Onto the Castle, impressively converted, remade a hotel, five yellowstarred. At their arrival, the Sandersons’ suitcases are ported up to them: up the hill, its stairs spaced widely for the hooves of horses hauling around the slope; these mounts mounded high themselves, humping duffels and trunks over such prettily landscaped terraces — the other luggage is on wheels, though, and tiedoff to the tails of these rides, such a racket…stepping over the bridge over the moat then into the courtyard where baggage’s offloaded for staff, who burden it up a staircase unwound, torn open to the elements, flush with slush; up one ripped wideopen turret of twelve piercing the sky without flag (though it’s already too dark to be sure). A bellhop takes his tip, a weddingring, hers, splits it setting and stone with the concierge who’s informing on him. Rooms are pleasant, airy; taxidermied trophies antler over the kingsized; everything’s been prepared, immaculately: marble scrubbed, galleries gleaming with polish.
It’s charming, Mister Sanderson says out on his balcony, facing the city cankered below. He’s slowly understanding how to be guided: Charming, his wife’s pronouncement upon arrival, she’s right — he can’t fault her, just follow. Polandland, despite itself, its history, the appleweight, the wasting welter of years, seems untouched, lit from an initial lapse, the first Gardened Falclass="underline" everything in a gorgeous state of disrepair, slow decomposition, almost organically, as if it’s living with him, breathing within him, to soon breathe no more, soon to die…it goddamned better be — charming, Mister Sanderson says in his throat, know what I paid: the most expensive accommodation in town, nothing less for his honeymoon, theirs, his wife inside, his relatives already asleep next door then across the hall (the grandparents will have to cope with courtyard views, sorry). Mister Sanderson flicks snow from his parka, returns to his room to lay himself out on the bed like he would tomorrow’s outfit, next to his wife, who’s under the covers snuggled with a leaflet found in a drawer of the nightstand.
What’s so interesting? he asks her, on our honeymoon, too, darkened above and in appearance less honeyed than milked of its meaning, more like a coin with which to call home, her family who’d converted, parents, they’re always (worried) awake…but her, she’s already asleep, and he’s exhausted just thinking of waking her: they’ve done so much today, so much more to do, too, not enough, and tomorrow, if that. He kisses her on each eyelid’s veil, lifts the leaflet from her hands, it’s a menu: roomservice, it offers, and him thinking why not, a surprise; he picks up the receiver, dials 0, it’s picked up, put on hold with Mendelssohnian muzak, he’s picked up again then quietly orders a Wedding Night Package, For One, advertised as You’ve Never Known So Romantic A Special—and please, he asks, do me a favor, knock soft. He rises to throw water on his face, on his return to the bedroom goes to make sure his passport’s still with him, in his pants pocket like always, expected, he’s nervous, it isn’t, remembers: how they’d confiscated it earlier, that and their marriage certificate. He sits down in a chair that’s older than wood, Louis the Worst King its style, worries himself removing his shoes amid a sagging of joints. Then, an attendant knocks, opens the door himself, wheels in a live carp in a flute of freshwater set alongside a flask of VSOP, mashke, it’s what they call whiskey, their brand; he raises a finger to his lips as the aged attendant wheels the fish directly to the clubfooted tub, knobs the water on cold then emerges to hand him a knife, handlefirst. Mister Sanderson rises to tip him his ring this time, and their last; the attendant shuts the door slowly as Mister Sanderson turns, trips over the luggagerack, falls over himself toward the wardrobe, opened, his grasping hands falling hangers a heap to floor. Star, how she sleeps through anything. Bless her, he’s crying. He sits in the chair again, straightbacked to attend to the flask, nips this abstainer (fresh habits, fresh fates), shuts his eyes to think of her not lying here but standing alongside him again, though not gowned, unfortunately veiled with his slicker, the ceremony at the aeroport’s chapel and there its bargain chaplain who didn’t know Jesus from the schmuck who’d betrayed: thinking, too, there’ll be other nights, not many of them, they should pray, not if it means waking her, though, and so he goes to turn on the television to maybe divert himself with the image, its mute, haven’t lazed with one of these in a while, and suddenly how there’s this vast mechanized voice, arrived in their room as if an angel unmodulatedly manifest, hearken the shrill revelation of its graceless announcement: Polandland Is Proud To Offer Its Guests Two Wake Up Options Polandland Is Proud To Offer Its Guests Two Wake Up Options Polandland Is Proud To Offer Its Guests Two Wake Up Options Polandland Is; he turns the thing off, picks up the receiver again at 0 and waits through the Purgatory of organswelled Hold to order a rooster for 0700, wondering if it’s early enough; there’s so much to do, so little time, and let us say — Amen…amen.
Tourists are only required to attest to the Land, to acknowledge its place in memory proper, once lost since regained through that loss: destruction destined from the beginning of creation, which itself came from an ever greater destruction…no, what’s only required’s their presence, that and their money, nu, always welcome, admission with interest compounded every hour on the hour after sunset for those who might choose to sample the night-life that only gets going after Curfew (it’s rumored — with appropriate permit, which is unobtainable, that and a notarized letter of transit offering safe conduct to the bureau at which such permit might be denied, if they’re open, if ever), admission advertised to guilt as a reparation, or restitution — this debt owed, snowed collected, their lives, sunk static in sleep, which is white without dream: surveillance’s offering a vision of blue skies over blond. And then — as if on the timer of the divine, here it is, your personal rooster. Cawing crow. A blood dawn — the sun’s desecration of its host, the horizon. As if to remind him, Mister Sanderson checking, consulting the itinerary printed as the front and only page of Polandland’s daily and only newspaper, punctually slipped through the draft of their door: it seems a Libel’s scheduled for 0900, hymn…which well’s long been mapped — they have two hours to kill, if you’ll pardon…though slicha’s what they say, meaning zeyt moychl.
On the Sabbath, no one’s allowed in, and on no day is anyone allowed out.
Take it easy, enough.
On Weekdays and Sunday, everything’s open dawn to dusk, beyond that into smoke into air (on request), that’s long been explained: how the Groups revolve, depart for their selected schedule by times TBA, how it’s all always repeated again…but of course, the Guide goes on, during the day, regular opening hours, there are still a handful of places, just a few, really, designated offlimits; this is for your own safety, please understand; we’d hate for inquisitiveness to interfere with your experience here: certain cafés and libraries, that theater and concerthall, this park, this garden, this phonebooth, that bench, the westbound monorail, then the monorail eastbound, too — whatever you’re unsure of be sure to ask, of yourself. Those aren’t noted on the map, of course, avoidance is up to them, rather it’s a basic measure of selfcontrol, curiosity’s suppression, a modicum of delimitation’s denial; it’s up to their paranoia, we’re saying — and as long as we’re at it, their Guide repeats herself quickly, there’s one last rule you should know (contingency comes when it comes — how we all have to keep inventing maniacally to keep up with the real); this the most important, keep it in mind: you are not allowed not to have fun, she brightens for this, but artificially, you’re not allowed to not enjoy yourselves, or at least learn from this, an education, explore us, discover yourselves. In the script. Remember, we’re here for you. Ask us anything. Except that. It’s experience’s absolution, it’s wild. Total immersion. Meaning, a mess. Also, strangely, but this they’d been told at the facilities before being mustered to the aeroports, then off: all species are welcome in Polandland, your pets are ours; except dogs, they’ve been explicitly forbidden, though certain streets have been littered with their droppings, dreck wedged smeared between cobbles, at many doorways, too, atop specified stoops, and barking’s to be heard at all hours of the day into night: apparently, Management has their turds imported from overseas, and employs specialized droppers to secrete these foul piles throughout Polandland during the darkest hour of sleep; reel-to-reel barking’s piped in as well — and in wells, down and distorting, up from a gutter of speakers also occluding the mouths of every statue, reverberant under every sewergrate, a low rumble. And finally, so that nothing should distract: smoking’s actually encouraged, and snuff, too, pinches of tabak handed freely around, as is imbibing from open containers of overfermented kvass, vodka, slivovitz, an assortment of schnapps widely available, vice included in the price, that on their immoderate heads — in public, whenever, whatever you want: l’chaim, l’chaim, you’ll probably need it.