Witz полностью

CUT to the elevator, mirrored, marbled, its grand entrance, expected, that of the inlaws — or already the guests of honor finished with their quiettime snuggling sequester, the tradition of their intimate room, its connubial consummation…they’re lost or only unfocused, dim and rangy in this hall as if it’s unwalled, gorged on adornment, to dizzy, to right and steady now — lavish like ten, twelvegrand a night lavish, posh even far past the sofas, the divans and skirted chairs, the glossy white lacquer of another, different piano in the upper righthand corner, then a zoom past morbid flowers, the lilies bluepurple, occidentally called stargazers, Lilium orientalis, tightlipped white roses, they seem frosted sprigs of grass set in vases of glass so delicate, so fragile and thin, that to pour water in them would shatter all, it might; a mensch and his queenly wife head themselves like she’s his daughter, too, a princess if only for the day, the night, the happy arrival of the bride and her new husband, groomed again after that moment or so left alone in which to remember each other, today’s purpose, that and to break their fasts on one another, with snapped fingers and arrowed tongues…the bride and her father, or the parents of the bride or parents of the groom, they’re rethinking in how apart they are, alone, how it’s impossible to know them in their making their rounds, their public faces, the outward, untoward smiles, them receiving blessings, kisses, hugs in their seven circumambulations they’re counting through the lobby then a right through a doorway and breathlessly on, into another hall; she whoever travestied in a fresh clump of chiffon, him schlumpy however resplendently remade in bleached teeth and loosened bowtie, they enter the mix, become the swirl, apparently already intoxicated, as drunk as the camera, handheld then even with tripod, jerky.

Inside, the tables are stacked with numbered placards, each area of them the family and friends, the coworking congregant strangers completely separated by a host of diaphanous screens decked in blue & white, the color scheme of the evening: Royal and Virgin to match the drapery, the tablecloths, the swaddled chairs backed with flighty silver bows, napkins ringed with gilding, the florid centerpieces, the bride’s dress, shoes, and purse — what does a bride need a purse for? especially when the line for handing over the enveloped and carded checks terminates with a bag held by this immense, unsmiling Palesteinian securityguard, onloan from the local skyscraper of the groom’s employment, his father’s, hers. Then, this not quite matchcut, back to glimpse Hanna across from that wife, or that daughterwoman, secondwife or ex, secretarylover among maybe fifty, sixty others circledancing, a paralegal hora; the groom up in a chair its legs unsteady in the unsober hands of best menschs; the bride holding a napkin its other corner held by him…Hanna holding hands with all these women circling women circling woman, of diverse ages and affected lives, the ravages of an aging time, its effects evident in the very faces of these dervishly circling feminine clocks, their hands clammed, their chests panting a mad heart’s tick, a pill’s tickle, wild now that they’ve managed to just themselves squeeze in, ringing off the inner enclosure of celebrants with their arrivals, fillingout the edge of its sacred courtyard, from the predatory perimeter pace of the minority waiters just beyond: they’re like dangerous foreign beasts, they can’t help it, like wellfed, sweetbreathed lions; how they’re all paws proferring their offerings of appetizer, trays of wieners, kabobs speared through on toothpicks of every rainbow’s hue; wraps, fingersandwiches, God! I hope you didn’t miss the stirfry, the meat and mixedvegetable; carvingstations heap blood to the left, savory altars.