by Joshua Cohen
A world in which menschs, as if the season of spring lived within them, sprouted willowy sidelocks, and affixed knobby knotted strands to the fringes of their garments and covered their heads to assert modesty between their thoughts and the heavens that judge; their womenfolk went modestly garbed in dark raiment at the lengths of the ankle and elbow, and they, too, covered their heads and hair but in kerchiefs and wigs, which would tempt without revealing, which would promise without the flirt that fulfills. And maybe—a few scholars argue—this modesty’s to be attributed to the cut of the cold, yet another mode of insulation, remove, as the snow’d begun falling everywhere from Siberia where the snow had always fallen to the unprepared shorelines of what was then the Sodom of Florida, all along the Atlantic littoral from Newport’s Touro to Tampa piling up to the knee, to the waist then the neck depending on which blessing or prayer, whether one was bowing or kneeling, and even in parts known up to the seat of the head, which was covered in hats over yarmulkes above caftans below that would gust like dark ghosts in the wind. Eastern Parkway arose out of the skyline of Brooklyn as a ray of lighted ice, and everywhere had become if not the Pale of Settlement then only a slowbeaten fare away on the subway, which had gone out of service.
Though it wasn’t just the outside of our world that would become changed, not only the apparent, our world of appearances profane and profaning—we were to be changed from the insides, too, our stomachs, our hearts and minds, to be healed from our innards on out. All ate everything on their laden tables and in great measure and with an abundance of lust that left them warmed and wasted at the end of the day, with downy moustaches of oil and fingers that left on the finest of linen a script of interpretive grease. All ate everything, that is, save that that had become forbidden, which substance was shellfish, including the bearded oyster, the hoofed clam, and pork, which is the son of the pig, in addition to any meat whether red or white if ever served with milk or any dairy, and other sundry recipes of nature and woman they would memorize only in order to avoid and so avert the wrath of their intestines and God, Who to have been the image in which mensch was created must have Himself intestines, too, as our clouds are the black of His waste. Treyf products went out of stock, their manufacturers quietly disappeared, went underground, out of business, their bills got forwarded to dummy addresses and lockless P.O. Boxes, held at the office, general delivery, poste restante, then the foods themselves disappeared, were shamed, eventually starved themselves out to their deaths: their internal processes sped up, they wasted away, into nothingness shrinkwrapped, entire refrigerators with magnetized photos floating atop the surface of the deep and slipping, sliding around the moist face of the freezer, also, that judges above or alongside the model depending, sucked themselves into rot; appliances that’d been defiled even while under warranty withered and shrunk, then disappeared into the corners of the ceiling of the kitchen and became nothing more than mere stains on the rug in the den. And then their kinder, O their kinder—they sat at these laden tables of theirs and studied in the mornings then in the afternoons they attended yeshiva at which they were quick with an answer, even quicker with a question…like, Rabbi, what to study again at home and at table set unto the glimmering dawn of evening with the time of its prayer? which they prayed alongside their fathers with fervor and an understanding surpassed only by knowledge, such ardor of souls, then exhausted from their efforts how they’d bring with them the succor of their prayer into bed at night as if a gift of light to the moon, going to sleep as they were told to, when they were told to, without protest or fuss, to dream dreams that were actually themselves prayers that prayed for the sanctification of eternal tomorrows. Sanctiloquently. And everywhere was like this except the state known as Palestein, the firstborn nation of the world, conceived on the night before the first night of creation in the love between God and His bride, Who was God. Lo it was to be a resort state, yea an Eden of decadence, verily a garden of splurge—Paradise Herself for those who would gnash for a weekend or so at the plastic, inflatable tree of the secular and its many hundreds of neonnippled, fructified breasts; sustaining retirees, sunworshippers, and the anonymizing excess of tourists ingathered from repression the world over, who would number in the millions like the stars amid an atmosphere of darkening gloss: as there snow was unacknowledged if not outright forbidden by decree of the skies, and each of its thousands of luxury hotels hosting their millions of deluxe hotelrooms, all suites kitchensinked with jacuzzi, were kept tidy and well lit and ventilated, too, and were daily turned down with a sweet left at the head of the pillow fluffed for the delectation of our sunstruck, sleepsensual pilgrims returned from their days at the sea and its shore whose sand was as pale as the dead though the water, much warmer.
For them, the highest attainment lower than God Himself was culture, the practice of art, its appreciation, its love, which is inspiration, the life of the mind. And so prayers were thought with the hands then written down with the tongue and were bound up into piles known to us even now as books, which are heaps of words of letters of the unknown, which were widely read and even more enthusiastically discussed by all regardless of any condition save death, as twice every week and a third time upon the Sabbath they would flock not like dark sheep but like sheepish wolves to the marketplace, the synagogue, the risen Temple that is the perfected, sanctified, if also wholly metaphorical space that even if infinite can never contain the impulse of prayer, and there would read to each other aloud the words and the Word, too, in every language they understood and in any of them about God’s deeds, about each other and their deeds, and verily people would come to bind their wisdom between these two covers of parchment, between two of them like life and death, like air and like sea, the waters above and those below as stripped from the flesh of animals who are known to be the sworn enemies of art, then how they’d bring these books of theirs in vast teeming pilgrimages to the proverbial center of the world, only to pile them again in loose heaps every night arranged into the order most newly revealing by angels in glasses known to the assembled as Rose, Pearl, and Miss Sandy Glassman, Librarian; then, to erect a roof over this pile that was to be known as the sky and walls that were to be felt as the wind, and that within this enormity they had heaped atop the stone of the foundation of the earth, which is a petrified word, unutterable, rocky upon the tongue the last name of God that silences verb, they could all come and go as they pleased, and not just three days taxed a week or just on the Sabbath but whenever convenient, and there they could find out, they could know and even avail themselves of the opportunity to approach understanding. And in the annex of this universe known as America a mensch had arisen who was also named Benjamin, who had brought down to us the secret of glasses and that of the electricity that courses as blood through our veins—and verily he had once called such an institution a Library, and so it was and was so very good that walls of marble had to be erected within the wind, and then a roof, too, had to be set as firm as marble, there under the fundament of sky because so many people had wanted in and all of them at once needing their knowledge that it had become impossible to accommodate all.
And so the select—amid the dew and fog to mingle with the steam of the sewer, they arrive at the steps, state occasion somber in their gray leathered liveries, modest limousines impounded from the recently passed: moguls, CEOs, CFOs, directors and producers; stopping short at the tombstone of the Library, at the grave of the Avenue numbered Fifth, their passengers emerging to step the flights to the entrance under umbrellas held by attendants who are moonlighting police officers deployed in uniforms of a laughable contingency falling down the stairs and shimmying down the railings that edge the stairs as these experts keep arriving and arriving without rest from earliest morning. Age holding hands with wisdom, they shuffle out and up with the posture of questionmarks, confused, even scared, not knowing why they’ve been summoned, why they’ve been forced here and on turbulent, securitysick flights and in those dingy, secondhand limos, with c
lasses cancelled and lectures postponed, having received little information, almost no hints, and being scholars who can countenance rumor—to gather in the lobby of the Library, then once identified, fingerprinted, to sign a number of papers attesting to silence with alien pens. They’re escorted in an order even they in their wisdom, insight, and rare instances of genius are unable to understand, not by age, certainly not by the tenure of wisdom, down a wide hall, chandelierdomed and marble, into the reading room, an expanse of extenuating proportions even in the dim of this wintry month and at an hour at which even God is rarely to be found awake to our prayers: a room lined on all surfaces except ceiling and floor with trees split into shelves then spined neatly in books, which are only trees disemboweled, against which lay the rickety trunks of ladders, intermittently runged, boughs bowed under the weight of inspiration and its desperate if meaningful reach, the mating mute of grains stained with stone, the ceiling elaborately high above the gallery, a democracy of wood tempered with kingly gold, the floor below flooded with tables bobbing in the puddles of melt brought in from outside on the bottoms of shoes and the cuffed drag of pants; tables, you should have such tables, such tables as you could write a book on, a Bible, wood wide and wrinkled, topped by coppered lamps that reflect the perilous hang of those chandeliers, hung with light.
A past near the far door giving into the lobby, its steps and the street, its perpetual arrivals, with our tomorrows, if any we have, floating loftily over the gallery by the great bays of windows above, promised behind glass mullioned in steel, beyond which the sun’s just beginning its slow, glorious rise up to noon. Nakedly white, the scalp of the morning, waxed into perfection never to wane—it’s a head, a head nude, the head of the goy or maybe it’s said mensch rumored to be known only as Das, shining over the assembled, presiding over the floor. They’re occupied settling themselves, with greeting each other, shaking hands, arching brows, colleagues long lost, old students, mentors, department heads and deans, friends they hadn’t had the pleasure of in years, and suddenly—the sun comes to rest through the windows, a breath of light across the tables to flicker the lamps, and they stop, find silence, turn heads, which are all also bald, globes of their own reflecting greater light, to gaze at the figure of Das, whose stance alone on the gallery leaning against its rail and whose height augmented by thick, heavily elevated boots render him an astronomy unto himself, his medals, badges, and citations dazzling amid the heavens of woodwork and glass—they become blinded, are burnt, then just as suddenly the figure turns from their faces, whips up his uniform in his hands and resounds his steps out the door.
At his departure, silence remains with its light…though gradually, impatience manifests, and they return to their rumors again, they gossip, grumble, slap at their foreheads, who understands; these are scholars, minds, thinkers, digressers, debaters pointed of bones drycleaned, their minds if not their appearances always buttoned and cuffed, who knows to prophet from power and from profit, reward—and then, yet another question, Is this on? one of them has taken the lectern at the other end of the room; he taps the microphone, then introduces himself as Doctor Abuya; his reputation precedes, nothing. The goy to his left’s the Nachmachen, and as that name, too, means little to anyone here, all becomes clear: illuminated, in that the eye of the sun falls even on the obscure; these days—of lack, such loss—perhaps especially so. Usurpers usurp; these two, always one speaking, always one with the nodding, explain; they take turns—one always broad, patriotically stirring; the other specific, all business.
As it’s soon understood, these scholars have been assembled to settle a dispute quote of global importance, of, quote, international scope: theirs a question that seeks not one answer but millions—eighteen million to be precise, the famed Octadecamega as the pollsters would pundit at the very margin of error; it’s to answer with facts, identities, with names, and current mailing addresses and telephone numbers, who to scape now, now that rapture and our redemption and yadda’s out of the question, which question is ours and not theirs, it’s explained; it’s that the people, in conversion and not in their death (though death is perhaps a species of conversion, not one would later suggest), had been essential to redemption, endtimes salvation, and now that that seemed gone all to hell or to heaven and which, what’s next, any ideas—when do we break, where’s the toilet?
This revivified Sanhedrin has been convened to choose a new chosen, to conduct a new selection—to identify a People, according to their missionstatement: to be selected through the will of God, or through those whom that Deity selects…a directive already drafted and ratified by the usual Washington interlopers and upstartists, as if anything they legislated would be signedover in fire by God, the nibbed forefinger of, that willed and willing Deity party and without the hindrance of dissenting votes, as President Shade—assisted by the Mayor of New York, newly named Meir Meyer, here little more than a functionary—takes the lectern to announce, and with no mean modicum of humility, God’s selection of himself and his subsequently deific selection of this Das (apparently, a former advisor, chief of staff to a predecessor better forgotten, a cabinet member, past secretary of the Treasury a few have to remember, a shadow owed much and by many), invested with autonomy as full as it gets, promised no interference, no accountability expected and, anyway, who has the time; this deicidical Das who in turn has ostensibly selected those assembled below, foremost intellectuals, policy wonks, thinktank wizards, and the odd factotums of fictional government to infiltrate, make report, ensure what we once knew as due process—this in an operation financed by the holding escrow of the assets of the dead: to peruse assorted arcana, pursue genealogies, wills and testaments of every ilk and ink in the hopes of ascertaining the representatives of our impending redemption. Or else distraction, popular ruse. And as an assemblage without a mission is as a mensch without a head, the body of choice is already accounted: there’s policy, protocol, they might even have an insignia, a motto (though none knows what those are; each is urged to bring not only pencil or pen, but their own stationary, too), everything except an idea of what anything means. Still, in the following season the scholars are ordered to apply themselves as diligently as desecration can be, and sooner than they’d ever imagine they’re firing off memoranda and missives discreet, regarding the suitability of proposed scapes to colleagues sitting, sleeping, slumped just to their left, to their right, across tables, down halls; a deluge of notes, reports, inscrutable forests of papered waste: hemicovers of books slam closed, cause enormous clouds, dust to eclipse the above, to obscure the silent morning visits of, among others, the dubiously redubbed Mayor, accompanying the President, Das in his General uniform twostarred one day, threestarred plus purplehearted the next, flanked by his innumerable minyans of minions, plainclothed as decalogues, in suits pieced together of drab tablets.
Assistants interrupt the reverie, defile the idyll, at every hour hauling in more hulking tomes more and more esoteric, forever falling apart, to be perused with fingers laden with shvitz, with their toes and their eyes even through the glasses of the nose and the hands that mate and serve together to magnify, pages smudged with excited froth, with nicotinal saliva, with languages like the irretrievable People, dead and gone: some scholars sleeping already, others holding their tomes upsidedown, unsure how to right an alphabet, turn the page, turn the page, turn the, answer’s to be found on the page after the last; more and more books by the crateful daily delivered, old things mostly, out of prints, limited runs regressed from private libraries and archives, flownover from attics, excavated from basements and the least accessible stacks of permanent collections; they’re turning pages pulverulent, impairing visibility, aggravating with malicious intent the nose and throat; sifting through leaves, unslit of the unreadable unread for some idea, any, of how to begin—only to end, it’s been said, with the identification of those popularly referred to as the Nus, or Neues, depending on who you talked to and on what day. They the assembled would select a pe
ople, and only those people, whose souls would redeem the world—with no messy conversion, no choice on the part of the chosen allowed; this to be a wholesale redacting, remaking, revision, preferable, it’s been suggested, to any proposed wandering around the world, a process expensive, forever long, in search of someone to blame, anyone futzed enough in the head, willing to be scaped and so, martyred—a hook for their wilting felt hats, their slickers drenched through; though the sun’s out, winter wounds the glass in raging lashes.
For a moon, all that can be seen in the Library—since shut to the edification of the general public, who anyway might’ve long forgotten where it is and when it once had been opened—are these improbably tiny noses peeking out over extensive volumes bound in leather as the scholars are bound to their chairs: becoming merged to their chairs, fixedly fused, gaseously suctioned to seats, forcing them to a restriction of motion, their movement accomplished only by the manipulation of the hands placed under the seat of the seat; wanting to leave for a moment of air or peace, for light when the sun darkened down they’d thrust themselves forward at the ache of their wrists, heave from the hurl of their spindly arms soon distended, and so the scholars they’d eventually push paper and themselves from their palms upon the floor’s splintered tiles, letting loose the occasional screeched, creakcracking fall, sneeze, cough cough cough as if only to assure themselves and their others that they’re, sad to say, still alive.
Sequestered in this Library, remanded to what’s become by January’s close an impossible task, having been less asked than ordered to find the solution most final to a question that can’t even be asked: not to confab, or to approach the presence of truth by consensus, but to vote, or to find, to determine, to order—to vet all potentials, nominees for salvation, then to ensure a future by publicly naming such resurrected embodiments of the cold, the dead, and their past, to identify inheritors, immediate kin. How to do this is work, is research, is falsity, lies—a salvation itself, if lesser, more personal, adrift amid earthly time: spending days as vast as the sky poring over pages and charts, diagrams, lineages and the annals of annals, parchments and hides, every species of document that had ever occurred to the most human fear of being forgotten, the ambition that is immortality to be discerned amid memorized numbers and memorious dates that live lives independent of us, to be retrieved from between our flesh and bone covers that are, themselves, oblivious. In the end, though, it’s perfect, a total success—in that it’s worthless; as every hint leads to a prophecy that foretells a clue, yet another falsity to be followed through to its conclusion, which is only real insomuch as it’s nothing and nowhere.
