“Israel,” he said. “Jewish, indulge me.”

“I won’t,” I crossed my arms, my personal cutlery.

“Indulge me and say this woman is Israel—can we agree? Foot to head, this woman, Israel, yes?”

“Isn’t that demeaning?”

“According to who demeaning? Later you will fuck her and that will be demeaning but now she serves a purpose.”

“Demeaning to fucking Israel too, I meant.”

“Negev to Golan—how would you distribute?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You want me to cut?” again he brandished the dagger.

“Enough.”

“Do you want me to cut her? Be serious.”

“I don’t know—I’d probably give her away, all of her, you can always find a new one.”

“No, you cannot, this is the rub. This is the only one we both want, we both want her whole. What do we do? What say the Israelis?”

“We share?”

Olya, who understood I’d say about half—cut, divided in her comprehensions—trembled.

“I am the host and you are the guest, it is my hospitality so it is you tonight and me tomorrow? Or we try to coexist, bugger her at the same time the two of us?”

“We could. But I think we should let her off. A woman isn’t land. Affections aren’t an issue of territory.”

“They are the only territory. The Israelis think this. They say here, the Jewishes take the knocker tits and holes, the cunt and bum, the oases. And here, the elbow, the shoulder, the knee—my arse—the Arabs take the desert, quite.”

“You said Jews—and it’s not Arabs, it’s Palestinians.”

“The same—or not even the knees, but the more rubbish parts, the pinkie or thumb, the mingy hair, the cropless arid cellulite portion—that is what you do.”

“Not what I do.”

“But what say the Arabs?”

“The Palestinians.”

“We accept, we compromise—we say have the holes, the reproductives, have it all foot to head, even the face, just leave us with the navel.”

“The face you hide under veils because you’re too weak to resist?”

“The face we conceal out of respect.”

“And you fuck instead the Russians?”

“And we fuck instead the Russians—and we take our electronics from Asia, our online from America. We agree, assent, assure bloody right we will be your ally against terror, bloody right we will cooperate with your trade agreements, your military drones—bloody right all your energy needs will be met, even though bloody right all your foreign debt obligations will never be met—bloody right a stable industry because bloody right a stable government.”

“Stable because oppressive, Prince—stable because allowed to be.”

“Jewish, we are not Africa. Arabs are European—we believe in bargaining—we haggle.”

“Prince, yours is a theocracy criticizing a republic, a monarchy critiquing a democracy. Anyway, arguing the Emirates is different from arguing Jerusalem.”

“But it is not—regardless of our government you would treat us the same, it is politically expedient. If six million Emiris suddenly settled your America, policy would change in a snap.”

“I’m not convinced.”

“You are already convinced—you came from a failing empire to this desert, only to take advantage of us, quite—then it is back home to a second mortgage and the one woman marriage.”

“Not for me.”

“But just like you wank online and never touch, you preach a freedom you never practice. Your libertization is a fiction, which must be maintained so that particular pressures can be exerted upon particular regimes, in order to deprive them of their resources. What Israel does, what Jewishes have always done, is just perpetuate this lie. In the media especially. This falsehood is not just your god but also your idol. You are enslaved to it, and so you enslave us too.”

The prince, still holding Olya, stood, shoved her to the floor, where she huddled, heaved.

The weapon’s sharpness outglinting its jewels.

He wasn’t going to cut her empty head off, he didn’t have that in him, though he might’ve been capable of severing a toe. Instead, abruptly, he sheathed the dagger, and staggered out, his thuggery trudging behind him.^†

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† This dagger would be the very last thing I’d tetrate—later, in Berlin, on an overcast noon at the Staatsbibliothek (library). Everything following this note was written entirely from my head, entirely out of what I know and think and saw and heard, without any technological verification, or direction. Any slips are solely my own. Correx and/or corrigenda may be sent but not received. The prince’s dagger was a khanjar, a scythey, severely curved—verging-on-90°-curved—weapon, reminiscent of a penis at rest. Khanjarha (the plural) are carried “in a[n] ivory or leather scabbard and decorated with jewel, gold, silver, etc., etc., worn on a belt similar[ly] decorated.” While the hilts of the most precious specimens are of rhinoceros horn, more common hilts are of sandalwood or marble. Design variations—hilt type, # of rings attaching scabbard to belt—denote different privileges enjoyed by the wearer. Though the steel used to fashion the blade was traditionally Yemeni, its ornamental silver was obtained, at the turn of last century, by melting down thalers, a popular bullion issue of Austro-Hungary. The prince’s model was gold or heavily gilded, its hilt definitely horny.

Insomnia, nausea.

Shit.

—I’ve been having some name grief—I don’t mean with my homonym, or Tetwin, but with the aliases we’ve been registered under. All standard operating procedure, of course, and it was fun though somewhat defamiliarizing initially to be calling down to the reception desks and have them say, “Fine day, Mr. Immermann,” or, “Bonsoir, M. Yaarsky.” Though it’s not obvious that any of this duplicity would be effective for celebrities of the first results page rank, who if they’re staying anywhere, even at the Burj, would certainly be noticed by employees, and then it’s just a matter of when the tip’s called in, to the press crews, or the protestors. It seems, then, that the only guests for whom this handling would make sense wouldn’t be recognizable by face, but only by name: the primeval way of being famous.

—An indication of the failure of our aliases is that neither Jesus nor Feel can keep them straight, checking Principal in under what mine was last, and checking me in under what’d been Principal’s (the ultimate indication is that none of this fooled Kor). Myung’s the one who picks them, the aliases, and so she’s the one to ping as to whether I’d become “Moises Binder,” meaning that Principal was “Chaim Apt.”

Think back to the time my name was still mine, all those aughts ago: 1999. Think of my feelings, as online associated me with people with whom I shared that name, and yet nothing else. Idempotent nomials, mutual onomasticators, whose lives would otherwise never have disappointed or cheered (me), or even been counted (against mine). I’ve spent my whole entire virtual experience subordinate to Principal, reloading my name as it became his, reloading it into becoming his—but it’s only now that I can regret my collaboration: that the more I clicked on him, the more he became me and I became nobody.

It’s no neat psych trick to explain why I’m reliving this now—the anticipations, the anxieties, all the dreamshit especially—with the traveling I’m doing, the traveling for a book, interviewing again, gathering materials.

This was in Poland, fall/winter 1999, and I was driving, for research, not lost, asking in Krasnystaw how to get to Piaski, asking in Piaski how to get to Krasnystaw, asking this goitrous streetsweeper for directions to whichever town I’d just left only to calm her hostile claim that the destination I was originally asking for never existed: the Trawniki concentration camp, which I was sure was midway between them, Krasnystaw, Piaski. But the only thing between them was a sign for the highway to Chełm, and on my last pass through, as the road narrowed to a toppled chimney of darkness, I turned, and found myself trapped by the snuffed timber and thatch of what might’ve been a granary, and I stopped and got out to piss.