Suddenly, amid hushes in shushes, pshts, fingers held to lips pursed in thirst — try to behave yourself, set an example, fix your hair, look your best — two goyim have entered the Hall, coming in up the stairs then through the crowd with their escort, guardparting with elbows, prodding with nightsticks, they’re proceeding down the aisle to the steps up to the dais on risers: one Doctor Abuya trying for dapper in a dark suit blue or black they can’t tell which, white shirt, slickly red silken tie, he’s pudgy, pasty, an excess of face beset by jowls, fatty as if of plastic gulleting between where the chins should be the chin, a wad of white hair messy atop the glaringly inclusive forehead, presently adorned with the unflatteringly rectilinear metallic glasses of a goy you can only trust never to trust, and so you know him — his eyes distorting his face with squint, like dimples made by fingers, knobbily kneaded into the face of unleavenable dough; the other goy, to be known to them as the Nachmachen, is taller and leaner though for now largely inscrutable in a tight robe that flows to the heels, hermetically dark and expensively hooded: half alterebbe, half secretsociety monk (a shadow purse of lips, a crescent bone of nose); everyone thinking in whispers, how important does he have to be to get away with a uniform like that. Doctor Abuya grips the podium, uncomfortable, stiff and shifty, his knuckles pale as if he’s at stool. And then silence — until he sighs, loosens, holds his pants in his hands, hoists the band up to his waist. From his hood, the Nachmachen forces a cough that’s a signal. A swath of slate descends. Chalk is brought, a clutch of bonewhite fingers borne to Doctor Abuya atop a pillow trimmed in plaited lace; the young Arab assistant retreats, scampers back into the wings. The Doctor feints to follow him off, his hands held behind the back, his stomach sagging him hunched, but he’s only pacing, around and around the surface, suspended. A blackboard hanging unsettled with the weather inside. The stripped boys and those older, beyond death, they sit, they stand, they throng, impatient but laudably so given the circumstances, who would believe; their eyes and heads follow his pacing; their ears swell, the hairs prickle; they pay attention through the nose — sniffling, an occasional sneeze. Only silence and the goy’s fatty footfalls, until — a screech…then, erasure by a coat edge, charily pinstriped wool stained with white. A small laugh bursts out from the assembled, in odd, nervous clumps, and the Nachmachen stomps a foot on the dais, carpeted in thick blue, which mutes his reprimand to a muffle. On the board slightly swaying, blackness is quickly being covered in markings, with numbers and letters in fingernail scratches like unhealing scars, desperate scrapes either for life, or against it—
0600 is Reveille, meaning wakeup, they’re advised, with a rousingly roostery trumpet, the metallic horn of a mechanical ram: the morning’s sounding of the Garden’s siren, which had been made to alert to air war, to send people a lifetime since dead, their entire families and livestock and what food and drink they could and candles by now a century past eaten and drunk and kindled extinguished down into the earth deep into their bunkers, to huddle amid the graves and the dust to wait out within them the damning fire and sky — it had been looted from a town in Europa, which has since been forgotten, in Polandland it was, a village whose name in any language has gone unremembered, untongued. It sounds loudly and long once again, though this here’s just a test to make them familiar: conditioning, call it, to put the fear of governance into them, to install the alarm in their souls. Then, static pours through the PA, whose speakers, they’ll find, are rigged up and wired throughout, perched like rusted nests on the signposts, boughdeep buried in the trees, suspended from every ceiling corner, screwed under grates, secreted down crawlspaces, inaccessible ducts, under each pillow, feedback, in our very own mouths…
Shalom, Garden! the Voice says, that of their new deity who’s to be referred to only as Das, good morning!
Overhead, generationold fluorescents go mercury mad gas discharge, flick flick flicker, remain fixed.
On the square just outside, a slip of water once used for docking and now, frozenover, an orchestra tunes, warming up for the Flag Raising, delayed.
As for the flag, for now it’s just a naked pole, as no one knows which stars to fly — the fifty spangles of fivepointed, or the single whose points number six, maybe both. We’ll keep you informed; it’s still being worked out in committee.
