Witz полностью

Here is another orientation — though directed toward secrecy, which is located neither in space nor in time, but only in the head, and therefore private, beforehand classified, disclaimed…Mary? she says, and every girl out in the room seated in their metal foldingchairs posturewise unimpeachable raises each one lacey gloved hand with an innocence that’s debilitating. Eager, earnest, here. All say, altogether, present. Amen, she works her way down the list: Marys check check check, they all seem to be named Mary, what a coincidence to ponder, to squander in fear, and so they bite their lips again in unison, into a weep of blood, weeps, unusually nervous, anxious, in this waiting for what’s next. A shiksa showcase, an extravagance of health and hygiene: these are girls almost women, a moon or two until spring away from their fullness, their ripe; to be perfected only now, if a touch early, a little young, they’ve been selected for that, for that very innocence, appalling, the willingness in their giddy bones, their sympathy for the cause or just desire to help, to be of some aid, some service rendered to tragedy, that and their bodies babied, don’t think they’re not what — proud, greenishly grateful, flattered. Accounted. Forget selected, then extensively profiled and interviewed then selected again; they might as well have been engineered especially for their present purpose: with their surfaces smoothmachined, an expert and easy gleam secreted wet below the skin, a pure denuding whiteness flushing veins like festive wires, as if they’re robots dappled with attractive, demographically approved freckles, symbolically parceled moles, the rivets of their soft planes, the endearing scars of playground, playdate stitches: Zeba’s fall against the kitchentable, Isabella’s tumble down the stairs…they’re real, though, pinch yourself; it just happens they’re all named the same, they’ll have their new names soon enough. Every one of them daughters of Garden maintenance staff, of nurses, redpalmed laundresses, chubby charwomen, foodpreparation personnel; they themselves are all on paper maids, however nominal, or indulgent, that employment. As for their actual purpose, how they’re to earn their true keeps, that’s the secret of their assembly this late afternoon and rumor stiflingly short of notice, only after finishing up their final turndown service—1700, unless their charges, bunked with apologies due to scarcity of space, had tagged a foot the evening prior with the placard provided, Do Not Disturb—leaving a macaroon on each pillow logged in drool. Here in the allpurpose, makeshift, scuffed floored Library, walled without shelves, without system, they sit, in moaning, rustbottomed foldingchairs, demure in their matching outfits, tight’s dark uniforms new with matching nylon hosiery stretching netting across their thighs to surface islands of flesh exposed, stockings webbing even tighter ever darker behind the knee, the length to which the frill hangs from their puffy little skirts slit high, slightwaisted, into which their blouses have been bunched tight against the bud; their polished heels clackety click impatiently, too, as they gossip, give susurrant whispers of hair, to keep their hands occupied lying dusters of rare peacock feather under their seats, placing purses on their laps, opening them, rummaging and applying from them makeup, lipstick, and mascara into the mirrors of their palms; then, once readied, presentable, they straighten themselves again into that posture nothing less than laudable — so wonderful, it’s been said, that the entire Library chaotically surrounding, each and every book, could be balanced on their massed heads for parade through Island streets as yet unpaved.

Good evening, girls, the matron says.

A giggle risen to pop on the bulbs bared to empty heads above…all attention’s turned to her, whoever, their matron, and her breasts like two suckling babies swaddled with a labcoat to which a nametag’s been pinned, saying: Sex Therapist — Staff. They can’t look away, can’t blush, their eyes are hers, their lips; the Marys in unison flip wisps of hair from foreheads free of blemish, from brows kempt, untangle locks from lashes slick in upkeep. Atop a chair of her own she nudges with a heel to the front, the matron dumps her purse, trivially overstuffed, messy: lipsticks glossy, matte, tampons knotted together like sausages, diaphragms like condoms and a cervical cap, gel and spray, loose change, below everything her pointer, with which to smack her own tush as she paces the room, the heads following her to dizzy.