Joan of Arc wasn’t the only 15th century virgin who claimed to have received divine instructions. There were so many “virgins-with-visions that the church had a process for dealing with them.”
Jess Walter, review of “Joan” by Katherine J. Chen, The New York Times Book Review
Sunday morning at the Department of Visionary Virgins and I believe I should be excused if I’m not exactly galloping along after just one cup of coffee. I drew the dreaded 2-to-10 Saturday night shift, followed by the 6-to-2 shift the next morning, so if my vision is a little blurry there’s a reason for it.
“How they hangin’?” asks my partner, Guillaume Benoit as he saunters in fresh as a daisy. His old man is Prefect Extraordinaire of Domreny-la-Pucelle, so of course he gets the cushiest job in the joint.
“La bas,” I reply, “Very low this morning.”
“Eh, I don’t know why. You’ve got a good job, and we never run out of inventory here at the Department of Visionary Virgins.”
I don’t have to look to confirm what he says, but I do anyway. Ouch–one glance out the service window and I can see virgins-with-visions lined up from here to Gruex. We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.
“What time is it?” I ask, hoping I have enough time to finish my humble breakfast before we raise the iron bars that hold back the flood tide of wacked-out-women who seek a better life for themselves by claiming a direct line to God, or some lesser divinity–thrones, dominions, principalities or powers.
“7:59 and go time!–8 of the clock!”
He casts a devilish smile at me, since I’m the first line of defense. I’m the one who has to turn down virgins for insufficient detail on their applications: “I’m sorry, you didn’t specify which Archangel you were visited by here on line 3a.” He only gets involved if they appeal my decision by throwing a fit on the floor and foaming at the mouth. Or if they dispute my decision that a self-proclaimed virgin is in fact impure, or a “born-again” virgin, in the manner of wholesome movie star of the future Doris Day, of whom Oscar Levant said “I knew her before she was a virgin.”
Levant: “Right–you’re a virgin, and I’m a non-smoker.”
“May I help who’s next?” I ask as I raise the iron gate, and who should I see but little Therese de la Petite ta-tas. There’s no doubt she’s a virgin–flat as a board but never been nailed, as we used to say in the lycee–but I’m skeptical that she has in fact heard or seen from anybody in heaven lately.
“Monsieur Vendeur, I am here to apply once against for my Class 2 Virgin With Vision License.”
“All right. Step into the booth for the eye exam.”
She meekly obeys–she’s been through this drill plus de many times–and I start to rattle off the questions. “Read the top line from left to right.”
“Uh, let’s see. The Archangels Michael and Gabriel, and . . . chief angel Raphael.”
“Correct. Now the second line.”
“Jesus, Mary, Joseph.”
“Third line.”
“Shadrach, Meshach and . . . Abednego?”
“Nailed it. You musta been eating your carrots, huh?”
“I live only to serve God.”
“I don’t care who you know, lady, I gotta follow the rules.” Now comes the hard part–determining whether Little Therese is in fact a virgin. I am of course not allowed to inspect her by the most accurate method for reasons of modesty, chastity, purity and comity, so I have to use less direct measures. “Into the virginity testing tub.”
She climbs in, clothes and all, and if she’s 99 and 44/100% pure, like Ivory Soap, she’ll float.
“Remember, no cheating,” I say.
“I would not cheat my way to sainthood.”
“That’s what they all say–arms stiff at your sides.”
It’s no mean feat, staying above water when you’re wearing typical medieval female garb: a long gown, with sleeves over a kirtle/cote over a chemise/smock. After some wobbling back and forth, however, Therese steadies herself and stays afloat.
“Congratulations, young lady,” I say. “You passed the test on–what is this–your third try?”
“Third time’s the charm.”
“Did you take a correspondence course or something?”
“Yes–How to Be a Virgin in 10 Easy Lessons.”