Ranko Marinkovic - Cyclops

“Imbecile and ass!”

This was interjected by Freddie, who followed it up with a provocative leer. He then leaned toward Viviana’s ear. Melkior watched her at that moment: first she had a surprised face as she listened to Freddie’s whispers, then she burst out laughing. The overripe hollow-eyed actress sitting with them was enjoying the slur.

And all because of the “five, six female fans,” thought Melkior.

In a review during the previous season he had described Freddie as acting like a hairdresser for five or six female fans, and lisping through his lines. If I’d let him have twelve hundred would that have made it right? Ah, five or six was far too few for this head of Hermes.

But Melkior had put the five or six there on purpose, using the measly number to slam him in passing. Which was ridiculous. Freddie was why women drank poison, slit their wrists, leaped from windows, dyed their hair, left their husbands — all for Freddie’s love. For his love? — oh, that would have been too much joy — for a promise over the phone: tonight, Madam, I play for you alone. And indeed he played for her alone , she believed he was playing for her alone and inside her she said “my darling.”

Freddie, the ideal young lover. The physique, the head, the shoulders, the arms, the legs, everything, everything about him was simply marvelous! The way he walked, sat down, crossed his legs, tapped his cigarette on his silver cigarette case, the way he lit it … he definitely oozes charm, they said, already melting in his imaginary embrace.

Freddie’s acting style is certainly worthy of a better-class hairdresser. … Also, he has a coy lisp … he couldn’t even deliver the “imbecile and ass” line properly. … But Melkior was hunting for her gaze, seeking a wise objective state, wishing to rise above his suffering, to be pure, to be pure …

She laughed at Ugo’s quips and her moist eyes immediately pasted his derisive words all over Melkior. Damn the Parampion, can’t he give it a rest?

His rhetorical raptures cut short by Freddie’s taunt, Ugo sliced through his formal speech as if with a sword. He turned to face the actor’s table and clicked his heels military style, his expression solemn and stern:

“I’m sure I needn’t slap you or toss a glove in your face. Accept my formal challenge: at seven o’clock tomorrow morning I shall be expecting you at the upper Maksimir Lake with witnesses at my side. Bring the sword from Henry IV , you episodic nobody. I shall bring a fork upon which I will impale you at five past seven, on the dot.”

The bar echoed to an explosion of guffaws.

The bartender at the bar burst into a titter and dropped a bottle of a costly beverage; he was in for two months’ work without pay.

Melkior sought her: … she was laughing, her shoulders were shaking. Freddie seemed to give her a warning kick under the table, she went serious all of a sudden: why, it’s “us” they’re … oh my, well, it was funny all the same. She was embarrassed, caught out.

After delivering his challenge to duel, Ugo spun on his heel and marched back to his table. They poured him a rewarding glass, which he drained and then burst out laughing himself. Somebody exclaimed in admiration, Now there’s an actor and no mistake!

Perhaps it was the exclamation that revealed the extent of the insult to Freddie. He stood up, his face pale, and adjusted his tie. He was prepared to take Ugo on.

She intervened. Suddenly afraid of something, she tugged at his sleeve, “No, Freddie, can’t you see he’s drunk.” He had in fact been counting on someone tugging his sleeve (he had a new suit on, white shirt, and tie); he bent down and kissed her hand. He gave his chair an unnecessary little jerk and sat down again. He even smiled like a better sort of gentleman who was not having anything to do with lowlifes.

“There, there, everything’s all right again,” she purred, stroking his hand.

“All the same, Fred, you should have knocked him a proper one across the snout,” said the hollow-eyed actress in her dark voice. “Clobber the brutes, that’s the only way.” She was very dissatisfied at the outcome of the incident.

“Come off it!” countered she. “Do you want him to brawl with the gutter?”—and the “gutter” was loosed straight at Melkior.

His ears felt hot, he knew they were crimson as well. He deemed himself innocent in the face of her insult. He got flustered and failed to answer the host of ritual questions put to him by Ugo. Justifying himself in his mind, explaining to her … no, this is nothing but the truth: Freddie is a shallow, talentless fop, his delivery’s off, he lisps and mumbles … spreads his words like butter … in a word: a fool.

It was as if she were reading his mind: she bore down on him with all her beauty. He felt a mighty fear in his body. … While everyone was calm around him, everyone protected by indifferent laughter. … And there: his hand resting on the table was not lying still, it was trembling, frightened …

“Are you scared of him?” asked Maestro in a whisper, one eye squinting in the smoke from the sodden butt in the corner of his mouth, giving him a derisive air.

“Scared of whom?”

“That Freddie character.”

“What makes you think I’m scared?”

“You keep glancing his way. Move the hand off the table, it’s trembling very convincingly. That might encourage him,” said Maestro paternally. “And be careful. In nineteen twenty an actor whupped our drama critic. Thrashed him in broad daylight, in front of the Theater Café with a dog whip. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Why did he whip him? Did he get a bad review?” Melkior felt his voice quaver.

“Rumor had it that … well, it may have had something to do with a review, the man wrote that the actor spoke with a squeak or something, I don’t know, it has been ages since I last went to the theater. He might well have spoken with a squeak for all I know. But it wasn’t over the squeak, it was over a blonde.”

“A blonde?” smiled Melkior, and there was an agitated twinkle in his eyes.

“Oh yes, a plump one, with all-around curvaceous qualities. I knew her personally. Pulp novels were the total extent of her interest in the written word. She sat around in bars like this one here. … Her stock reply to compliments was ‘You don’t say’ and whatever she talked about invariably contained the attribute ‘awfully.’ So much for charm and coquetry.”

Maestro spat out the butt, took a sip of the local brandy, and lit a fresh cigarette, which he immediately maneuvered with his tongue to the corner of his mouth to keep his speech unimpeded.

“But it seems that both artists were smitten with her curves, wherefore the performing artist trounced the pen-wielding artist. Mind your step.”

“Why? It’s not as if I …” Melkior felt the need to hide.

“I’m not saying that you …” and Maestro raised his eyebrows in the direction of her. “No, that would be a foolishness unworthy of you, great Eustachius. After all, you are different. … Come on, no blushing, I’m old enough to be your father. Ahh,” sighed Maestro with profound sadness, “I have seen Fijan act! That’s why I don’t go to the theater any more. When the late Fijan walked down the street, it was as if King Lear himself was passing by. While nowadays, as you can see for yourself, it’s Freddie! And as for the thrashing, I told you the story for comparative reasons, to draw the distinction between God and a milliner. Fijan was God! Or at least a demigod … a magnificent presence at any rate. People stepped aside out of respect, they made room for him on the street to clear the way for his greatness. And when he shouted, with dead Cordelia in his arms, ‘Howl, howl, howl, howl!’ our very souls shook. Only a jackass could respond to Freddie’s braying, out of brotherly solidarity. I really don’t know what he baits his hook with to catch those eels. Because his sinker has indeed sunk. The man’s impotent. That’s a known fact.”