by Joshua Cohen
But not all Undergrounds are the same. There are differences, and not just of depth: the Main Tunnel here, longer than day and wider than fecund womanly hips, seemed in its enormity the work of an unholy, mythical earthworm that’d been burrowing ever since the crack of Creation, and not the hard-won product of thousands of hours of digging with the dulling spoons they’d scooped from the drawers of their Hosts’ fine silver. As far down in the world as Undergrounds go, this was domesticated, even luxury, exceptionally lit with equidistantly staggered fluorescents, its floors lavishly tiled in alternating hexagons of royal blue and the baring whites of their incredulous eyes, decadently furnished with oversized, overstuffed settees set on both sides of the Tunnel against walls slathered by Maintenance with vast murals tending toward the idyllically socialized realist, pastelly archetypal depictions of the happy domestic, overflowed with pillows fat with feather their covers kept immaculate through regular launderings conducted topside, the responsibility for which would lovingly revolve amongst all.
No Siburban legend, digging began on the Underground immediately following the passage, which has it been three years ago already, of the infamous Stay At Home Legislation (Stahl, named after its sponsor, first name Sandra, it’s said), a for your own safety ordinance applying to all aliens living and working within One Thousand limits. Apparently, in years past there had been a number of escapes, not a little scandal attendant. Lawyerhusbands advised not to mention it, lawyerwives invariably agreed. The Development only said we couldn’t go outside, Adela often remarked, after dark with a meal hot in her stomach and a drink in her hand, the smoke of a cigarette burning low, they never said nothing about not taking ourselves Underground.
Though only this past summer did Adela finally receive majority approval to commission an investigative committee tasked with exploring the possibility of an extension, for purposes of access both emergency and daily, her envisioning an eventual network of Undergrounds leading outside the planned community (to be known as OUTCOM—and even now they have a host of personal gardeners divided into Nippers and Tuckers, Landscape Engineers, Pool Scoopers, Odd Jobbers, and I’ve come to fix your cable Repairmen, as illegal here as anyone else, working hard on seven outlying passages when sober, inclined), by this past fall the entire InCommunity (INCOM) project had already been realized, all Domestics now connected, all husbands notified in writing then after thirty days duly billed. The last and largest of INCOM’s major modules was dedicated just the first of last month, in a glorious ceremony ruined only by its policy of compulsory attendance: the Underground Social Union set three floors into earth, deep amid the graves and the plumbing, an auditorium and meeting hall allpurpose, in which Domestics were free to socialize and organize, coordinate coverage, appointments and playdates for their kinder, or just relax, stress down over a tall glass of the house kvass and what would begin as a friendly game of clobyosh.
This Social Union’s situated directly under and could alternately be accessed through the first manhole upon northerly entrance to what’s now known as Synagogue Street, which had been named for the redbrick, steepsteepled church that once shadowed its southernmost terminus: impossible to believe, I know, that at one intersection of History & Joysey not all seven thousand plus residents of One Thousand Cedars had been Affiliated, weren’t almost required to be, that someone or other had once to pay full price for these units, not everyone had an uncle who had pull, or push, whatever weight how he or an aunt’d brought carried water to bear, someone who knew someone who’d execute the due diligence, and that without asking too many questions, or providing too many answers (requiring the recommendations, forms, why in triplicate my W2s?), pushing their applications through the planning tribunal, pulling their relatives, friends, and associates through both loophole and lapse…nu, maybe not an uncle in the sense of relation, though he’s a good friend of the family, now with the auntie wife asleep three floors up aboveground then three floors more up above that at the top gable of their house in its bedroom in bed dreaming of dreams without the interpretation of pills he’s taking his pride with him hard and pulsing below the arches of his immaculately maintained eyebrows on a tour, a surprise inspection of the Underground premises: wrapped in a terrycloth towel provided for patrons with any deposit of valid creditcard, his license, or passport he’s making his way out of the Social Union then through the Hall of Domestic Workers, an expanse forbidding in its sudden and darkening narrowness, lined on both sides with these uniformly small, metalframed photographs of the maids and other sundry employees of Development families who had fallen in the line of duty, become martyred to the profession, each portrait’s frame equipped with the jut of a spike on which a candle’s been impaled and kept burning at all times of Underground day and night in memory of the victim represented on the plaque below both dated and named, though with the smoke from the flames blackening over those plaques and even the portraits, too, eventually all that could be seen of most of these tragic Domestics—fallen upon a broomhandle, slipped to death on a mop—is the staring silver of their memorious eyes, which penetrate through any accretion of soot then into the souls of those like our uncle who must through design pass this way on the ways to their pleasure; the Hall then opening into an impressively spacious anteroom rowed on two of its faces with individual shower stalls walled and floored in tile and glassed, towels also blue, white, and of every fade bruised between hang from gilded hooks, soap dispensers installed on the fundament wall on both sides of its door.
Our uncle, he of the promiscuous towel he hangs on any hook vacant, enters a stall to scrub the wrinkling work of day from the coppery skin and copious hair of his limbs, in preparation for the luxurious adultery of the next scheduled rotation, ignoring in his nude a husband voluntarily repurposed down here for hard labor S & M: there’s a rag hanging from a pants pocket, a niggun on his lips; misting up an enclosure with three quick shpritzes from a pump of noxious solution: Mist Mist Mist, he’s singing, Dadadadadoo, Mist Mist Miss a Spot, Lose a Yacht, Then get mad and sue…through the showering facility now, through its further door, its threshold heaped with mats filched from the trash of houses topside, then into a more spacious expanse this walled with yawning wooden doors as cedar as anything rooted. This room, too, heaped in a decorative disassociative state, schizophrenic, half class half crass, with its variegated pillows and rugs and pelts of fur below the valanced false windows (as we’re now what’s the equivalent of six floors Underground), shaded anyway, possibly for what’s thought of as relaxing effect, with strung nautiluses and conch shells schlepped home from houses timeshared down the Shore, counties Atlantic and Cape May, that fronted the most endangered of dunes. It’s neurotic here, almost insane, as if these Domestics didn’t know what to do with their new country’s bounty, have been irremediably confused by the power of purchase lately acquired; elegance mismatched with pretension jumbled, arranged haphazardly, ungepatched in every imitation of the ideationally venerable, the misguided antique, the fauxworn, the anything-went, anythingworks: plush with loveseats, and with fleshy settees and divans, leatherette taborets, tuffets and tufted ottomans, canapés, flutelegged couches and highbacked gossipbenches, a host of instantaneous heirloom, an inheritance made new on the cheap—thanks to a participating husband, if you have to ask, who’d portfolioed a rash of warehouses stuffed with like kitsch out on the Hudson and was so far free with his inventory and love: this the room to which our uncle will come, and come again and again, the room where the Development’s female Domestic Workers—FEMDOMs, in the know—would whore themselves out at prices reasonable enough to be renegotiated every year to the lusts of their male professional employers (MALPROs), and their firstborn male kinder (FIRMA) as well, many of whom actually brought here by their fathers for their very First Time, an experience in bonding or just light bondage, the virginal both, a sacred rite of the wellventilated, dimly lit passage: sometimes they shared, doubled up, and at other times they took the same Domestic in turns, the fathers
always first (respecting at least one half of the Fifth Commandment—Thou Shalt Honor thy Father whether he be timid, or Pharaoh, or God), often the two or more—and whether they’re business associates, carpool friends, synagogue acquaintances or only neighbors not necessarily social or on talking terms—all taking on the very Domestic or Domestics they employed, the maid who’d fix them brunch just an hour later aboveground, with the yolk of the sun just beginning its shine and her asking those who’d bask in it, how do you like your eggs? whether farm fresh, free range, Grade A or doubleyolked, purchased from a facility situated far on the opposite side of the Social Union’s expanse: a supermarket grounding an excellent mall in which, both of them, even the most discerning Domestic would find anything ever itemized on any list whether it be that of grocery, or To Do; special diets no problem, diabetic and sugarfree, sure, lactose, we know, with a kosher section the largest in the state; clothing and cosmetics, too, flowers and jewelry and movies and literature made in native languages for their own pleasure and more—all without the hassle of lines and unseasonal markups, the terror that is public shopping.
And so far everything had remained a secret, as if the husbands, guilty as they were, would talk, many of them being lawyers and in this state women being entitled to half. All Domestics, all with wardrobe access to the Main Tunnel, were circumspect themselves, how weren’t they cautious: protecting their entrances with a holy vengeance, enshrining an assortment of religious icons in their entryways, these idols of saints, graven images. How each Domestic had her own saint to make sacred the rear of her wardrobe, to safeguard her own entrance and exit, and how when there happened to be more Domestics than there were saints, whether due to the enormity of the Development, its increasing need for qualified Domestics, or to the wanting slightness of the eccleisiastical calendar, the slowness of the church to canonize the worthy, or else thanks to the true scarcity of the truly miraculous upon this profaningly ephemeral earth, then saints had to be invented, miracled out from thin air: new arrivals had to fake a saint, which an eager, unilluminated, and yet earnestly religious member of the Maintenance Staff would then mock up in wood, which had been mandated cedar. This despite the belief that to fake a saint was disgraceful if not sacrilegious, a symbol of the new, the foreign and its reminder of confusion, of Babel; as such, it was suspect, looked down upon, sniffed about. Though the only way in which a newcomer could obtain a true saint was for its patronized Domestic to become reassigned, which happened almost never, or to be fired, which happened if rarely, not if her favorite husband could prevent it, if he had say, his own sponsors, connections and contacts among important Hostesses aboveground—or else to quit, maybe, or die, and why not.
This was their embarrassment, the mark of an outcast estate: they’d arrived too late for the real, and so had to make do with the American fake—Wanda and Adela, they’re dealing. When they’d arrived, the assignments were deepening into all taken Decembers; their days setting, feasts starving them out: there was the saint who was first a virgin, then a nun; then there was the saint who’d been martyred by the Muslims at Eleutheropolis; the saint who was first a hermit before coming out of the wardrobe to free his own people from those very Muslims; then the saint who’d married the son of a saint whose own son and his sons then, too, were to rule all the west of Europa, and yadda. Wanda had wanted Saint Anastasia, long spoken for, imaged and installed, her mother’s favorite, too, feasted on Xmas itself, the 25th of December: Anastasia whose refusals to go to bed with both her two husbands had ended in their deaths, whose three maids were then brought before a Roman prefect on the suspicion of witchcraft, were ordered stripped and yet, as it’s been said, how their clothes clung tight to their youth; Anastasia who was banished, exiled out to the island of Palmarola to receive her requisite martyrdom, being burned at the stake under the reign of Diocletian; her mother, Wanda remembered, had always worshipped an Anastasia, though which Anastasia Wanda wasn’t sure, wasn’t sure her mother had ever been sure either, whether hers had been a saint or a Romanov, or only a dream. Adela, ardent adherent of the mirror Edy had hung on the wall opposite her wardrobe, also wanted what had already been taken, made iconic for the sake of another, the saint after whom she’d been named: St. Adela, the daughter of the King of the Franks, founder and abbess of the Benedictine Convent at Pfalzel. After a host of arguments, offered bribes, and the failure to broker chores with St. Adela’s protected, a lifer, Greta from Pomegranate Way, Adela had had to resign herself, reassign, imagined for her use a St. Schwartz, founder of the Order of Absent Fathers. As for Wanda, after the Anastasia disappointment and consultation with Adela her bestfriend and an avidly sardonic churchgoer, she’d settled on a St. Weiss, in her mind the son of a German draymensch and the daughter of eminent rabbis from Poland, a native of Los Angeles, patron saint of media, fish, and eyewear, martyred in an earthquake in an attempt at saving the neighbor’s chihuahua.
Adela arriving home from mass, the eve of Xmas, long past middle night—she’d had the day off, they’d had the day off, had nothing all today save this service, then home to prepare for her shift Underground, which was never off, canceled or closed, which all actually expected to be busy if experience serves. She enters the kitchen, folds the arms of her sunglasses into a worshipful embrace, lays them on the marble next to the sink then turns to the window, its reflection of her as if in dishsoap, wrings the part of her hair, severe, to air naked scalp, how stark her roots show…
The Development surrounding, it’s motionless, noiseless, because all she can sense is herself: it seems no one’s at home or awake. Midnights until Fridays late (Edy’s hosted cousins tonight, relations so far removed as to constellate another spacetime, and even that neighborhood changing, not for the better), Adela would help wash the dishes, sponging away whatever’d been left behind after Edy’s quick rinse, the scraps that’d feed families, the detritus of rind and fat, grease and oil pooled only a gesture above an initial superficial scrub, at this hour Edy usually at the sink herself less working than waiting, like Hanna a maker of one meal a week, and insistent on washing up after it, at least a little, one squirt from the faucet’s long nose; maternal proofwork to herself more than to her kin, washing distracted and so poorly, leaving the salvaging to Adela, once she’d arrived upstairs from the exile of the meal, and before returning Underground for the night. She’s whispering, American lipstick and Slavic dentistry, Eatee, Eatee…throughout the house, seeking order, direction, the host that is mastery: her whispers to rise up the stairwell slat by slat up to the rooms upstairs-upstairs, to sound plank into rooms that uphold the walls, voice to grain away wood. Furniture, possessions, stuff. That that is owned has no right to respond. Only echo, reflecting echo—and even when ordered to respond, it cannot, because it’s not only owned, it’s dead. Adela shrugs, smiles caps, crowns, a mouth full of fools and princes, the cityscape of a world far away, vista of castle and church. Pleased to be alone, to preserve her hands, safeguard her manicure for the favor of night, it’ll be pleased, they always are: her hand strokes up and strokes down, then a milky moon appears above the valley of palm. To leave its dish with the others for the promise of tomorrow, though what’s not done tonight is undone forever, can’t blame. Even upon the Sabbath, Adela has to sign herself into the Register, with the pen left on its table, Alan’s spare fountain: one of two received as a wedding gift a life ago, it’s never been used to sign anything but her own name; then, makes her way down the other slotted stairs to her room, downstairs-down-stairs with her heels heeled off held in her hands she passes there on the walls the albums eviscerated, their remains now framed for inspection, portraits of family, immediate, ancestors, once her fellow countryfolk, never her fellow countryfolk, who knows what they’d have to say about it, their lips held tight, one black, one white, the rest of them predeceased gray. Koenigsburgs long passed on…their eyes compel, then concess and give depth, they aren’t just frames sunk into frames—they’re photographs themselves: each pupil the
home of the portrait entire held within its gaze, and within the eyes of that portrait the photograph admitted again and yadda unto infinity and eternality, perhaps, at least the unphotographable. Timeless just means whatever’s no longer. We are not buried below the earth, we are buried atop our own dead. And then, to enter over the threshold.
On the door there is a house and in the house there is a name and as one passes through the door then past the house one must kiss there at the house, whose walls kiss the name—a mezuzah, Edy’d once explained, that this is done to remind people that houses are to be reverenced as homes, and that the very idea of owning or even renting a heaven on earth, itself mortgaged, is a miracle to be recognized upon every pass. As to pass through a doorway is to experience a revelation, especially when over this threshold lies your dead. Adela never kisses, though. As this isn’t her house or home as much as she is the house’s, like a wall when she’s left alone, when working more like a floor. Door shut, there have been no bodies found yet, only basement, paneled in cedar: outside lamplight eking through windows at earth, illuminating fingers of dust, then a pinball machine they’ve never plugged in, and a screen, embarrassingly huge, an entire wall, a world in and of itself. Another passage. Images live on this screen. Images like people, like gods, some appropriate, others not so. Discretion’s advised. Images to Show the Kids to Shut Them Up on a Rainy Day, images Never to be Screened by Anyone Else Save Edy & Alan on Penalty of Grounding, the ratings. Loss of Innocence, labeled. And if screened then alone amid the dead of night, with no one home and the doors and the windows locked and the alarm armed with you know the basement’s code, when that little light thing goes red. An image imagining itself. As for the code, it’s the same used by all these houses, all in secret. Numbers breathe no word or letters even. Eighteen, thirtysix, sums or permutations of the numerals of life.
