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THE FINISHER
In the Room of Slender Pleasures the coffin rests on trestles next to the monstrous globe whose continents—through the oceans' tight blue silk—bulge like flesh. The finisher is massaging the mahogany with bichromate of potash, mottling the dropcloth like brown blood. Paris, seventeen-eighty-nine. Next, he rubs in and wipes off the plaster filler and lets it set. According to the eleventh edition of Britannica, all this to-do reflects the gradual decay of institutions inherited from the feudal system, the decline of centralized monarchy, immediate financial necessities—failed harvests after a bone-clinging winter: frost-bitten turnips and cabbage stewing on a spluttering fire. With linen rags the finisher applies the shellac dissolved in methylated spirits, layer upon layer, taking his time. And the cracked world groans on its axle: these scuffed wrinkles are the Himalayas, this stain the Mindanao Deep. The nobles and the clergy meet in small apartments set aside for their exclusive use. The Third Estate is every man for himself in the Salle des Menus Plaisirs: Sauve qui peut. The finisher smoothes his work with linseed oil and glasspaper, grade ought ought ought.
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