Ranko Marinkovic - Cyclops

“Will the nurse be there, too?” Melkior couldn’t help himself.

“You mean Acika? Fancy her, eh? Well, you might as well forget about that, you’ll find no joy there.”

“I’m not expecting any. Just asking.”

“I’m not blaming you — she’s quite the looker, she is.”

“Yes, she sure is pretty,” sighed Melkior. “Has she got someone?”

“Search me. She’s nice to everyone, you can’t tell whether she’s really like that or just playing a silly game. An odd sort of girl. Right, see you.”

An odd sort of girl, you say, Melkior kept repeating in his bed, covered up to his chin. But he was saying it mechanically, there was no thought behind it at all. His body was hobbled by a tinge of apprehension. Slight tremors had started from his chin downward to his belly and legs, and suddenly developed into uncontrollable feverish shivering. Look, my teeth are chatter-tattering, he attempted a joke, but it only produced nervous spasmodic yawns along with deaf-and-mute mumbles.

“Did you say something, Meteor?” asked Menjou benevolently.

“Nuhhing,” he managed to articulate in his wide-open mouth. But the brief contact with the “outside world” greatly relieved his internal tension: the shivering suddenly stopped, his body felt much more secure in the favorable climate of the bed.

The door opened soundlessly, with due respect. A white procession filed into the room solemnly and mutely, as if in a dream ceremony. It was headed by a shortish, lean old man, his goatee white and sternly pointed, his gaze penetrating and sharp, “I’m reading you like a cover page, boy.” Under his white coat moved his thin bowed legs (in high boots), the metal claws on the heels jangling, dandy-style, the fashion of a Royal ball. A white polar bird waddling across ice on black feet was how the man looked to Melkior. That of course was the Colonel: a soldier and a patriot.

Behind him walked the Major at a slight distance, thereby emphasizing his subordinate position in the solemn march past. He said, “Good morning, boys,” at which the tip of the Colonel’s commandant-like beard shot upward in surprise. She was next to the Major, sick lists in hand, with an open fountain pen poised above them. She was wholly dedicated to respect for the exalted proceedings and moved eagerly in the solemn march. There were also several youngish, carefully shaven faces attending the pontifical function with clerical patience as unimportant personages. Bringing up the rear was Mitar, but he remained just inside the door like a poor relation at a funeral; he was well aware of his station.

The Colonel proceeded to do the rounds of “his” quartet, stopping at the foot of each bed in turn and inquiring after their good health.

“Well, how’s it going, lad?” he said to Menjou with paternal irony. “Your father’s asking after you — what shall I tell him?”

“It’s getting boring in here, sir,” Menjou replied coyly. “I wish I could go back to the Academy — I’ll fall behind with my studies like this.”

“Health first, my boy!” the Colonel raised his goatee resolutely. “What’s the rush? You’ll catch up with them soon enough. How do you rank in your class?”

“First, sir,” snapped Menjou and clicked his teeth, his heels coming together by themselves in bed.

“First?” said the Colonel in feigned marvel. “What’re you complaining for, then? Not to worry, it’ll be a snap for you to catch up. I’ll say hello to your father for you,” he tossed off before moving to the next bed.

“If you please, sir,” and Menjou gave a brisk nod by way of saluting.

“What about you, diplomat?” he asked Tartuffe. “Any news from your father? Did he get safely over to England?”

“Safely indeed, sir … at the last moment,” added Tartuffe with a confidential smile. “The Germans had already taken Bordeaux …”

“You don’t say? So he made it after all, did he? Good man. Good man indeed. Where’s he now — in London?”

“London and Glasgow, sir, traveling on business. He wrote and told me bombs were dropping like ripe pears in autumn, sir.”

“There, you see, he’s not bored,” he threw the remark at Menjou. “And what are we to do with you, lover boy?” he shook his head reproachfully at Hermaphrodite, the entire suite laughing ingratiatingly at his joke (except the Major: he was still serious). “Do you find this place tedious, too?”

“Yeth indeed, thuh,” replied Herma with conviction, “it’th bowwing aww wight. Ethpethially in the evening … nothing to do, we jutht thit awound twiddwing our thumth. …”

“Twiddling your thumbs, eh? … Now, Nurse …”

“Sir?” She was putting Herself totally at his disposal.

“… why are they all bored here?” Everyone burst out laughing. She blushed. The Major was frowning. “I mean to say, why don’t you get this Don Juan here some lady friend or other before he dies of boredom?”

Hermaphrodite guffawed merrily. He even exclaimed “Nithe.”

“Shut up, you bloody Judas!” thundered the Colonel at him, his goatee quivering with a suppressed smile. “To disgrace such a father! If I were him, I’d …”

“… cathtwate me!” cracked Herma, with a see-if-I-care tone.

“Teach me, would you?” snapped the Colonel in a fit of pique, but he would clearly have preferred to laugh; he was going to tell Herma’s father all about it … “Yes, that’s it exactly, I’d geld you like a boar, give you something to remember me by.”

“Thank you, thuh!” Herma snapped resolutely.

But the Colonel ignored him. The fellow had gone too far, it was clear to all (nobody was laughing anymore), his authority was being challenged … He approached Little Guy.

“What about you, young man? Are you all right?”

“Quite all right, sir, thank you.”

“Mama still bringing those cheese pastries?” he asked with avuncular bonhomie. “It’s the pastries you like, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, sir, I do …” Little Guy was expecting Mama today and felt uneasy at the mention of her.

“There, there, liking pastry is nothing to be shy about,” the Colonel stroked his head, “I like a nice piece of fresh baked cheese pastry myself. What about this one?” he gestured at Melkior with his goatee. Melkior was looking at him with respect and awe, as if he had just … like Mitar said.

“He’s new, Colonel.”

“I can see that for myself,” the Colonel was already losing patience, “but what is he doing here? What unit is he from?”

“Transport Training Course,” replied the Major patiently.

“Draftee?” said the Colonel as if disgusted by the question.

“Yes.” The Major was restrained and cold.

“So what?” asked the Colonel in a pronouncedly superior-officer tone.

The insult flashed across the Major’s face for a moment: a dark cloud flitted over his intelligent calm.

“Seriously enlarged hila,” he said in his unruffled way. “The X-ray view of the left lung shows what may be a focus with typical fibrous staining and a shaded area. …”

“Any jerk shows enlarged hila!” the Colonel interrupted him rudely.

She fluttered her eyelids in embarrassment. The Four snickered under their covers.

“The patient is a fully mature young man …”

“The patient is fully eligible for a court martial! Why, this is tantamount to desertion!” The Colonel was looking at Melkior with loathing (and he looked at the Colonel … as instructed by Mitar).

“Additionally … would you uncover yourself, please,” said the Major to Melkior, “we have here a case of serious asthenia. Would you observe, sir, the rib cage, the arms, the shoulders …”

“Sir, the army does have some men who are not like Hercules!” the Colonel raised his voice in rebuke. “In my book, a finger on the trigger is all a soldier needs! That is how I see it.”