Finally, bribeless, moneyless, and only after it’s been endless haggling, accusation, recriminations, a strange sort of compromise is reached, inevitably, but don’t tell them that, don’t let on: invariably, the Guard settles upon an appropriate denigration, an adequate indignity, and so requests as prerequisite to any admission the presentation of a story, a fiction, essentially an additional falsehood, the supplement lie; for example, he might do anything…maybe asking each entrant and always individually to tell him why he or she wants to enter Polandland, for what purpose and how badly, perhaps, to which all replies are equally valid, if they so satisfy the Guard, the only arbiter here, the only gatekeeper around — all replies, that is, except one that betrays circumstances, the true nature of their presence (with forms long filled out, everything signed away, waivered): one that divulges their forced entrance, reveals their future unfutured in its impatience, impertinence, how put out they are. He needs to hear from each of these entrants all about, up to you, it’s your calclass="underline" their invalid/dying relatives, their family reunions, business engagements, Polandland’s cultural wonders, the absolute necessity of visiting this religious shrine or that historical site; and expecting, too, to hear in reply to his demand however absurd an accounting of lifelong goals and kinderhood dreams, the more creative the better, the more outlandish the more convincing, the crazed and impassioned among them the most effectively entertaining, it’s said; he hopes to hear names dropped, held on to tightly, then let go of, dates and times invoked, of longstanding invitations, of unalterable appointments with specialist doctors or lawyers, engineers, industrial executives and municipal agencies the more obscurely recounted the more valued, the more nonexistent, whether delusionary or merely imaginary, the evermore incredibly received…to hear, too, their whining and crying, to see with his own good eye an ample measure of their begging and mouthgrovel, knee-beseeching, and tears; and if at any time in this entreaty the entrant might fail, falls from his or her identity within the role into an acknowledgement of the lie that’s required, at depth, then entrance is postponed, delayed until further notice, until a more convincing offering can be developed, and delivered, and it must: if you refuse, though, don’t worry, as one’s eventually forced upon you, delivered for you by proxy, in your stead, however embarrassing it is or will be, how shameful, and base. And only when appeased — or delighted, applauding, and laughing, or merely wryly nodding acceptance — will the Guard stamp for you the appropriate document, which is the stub of the admission ticket previously ripped in exchange for the fee originally pocketed upon your Departure, and then his guard, the Guard’s guard, raises for you the barrier of birchwood, the peeled white of the wicket. Only now is the entrant allowed inside, finally, permitted to pass through the Tourist Gate only to wait on the opposite of its portal for the rest of his or her Group. And for hours. For days. Though the ritual’s only begun.
Some find it perplexing, or funny, even, gatesgallowshumorous, but others understand its seriousness, its gravity, and it’s them that do best; understanding that it’s all party to the experience, packagedealed; that what’s required is less an appreciation of the end than of the means by which the end must come to be suffered: what’s important isn’t the moral, which is bankrupt despite, but the spiel by which the moral must be indulged. For the sake of the sake, say. Get in line; stay for the line, too. Throughout, without doubt, and yet with doubt, as well, the entrant must suppress an urge to seek, to turn, over a shoulder, to receive or solicit advice of any kind or kindness, and must also refrain, once passed and waiting again, from offering any advice to those who would follow, to provide them with any encouragement or instruction from what’s only the safety perceived of their waiting area, their line’s muster, its haven hopedfor, designated behind a cordon of columns. As they wait for the rest of the Group, any pride in their passing slowly diminishes, gives way person to person, with each other subsequent pass; a disappointment: by the time the remainder arrive, pass through and wait for their Guide to pass as the guiding umbrella’s inspected for holes, their supplicant stamps are already gone — it’s disappearing ink.
Unprompted, then, they follow the script, though entrance is becoming easier and easier, easier than ever these days, especially once you’re inside…in the earliest days of the first transport, the initial experiments, how Polandland had tried to micromanage, age and height and health requirements strictly enforced; for certain attractions, that is, but not anymore — what’s the use? Lately, all are welcome to everywhere, whether they’re ready or not, preparation or no, they’re forced to a welcome — and now, it’s become not program but pilgrimage, is how it’s put, now that they’re not scheduled but punctually leisured to death, that’s how we like to think of it, anyway; the Gates swung open, rustily, perfectly, perfect in their rust and swing, and everything’s available, save exit, of course. They’ve paid their entrance in eyeteeth, fees in wives and daughters, in family, in fingers and toes; reduced admission for students, and seniors, too, with presentation of proper ID. Many have been wheeled through the eminently accessible Handicapped Gate, steeply ramped. Most are happy to walk. To pay extras, miscellaneous surcharges, the price of exorbitant whim. To sign those waivers, initial here here and here the disclaimers — there’s my X, cross me off, black me out. They replace their wallets under their layers, larval, their varval strata, these personal rings…stuff their documents, too many documents, too much paper, into their shoes for warmth, too many seals, too many approvals. They’re lined through the turnstiles just past the Gate, a distracting concession to the modern; despite the ceremony, an accounting must strictly be made. A record, is meant. A son, too short, underneath the metal arm and so, unregistered; despite, even he won’t survive. Clock strikes Bell, the nest of a cock whose comb is a bejeweled caparison. Crowing. It’s never closingtime. Until. There’s so little of it, time, and O their God there’s so much to do!
In the Cemetery
Here is the Cemetery…a field circumscribed by walls, which are a fence, shot through with gates of its own. The field’s a sharp rise, a precipitous mound, almost a grave itself, unmarked and yet mounting against that anonymity, a natural monument to its own forgottenness, a mess of enclosed earth overgrown not made of layers poured upon layers, which would be like the turned and turning pages of a book, or like consecutive, linear, narrative time, but more like a book whose pages are inseparable from one another, its covers, more like a time that doesn’t proceed forward or back but that stands still subsuming every moment, past, present, and future. Atop this hunch, within it, of and below it, it itself, are its tombstones, the topmost of them lately pulled up straight to stand, reset, like starved teeth, like cuticle parchment, the exposed bones of eggs…becoming pushed in, out, clustered, crowded, dirt-dense, rockthick, stonetight, as if the most impermeable efflorescences of the mound itself, forget weather; of the same material, only its most exterior, and so necessarily hardest, manifestation, that with the most edges, the sharpest against the shaped, shaping wind. Overgrown with grass, weathered to pale, this small parcel of fenced land, this earthen scar allotted for burial — a hump’s wound wanting for raum, for its healing. There will be no further exhumation; it’s not allowed. For them, it’s only the transience of this one walk through, a quick cursory circuit, twisting left, winding right, their eyes trying to take everything in — to mouth to themselves, each other, these names, which are halfheard, which are mispronounced, between their tongue and these teeth: to see the, which is the sound the tongue makes clucked between the teeth; to inscribe them upon their pupils, too, to make gravestones, tombstones, headstones out of their very own heads: stonestones, markers made of wood and of rock, of all different ages and eras leaning on each other, falling for one another, and over, huddled to keep warm in the freeze.