Cyclops (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

by Ranko Marinković

  Hey, this must be magic! —he heard the son’s voice from a distance. Melkior halted. The night was uncertainly transmitting the words of Ugo’s pathos-drenched recitation … to the queen of all women … This was in honor of the “fox fur” in the doorway behind—she had bandied her legs about for him, too. … To chrysanthemums’ sister. … Already she was sending him away and Ugo was, like a tenacious little dog, barking out further verses in her honor by the doorway. He ended his recitation with his arm high in the air. … I raise this glass to your health … (Melkior saw him under the lamppost as a black silhouette), then bowed deeply Madam! And went on his way with another poem. He approached with a drunkard’s big uncertain steps, his galoshes squelching noisily as far as the pavement was wide. “And now I’m off to Khabarovsk,” he announced boastfully out ahead, making wide and important sweeps with his hands in some sort of hurry.

  Abruptly he halted. His expression was anxious, he was looking mournfully down at the ground. “I? What am I?” he asked himself bunching his fingers in front of his nose. “I’m a bug,” he replied with a kind of false despair and went resolutely on his way, “but I’m off to Khabarovsk all the same.”

  Melkior moved into the shadow of the monument to poet Petar Preradovic to let Ugo pass.

  But Ugo halted in front of the statue. The bronze poet held a pencil and sheet of paper; awaiting inspiration, he was staring at the front of the building opposite.

  “I say, Petar, sir, do you know what tartalom means … in Hungarian?” Ugo asked him; watching him provocatively from down below, he waited a moment for the poet to reply. “You don’t, do you? You think it’s some kind of Greek hell, ha-ha. … It means content. So much for today. Take it down,” and he turned to leave, only to spin back right away: “One more thing, Petar—I’m a bug. That’s off the record. Goodbye.”

  Melkior gave Ugo time to make some headway, then followed him.

  Where’s he coming back from? From … her? he thought with hesitation.

  But “she is not there—she’s not to be found there anymore,” ATMAN had said. So, where is she now … now that it’s my turn? The turn wrested a profound sigh from him.

  “I? What am I?” asked Ugo of the entire city that slept on behind darkened windows and cared not a whit. …

  Yes, indeed—what is he? wondered Melkior. All right, I’m Eustachius … although that’s not quite clear either … but what is he, the Parampion, Ugo, Mr. Kalisto’s son? And the city doesn’t care, the city (Melkior was having his joke) which has the honor … who knows? … does anyone know what he is, the Parampion, Ugo, Misterkalistosson? Or what he might yet become? Approach with caution! Because later on, if he became a He, what might we be in for?—fear or shame, depending on whether he would be lenient or not. Today he’s a bug—but what about tomorrow? Hey nonny noe, does anyone know?

  “I? I’m a bug!” Ugo kept informing the sleeping city of his minuscule despair.

  … Or his dreadful threat, hey nonny noe, does anyone know? went on Melkior with his joke, but less vigorously now—after all, who knows?

  A thick jet of water had blocked Ugo’s way and was hissing threateningly, would not let him pass. The joking workmen had used their hose to stop the bug. He was trying to maneuver his way past the watery reptile, to distract its attention and scuttle away, but the arching reptile was rearing at him again and again. The little game had been going on for some time.

  “Esteemed hose-wielding working men,” Ugo addressed the workmen, opening the rally, “with this mighty weapon in your hands …”

  Why did he cut his speech short? Melkior was unable to make it out from his distance. Look, he’d started a quiet conversation with them; the workmen had taken a break, turned the water off, they were laughing, thumping him on the back. There, he was already having a cigarette with them! Honestly, there must be some dark force on his side! What did I say? He’ll win them over, too. He wins everyone over, men and women, Parampion the Conqueror! And he does it using what? His eyes, his mouth (his fillings!), his words, his gestures … all of it fraudulent. He felt like shouting across there: “The man’s lying!” And what would have happened?—They’d only stone me, that is to say they’d sweep me away with the water from their mighty hose, the hosers!

  Envy shook him, like that, at a distance. He was “in the circle of his family” over there, among people, among his own. They were patting him on the back and he was laughing at them in his snotty nostrils, amusing himself, mocking them. “Working men!”

  What is it they see in him? Melkior was disbelieving ATMAN, now. What she sees in him is an entertainer, a monkey, a romp. He had drunk his fill at her place. They’d taken back sausages, bread, booze. … Two couches: now you come to me, not like that, visit me on my couch, Mr. Romper … wait, not right away, court me a bit first. Liver-paste smears on the white bedsheets, soak one end of the towel, what will the washerwoman say? Perhaps it was at the very same moment … as “Adam and Eve” (before Coco broke down the door) … perhaps it was at the same moment that we were romping?

  Melkior fingered Enka’s key in his pocket with pleasure. … But he’s got the key to her flat! He showed it to me! he replied to a voice that was trying to console him.

  But over there, around the hose, the idyll seemed to have ended. Well, there you are, I knew he was conning them … just to cadge a couple of cigarettes!

  Ugo was quickly moving away from the reach of the hose; he was now revealing his deceit:

  “Working men … proletariat …” he trumpeted at them with pursed lips, insultingly, sounding like an inflated balloon as it expels the air, “Come on, proletariat, spray me …”

  They didn’t hesitate: in the blink of an eye they pointed the hose his way, took aim and opened the valve. The mighty jet shot vengefully forth at Ugo. Will it reach him … will it reach him? … Melkior rooted for the avenging hose.

  Then Ugo let out a cry of pain: he had been hit. His hat spun in the air. The workmen shouted “Hooray” like gunners hitting their target. The quickness of the revenge gave them back their self-assurance and a taste for malevolent cackling.

  They laughed at their dripping adversary.

  “Long live capitalism! Down with surplus value! Long live the First of May devotions!” shouted Ugo in a kind of hysterical despair.

  The workmen laughed loftily at the shouts. “Howl on, bud.” They no longer heeded him—they went on washing the street.

  The pleasure of the victor, thought Melkior. He was no longer on their side … although … well, they were right. The wet clown in the arena. He felt Ugo’s coldness on his own skin. That was what it had been like back at the stable with Nettle … wet, cold, next stop pneumonia, I shouldn’t wonder. O Parampion, you jester, your place ought to be at the royal table. Who knows what oaf will be bumping into your skull with his spade … if, that is, your skull is still in one piece once all this is over with and done. And there will be no Hamlet to ask, “Whose was it?” “A whoreson mad fellow’s it was. … A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! This same skull, sir, was the Parampion’s skull.” “Let me see (Hamlet takes the skull)—Alas, poor Parampion!—I knew him, Eustachius: a fellow of infinite jest.—Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table in a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?” Quite, good my prince.

  Melkior approached the workmen with a pang of guilt: at least they’re working … at that stupid wet job, while I … where am I coming from? As if they knew, he, too, expected to be drenched by the same human revenge. The rage of the deceived. Kill! Smash! Windows being smashed (a telling effect on stage), the acoustic symbol of revolt, revenge in the sound of shattering glass. You feel like the whole world is crashing down. An irritating sound, a sign of destruction and victory. What will the revolution be like?

  Melkior made his contrite way past the jet of water sluicing the street. The water spurted noisily past his ear wishing him a good nig
ht and pleasant dreams.

  You’re a tired man, said the water to him.

  “Oh when will spring, when will spring send forth its tender shoots,” recited Ugo sadly, sniffling. (He had been sniffling all winter, ever since the night the hose got the better of him.)

  Cold, gray, rainy days. Military, uniform days. Soldiers moving, olive drab, uniform, much like the days, monotonous, bundled, miserable, hopeless soldiers. Marching by day, pounding their feet bravely; stealing out by night, soundlessly, stealthily, keeping unit strengths, directions, dispositions TOP SECRET. Melkior listened to the muted commands and countless feet treading cautiously and with fear at night. Going somewhere … which may turn out to be nowhere, nothing. What Kurt had sowed on their path. Sprouting now as nettles and shattered glass: a terrible pilgrimage …

  They will reach a certain line and be told halt. By Nettle. Count off—one-two. … Face down! And there will they await that day, Kurtsday. The name day of Polyphemus the man-eating Cyclops celebrated with fierce shooting by his thunder-loving twin brother. War.

  It is impossible for the blossoms of spring to bloom. To send forth green shoots and the fragrances of the freshly awakened Earth. To stretch a blue sky overhead. … The milk brother is no longer riding down the Milky Way. … Huge is the boulder with which Polyphemus has plugged the world’s door: ruling inside are silence and darkness and terror at the one-eyed beast.

  Melkior unravels and spins long tangled thoughts. Hungry winter gnaws at roots under the cover of snow, hissing nastily: you, too, will be gnawing roots before long. … You’ll wish you could hide in earth like a worm, in water like a crab, under stone like a green pepper. … You say spring will not be sending forth its tender shoots. …—No, it’s Ugo who says that … —… well, you refuse to look at the greenery, you’ll close your eyes so as not to see it. …

  Winter spoke like a soothsayer, like a witch. Melkior feared the advent of spring. “They’ll start marching on Russia after the snows start to melt,” Don Fernando had said the other day. “And before they do they’ll say ‘Good morning’ to us here in the Balkans. Protect their right flank. And Vissarionovitch shoved his generals aside and signed the Pact!” Don Fernando laughed bitterly.

  They had been discussing this at the Corso Cafe. They were in the know.

  “The snows, sure … but what about the Pripet Marshes?” said Melkior; he knew a thing or two himself. Don Fernando laughed.

  “The marshes … and the business with Napoleon—oh yes, now that is sure to stop them.” Don Fernando was mocking him. “Berezina,” he laughed.

  Why did he strike this conversation up with me? Melkior had recently heard in the office, from the people on the Foreign Desk, about the Pripet Marshes. They can’t have made that up—everyone was counting on the marshes.

  “They are counting on the marshes,” Melkior said.

  “The marshes?” scoffed Don Fernando. “And Tolstoy’s War and Peace.”

  Melkior abandoned the pointless conversation. He knew nothing apart from the marshes. Well, the Russians will bring them to heel somehow, won’t they? There’s a hundred and eighty million of them! A Chinese calculation. As for us (he thought of himself and shuddered), we’ll only be a mere mouthful for Polyphemus the man-eating Cyclops. … He grabbed another two men and devoured them for breakfast sounded like a joke.

  Once the snows melt … and they’ll deal with us when spring sends forth its tender shoots.

  ATMAN had gone, moved on goodness knows where. He might have known all about it, down to the very date … he was going by the calendar, spring had “officially” come. Kurt and ATMAN … Melkior was now putting two and two together … they had gone.

  They’d “opened up for business” across from the 35th’s barracks. … Hang on, when was it that ATMAN took up lodgings downstairs? … two years back … or was it three? Well, Mrs. Ema ought to know, she was one of his first clients. The Cozy Corner dated from that same time. The same “inspiration.” Who would ever have figured that one out—a chiromantist and a tavern, worlds apart. An observation post at ATMAN’S: the “clients” were keeping an eye on the barracks, every bit of information counts. No one was thinking about things that way. Apart from Don Fernando (had he really recruited Maestro?) —he would give them all their comeuppance. … He could sniff out the bastards from miles away. All—preventively!

  While she … Melkior’s heart contracted achingly … Mata Hari! Execution at dawn. The small courtyard of the army prison. Eight riflemen, Nettle in command. He has in fact asked permission to “finish off the bitch” himself. Eight gun barrels aimed at her heart. Her false, traitorous heart! Implacable Melkior. Really? she thinks quickly, cunningly. Are they really going to shoot me? She tries to wiggle her hips under the skirt; she thrusts out her chest, pushes her breasts forward … the sergeant’s a man after all … Nettle sees only the bitch, he is no man … Melkior! … Melkior! … will give his blood, ATMAN said … Melkior …

  Melkior looks away, gives the order—Fire! The salvo in him resounds dully, as if underground—Viviana is dead.

  He stood up from the sofa with relief.

  I have buried my dead love, said the poet Sima Pandurovic … he said as he approached the window. Cold, cold, my girl, said Othello after he had strangled Desdemona. Cold, cold …

  Rain was falling on wretched, bare, dead branches.

  … without love and deceitful spring … he watched raindrops on the glass pane … sliding down … I have shot my false love …

  News vendors were hawking a special edition. Passersby grabbed the papers from their hands and greedily thrust their heads between the pages then and there.

  The animals are feeding … that was what it looked like to Melkior from up above. The pigs have had fresh swill poured into their trough.

  He grabbed another two men and devoured them for dinner … because it looked like evening. The spring morning has gone dusky with rain, with sorrow, with eyes peering into the dark. The little old man is now saying to the giant: musht be shome shenshation or other, eh, bud, sheeing azh they’ve put out an ekshtra edition?—Gr, could be, replies the giant.—Perhapsh the Germansh have landed in England?—No. The giant is on the side of the English; he defended the George Fifth that time. …—What maksh you sho sure they haven’t? You alwayzh know it all! the little old man is querulous. —I do.—You can’t know everything.—I just do, see?—Shee, shee, shee, laughs the little old man.

  There was the sound of conversation on the stairs; it was carried on the wave of some kind of mirth.

  “Put up or shut up, heh-heh. …” That was the judge.

  “Might is right, they ought to have known that from the start.” The lawyer from the first floor.

  “Better late than never. (Another proverb! Lovers of folklore.) What matters is now we’re safe and sound. They could’ve squashed the lot of us like … They’ve shown considerable patience, if you ask me.”

  “Considerable indeed. After all, you can’t sneeze over here without them knowing, heh-heh. …”

  “Heh-heh …”

  They parted in brotherly satisfaction. The judge was on his way up to the third floor, humming like a happy man. What matters is that now we’re safe and sound.

  Melkior let him climb up and enter his flat; he had no wish to meet the man. But he dropped his umbrella coming out. The judge stuck his head out at the sound: he was looking for someone to share his joy with.

  “Did you hear the news?”

  They’ve attacked Russia! In the same flash of thought he imagined the Stranger trekking his lonely unhappy way through the world. …

  “You don’t know?” the judge was fervently preparing his revelation. “We’ve signed on to the Tripartite Pact! Job done! Here, look, signed at the Belvedere Castle in Vienna,” he was waving the newspaper.

  “Now we’re safe and sound,” said Melkior ironically, but the judge missed the irony; being safe was a serious thing!

  “Exactly what I said to
that fellow downstairs!” he was glad to have found a kindred spirit. “Now, you see,” he brought his voice down to gossip level, “he is more on Hitler’s side, while I … frankly … so long as they leave us alone. What’s the sense of small fry like us getting caught up in this, am I right?”

  “Snug as a bug in a rug,” said Melkior.

  “You said it …” laughed the judge; the flash of humor rounding off the pleasure. “Hitler and Churchill can go to it and … why not?”

  “Sure, they can indeed go and …”

  “They might as well hash it out, I mean.”

  “So do I—let them put up their dukes. But it must be said Hitler has got things sorted out in Germany,” Melkior offered him the thought wholeheartedly.

  “Yes, that’s the truth,” the judge took it up readily. “You’ve got to give the devil his due. Only,” he hesitated for a moment, watching Melkior with a tinge of suspicion, “they often go a little too far, don’t they? On the other hand, that man with his Bolshevism …”

  “That’s why it’s best to do like the Americans …”

  “Yes! You took the words right out of my mouth!” exclaimed the judge in delight.

  Heavens, why we agree on just about everything! Melkior sneered at himself. We are all for middle-of-the-road, no risk, no danger, all in the circle of the family … Bingo, Parcheesi … let the lunatics kill each other.

  “We are all for middle-of-the-road,” said Melkior out loud.

  “You’re so right! Not the left or the right—the golden mean.”

  “The soundest way there is.”

  “And the most prudent.”

  They said goodbye as wise men.

  “Signed on to the Pact,” and Kurt’s gone, ATMAN gone … something weird is going on, all right. Signing on to the Pact means no war (here). … Does it? He was asking himself in a formal tone, as if it were Don Fernando doing the asking. He was smiling like Don Fernando did when putting questions to him, derisively. But to go back to our … So you think it does?—Well, given that we’ve signed on to the Tripartite. …—We who?—Well, we … the country.—“We, the country.” Are you telling me you’re a country?—No, I’m no country.—What are you then?—A sensitive individual, you called me that yourself.—All right then, sensitive individual, can you now go back to your third floor and knock on the individual-within-the-circle-of-his-family’s door: Hey, how about a game of Parcheesi, now that we are safe and sound …