Visitation

The angel alighted on my balcony at dusk. He was in agony: he did not understand how to have a body. There was a great deal of organ meat in the wrong places. He made a garbled noise at me which I chose to interpret as, “How do you bear this, being alive?” In the city below, rooftops turned copper in the last of the sun. Laundry flapped. Pigeons settled in the eaves and the moon tipped over like a pitcher of milk. I lit my samovar, served the tea, and did my best to answer his question. I told him how, at the conclusion of each day, we unhinge our faces and hang them up on iron hooks behind our doors. I described to him how each apartment must have at least one false staircase, and that there is a thriving trade in rosewood and mahogany cabinets with secret compartments. I mentioned how small children playing in carpeted parlors delight in mechanical scorpions whose golden stingers come equipped with real venom, and how older children divert themselves by diving in the canals on brilliant summer afternoons to scavenge buttons, rings and buckles from corpses in the green depths. I told him that sainthood is determined by how many rubies and other jeweled objects a person may swallow before their intestines burst, and that our most learned men and women must lie immobile on cushioned couches, hair and nails untrimmed, where they are fed one sesame seed cake every twelve hours. Though pistols were the fashion for a while, anyone expecting happy news is sure to sleep with a pearl-handled knife clutched to his or her breast, and young people who wish to marry will exchange loaves of bread with severed fingers baked inside. Anyone expecting a birth, of course, must skin a stray dog and hold the pelt in her arms each night, singing to it tenderly. The angel, whose situation was not improving, punctuated my speech with bouts of keening, babbling and agitated twitching. I was unsure how to comfort him. Dark had fallen, the tea had cooled, moths fluttered at the lampposts. I placed a hand on what I believed to be his head. His eyes bulged in their sockets; his skin was soft as a creature still folded in the womb.

“Noble and compassionate angel,” I said, hoping I had guessed correctly, “do not misunderstand us. Our lives, as you can see, are conducted in perfect accordance with the designs of heaven. Our city resounds with joy. Wait here for the sunrise. Bells will be rung, banners unfurled, cannons fired and faces eager to receive you with the honor such a guest deserves.”