An itinerary schedules the unveiling of monuments to the past — a past none of these entrants ever lived.
Doesn’t matter.
This Tour Group comprises old friends by now, from the aeroport, acquaintances from the plane, and even before: old homes; who sold who a house, a condo, a car whether used or previously owned, who knew who from this Lodge, that fraternity with the handshake to prove, who fixed what in whose houses, who worked in whose office with whom, who was a volunteer for what cause, and then those two what’re their names we met at which benefit for what do you call it…here, though, they only nod, grumble, shuffled exhausted, smalltalked to silence, out of their territory, out of their depth. Here, at the Tourist Gate, they stop, at the line marked a shock of white across the stones; they nod again, shuffle with their papers some more.
An inscription above the Gate’s been inscribed twelve times over again the last who can tell how many centuries, roughly the same words though each time in a different language, until the words took on new spellings, newer meanings, newer words, until even the intent, the message, was inevitably altered.
To what.
One guard’s missing an eye and can invent a spiel on order as explanation, for an appropriate fee, which the two of you can later discuss, if there’s time. On his shoulder sits a songbird: a Kavka it’s called, which is a stealing, gossiping bird, commonly known as a jackdaw, Corvus monedula, a bastard crow, a mutant raven of sorts, popularly referred to as a Halka, or Galka — the winged symbol of the world that would inherit its name, Galicia, a kingdom lost to history’s flight. Silesia’s silenced itself. Ruthenia rerouted. To here. In the socket that once held the guard’s eye, is the egg. In the egg, is the songbird for the next Group. And in the next Group’s songbird, the egg. Who’s singing now. Mingle though, if you can, as they’ve been instructed: do whatever’s necessary, is the idea, but try to seem amiable for the Officials, likable but not too, anything goes, but don’t attract undue attention, unwanted scrutiny, you’ll just hold everyone up; avoid Shibboleths of any kind, memory, remember, smile and be amenable, whatever you say. They line toward the barrier, the wicket just beyond the line. Waiting here, they try to memorize the tattered, torn scripts the Guide’s just handed around, not enough copies for everyone, you’ll have to share, doubleup; surreptitiously, at least they think, they whisper the lines to themselves, those prefaced by ENTRANT — roll the words around on their tongues, a muddy pebble, a common sweet (See — Where To Eat). Their Guide’s explaining everything quickly, muddled what with the passing and handing and folding, the grasping and the practice of whisper: the person desirous of entry would tell the setup, and the Guard would get the punchline; it’s all in the timing. Often, though, and here’s the trick, the tongue that trips many up (trepverter of the guardrail), the Guard would come out with the punchline first, and then the entrant — prospective — would have to be quick with the setup. If anyone fails, nu, it’s okay, acceptable, there aren’t any consequences worse than what’s to come, there can’t be, and, anyway, they’ve all don’t ask how managed to smuggle in money with them, mere sums, a few valuables, too, gifts negligible when compared with what they once could afford but still, trades in kind, plenty, enough: with each entrant failed, the Guard would nod, hymn, then walk back to his house, little more than a hut, on his way pocketing the quote unquote admission fee, to which any gift is to be considered supplementary, knuckling a rash at his scruff. The entrant then must wait as the ritual proceeds.
Within an hour or so, the Guard returns, or a day, says some little phrase to the effect that the entrant’s papers aren’t in order, which is nonsense, of course, but no one’s to panic, this is just part of the ceremony, carefully scripted if to be played lingually loose, each time different. The entrant then protests, politely, yet firmly; the Guard then intimates through shrugs, nods, shakes, wrung hands, finger fiddling accompanied by guttural vocables that something might be done, after all, you’re a friend, about this little mess only if what, a grunt guarded by swallows, if only the appropriate measures and yadda. At this, the entrant is to raise an eyebrow, one eyebrow and only one eyebrow, make sure it’s the right one, though, a left, and that you don’t raise it too eagerly, not too earnestly (they’re being prepped as much to inform them as to ready them scared). The Guard then appears to lose interest, suggesting to the entrant an alternate gate, a referral, only a suggestion that the entrant must, of course, though with less frustration than friendly adamancy, refuse. Then the Guard’s partner, and no one knows why, the guard of the guard, maybe, he’s to suddenly give a loud laugh from inside the guardhouse (don’t ask, I didn’t write the script — it’d been found in two parts atop a mountain slugged Lost) — leaves the hut to approach the entrant and then demand from him or her either a smoke or a light, a sip or a swig…insisting on posing for a picture with the entrant to be taken by his partner, the first Guard, him holding their camera to his eyeless egged socket, snapping them with their arms around each other while the second Guard picks at the entrant’s pockets. Once accomplished, the second Guard, who later will become the first Guard, the negotiator for the next Group, returns to the hut, and the first Guard, who becomes the untelevised good cop as second guard for the next Group, say, pretends to inspect the camera for security purposes, in the process allowing his songbird to fly away with it, its strap in the bird’s beak, toward the sun. Momentarily forgetting his lines, where he was, in the script, in this role, he then again suggests that the entrant might want to try another gate, there’s another gate only right around the corner, a perfectly good gate, just as accommodating, really; as the entrant, who’s by now — or so he or she always thinks, flattering — internalized what they’re supposed to say, how and where and when, getting the feel for this, the idea, yet again insists that no, that yes this is the right gate, the Tourist Gate, right. I’m sure of it. Has to be. Anyway, their Guard says, they’re not allowed in through any of the other gates. Just as well. It’s telling to observe, too, though none do, that throughout their entire encounter no one exits through this Tourist Gate, that no one passes through in the direction opposite their intention. And so it’s only now that the entrant, exhausted, and exhausted, too, of his or her options, searches around in their pockets for their offering only to find nothing’s there, nothing to proffer, not money nor any valuables smuggled, without item; he or she feigns denial then, anger, grief, and blah blah these reasoned excuses, it’s in receivership, escrow, I’ve been robbed, there’s a thief in our midst, as the Guard laughs to his guard, winks a lid over his socket, shakes his head, avoids the hopefully imploring eyes of the entrant by shutting his own one functioning. In time, a week, a moon, the songbird returns to his shoulder, without camera, twittering caw. And an exchange like this — it can last for hours, and often does, an entire day, days…in truth, who can tell as all the clocks are within, and are on their own time; this is how the authorities of Polandland control incoming flow (amid everything else).