Ranko Marinkovic - Cyclops

And when night fell and the smell of boiled cabbage died behind the locked door, in the lightless room, in that madmen’s dark, there resonated the dignified sleep of the Lord Chamberlain and Rover’s vehement snore. That was when the Melancholic crept out of his bed on a secret mission and quietly approached Melkior on tiptoe.

“Here, take a look,” indicating those windows, “think I forgot? See?”

A window or two was lit on each floor.

“You mean, some of them are lit?”

“Some? Ha-haaa,” he knew more, which was why he was laughing. “Try to remember which ones are lit now … it’ll be quite different later.”

“Of course it will — people go in and out, turn lights on and off …”

“Hah, in-and-out … And why do they go in-and-out at certain times only, eh? At night, hah? All night long. I’ve been watching it for a long time. While I had my pencil I took notes, well, now I memorize. About that other business … doctors, Tartars … I had to step in or that fellow would have killed you. It mustn’t be known they’re here, that’s the whole thing. Hah, they took away my pencil but I deciphered it without one! Ha-ha, you Tartar bastards …” laughed the Melancholic with strange contempt. He mused for a moment, then spoke up again, offhand; it was as if he had not been saying what was really on his mind: “Do you like to smoke? I like to watch the ember in the dark … when I’m talking with someone. You know you’re talking to a living man then; when he inhales, the smoker, his face gets lit up, his eyes shine, and all the darkness comes alive. All very well, but how are you to come by a cigarette in here … that is to say, you could get one, but the matches … They won’t let madmen use fire or they’d burn the whole … One thing I’ve never understood is why it says ‘Safety Matches’ on the box. Why are they afraid of a fire if it’s ‘Safety’? And Nero set fire to Rome without matches. How do you suppose he went about it — rubbed sticks together? But it takes time, which means it was malice aforethought. Or used a flint and tinder … but that, too, is malice aforethought. Now, I like fire in general, I like to watch the flames … Devils dancing, sticking their long tongues out at each other. Licking and stroking each other, perhaps even in a sexual way (there’s always a she-devil or two there), cracking and crackling, enjoying the fire all the time, damn them … Wait! Look out!” he suddenly took a firm hold of Melkior’s arm and squeezed it tight in a state of expectation. He was looking at the windows opposite, really waiting for something: “Of course. There, I-3’s off … III-5 is off next, and II-2 goes on, of course, exactly by the system!”

“What system?”

“Secret code. They’re doing it again, damn them …”

“The Tartars?”

“Shhh! Don’t interrupt!” whispered the Melancholic sharply, his gaze absorbed by the windows opposite: “One-five, five-two, five-four, ah-ha, five-five, two-five, ah-ha, ah-ha, ah-ha, of course, one-three, of course, that’s what I thought, they’re signaling about the Alligator.”

“What? Signaling what?” asked Melkior eagerly.

“Arranging for the day … of release. That’s why they are keeping it in here!”

“Why, isn’t it ours?” asked Melkior apprehensively, while taking note of his own stupidity in action again, stripping away the selfsame hope it had offered him just hours before. He was not going to give up easily …

“Nah, we have no use for such a monster. It would eat us up along with everything else. We don’t know how to control it …”

But he didn’t seem to feel so strongly about the issue. He was too busy deciphering the signals in the lit windows to pay any attention to Melkior. He was muttering ciphers, delighting in his edifying discoveries.

Melkior saluted this bright morning: joy was twittering in his chest. She’s here, she’s here to see me! That was his first thought, the wave of happiness that had reared up inside him and was standing there, tense, looming, ready to engulf him whole. Darling, darling, he responded to the echoes of the long white corridors, to the footsteps of the burly dull male nurse walking behind him. C’mon, get up, you have a visitor — with these words the man had got him out of bed and into this bright motion. The trip seemed endless, and Melkior rejoiced at the small eternity of expectation. At this right-left, as the male nurse directed him, with her presence resonating around each corner and each window pouring on him another reason for joy.

On top of it, there was in the windowpanes some autumn sun, softly ruddy, there were little birds screeching on dried-up boughs, a rooster was greeting the morning from afar … all to her glory, all to her glory …

“Through here,” the male nurse showed him a door, “your visitor’s inside. I’ll be back later to pick you up,” he said walking on down the corridor.

Standing and waiting in the middle of the room was Numbskull.

Melkior’s wave broke at once, as if all life had left it, and all of the promised happiness spilled away. A wretch’s sigh was conceived in his breast and fluttered timidly, wishing to be born and to fly out of his mouth like a small luckless angel, but Melkior immediately strangled it and blew its soul through his nose, angrily.

“Are you angry I came?” Numbskull asked him with shyness, humbly.

“No. Only surprised,” Melkior tried to explain himself, and a kind of lonely poignancy grabbed him by the throat. He let the sigh be born — stillborn. “How did you find me?”

“I have a brother over there in Pulmonary, he’s a lab tech …”

“Mitar?” said Melkior in surprise. “He sent you for his money?”

“Money, heck! I came to see you … he told me they’d transferred you over here …”

“I got myself transferred,” Melkior specified proudly.

“You kissed the Colonel? An interesting idea,” admitted Numbskull, “but how are you going to get out of here?”

“Well, even if I don’t … it’s an interesting enough place. I don’t care if I die here, I’ve been abandoned by everyone,” Melkior put tattered tragedy on and felt like a good cry. All on my own shall I … his throat constricted, he was unable to finish the sentence even in his mind.

“Interesting my foot. I don’t see anything interesting …” Numbskull looked around the room in mournful wonder. “You’ll go to ruin in here, my old friend, that’s what’s interesting.”

“Who sent you?” Melkior suddenly asked with aggressive suspicion. “Own up, who sent you?” He appeared to be pressing for a name. He shook Numbskull’s greatcoat sleeve impatiently.

“Shake on — you’ll shake out a heck of a lot,” said Numbskull indifferently. “The Mikado of Japan sent me to say hello and to bring you these oranges from his own orchard,” he took out an orange from each greatcoat pocket. He was already speaking to Melkior seriously, as one does to a madman.

Melkior was tempted to take up the manner. A thought was smiling fetchingly at him: it was she who sent them, in strictest secrecy … and he suddenly said like a certified lunatic: “I thank the dear Mikado! Give him my regards and tell him I kiss his hand.”

Numbskull was watching with suspicion: is the fellow playing a game, or teasing me, or what? … or is he really off his …

“Look here, pal,” he lost his temper after all, “let’s cut this out, all right? Will you stop playing silly games with me — I’m not Nettle, you know.”

“Very well, seriously now: did she give these to you in person?” and he indicated the oranges.

Numbskull was silent for a moment, watching Melkior with no hope at all, now. “What do you mean, she? The grocery girl across from the hospital?”