Dearest, I hang in the sky. The world has come to an endless stop. My head miles from my crotch—this can’t be Amsterdam. How will I ever find you? The conference isn’t at all what I expected—“Conference on Drugs and Extrasensory Perception” it says on the runner. An ad?
The hall, oppressively monumental. Imitation of what? Somebody said, imitation. Egypt. Rome, itself an imitation. Train station: Death. When you are not going anywhere. Not leaving or arriving. Turmoil. Are those ticket counters? I hear Spinoza speaking. In Latin, of course, translated into American for my benefit. Incredible the service you get in this century. Simultaneous translation into five hundred and seventy-nine languages. It simply awes me.
•
There’s a crowd like at the Préfecture de police. So many heads—is one of them mine? If this is really the Last Judgment—not just the latest Franco-Italian production—the real thing, unrehearsed, as it comes, bound to be bedlam. Refuse to be taken in in spite of preponderance of bearded men and Egyptian décor. Even if it should prove—no, refuse to believe it. If God appears I’ll pretend it’s an actor. More people keep coming in. We must wait. For more people? Not crowded enough?
We have arrived. People spreading the word. Some monks in white praying silently. I didn’t hear the announcement. This the place. America. The next world. Can’t believe we really arrived. Don’t see Statue of Liberty. Empire State Building. Is this America? Must be the waiting room.
Gypsies sitting on the ground, playing cards. People are grouped by nationalities, not alphabetically. I see they’ve dressed me as a child in high laced shoes and Tyrolean cape. Everybody filling out forms. I don’t remember anything. Mother’s maiden name. Date and place of father’s birth. Former residence. Name of vessel. Good thing I brought along some books to read. Immigration officer still studying my papers.
“...why weren’t you in Auschwitz?” he repeats, hard to understand: rats have eaten away half of his face, part of the vocal cords; touchy about it, naturally. Now I see yellow star badge around his arm. A delicate situation. Certainly don’t want him to inspect books I brought. People in group I’m with whisper in my ear different answers, trying to help me. Woman’s voice urging, “Kiss his foot.” I see customs officer delicately extending foot in curved pasha slippers. Afraid slipper will fall off. Kiss his foot, woman hisses in my ear, It’s only a dream. I’m careful not to breathe through my nose. Prepared for everything. Worms.
Matzah being served, I’m told, and jellied fish. Where? Still preparing. Lot of talk about Messianic Banquet. Roast Leviathan. Always lot of talk. Aren’t they ashamed? There are some Dominicans nearby and a group of Irish immigrants. Now I see the little old man—like the ones in Jerusalem selling kerosene on a donkey—he is offering tidbits on a paper plate. Where is his donkey? Looks like leftovers. Or hors d’oeuvre? Offering it so ceremoniously, I can’t refuse. Tastes like—
A drug, I knew it. Hate this kind of high. Trying to hear Spinoza on a crazy roller coaster. It’s a guided tour. Guides ranting in different languages, “...and now we come to the furthermost reach...a place referred to by many authors...the fall into the past...” Missed the classical reference. And frankly, the sensation—like when I was little, sitting on the round hole of the outdoor privy—the moment I felt I was falling with it...
• •
Counting on miracles of technology somehow this will reach you...A trap, as I suspected. My head on the table (they’ve strapped my legs in some gynecological rig-up). I’m to be subjected to trial—not serious, just disgusted by silliness of it all, more delay and afraid of not holding up, losing my temper (must keep my head)—wish you were here to advise me—confusion and intrigue as usual. The charges, I forget how many, filed by different individuals. Particularly worried about what defense has cooked up (Ezra’s doing, can’t decide if he is mad, stupid or a devil) in way of an insanity plea. Been explained it’s standard form in my situation and have nothing to worry about—said something about extraterritorial rights. Don’t understand. And O.K. if I deny it, more vehemently I deny it, more convincing—not legally responsible, that’s the point, lost my head, head on the table to prove it. Pointless to try to convince them my head even if miles away still connected to my crotch...question on my mind is whether my acquittal depends on confessing the truth or making up a story. Difficult either way. Awful feeling everything I say will be turned against me, including my silence, everything, and that when I try to speak, the words carefully formulated (whole paragraphs like in Spinoza—proposition and axioms), it comes out in grunts and screeches. Ultimate fear that I’m being manipulated, psychedelic drugs, nothing more insidious (have resisted ether, hypnosis, etc.), or just surgeon poking with rubber gloves and instruments up my cunt and ass hole, would explain screaming, blood, grunts but mind lucid as you see writing to you. Must resist fear of being manipulated must absolutely disbelieve, only chance, only hope, legitimate like Pascal’s wager you understand—don’t know how much time I have to prepare, they’re still at preliminaries: screening witnesses, interviewing jurors—you would enjoy some of the characters, old Eastern European types. The whole thing very informal, my father’s been called in to serve as judge. Flew in few hours ago; first thing, before even taking off his hat made his ritual
