Unknown, no one wants to know him, not in this House (Hanna, putting her foot down into the baldspot of the carpet, the loose tile, the mound of the pets’ grave, the hole for the hill of the ants) — I forget, what we say: not ever again. Die keeps himself tightfisted, lasthanded, holding onto what yesmenschen left (only his lifers, righthands), no more even odd admirers, weird hangerson: while still meeting payroll, he’s arrived under the escort of Mada, Hamm, and Gelt, four tickets flying quiet, bribed underclass with the last assets of empire; they’ve managed to evade the roundups, so far, the selections, knock wood, wrinklegrained head…greased their way through the iron lines, barbed borders, handing out what little keepsakes have kept — mandate souvenirs, not much, mementos of what might’ve been. How, they’ve managed to keep small, lowprofile, motives suspected unsuspected to even themselves, operating on opportunistic provision, provoked by deathsilence, tolerated amid a pity that Authority allows whether by divine luck, long chance, or short memory; they’re kept only by the merit of sloth, of past friendship, sentiment, nostalgia, allegiance, alliance, owed out of favors — you name it, you’re dead…though such lazy silence, contrary to any flattery they might still lavish upon their mere gettingby, meagerly whether bribed or on credit, it’s not theirs — not to allow them the identification of mission despite how their delusions might entertain…rather it’s for Reb Shade, for him to accomplish his own: don’t humiliate anyone, keep shtum, headlines backpaged, the news demoted to the old left atop a den’s couch whose pillows exhale only the whispers of shadow, indirection, misdirection, the hallways rearranged, the corridors of power redecorated in sophistic earth tones. The order’s made known: not given like Law, it’s revealed as if prophecy, if only in a nod, with a cold wink, or chironomy’s snap: a goahead, give them the rope — and with it let them dig a grave for their graves, six holes deep; let them be taken care of, is what it means, by all means, but privately, negligibly, ignoble this method, this assent understood: nothing to do with us, never happened; I don’t know from what you’re talking, I’ve never even been overseas. A ritual washing of hands, then a wringing to dry, but with what appropriate blessing, which benediction to cleanse. Blessed Art Thou, King of the Unversed, Who Commands Us to Cleanup After Ourselves. Who Minds Us Our Messes. Recalls Us to Tie Up Loose Ends. Blessed Art Thou, though You have commanded us but couldn’t care less, what we’re hoping as we sharpen the knots in our shovels…after all, how is that possible: to kill a goy already dead to them, as He’s been decreed, too. Amen to the end of such questions, though we’ve already forgotten to Whom we all answer. Rest assured, this has happened before.
Die lies pale and swollen, older then ever, years, a week or so unshaven, wrinkly Roman elephant gray.
He lies under the atmospherically canopied coffin that is his bed, under the giving mattress breathing slowly and even, trying to keep hidden, alive.
His toes are numb; his medals are stuffed down his pants.
Mada’s in the wardrobe, face slammed up against its doors, glassed in dust, its wood stabbed to death with figure heavy on the malign…Hamm’s behind the curtains, thick reddened drapery resembling the vomit of widows: he stands a shadow in its fall…lamp — greenglass; hatrack, the wardrobe, a desk — unlit; Gelt’s shut himself inside his luggage, a trunk.
