, coffee, tea, or disappointment), shakes his mug, plastic, into the aisle, taps it throttle him annoyingly against his tray, which’s in its appropriate upright position.
Here in Class, there are sons of Sanders and Sandermans and Sandermens and Sandersens and Sanfords and Sandfords, too, in this row alone. Up front are all the Arnolds, with the Zimmers down toward the rear. In Rows 1–2, the Abernathy family, with the Bertrams, and the Christians, the Christiansens, the Christiansons, in Row 3 the Donalds, and Elmores, in Rows 4–8 the Hards, and the Hesses; there are whole sections of O’Malleys, O’Nallys, O’Nellys, Spinellis, Tartellis, and Worths. Amid the Sandersons here in Class, there’s a whole family of them, myriad generations like stars or their light: greatgrandfather and mother, grandfather and mother, father and mother, and lastly Mister & Misses Sanderson, who were wed only last night: the sky, like the glass should’ve been but wasn’t, is freshly shattered; this trip’s their honeymoon, though enforced, if required, Misses Sanderson’s first appreciable time spent at the pleasure of her new relatives, the Sanderson-inlaws, and so far she hasn’t spilled anything, so good; let’s hope, we hope, this luck holds.
After the Zwicks, and the Zychs, there’s a vestibule of bathrooms, all currently Occupied, reserved only for the needs of those flying Class—as for the rest, they’ll go where they’re going.
After Class, then, is the section called No Class: there are no seats here and its people, they’re stacked to the top, writhing limbs and sinuous spines—the airing of grievance, the noise: that of a crack or break, a short dry snap; heads peek through holes the span of one life, heads poke through the holes of their mouths voicing death, screams fill the section, and shouts for help, food and water, then a hatch opens a draft and silence and a steward or stewardess who can tell or breathe even throws a mess of water and food out into the mess, then the struggle all over again: these shoes stepping throats to the floor, these hands strangling other hands, teeth gnashing at teeth, women and infants and their fathers, their husbands, turned a cargo of raw, suppurating, unidentifiable flesh; then, it quiets again with the hatch opened a creak, cracked light from the front, and another steward or stewardess throws in more, leftovers from Class, more food and water probably not potable now, then the struggle begins yet again.
Though soon, they’ll reach the Meeting Point…we’re talking the huge illuminated I, the zentrum, the centrum or center, give or take, they’re not sure what to do, what’s expected—where wakefulness is sleep, where sleep is dream, where dream is, forget it, all Under the Sign of the Eigenlicht, the hypnagogic giving way to the hypnopompic, don’t you understand (in Class, they’re popping those suspect pills, spread out scattered on their trays alongside tumblers of water, these medications on prescriptions from physician friends become newly Affiliated, feeling just terrible about this whole situation, I’m sure—tell me, what should I do about it, this isn’t exactly healing a body, it’s more like healing a world)—this is where everything falls into the Other, its other Other…a past, previous incarnations: the fall of the physical into the nonphysical, the idea into the act, the way the spheres merge, sun, then split, moon, then merge again, sun to moon then sun again…in Class cleared, a heap of maps now spread out on their trays, too, though no maps are really necessary, though they’re not forbidden, just not advised, excess, an overpack: after all, it’s not as if they’ll ever be left on their own, to fend for themselves and their lives, without oversight, without guidance. Anyway, they’ve all long memorized the Quarters—they’ve had hours, all day, days; they know what to expect. They’re only touring to confirm their suspicions, only traveling in order to compare their own Real with that of their others, whomever. They trace the land’s imperfections with eyes crucified on their forefingers; pointing some to the left, others to the right, they behold the sky out their windows though the sky is everywhere, too, and everywhere indivisible. Air. Languages over the loudspeaker interrupt one another, repeating, reiterating, arguing then…how an aeroplane traces the arch of the sky, is traced from land to Land in an arch, across the Ocean, then further: they’re lower now, at an elevation incomprehensible now. Pilot speaks garble now. Speed. Height now. Velocity. Over. Local Time now. Temperature. What.
Ocean meets Land, meets an ocean and the land, it’s parceled out, piecemeal from this high above, and everything at last—seems understandable: how they glide over whole green yellow smoky mirrored silver dead surfaces as if no one down there’s ever mattered, will ever matter, in passing, as passed, as if those people, if they exist and we have
our doubts, exist only for the idea that the world, it’s greater than themselves—only an idea, though ours, too. Vert, luteous, the sprawling of awe. It’d been raining sideways earlier, or so, pit pat at a slant, but they’re lower now, and the sun shines, and they glide over morning again, through morning’s again, over the giving way of the measured to the unmeasured, the separation of the kept from the keepless, then back to the measured, again, the pieced together, the parceled and the green and the light, the—no way else to say it—awesome sprawl surfaced, as graveless. They’ll die here. Not yet.
They land on the Land, arriving now at the first of many gates, too many, too gated—then, begin to variously struggle their ways off, though there’s only one way…though the processes are infinite, near enough, the result is always the same; they’re taking stock of the underseats, then the overheads…overheard: the tips, the timesavers, the suggestions so helpful…they gaze around nervously, itch, scratch at themselves in wonder how they’re shelled, husked, they’ve deplaned, made it through; they stand with their suitcases, with their garmentbags, and their carryons, too, held between their legs; tired, they’re hungry and thirsty; and they’re complaining, they’re complaining already, always complaining; they’d paid so much for this, too much, were made to pay, to be here, to be here again, to arrive again here, which is where…after all this wandering, welcome, Shalom—and hour after hour, day after day, the planes keep coming and coming, circle then circle the circling, land.
Mister Smart on the plastic of the toilet he’s sitting, he’s still, his loud made inaudible above the din, let’s give thanks…he shifts on the seat, nibbles at the dried fruit, the apples and prunes, dates and figs, which he’d illegally smuggled onboard, then sips at the sink, which is kept on, or out of order: a goy used to spending so much of his time so disposed, disposing, he’s trained himself to turn the pages of his newspaper with the toes of a foot, thumbs out the hole of a sock, unkempt nail grazing the headline—Shade State of the Union: Transports Proceeding On Schedule…