Cyclops (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

by Ranko Marinković

  “Yes, well, you’re wondering why I’m being such a friendly uncle. Well, I can’t just stand back and watch a clever man make a fool of himself, can I?”

  “What makes you think I’m … clever? I’m not.”

  “Yes you are, don’t piss about. It’s only that you’re a bit of a square peg in a round hole and … no clue, above all else. I’ve been watching you for the past two days: you just sit there, you don’t eat, you show contempt. Do you refuse to eat just for the hell of it … or is this a plan? But you show your contempt in an awfully holier-than-thou way. And Nettle’s got the message. Even dogs can sense dislike in a man—and that kind of instinct is very keen in Nettle, be forewarned. He can read you like a book. You heard him at reveille this morning, that ‘looking for Garbo’ bit, you must have been dreaming of something or other (a sigh escaped from Melkior, painfully, from deep down, over Viviana, in the “dream”). There you are, you’re still sighing over it—and I thought right away, oh-oh, you’d better watch it, pal. And sure enough, as soon as we get to the stable, out he comes with ‘How do you turn a light off?’ And throws you to Caesar, the bastard! I got you out of the ‘turning off’ and the faint probably saved your life. He’s afraid of Caesar himself, he was clearly aiming to drop you in the soup. You should’ve seen how much fun he had slapping your face as you lay there out cold—anybody would have thought you’d called his mother a whore in public. He hated you at first sight. So tell me—do you want to rub his face in it, with those Falstaff trousers and your cap plunked down over your ears?”

  Numbskull was right, and Melkior admitted it. Perhaps there really was in the little guy that curious kind of honesty which searches impatiently for a man so he can offer him both hands in friendship. Looking at the glass pane set in the canteen door, he saw a truly weird scarecrow in it. Two days earlier he had dressed in the company storeroom picking up from the smelly rag pile, without any particular intent, the first thing that came to hand, indifferently, what the hell, it didn’t matter what he put on, it was all foul humiliation and dirty travesty. The pieces of dismembered bodies, olive drab greasy-soiled, drenched with the sweat and pain of the poor deceased. From the shambles of the army storeroom of massacred clothing emerged Monster (previously known as Melkior), assembled from various parts of other people’s bodies, himself amazed to be walking on two legs like a man.

  The Quartermaster Corps second lieutenant, an effeminately pretty and dandified young man, gave a giggle when Melkior came in to sign for his kit and asked him in an offhanded tone: wasn’t there anything better in there? Melkior replied: no there wasn’t, and set off, with a sleepwalker’s feeling of absence, across the empty parade ground, as if walking across some strange world invented by a cruel mind.

  Encountering an officer there, he nodded and said, “Good morning, sir,” his hands dangling from the too short sleeves. The officer, a portly good-natured soul, burst out laughing and returned the greeting: “And a very good morning to you, lad. New boy, eh? My word, do you look elegant!” and gave another burst of laughter.

  A father, thought Melkior with emotion. Perhaps he has a son, a gangling galoot like me … He didn’t realize he was now smiling as he thought back to the officer father. …

  “Having a quiet chuckle, eh?” spoke Numbskull at his side. “Think I don’t know what I’m talking about, is that it? All right, just mark my words when you get yours, that’s all.”

  “Not at all, sorry, it’s something I remembered …” He’s taken me under his wing! thought Melkior, but stifled the smile. “But what if you got yours? You keep fussing over me … Nettle could ‘read’ you ‘like a book,’ too.”

  “Me? … unh-unh,” he shook his head with conviction. “I’m in his ledger as Numbskull, he doesn’t even waste his time reading me. Not interesting, tabula rasa. But you, now you’re a book, attractive reading, a chance for self-assertion: ‘watch me whup the bejesus out of the teacher.’”

  “Well, you’re an intellectual, too—you attended the university …”

  “Three semesters of chemistry, and even that wasn’t … I don’t even know all of the stuff with H-2 … But the University of Life, hah, now that’s something else again! … I had this pal, he was a real character! Lady walking a dog in the park, lets it off the leash, a bit of exercise, so good for iddy bitty’s digestion. So the doggie romps about, enjoying itself, and my pal gets to barking, lures it into a bush, tosses it into a sack … and sells it in another part of town. It became quite a case in the end, got into the papers, you might’ve read about it. Well, he taught me to bark. He was an expert at doing impressions, he could do anything: idiots, animals, a squeaking wheel, bedsprings, an oil lamp fizzing out, you name it. We spent a winter in an abandoned barge on the Danube. Ice all around, we’re sitting there frozen to the bone, and he starts doing mosquitoes and summer bugs, conjuring up summer, God strike him (and He did) —and sure enough, it got warmer and somehow brighter, cheerier, as if it was a scorcher of a day outside. He could even do impressions of moths eating his ‘cold weather apparel.’ Will you listen to me: ‘cold weather apparel!’ Matter of fact, we had only a smelly sheepskin shepherd’s coat, Gosh how the fleece stunk, it had people running away from us, we wore it on an alternating basis, you put it on only when it was your turn to go out and scare up some grub. Grub meaning vittles—well, food.”

  “So what happened to your pal? He’s no longer with us?”

  “Probably not. He went over to this towboat—a boatman was giving a party for his saint’s day—and I never saw him again. Fell into the Danube drunk, maybe dragged off by the current?” Numbskull was speaking with indifference, as if about a lost bauble.

  “But I still think he got out of the country—stowed away in the towboat. He had a fine singing voice—baritone—it was a treat to listen to him sing this Czech song ‘Water Flowing, Flowing’ … I’m thinking he cleared off for Czecholand up the Danube, got rid of me, well, I’d only have been a hindrance to him …”

  “And you were left alone in the barge?”

  “I went respectable. Got a job. Had a paper route, a milk route. Worked in a nightclub later, dress suit and all that, assistant to their magician, learned the tricks, coaxed watches off people’s wrists … set up in the watch-coaxing business on my lonesome, got locked up. ‘Water Flowing, Flowing’ … I was a circus ticket vendor, spare clown, too, the full understudy bit; I knew the program inside out but generally I was the one who got the pie in the face and the box in the ear—for real, I mean; no tricks. But that doesn’t matter. Love, love was my undoing. The prima donna Marie, star acrobat, missing her little finger—hang it all, which hand was it? Funny, I can’t remember anymore, a polar bear did it. She thought, What a lovely fur coat! And stroked him, and the fur coat went zap! and bit her pinkie off. But she was so clever at hiding it I can’t remember which hand it was. Well, left or right, it doesn’t matter, neither ever reached for me, for all that I would’ve loved to kiss all ten of her fingers. Well, nine.”

  “The magician in the night club … by any chance would his name have been Adam?” asked Melkior, just to ask.

  “Where did you pull Adam from? Hang on! Yes, it was Adam! How did you know? That’s right, his name was Adam, and he had some kind of artiste-style tag to it. Brahmaputra or something, I forget which. Adam, of course, that’s why they called his wife Eve.”

  “Did she also work in the circus?”

  “Ticket girl, one heck of a looker, that’s why the manager stuck her in the ticket booth. And this character Adam followed her—joined the circus himself. Oh, Eve rolled into everyone’s bed like a fragrant ripe quince. The whole troupe had tumbled with her in turns, down to the seal and the monkey, and finally it was my turn. I forgot my (heh, ‘my’) angel Marie and got going with Eve the ticket girl. Brahmaputra got to suspecting the fidelity of his lady wife, well, it was the talk of the dressing room after all, everyone knew, except himself of course, which was only to be expected, and she, the mega-w
hore, ‘confided’ in her husband, which again was only to be expected, told him I kept bugging her, she was at her wits’ end how to defend herself and people were starting to talk, if he hadn’t heard he’d hear soon enough … Of course he couldn’t believe such a beauty would fall for me, the failed son of an unknown father and a random mother, looking like they’d made me in a dustbin.

  “Well, to cut it short, he gave me a thrashing (poor ATMAN, thought Melkior) in the stable, even the horses were sorry for me, with her singing outside at the top of her lungs, to drown out my cries I suppose. I thought he’d figured it all out and was paying out my just desserts. But I couldn’t see why she would be singing. And when he’d finished she rushed in, pretending to be surprised, harping on him for being too jealous, pleading with him for mercy, also forgiveness or something, me being so young, etcetera. He then let me have another round of the same and I was still wondering why he didn’t give her a beating, too. Well, he didn’t want to light into her in front of me, I thought, he’ll settle with her later … I stayed lying there, all battered by those dreadful bones in his hands. (Melkior remembered ATMAN’S fingers cracking at the joints.) And she came back in the evening, while he was doing his number, started hugging and kissing me, wanted to do it right there in the straw. Somebody must’ve told him about us, she says, and he, the fool, can’t do anything short of murder; come on, she says, take your revenge here and now, at the scene of the crime. I was in no condition to do it though, beat up as I was. But she was such a bitch I could have done it dead. Well, never mind—the thing was, his trouble was yet to come. The next day, just before the show, I mucked up all his props, but I took care to leave them looking all right. I watched his catastrophe from behind the curtain: all his tricks seen through, the audience rolling with laughter—they thought the screw-up was a trick, too, they took it there was going to be a clever high point at the end. High point heck, there was no point at all, everything went like that straight to the end, and in the end, when his downfall was complete he grabbed his head with both hands (and you can imagine the booing in the audience) and staggered back to the plush curtain and roared ‘Where is he? I’ll kill him!’ I was of course well away by then. But how did you know his name was Adam?”

  “Oh …” said Melkior with hesitation, “I used to know a palmist who was called that.”

  “Tall, bony? Eyes by Picasso?”

  “Yes, just about …”

  “So he’s into palmistry now? Doing old women, ha-ha. Is Eve still with him?”

  “He’s by himself,” though, not quite, Melkior added bitterly to himself, thinking of Viviana.

  “So, no more Earthly Paradise.” The bugle sounded. “Ah, there it is, Theory Class call. Don’t laugh in class, I strongly recommend. There’ll be important scientific discoveries to hear.”

  School. Four shorn heads per bench. Numbskull sitting up front, among the shorter men. A handsome strapping lieutenant walking among the benches. He let his saber clang importantly on the floor (it didn’t seem to have any other military purpose anyhow) while running, up high, his long slim fingers over the stormy waves of firm dark hair, checking the wave level of the officer haircut. A symbol of superiority over the shaved heads. A kind of power, Old Testament style, over the shorn Philistines. The lieutenant was moving his jaw; speaking. Melkior didn’t understand what he was saying—he was only watching the jaw work and the slim fingers dance on the waves. And Melkior spoke, saying: With the jawbone of an ass, heaps upon heaps, with the jaw of an ass hath he slain a thousand men. With the jawbone of an ass hath he slain us. And Melkior’s jaw dropped in wonder at the marvelous wavy hair and the power that lay therein.

  “What’re you gaping at like an imbecile? Are you listening to me?”

  “I am.”

  “I am, sir, you moron!”

  “I am, sir.”

  “All right then, let’s hear Guard Mounting Procedure. On your feet!”

  Melkior stood up, speaking not about Guard Mounting Procedure but (inside) about how with the jawbone of an ass, heaps upon heaps, with the jaw of an ass hath he slain a thousand … warrior tales.

  “You don’t know? Oh, you’re new? Well, make an effort, listen to the others. Sit down.” He may have sensed a grin somewhere.

  “You, big nose, what’re you laughing your silly head off for? C.O.’s report tomorrow! Let’s hear about the GMP,” using the already familiar acronym, “from you, Numbskull!”

  Some powerful spring threw Numbskull to his feet; all aquiver with his tense alertness he ripped off Guard Mounting Procedure like a volley into an enemy’s breastbone, in a resolute, soldierlike manner. Nine Honors degrees! thought Melkior.

  “Was it Nettle who first called you Numbskull? I must say you seem to be a bright enough boy.”

  “Don’t know about that, sir,” reported Numbskull briskly, “I do my best, sir.”

  “Very good, Numbskull.”

  “Thank you, sah!” yelled Numbskull in the prescribed manner.

  “All right, no need to shout, this isn’t close order drill. Sit down.”

  “Yes, sir.” Only when he sat down did Numbskull command his body, At Ease, but kept his head high, within the lieutenant’s sphere: he was not going to be caught napping or clowning.

  “Diplomacy? Balls!” Among the rows of benches strode a large major, a warrior type, a bowlegged horseman in riding boots. Jangling his spurs. Hands clasped on his rear end, shoving the benches with his knees, get out of my way, speaking in a quarrelsome tone: “Lying in their teeth! Dinners, luncheons, grand receptions, champagne, cakes, mayonnaise! Top hatters! Greedy bastards! Going at it in limousines, in damned opera boxes, chignons, lorgnons, white tie and tails, gold, diamonds, buggers, actresses, ballet dancers … Distinction! Protocol! Damned whores, the lot, women and men alike! Scum of the Earth! Right, but there comes a time when the whore’s feast comes to an end! No more drivel at the green table! They are running for it with their damned lorgnons, scrambling down into miserable rat holes, lily-livered vermin! Well, that’s when we soldiers step in and go to war! No more plizz and par-dong, Monsewer and Modam, it’s get shooting and get pounding and we’ll see who ends where! You’ve shat out plenty of ‘diplomatic notes,’ well, by God, it’s time we rolled out a note or two of our own on our own damned instruments!”

  The major stopped pacing about—there was a war on. Over was his cursing, quarrelsome, prewar mood when he had borne the diplomatic toadying and whorish duplicity with humiliation. Now you knew who you were: a soldier, damn it! Now you settled your differences openly, face to face, in plain language, and may the best man win!

  Yes, but it didn’t follow that any old fool could make war. Resolution and courage were all very well, you couldn’t hope to be a soldier without them, but that was not all. You needed a bit of learning—the art of warfare. That’s why you were here, basic training.

  “Listen up, look at him! Say, getting your bearings. You’ve been cut off from your unit—or dispatched on assignment—how are you going to find your bearings? You there. What are you—a professor? Shoot, prof.”

  “By the sun, sir.”

  “There’s no sun. It’s night.”

  “By the stars then, sir.”

  “No stars either. Sky’s overcast.”

  “Oh, well,” the prof remembered, “I’d use my compass.”

  “Clever son of a bitch, you haven’t got a compass, you haven’t got a thing except your useless brains.”

  “Then I don’t know, sir.”

  “Of course you don’t. That’s why you’re here—to learn. Listen up, look at him! How many of you are from the country? Ah, plenty of peasants, good. All right, you, the hick, suppose you tell these city slickers how you’d get your bearings.”

  “I’d ask, sir.”

  “Ask who? God the Father?”

  “A peasant, sir.”

  “Oh, you mean a peasant would be hanging about there in the middle of the night, just waiting for you to ask him?
”

  “He might happen along …”

  “Happen along indeed. … How’s your Hungarian?”

  “Hungarian, sir?”

  “Well, we ought to be good enough to advance the front line to Hungary, should we not? That would make him a Hungarian peasant.”

  “No, I don’t speak a word of Hungarian, sir. I do have a touch of German, but Hungarian …”

  “Of course you don’t! Can anyone do better than him?”

  “I can, sir. I’m from Senta.”

  “Well?”

  “I can, sir. I speak Hungarian.”

  “Now listen here, Mama’s boy,” the Major brought his face close to his and lowered his voice, and that spelled something truly dreadful, “is this your idea of a joke? A C.O.’s report? no fear! I’ll have you pissing blood, I will! ‘I speak Hungarian’? You’ll be speaking bloody Turkish before I’m done with you—and you’ll be free to complain to Father Allah and Saint Mahomet then!”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean no … I thought …”

  “Silence!” the Major shot the word at him like a bullet from a pistol. “ ‘I thought,’ indeed! You’re not supposed to think! You can sell your profound thoughts to your no-good buddies over in Senta! You’re just a lot of seditious rebels anyway, all of you from over the Danube and the Sava! Over here you think like I tell you to, see?”

  “Yes, sir,” stammered the boy, but the Major was paying him no attention by then.

  “Listen up, you … Silence! In a forest, where you can see no sun and no stars … and look at him, wants me to give him a compass, like hell I will! … you will orient yourself … listen up, look at him! … by moss. What’s so funny, look at him! (Nobody was laughing, of course.) Why moss? Anyone?”

  “Sir,” spoke up Numbskull.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Moss grows on the shady side of the trunk, because that’s where it’s damp. …”