As for the mensch so sought after, this Cemetery’s most visited burial, this famous writer of stories and novels unfinished by night as by day an ironic functionary, a bureaucrat’s sarcastic conscience, this lowly insurance assessor (and they need insurance now like a hole in the head, Kaye’s thinking for whose peace of mind) — he lies alongside his father in a dark, leafy plot; given the relationship, their grave’s incredibly undisturbed, at peace is the feeling. He lies with his mother, also, they both do, under a stone that, however, is not the original. Regrettably. Wasteful. Ultimately, for its own good. No, all the originals are for the museums now, organizations only recently not for profiting, lately chartered, commissioned, just securing the necessary paperwork and approvals, stamps, clearances, and blessings to move in, to refurbish, spiff and shine. Now, about their own rejections, their touristy trials by delay, their processes interminably scheduled — petition after petition, only frustration to follow appeals to any Authority designated supreme — here’s the truth:
All the sites taken care of, the musts, the have tos and don’t misses, checked off the To Do, blackened from red as if blood in the night lacking air, canceled from memory in anticipation of the final cancellation (no refunds will be offered, don’t even think it to ask), annulled in the face of the allannulling, the hind allannulled — they’re indulged, as if thanked, given the grace of a single allowance, their last. They’re shepherded perfunctorily, if with a slight disappoint with regard to the derision expected by most, to the Square, and into its Church: before any sacrifice, these lambs need time to mature, need to fatten their lean time, need to be fleshed out in full so that we know what exactly we’ve slaughtered — they’re lain down in a valley of glass, watched over by windows eve’s eyed…a marble pasture of Church. Though others hold it’s a Cathedral. Godfearing forget it, faith me no faith — it’s naming that’ll always be the duty most sacred: to church or not to church, that’s not the question — it’s naming, it’s number, its Record. And so the answer’s that no one knows from Cathedrals anymore, and that this building, whatever it is, whichever it was, whether the footstool of the bishop or the throne of the homeless, might be anything at all in its next incarnation: an orphanage, a hospital, warehouse, granary, stables; or else, it might be left empty, to be remade if into inutility, purposelessness, without worth; it might even be destroyed, like the rest, like its worshippers here, rubbled to the rabble of the Square, never to be remade, never to be rebuilt, resurrected in memory only through the sky that, over the centuries, in the course of the worship’s erection, has held its spiring shadow, now faded in the ambition of form; the heavens would waste away into a nothingness, a void, found in the volute shape of the grandeur that once shaded the further light of the furthest sun from the earth and its barren cold dark. Though if a grandeur, then a grandeur unfinished, always imperfect, imperfecting, anonymously flawed in its failure to effect, to aid, in yet another opportunity forsaken by God to rejoin us in our own supplication. And so as not to embarrass them in this moment of need, let’s say it’s whatever they want it to be — a church, a cathedral, Saint Someone’s, Saint Other’s, Saint Anyone They So Desire’s…if only they pray hard enough for it; only the best for the conduct of their martyrdom, their decisive confession, what else to expect from such accommodating hosts? No need to thank us, just die. To fist a hole in the ice of the font, knuckleshards from the lip of the piscina, a flotsam of blood, stoupy skinchips, bergs of bone. With quick nervous fingers they flick themselves pure with the lick of filthy water restive under the freeze. Maybe it’s holy, blessed — by their pain, by their (even the Virgin groans) tears. To kneel at the threshold, then rise, they make their way toward the altar.
