William Gass - Middle C

Although Urichstown’s little library had only the most rudimentary equipment, Miss Moss seemed familiar with the miracles performed in places of wealth and regard — institutions that consequently had fancy restoration and preservation departments. She singled out the Library of Congress where she had seen sulfurous compounds harmlessly leached from brittle papers, and tears mended that seemed beyond a surgeon’s skills. If Joseph’s little secret had slipped out, so had the information that Miss Moss had once been the head of their modest library and had, during her tenure, made more than one visit to the Folger as well as to the Library of Congress. On one most memorable visit to the capital, she had been honored by a tour of its magical laboratories. As she spoke, she held the plasticized card high in the air at the end of a wavering arm. I understand the passport people use a kind of blue light that brightens the ink on a genuine document and forces any falsified design to disappear. Joseph didn’t dare ask about the historic upheaval that had plucked her from the front desk and sent her to this small basement room with its odd inadequate lamps, few tools, and scarred workbench; nevertheless it was a hideaway, and out of all beck and most calls. Although Miss Moss still resented the Major as well as her own continued subservience to an upstart, she had happily adjusted to “debasement,” a condition for which she had several other similar names. I hang about here like a bat in a cave, she said, making a boast of her banishment. I am the Keller Madchen. You are like a bottle of fine wine, Joseph suggested. Dusty from lying a-round, Miss Moss amended, but he could see that she was pleased.

We shall have to start fresh and see if we can re-place this dimestore dickydoo with one worth at least a quarter. For Miss Moss, repeatedly ridiculing Joseph’s so far single foray into forgery was a convoluted form of acceptance, even affection. She produced a camera from a cardboard box otherwise so full of gray rags the Polaroid could not at first be located, although Miss Moss’s dithering search for it was like a performance put on to tease a child whose birthday present momentarily cannot be found: Is it here? no? where could it be? In order to position him against the one white wall that was unobstructed by steel shelves, Miss Moss was forced to shove Joseph’s shoulders into squareness. Then, from a compact slipped from her purse like a tip to be discreetly offered, she patted powder on one of his shining cheeks — There now, that’s better — before she suddenly flashed him full in the face.

He who has lived and thought can never … look on mankind without dis-dain, Miss Moss said firmly, as if speaking about the photo she’d just taken.

I don’t drive anymore — since the twenty days — but we can still use my license as a model. In fact, she said after a moment of apparently efficient thought, we may be able to do more. We can update and alter mine to achieve yours. Joseph protested that by no means could he allow … there was no circumstance that might possibly permit … but Miss Moss was not to be deterred by wholehearted protests, not to mention Joseph’s halfhearted ones, and in a thrice her card was firmly positioned beneath a large rectangular magnifying glass whose surface she repeatedly sprayed with cleanser because each wipe of the cloth seemed to soak up the ammonia while otherwise smearing the lens. A curse upon all this in-competent equipment, she said, as if she were alone.

After a few minutes of swift adjustments that did not acknowledge his existence, Joseph was allowed to reenter Miss Moss’s world, where she became an enthusiastic instructor in inks and alterations. Here, this is a slow zone, I mustn’t hurry, but I’ve been hasty, she said aloud, yet again as though alone. Against the outside wall, where bottle-glass windows let in a grime-gray light, stood a photo stand made of card table, drafting board, and ingeniously twisted coat-hanger wire. Two rather long-legged flashlights were suspended over the board and a covering piece of poorly wiped heavy glass that had been dented or chipped as if it had suffered the fall of at least one of them. The license was moved to this makeshift mechanism where another fusty old camera had been hung from a clamp affixed to a pole, its barrel nose-down through the hanger’s hook. The entire arrangement appeared perilous.

Every Christmas someone asks me to copy a page they’ve picked, or an illustration they fancy, so I just keep this camera in its place. I think they paste the photos in special homemade greetings. Anyway, they want them for holidays … nearly always … you can imagine … and for valentines. My services don’t come free. Film is not cheap, you know, and people don’t usually want to wait until I’ve finished a roll. Could be months. On your behalf I shall demand a day off for good deeds, Joseph promised. Miss Moss felt obliged to giggle.

I know a valentine. I am sure you do, Joseph said, uncertain of what he meant. I’m sure you’ve received many, he blundered on, with lace and flowers and little hearts. Miss Moss held up a flour-white hand. The valentine I know wasn’t meant to be a valentine. The poet didn’t mean it to be a valentine; he never meant it to be in such service, yet I call it a valentine. “Why should this flower delay so long to show its tremulous plumes?” Good question, don’t you think? Asked of the chrysanthemums, all the late bloomers, but you know, chrysants don’t have plumes. Plumes grow on hats. A palm remained raised in greeting or surrender. “Now is the time of plaintive robin-song,” she sort of sang, and very softly and slowly, too, as if remembering the lines as she went along, “when flowers are in their tombs.” Actually, I’ve been alone my whole life, she said then in a normal tone. That “bloom” rhymes with “tomb” is very fortunate for the poet, wouldn’t you say? “It … the flower … must have felt that fervid call although it took no heed”—well, I didn’t need a dower did I? great saving there. I went from womb to tomb … hee-hee … no stops in between. Alone in my stone tomb my whole life. I speak every day — and sometimes night — with the dead. There is a wonderful rhyme coming up. “Took no heed,” yes, “waking but now, when leaves like corpses fall, and saps all retrocede.” Don’t you love that? I know a valentine when I read it. When the world ends the word will write on … wordulating. Yes, I know a valentine, heart of yours, heart of mine. On this project I can see we shall achieve some savings, too. A fine sentiment, Joseph said, thinking she was finished, but she shushed him with a look. “Too late its beauty, lonely thing, the season’s shine is spent.” Oh dear, Joseph thought, oh dear. “The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones,” she hummed, but rather loudly, and then conducted with a forefinger the line to its conclusion, “tones ravishment, or ravishment is sweet if human souls did never kiss and greet.” That kind of repetition has a name, but I’ve forgotten what it is, Miss Moss went on in a different register. The valentine is in the kiss and greet part. Oh, dear, I think I’m in another poem. Have you ever been lost like that? “Nothing remains for it but shivering in tempests turbulent.” An arrow through the heart is a perfect emblem … well … for everything … She was still and silent then as if appreciating a memory and remained so until her raised finger fell.

The plastic that will subsequently be our friend is presently our enemy. Miss Moss kept her thumb over the spaces that stated her age and weight. Your eyes are — open, open’um up, dear — brown would you say? well, mine are hazel it says here, so we’ll leave HAZ alone, hazel can be anything, and no one cares about eyes, they never check. The photo won’t show but a whistle of what color they are anyway. You can open a checking account now. Establish some credit, don’t they say? we must all die in debt. Height has to go up to what? 508 from 506? that’s easy, but see — she ran a nail across the card — this coating won’t let us get at your vitals … so … we’ll alter … you know … mine. We’ll duplicate it and remake the copy. So you needn’t protest. My card will stay clean of any crime, okay? You are such a silly … Sweet, yes … But a bit silly … I don’t write checks myself, never have. I like to pay in person. Then I know. I know a valentine. Miss Moss studied the situation. “Swell to a green pulp” is a coarse expression, don’t you agree? “Pulp” is a poor word, Joseph, just remember. Weight? you have a weight there? Not much more than mine. You don’t amount to much, dear, do you? Oh, dear. “Green pulp” is from that other poem, the one I got lost in. Miss Moss’s head shook from side to side in a regret that was as slow as a lover’s good-bye. I know I don’t amount. Did once. Around here. But not after the twenty days.