Ranko Marinkovic - Cyclops

“If you please, Colonel, here’s the patient’s chart.” She handed him Melkior’s record. “Nurse, has he been x-rayed?”

“Yes, Major,” she lied readily, her gaze slithering over Melkior (he kissed that expanse of air above him), “but the film has not yet been developed; it will be in twenty minutes.”

“Then file it here,” said the Major dryly, ceding to the Colonel his place at Melkior’s bed.

The Asclepian’s giving me up, next to approach is the cannibals’ medicine man. Melkior’s gaze sought Mitar, a last-minute appeal for help. Mitar offered help by way of an encouraging smile. But Melkior saw Caesar’s bared teeth, heard horseshoes on the stone floor … The Colonel had stepped closer (his spurs making a ritual jangle). The Medical Corps officer leaned over Melkior showing his large yellowed teeth … He’ll bite into my head first, thought Melkior … But it was a smile, a seemingly benign one, the smile of a saint who comes to children at night and tucks presents into their bed. Meaning he won’t bite, Melkior hoped. A grave case of asthenia. Here, Uncle, just look at those arms and shoulders and rib cage … skin puckering, bones bulging, ribs rattling … Melkior was feeling himself all the while under the covers, thin dry skin stretching in his palm. No, the Colonel’s not going to bite, there’s nothing here but a case of serious asthenia. But he was (just in case) looking at the Colonel with fear as if he had … as Mitar had put it.

“What’re you looking at me like a shitty dog for?” the superior-officer’s voice boomed over him. “An intellectual, eh? Thinking you invented gunpowder all by your lonesome. Let’s have it: did you invent gunpowder? Well? Did you or didn’t you?”

What do I do now, Numbskull? Would barking help? Presumably it works only when there’s electricity involved. When it comes to gunpowder, it’s Mitar’s advice that applies: don’t answer, look at him with respect and fear as if you’ve done that thing in bed; and Melkior went on looking at the Colonel as advised by Mitar: with respect and … and all the rest — he only added a bit of the manner of a dog in that kind of predicament.

“Not answering, eh? Despising me? You’re thinking: what’s this? we’re both men with University degrees, but he still speaks with me in an informal tone! What a dolt of a soldier! That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? What an untutored lout in uniform!”

There was no sound to be heard in the room, not even the squeak of a shoe. There was no ingratiating laughter. The Major was looking at the window, baffled, bright red with shame and, possibly, anger. She never raised her eyes from the charts as if checking something with her pencil. The shaven faces were serious and somehow mournful; the Four, too, were silent in their beds.

The silence was what got the Colonel irritated, fanning the desire to show them all! Introducing certain manners in here, are they?

He bent over the bed, bringing his face quite close to Melkior’s frightened face. Melkior felt the odor of the yellowed teeth, words were spilling all over him but he no longer understood them. He watched the teeth coming closer … look, no fillings, all in a regular row, yellow but healthy … thanks to cheese pastry …

“Now, sir … in case you think I have no manners …” said the Colonel in a low voice from quite an intimate proximity (Melkior could see the close-grown short hairs in his nostrils), “why is it, sir, that you do not wish to serve in the military? What is it that your esteemed mind dislikes? Is it perhaps that you have a different opinion of the way this country is run? Feel free to tell me what it is you object to! We’re hateful, is that it? Rude soldiery, clods, backwoods types? You don’t like my face either, I can tell. Very well — go ahead and slap it!” the Colonel placed his cheek provocatively, at exactly arm’s length, and stood there, waiting. “Well, what’re you waiting for? Why don’t you slap it? Oh, I see — you say my cheek isn’t worthy of your palm. Tarnation! All right, spit on it then!” and, lowering his cheeks all the way down to Melkior’s mouth: “Go on, why aren’t you spitting? I’m waiting!” shouted the Colonel, quite beside himself by now, at Melkior’s calm. Perhaps it was his shout that jerked Melkior out of his lethargy. His head, like that of a dead man come back to life, moved, went up, and before the Colonel could pull back, he hit his cheek with his lips in a flash — and gave it a clearly audible smack. Right. Instead of the Major. Was that a proper acte gratuit , Parampion? No, that was not an acte gratuit , said Parampion. It was much more than that, replied Numbskull.

“Wait! … What’s this? …” shivered the Colonel, frightened, taken aback, stroking the kissed cheek, wiping off the weird shame.

“What is the meaning of this, Major?” he addressed the Major sternly, but he was looking at all of them, shooting anyone who would dare laugh now. But it was all right, no one was laughing, they were all gaping in amazement. “Major, I asked you what this means!”

“I don’t know, Colonel,” replied the Major indifferently.

“‘I don’t know’ and that’s that? Well, I’m not having it!”

“Perhaps the boy was trying to say he loves you …” the Major tried to explain, an invisible grin twinkling in a corner of his mouth.

“Permission to speak, sir?” spoke up Tartuffe.

“Go ahead.”

“We think he’s not sane, sir. Yesterday he kissed the sister …”

“Sister? Whose sister?”

“Ours, sir … the nurse.”

“It was when he was dreaming, Colonel,” she blushed all over.

“In his dream? What were you doing in his dream?”

“I leaned over to see if he was asleep and he suddenly raised his arms …”

“… and thmack! wight on the mouth,” Hermaphrodite completed the sentence with gusto.

“Shut up, you bastard!” snapped the Colonel at him. “Sorry you didn’t do it, is that it?”

“That’th wight, thuh,” guffawed Herma, “I’m not thaying I’m not thowwy …”

“Stop clowning,” spoke up Menjou, “this is serious business. Sir, we think the man’s really crazy …”

“Crazy? He’s an idiot!”

“… and we would not like him to remain here with us,” finished Menjou.

“With you? Get this man transferred to Neurology straight away!” commanded the Colonel, striding out at the head of the procession.

That’s right: not a madman — an idiot! Confirmed from the top! Melkior was glad to have been reduced to an impersonal this man. And so to Neurology … But what is it exactly? Presumably a madhouse, which might turn out to be interesting … meeting Napoleon and Martin Luther. I’ve already had the honor of being introduced to Caesar … er, from afar. Kissing the Major wasn’t required for the idiocy degree; after all, this gesture was far more chivalric, magnanimous in a way: you’re urged to spit into a face (we’re not children), but you plant a kiss on it instead. You could smell the odor of the dentures. At night, the yellow false teeth submerged in the glass snarl at the Colonel from the night table, and he lies in his bed with his goatee, small, meek, sans stars, sans gold on shoulders, powerless and toothless like a newborn — can’t even say zzz. His poor wife is forgetful due to menopause, possibly also squeamish and fearful and superstitious for her special reason , so she hasn’t changed the crocodile’s water for three days, and it consequently has a spit-in-my-face smell. And he, a high-ranking Medical Corps officer, Head of the Pulmonary Department and generally a prominent man, a soldier who knows Menjou’s father the Guards general and all the other fathers , goes fishing with his index finger in the water glass in the morning, already buttoned up to his chin and with his boots on. Fishing for the yellow false teeth using his index-finger hook. The falsies somersault wriggle evade capture flip over, will not leave the comfort of their murky water for the smacking slimy mouth in which to masticate a freshly baked cheese pastry. And when they are angry enough in their water they nip the Colonel’s stern index finger. In the end the Colonel nabbed them after all and slid them into his mouth with an irritated movement of his hand, disgusted, as if being made to eat a cold frog. But one day the yellow teeth will bite his index finger off and there will be one soldier fewer — a finger on the trigger is what makes a soldier, he said so himself, and he stood by what he said, stood firm as a rock, we’re not children, damn it all.