Ranko Marinkovic - Cyclops

“Not … the nurse? …” Numbskull had shattered his last illusion. He hated him for it. This is the end, thought Melkior. He offered Numbskull his hand with the oranges in it: “Here, take them back, I don’t need them,” and took a deep breath to quell a sob.

Numbskull put his hand on Melkior’s shoulder and, being short, looked in his eyes from below: “What the heck’s the matter with you, man? They’ve driven you right off your rocker. You’ve got to get out of here double quick! You’ll go nuts. As for the oranges, I bought them — I didn’t get you any cigarettes … Throw them away if you don’t want them, but talk to me, will you?”

“I don’t need anything,” said Melkior tragically. “A cubic centimeter of water (dirty water! he specified vehemently) to live in like a microbe, that’s all.”

“A microbe, he says … You’re an intellectual, a clever man,” Numbskull fussed over him. “Gosh, if only I had a grain of your salt in my head …”

“What would you do with it?” asked Melkior brusquely.

“Do? … I don’t know … all kinds of things. Write books, think, explain things to dolts; salt the stupid world, in short. I’d be erudite … did I get that right?” he looked at Melkior in fear: was the man laughing at his ignorance?

Melkior was not laughing. He was angry at having to be embarrassed. He was pursing his lips as if about to spit on something.

How do I get rid of this “believer”—he thought cruelly — without disappointing him … unless he’s doing a masterly job of pulling my leg? What is it he sees in me? Or was he sent to see what’s wrong with me? By those from the barges … Then again, he may have come as a “follower.” God, I’d now have to assume a role for his benefit, playact in public, be an ideal, a leader. … Rubbish! But what if he’s mocking me? Trying to mount me on Rocinante … and canter on his donkey behind me, laughing and showing me up to the Medical Corps? Why, I’ve asked him after Dulcinea already! A dangerous idea flashed in his mind: were the oranges sent by her or by …

“Tell you what — give them to me!” He suddenly snatched the oranges from Numbskull’s hands and shoved them down his shirt. “Right. Not too big, are they? No, they’re just right,” and patted his chest, insanely, girl fashion. “Then I’ll put my belt on à la Récamier (that was a good idea you had!), it’ll hold them in place. Ha-ha, what do you say? I’ll keep the skirt … I really ought to be there when they let it out … and then I’ll run down the corridors and shriek, shriek, a frightened Foolish Virgin. Tell me, how does that strike you as an idea? Is it good?” He trained his wide-eyed stare at Numbskull.

“Fine, fine …” Numbskull was backing in fear toward the door. All the same, just in case, he asked: “When they let out what?”

“The Alligator. Shhh, it’s a terrible secret. Crunches everything in sight, not even a tank can hurt it,” he whispered to Numbskull in the strictest of confidence.

“Watch out now, here comes a Tartar, pretend you don’t know me …” Numbskull went out tearful and broken. Melkior saw it. He was broken up himself by inner tears over the friendship he had so crazily rejected. A belated discovery. Oh Lord, allow me to trust at least one man!

He felt the “silly” breasts against his body. A smile played on his lips, but his entire soul suddenly went dark and he wished, in fear, to run after Numbskull and shout “wait, I was only joking,” to flee from the darkness … But there were already someone else’s steps in the corridor — the orderly was returning. Fifty percent is certainly there, in these breasts, fifty percent pure madness, he thought in haste before the orderly came in, as if hurrying to hide a terrible secret.

“Brother gone?” asked the orderly.

“Gone.” Melkior took an orange out from his shirt. “Here, take one. Look, I’ve only got one tit left,” he was cracking jokes, establishing “relationships,” giving the world back its banality.

The orderly gave him a weary look.

“What the hell did you go and kiss the Colonel for?”

“I don’t know, really … Like he was a father to me.”

“You were disrespecting him. Now you’re rotting in here for it. As punishment. ‘Under observation.’ What’s to observe, you nasty no-good? You could have got court-martialed.”

The orderly was peeling the orange. A holiday fragrance filled the bare room. “You came out of it all right, considering — you didn’t even get the showers.”

“What showers?”

“The cold showers. Shocks … to bring you back to your senses.” He was wolfing down the orange segments. Melkior watched his Adam’s apple bobbing inside his throat and nostalgically remembered ATMAN, Ugo, Viviana — the far-off beings from “that other world.” “I think your Major put in a good word for you … else you would’ve really been in for it.”

“How do you know he put in a good word?”

“I just know. He spoke to our Major about you. They won’t keep you in here much longer, just long enough for the Old Man to forget about you. They’ll send you back to the barracks then.”

“Why to the barracks? I’m not fit,” complained Melkior and shivered at the dreadful image of Caesar. “Here, look at me,” and he showed the orderly his arms bared to the shoulder.

“Don’t know about that. Maybe they’ll post you … Let’s get a move on …” The orderly motioned him out with his head and followed in step.

They had sent him back to “his” Major. They took him directly to the examining room. She was not in the anteroom. She knew they were bringing me here, she doesn’t want to see me … and that made it easier for him to harbor a feeling of suffering when he came before the Major. On top of that, he was filthy, in need of a shave, and so unkempt and miserable that he could not even imagine how he looked. He had refused to check out his reflection in the passing windows. I probably smell bad, too, it’s better she shouldn’t be here, really …

“Well now, what are we to do with you?” the Major tried to lend some military sternness to the question, but his warm, worried eyes betrayed him.

“I don’t know, Doctor,” said Melkior indifferently, at the moment he was indeed all but unconcerned for his life.

“Get you posted to the Quartermaster Training Course (there are no horses there, he added with a smile) … or perhaps send you home?”

“Whatever you think best, Doctor,” said Melkior with uneasy shame as his heart started beating faster at the word “home,” which showed ingratitude in a way … But he may only be testing me, he thought all the same, just in case.

“All right, we’ll see,” concluded the Major. “Now go upstairs to the ward, report to Nurse Olga. And clean yourself up, man!” added the Major informally. “You look a hideous mess! We do have a hospital barber … there’s a bath available, too …”

Melkior reddened. I clearly reek … Good thing she’s not here …

“I’m sorry I’m in such a …” he stammered, “… over there I simply had no opportunity to …”

“Yes, yes, I know.” The Major stood up and, dropping a hand on Melkior’s shoulder, said in an intimate and “confidential” tone: “Why are you ruining yourself? You’re still a very young man, for God’s sake, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you,” then turned around and went out almost angrily.

A man feels his stench as a personal, homely, tamed odor. An atmosphere of confidence. The nose steeped in one’s particular smell: olfactory solidarity — let’s be helpful to one another … That was what Melkior was saying as he went up the stairs on his way to the ward, but his thoughts were not with the words. He was thinking: he has read me through and through. He’s not sending me back to Her , but to Nurse Olga, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you, man! Let Olga be your life, man, and let Her be spared from your life which you’ve got in front of …