Finally, bribeless, moneyless, and only after it’s been endless haggling, accusation, recriminations, a strange sort of compromise is reached, inevitably, but don’t tell them that, don’t let on: invariably, the Guard settles upon an appropriate denigration, an adequate indignity, and so requests as prerequisite to any admission the presentation of a story, a fiction, essentially an additional falsehood, the supplement lie; for example, he might do anything…maybe asking each entrant and always individually to tell him why he or she wants to enter Polandland, for what purpose and how badly, perhaps, to which all replies are equally valid, if they so satisfy the Guard, the only arbiter here, the only gatekeeper around — all replies, that is, except one that betrays circumstances, the true nature of their presence (with forms long filled out, everything signed away, waivered): one that divulges their forced entrance, reveals their future unfutured in its impatience, impertinence, how put out they are. He needs to hear from each of these entrants all about, up to you, it’s your call: their invalid/dying relatives, their family reunions, business engagements, Polandland’s cultural wonders, the absolute necessity of visiting this religious shrine or that historical site; and expecting, too, to hear in reply to his demand however absurd an accounting of lifelong goals and kinderhood dreams, the more creative the better, the more outlandish the more convincing, the crazed and impassioned among them the most effectively entertaining, it’s said; he hopes to hear names dropped, held on to tightly, then let go of, dates and times invoked, of longstanding invitations, of unalterable appointments with specialist doctors or lawyers, engineers, industrial executives and municipal agencies the more obscurely recounted the more valued, the more nonexistent, whether delusionary or merely imaginary, the evermore incredibly received…to hear, too, their whining and crying, to see with his own good eye an ample measure of their begging and mouthgrovel, knee-beseeching, and tears; and if at any time in this entreaty the entrant might fail, falls from his or her identity within the role into an acknowledgement of the lie that’s required, at depth, then entrance is postponed, delayed until further notice, until a more convincing offering can be developed, and delivered, and it must: if you refuse, though, don’t worry, as one’s eventually forced upon you, delivered for you by proxy, in your stead, however embarrassing it is or will be, how shameful, and base. And only when appeased — or delighted, applauding, and laughing, or merely wryly nodding acceptance — will the Guard stamp for you the appropriate document, which is the stub of the admission ticket previously ripped in exchange for the fee originally pocketed upon your Departure, and then his guard, the Guard’s guard, raises for you the barrier of birchwood, the peeled white of the wicket. Only now is the entrant allowed inside, finally, permitted to pass through the Tourist Gate only to wait on the opposite of its portal for the rest of his or her Group. And for hours. For days. Though the ritual’s only begun.
Some find it perplexing, or funny, even, gatesgallowshumorous, but others understand its seriousness, its gravity, and it’s them that do best; understanding that it’s all party to the experience, packagedealed; that what’s required is less an appreciation of the end than of the means by which the end must come to be suffered: what’s important isn’t the moral, which is bankrupt despite, but the spiel by which the moral must be indulged. For the sake of the sake, say. Get in line; stay for the line, too. Throughout, without doubt, and yet with doubt, as well, the entrant must suppress an urge to seek, to turn, over a shoulder, to receive or solicit advice of any kind or kindness, and must also refrain, once passed and waiting again, from offering any advice to those who would follow, to provide them with any encouragement or instruction from what’s only the safety perceived of their waiting area, their line’s muster, its haven hopedfor, designated behind a cordon of columns. As they wait for the rest of the Group, any pride in their passing slowly diminishes, gives way person to person, with each other subsequent pass; a disappointment: by the time the remainder arrive, pass through and wait for their Guide to pass as the guiding umbrella’s inspected for holes, their supplicant stamps are already gone — it’s disappearing ink.
