Joshua Cohen - Witz

Here is another orientation — though directed toward secrecy, which is located neither in space nor in time, but only in the head, and therefore private, beforehand classified, disclaimed…Mary? she says, and every girl out in the room seated in their metal foldingchairs posturewise unimpeachable raises each one lacey gloved hand with an innocence that’s debilitating. Eager, earnest, here. All say, altogether, present. Amen, she works her way down the list: Marys check check check, they all seem to be named Mary, what a coincidence to ponder, to squander in fear, and so they bite their lips again in unison, into a weep of blood, weeps, unusually nervous, anxious, in this waiting for what’s next. A shiksa showcase, an extravagance of health and hygiene: these are girls almost women, a moon or two until spring away from their fullness, their ripe; to be perfected only now, if a touch early, a little young, they’ve been selected for that, for that very innocence, appalling, the willingness in their giddy bones, their sympathy for the cause or just desire to help, to be of some aid, some service rendered to tragedy, that and their bodies babied, don’t think they’re not what — proud, greenishly grateful, flattered. Accounted. Forget selected, then extensively profiled and interviewed then selected again; they might as well have been engineered especially for their present purpose: with their surfaces smoothmachined, an expert and easy gleam secreted wet below the skin, a pure denuding whiteness flushing veins like festive wires, as if they’re robots dappled with attractive, demographically approved freckles, symbolically parceled moles, the rivets of their soft planes, the endearing scars of playground, playdate stitches: Zeba’s fall against the kitchentable, Isabella’s tumble down the stairs…they’re real, though, pinch yourself; it just happens they’re all named the same, they’ll have their new names soon enough. Every one of them daughters of Garden maintenance staff, of nurses, redpalmed laundresses, chubby charwomen, foodpreparation personnel; they themselves are all on paper maids, however nominal, or indulgent, that employment. As for their actual purpose, how they’re to earn their true keeps, that’s the secret of their assembly this late afternoon and rumor stiflingly short of notice, only after finishing up their final turndown service—1700, unless their charges, bunked with apologies due to scarcity of space, had tagged a foot the evening prior with the placard provided, Do Not Disturb —leaving a macaroon on each pillow logged in drool. Here in the allpurpose, makeshift, scuffed floored Library, walled without shelves, without system, they sit, in moaning, rustbottomed foldingchairs, demure in their matching outfits, tight’s dark uniforms new with matching nylon hosiery stretching netting across their thighs to surface islands of flesh exposed, stockings webbing even tighter ever darker behind the knee, the length to which the frill hangs from their puffy little skirts slit high, slightwaisted, into which their blouses have been bunched tight against the bud; their polished heels clackety click impatiently, too, as they gossip, give susurrant whispers of hair, to keep their hands occupied lying dusters of rare peacock feather under their seats, placing purses on their laps, opening them, rummaging and applying from them makeup, lipstick, and mascara into the mirrors of their palms; then, once readied, presentable, they straighten themselves again into that posture nothing less than laudable — so wonderful, it’s been said, that the entire Library chaotically surrounding, each and every book, could be balanced on their massed heads for parade through Island streets as yet unpaved.

Good evening, girls, the matron says.

A giggle risen to pop on the bulbs bared to empty heads above…all attention’s turned to her, whoever, their matron, and her breasts like two suckling babies swaddled with a labcoat to which a nametag’s been pinned, saying: Sex Therapist — Staff . They can’t look away, can’t blush, their eyes are hers, their lips; the Marys in unison flip wisps of hair from foreheads free of blemish, from brows kempt, untangle locks from lashes slick in upkeep. Atop a chair of her own she nudges with a heel to the front, the matron dumps her purse, trivially overstuffed, messy: lipsticks glossy, matte, tampons knotted together like sausages, diaphragms like condoms and a cervical cap, gel and spray, loose change, below everything her pointer, with which to smack her own tush as she paces the room, the heads following her to dizzy.

Please stand, she says, and altogether they stand and wobble, on heels they’re still getting used to: they’ve only been on the job for a week. As she paces, the woman looks them up, down, as if assenting, in an invasive nod, not indicating approval, more like its opposite or hope, with slight sighs, low whistles given out through the perfectly attractive crack between her fawned front teeth, she pokes, she prods and pushes…Mary, not you, not you, not — you! pull the hair up and around, yes, now let it down…no, let it fall, that’s it, keep your fingers out of your mouth…take off that necklace; get rid of that ring…Mary, no, no, no, no, yes — keep your head straight, you! I want your shoulders back and chin down…suck in that gut (palpates) — what are you laughing at (pinches), it’s not like you couldn’t stand to lose a few yourself…remember, she whispers, these are little little girls, at least most of them, the latter halfdozen — like for you, better a padded, a pushup; accentuates what you have, rounds out what you don’t…wandering her way back to the front, she goes down on her knees to search for an outlet, to light the projector with its cord engaged in a sensual snaking around her waist, her thighs, as if she’s to plug the device into her very crotch, the always warm and wet socket of her own power; then, she removes her shoes, loses the labcoat, the nothing underneath to nude, unashamed.

Strip, she says, there’s no blushing here or cry, it’s not allowed, we’re women…billows of cloth, indoor cloud — mounds of clothing like whispery cirrus, like melting, melted icecream, spilt milk…excess buttery fat to heap about the feet, then stirred a step out of and around, to whip: the Marys strip slowly and selfconsciously, item by item soon teasingly, too, bit by bit to baring all, as if they don’t know whether they’re flirting with themselves, with each other, or with nakedness itself. My God, she says, that marbling, those striations; I want you all to exercise — and grow that out, your hair; I want curly bushes, huge…turns from them to the door to the hall, opens it, wheels in chiming clink of hangers, a rack of wardrobe left by the porters departed, in her draggy, stumbling schlep knocking books over and open to pages loosed from bindings to wind around the hall in gusts from the slamming door; paper leaves like chaffing, burning labels, ironsafe, white cleansed from dark colors separately, Made In An Image : the newest clothes, they seem too small, though intended modest, longsleeved and skirted, these uniform black and blue and whites, sweaters standardissue, shoes and accessories folded on the shelf atop, separated there by tags not of size, style, or brand but by identity, which sister.

Get dressed — you, Rubina, and you’re Simone, the tennis shirt, the white white one, don’t worry, it’ll stretch…you, you’re a Liv; those stockings to hide the thighs on you with those nice neat little irises at the knees…you, you’re more the Judith type; she was into bouncy blouses…she’s handing out assignments, dispensing identities, coupling them sibling to her cause. My job, she says as they fumble with their futures, is to turn you into relations…the monogrammed backpack, with a pencil behind the ear — yes, you have to wear the headband…the Marys dress, become others, turn to others as themselves, all relative to one another, a halflife, still becoming: skimping on flowery underwear, bras for those who need them (which sisters and not which Marys), buttoning, clasping and snapping zip up hips as the woman, too, steps into a hanger’s clothes: a dark scrunched skirt, pink cardigan over white camisole, her necked adorned with big jewels on bulkier gold. As a mother, then, she stalks the room, screeching out inquiries parental above the dressing’s din: who’s His favorite sister? does He even have one yet? what’re His favorite foods? quick! rip out the heart through the stomach, anyone have an answer for me? how many squares of what kind of toiletpaper does He on average use? does He use on days He has too much dairy? anyone, anyone?