Ranko Marinkovic - Cyclops

The other three hurried over to pacify him, stroking his face, patting his head, slapping his hips, ostler fashion.

“He’th weally cwuizing foww a bwuizing,” raged Herma, clenching his hands in fists.

“Next time he comes in we give him the blanket treatment … We beat the shit out of him, word of honor!” said the one who had called him Tartuffe the day before in a solemn tone, like someone taking a vow.

“Just let me work him over — his own mother won’t recognize him!” Menjou was simmering down already, the thirst for revenge was fading.

“Unleth thomebody betwayth uth!” Hermaphrodite gave Melkior a suspicious look; he was taking the matter very seriously, as a conspiracy.

“The traitors will get their just desserts!” threatened Menjou.

“He won’t betray us,” said Little Guy confidently. “It’s all about a sister’s honor! You won’t betray us, will you?” Little Guy was applying the power of suggestion on Melkior, ogling him weirdly and circling his open palms over his head: “You will not betray us, you will not, this is about a sister’s honor, you will not betray …” he was hypnotizing him.

Melkior barely heeded the mumbo-jumbo. With laughter bubbling inside him, he kept thinking about Mitar’s glass, which had aroused in his body the urge to urinate. And he felt it as an undeniable imperative, which he was presently to obey. He was going to get up and follow Mitar’s glass like a sleepwalker, like a hypnotized fool. Conditioned reflexes, as defined by Pavlov. Thank you for doing me the honor, my dear Little Guy, but I was already in a trance, he thought, getting up. This, I expect, is how poets follow their inspiration. That glass is now my Laura. And Melkior’s mournful face cracked a smile.

“He’th waughing at uth,” said Hermaphrodite.

“Are you off to snitch to Mitar?” Menjou leapt out of bed, menacingly.

“I’m off to fill his glass.”

“You’re OK!” he heard behind him their assessment and their laughter in reward of his loyalty.

Oh Lord, my cup shall be full! Knowing you, it will overflow, replied the Lord.

And indeed it overflowed, just as the Lord said. For great was the need in him and he rushed into the better-class bathroom and snatched the cup from Mitar’s hand, greedily, like a drunkard, and like an utterly lust-crazed lecher he sought his uncaring member in fumbling haste, so that it slipped away at the first try, listlessly, as though this was not its job (well it isn’t either, the conniver knew that all right) but on the second try brought he out, in the manner of a vainglorious man, all his fortune plainly to be seen and then the terrible rain was upon the glass for forty days and forty nights …

“Hey! Stop it, will you!” cried Mitar in fright. Say Enough! to the raging torrent, stop the mighty wave rolling in from the high seas! …

“Look what you’ve done — there’s piss running all over the place,” Mitar tittered brightly: he liked abundance. “Pour out a bit over there, damn you …”

Ha, Maestro, remembered Melkior, what an outpouring! I would have overshot the rooftops, extinguished the Lilliput royal palace fire like Gulliver! He felt pride at some kind of virility, though it was in fact a feeling of quite pedestrian relief which he was interpreting with arrogance.

“Did you bring the money?” asked Mitar with a full cup in his raised arm, as if proposing a toast to him.

“Yes. Here you are,” Melkior was doing everything with delight, in a hurry, full of cheer, which made Mitar watch him with curiosity and feel sorry for not having asked for a higher price. The stupid nut would have coughed it up easy.

“By the way, what did that character say? Is he going to report me?” asked Mitar.

“Why would he? What did you do to him?”

“Well, it’s this business with his sister, see. They’re very touchy because she’s rather … free with it …” Mitar had lowered his voice and his head, so it wouldn’t stick out. “And he really walked into that one. Mind you, it’s very, very tricky, his old man’s a general in the Guards. Lots of clout. He only has to lift a finger and it’s curtains for yours truly, Mitar the lab tech.”

“What about the others?”

“Upper crust lads, all of them. That fat hairless bugger, th-th-th-the one, he pocketed an important paper, top secret and all that, from his old man (the pater familias is on the Council of State) and gave it to a spying bitch in exchange for a bit of the other. Luckily enough, the counterespionage blokes caught him at it, sent the bitch to the slammer and himself to his Daddy. Daddy thought it best to have him do his National Service, ‘He’ll come to his senses in the army,’ like, and here he is, coming to his senses. Little Guy’s the son of a lady-in-waiting — or ex-lady-in-waiting, that is … They called her the Guards’ Pompadour. She never said no to anyone from private to major; upward from there, it all depended on how influential you were. They say the lad’s father is a hot-shot crazy general … well, you saw it — he’s some kind of mad psychologist himself. But the fourth, ‘The Parisian,’ he’s got the most clout. His old man’s … well, nobody even knows what he is; lives abroad; imports weapons, they say. The boy only came back to do his student stint in the service — he’ll be going back to Daddy afterward as his assistant, to help with the war effort if things come to a head. Everyone doing their bit, as they say. They’ve all got their suitcases packed, my old friend, and their passports ready in hand. That’s why they call it the Diplomatic Room.”

“You seem to know everything,” said Melkior diffidently. “So how did I end up there?”

“How?” Mitar raised his head as if about to crow forth some weighty truth, but changed his mind: “You can thank God and the Major …”

“But I don’t even know the Major!”

“Well, that’s it, just because you don’t. When you get to know the Colonel, you’ll get to know the Major too. The Colonel’s Head of Department, a soldier and a patriot.”

“Meaning the Major isn’t a patriot?”

“Course he is, who says he isn’t? You’re asking an awful lot of questions,” and Mitar gave him a suspicious look. “I’ve told you too much as it is.”

“Well, why did you? Perhaps I, too, am a …”

“You?” scoffed Mitar. “I’ve had a look at your papers, my man. Do you think I’d be talking to you like this if I hadn’t?” Mitar slapped the white coat pocket into which he had dropped Melkior’s money. “You’re exactly the kind the Major has a soft spot for. That’s why he put you in here with this lot. He’ll never be a success — he’s not the army type.”

“Why not?”

“Where will it get him, standing up for you?” cried Mitar angrily. “He’d kick all four of them out of here and back to the barracks if he had his way, he’d only keep you in. You think that’s the way to build a career?”

“Why doesn’t he resign his commission, then?”

“In the old army his father was in command of the entire Medical Corps, a general, he was in the retreat across Albania in World War I. Old King Petar’s personal physician. Old school. That’s how the doc brought up his son,” Mitar gave a pitying smile. “The Medical Corps, sure, fairness and justice, the whole bit. … It’ll all go to hell one day, see if it …” but Mitar suddenly cut it short: he realized he was still holding the glass aloft in a “formal toast” and laughed. “A nice place we’ve chosen for a … And me holding your champagne here … Right — take care now; off to bed. There’s the morning rounds coming up in a minute. You’ll have the honor of meeting the Colonel. He’s going to have your hide, of course, because you’re ‘the Major’s boy,’ get it? You just grin and bear it, and look at him with respect and fear, as if you’ve just shit in your bed, get it?”