Finally Shlomith slowly begins to roll up the caftan from the hem. Everyone stares. No hint of discretion. There are the hip bones protruding, the bottom like a serving tray, no buttocks at all. The genital region under the panties is sunken. The kneecaps form two asymmetric lumps, from which the stick-like thighs grow diagonally up like stalks from a tuber, leaving between them a gap a throwing hammer could pass through. The shins fall straight down like boiled spaghetti.
Now, when the whole body is visible, the feet look like enormous caricatures, just like the large fingers and shovel hands that straighten the dress. On the left wrist is an amorphous, black tattoo. Blue veins marble the entirety of the delicate, white skin, and fuzz covers it like the chick of a sandwich tern. All bones out, on display like an educational model, Mrs. Skin & Bones constructed with anatomical precision.
Shlomith is only a hanging display that has stayed upright through sheer strength of will. Or stayed and stayed. And now she is here too. She probably dieted her heart away. In the hospital, Wlibgis had seen other carcasses like this. In ward six, and in the hospital cafe. Tremulous specters, all owl eyes and wispy hair. A fleshless nose, two gaping nostrils, dried craters under cheek bones. But the mouth was the most dreadful. It was disproportionately large compared to the rest of the face, a brazenly useless hole. It was ghastly to watch as they tried to gnaw the pieces of bread they bought to accompany their coffee, as they rolled the crumbs around endlessly in their mouths, and finally, after losing the battle once again, spat the dough plug into a serviette.
Hunger might go away but not the need for nourishment. When the women (they were usually women) stopped eating, their bodies ate away at their muscles, brains, and thoughts. And what was left of them? An empty gaze. Slow, lethargic movements and careful sitting (since they easily broke themselves on benches, tables, and even their own bones). That was what was left of them. If they didn’t know how to stop, they finally broke down under the breast and to the left. So it goes: the resting pulse slows, the heart sometimes pumping below fifty beats per minute: bradycardia. Blood flow decreases, blood pressure falls, the heart muscles contract. Starvation and dehydration lowers mineral levels in the body and decreases body fluid flows, which has a devastating effect on blood sodium values. Vital minerals—calcium, magnesium, potassium, and phosphate—dissolve poorly, leading to an electrolyte imbalance. The body’s internal electrical currents go wrong, disturbing the heart’s normal rhythm. The heart stops. Death arrives.
Heart, oh heart! You are the last to betray us, but when you do, we’ve reached the end!
According to all logic, Shlomith has now reached paradise, a place where she can never gain a gram. So is she happy? She doesn’t look that way. There she is straightening her caftan, buried in her big cloud of curls, folded like a pocketknife, occasionally glancing around suspiciously as if to ensure that the other women are concentrating on their own clothing, not her disfigured body.
Wlibgis, who has been staring at Shlomith greedily, quickly averts her eyes, slightly embarrassed. She sweeps from her mind the skeletal princesses of ward six and the incomprehensibility that some maniac would put herself in that state on purpose. Instead she looks to Nina and lets her gaze rest there for a turn.
Nina has already been undressed once when her enormous, supposedly babyless stomach and lower half were inspected. Now she is almost naked, in her Mamabel Basic Maxi panties and sturdy, but not at all marmish bra. At first Nina had thought the bra and panties could stay on, but because Shlomith doesn’t have a bra (or breasts), along with Maimuna and presumably Wlibgis (who still stands sullenly in her hospital clothing; why doesn’t she begin undressing like the others?), having everyone go without begins to seem like the more equitable option. And besides, the bras will provide more building material, 70–85 cm of wall depending on the bust measurement, Nina calculated in her head, and because three of them appear to have bras, that will give them approximately . . . 240 cm!
Reassuringly Nina lowers her bra, black smocked maternity shirt and turquoise cotton satin trousers next to Shlomith’s clothing pile. And socks (high quality, thin) and trainers (meant more for walking than running). The shoes could be door hinges, if nothing else, or room corners. Shlomith had come here with soft, fuzzy slippers, Wlibgis has loose, white hospital socks covering her feet (merde, start undressing already!), and Maimuna has sandals, no socks. Polina has, as noted, only one shoe, a heavy, knee-length winter boot, worn, bright-red woolen socks, thick brown tights, black form-fitting slacks, a snappy, expensive, pink polo shirt, and instead of a suit coat to match the slacks, a dark blue cashmere jacket that is much too big for her and buttoned askew, and—where did she come from, Siberia?!—then the ankle-length sable fur, which has just become the couch. (Ulrike refuses to sit on it, don’t you know: FUR? I’d rather go naked!)
Ulrike and Polina are also almost naked. Ulrike has on a charming sunshine-yellow A-cup lace bra and Polina, somewhat surprisingly, a red satin bra, which doesn’t at all match her large, powder-colored underpants. They modestly cover her ample backside, coming up almost apologetically over her round belly all the way to her navel. But what about Wlibgis? She doesn’t show any intention of casting off her hospital pajamas. Is she shy? What is the problem? There are all sorts of bodies here—she can see that. This is no beauty contest!
Nina, who has taken on the role
