Ranko Marinkovic - Cyclops

The door opened noisily and somebody burst into the room.

“Ha-ha, will you look at him?” Ugo bared his black fillings. “Worlds colliding outside, and he’s caught up in self-abuse! Hey,” he yanked the blanket off Melkior, “we’re under attack! Sir, there’s a war raging out there!”

“How did you get in?” wondered Melkior pulling the blanket back up to his chin. “Wasn’t the door locked?”

“You failed to take the first precaution for safety in time of war. First you lock the door and only then do you pull the blanket up over your head. This is what the mentally retarded bird known as the ostrich does.”

What the devil brought him here now?

“I’m not in a mood for joking. Leave me alone, let me sleep.”

“Perchance to dream? What about the war then — nothing, a mere joke? Why, this is against mankind!”

Everything’s a joke to him, damn his … Melkior was irritated by the eccentric, irresponsible “Parampionic style” at a time like this …

“Will you for God’s sake leave me in peace!” he finally shouted.

“Wouldn’t that be nice! I, too, would have preferred ‘in peace’ … along with Immanuel Kant, but they won’t let me. Did you hear me: we have been attacked.”

“I know, so what? Shall I set up dominoes for them?”

“Well, that’s not a bad idea in fact … as the first line of defense. You match three to three, five to five, laying them in different directions to confuse things, set up traps … bravo! Tell me, did you see that in a dream?”

Melkior did not answer. Lying on his stomach he was looking over the edge of the bed at his slippers on the floor. Old, faithful, scuffed. There they are, waiting, motionless ever since the night before, patient, indifferent to anything that is not me. They have no idea they have experienced war. And when I descend from the bed they will piously kiss the soles of both my feet and come with me, rustling prayers for the warmth of my feet, for my comfort, for the happiness of my solitude. How I have worn them! O good my Slippers, never before have I noticed your dedicated and quiet life down there on the floor. …

“Come on, Eustachius, get up and let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“Why, out, to watch the war. That kind of thing you only get to see once in a lifetime.”

“And what do you think you’ll see?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’? Everything’s changed now. My Kalisto put in a large supply of salts and ten packets of toilet paper first thing in the morning. There’ll be a shortage of them, says he. In addition to Eros, he’s a great worshipper of his anus. You should see how piously he breaks wind — word of honor, you’d swear it was Saint Francis talking to the pigeons. It’s easy for you to laugh, but I have to live in that atmosphere.”

Melkior was not laughing — he appreciated Mr. Kalisto’s worries. There, at least he’s concerned about the future, if only in that way, whereas his son …

“And another thing,” the son was saying, “it’s fun to watch the bourgeoisie lose their composure. With their shops out there, their houses, and the bombs dropping from above. Making a rush at the banks, trying to withdraw their deposits, only to find the banks are closed — it’s Sunday. They’ll be buying chocolate and toothpaste tomorrow. There’s a war on, sir. My mother tearfully says there’ll be a shortage of flour and soap (you’re familiar with her cleanliness complexes), and my Kalisto, ahh, he is hoarding toilet paper! So much for the war as reflected in my family. In the street, everyone walks sniffing at the air, as if the war were exuding a smell — and a pleasant one, too. And everyone’s looking up at the sky … That’s where the main celebration is expected to come from. People say they landed last night outside the city, they’re all over everywhere in plain clothes.”

“ And they’ve poisoned the water,” smiled Melkior nervously, his jaw trembling.

“Laugh on, do. … But the language of Johann Wolfgang Goethe is to be heard abundantly all over town, and the women — the perfumed ones — are pricking up their ears in cafés at guten Tag. I’ve already stunned one with a line of poetry, plus two tears for good measure, well, you know me … O Grille, sing, die Nacht ist lang … and after that, in another line, there’s this word unbedacht —know what it means? Well, never mind, we’ll be chirping about that lyricism tonight, the night is long. …”

“Oh,” Melkior’s throat constricted, “what about our (sure, ‘our’) er … the one you used … October’s gentle breath …?”

“The one I used gentle breath? What do you mean?”

He knows, the brute, he knows all right — he’s just being … “The one I called Viviana … don’t tell me she’s looking forward to guten Morgen , too?”

“She’s off to meet them halfway, I think,” said Ugo casually. “But it hurts, mournful Eustachius — she went away without a goodbye kiss, without leaving me two hairs or at least a nail-paring to remember her by forever …”

“Went away … with Freddie?”

“Does it matter? She’s gone, the dove’s fluttered away.”

“Unless it’s with ATMAN?” wondered Melkior aloud.

“Batman who?”

“The palmist … the one living downstairs …”

“Hah, ATMAN. Was it you who first gave him that name? Or the late Maestro? Tell me, you were actually with him the night he … scorned technological progress? Anyway, the idea was … you must admit … What symbolism — to piss on electric current! Worthy of a … of that Greek who threw himself down the crater of Etna.”

Maestro couldn’t remember the name of the Socrates’ pupil, either. … “The one who tried to persuade him to flee.”

Melkior’s head was still hanging over the edge of the bed. He was no longer looking at his slippers, he had his eyes closed. He saw Maestro’s dead arms dangling from the railing; stretched out, long, straight, as if — extended toward the Earth — they wished to show their scorn for the sky above. Arms … with no head; the head had been swallowed by the jacket — it had slid down and devoured Maestro’s head. That was the image in the blurred grayness of Melkior’s memory.

“Death most likely instantaneous” was the sentence on Maestro’s “City Page” with which Melkior tried to console himself. A minute or two — how long was that to a dying man? Perhaps a vast and emotion-laden duration … which the City Desk reporter had slashed to zero—“instantaneous”—presumably to make it all seem easy and simple , no thought, no hope. A consolation for his own future? And yet Maestro had remembered reading about a man who survived electrocution! Seven minutes afterward, a huge chance! “So it appears all is not lost after the jolt, you can survive … provided someone turns their hand to it, right, Eustachius?” Yes, massage the heart … my dead soul!

Melkior shuddered. Why didn’t I see it at the time? He moved his head to the pillow; he looked at Ugo with wondering and irritation and again closed his eyes.

“Had a bad dream, sir?”

“He’d worked it out ages ago, drinking beer, practicing,” Melkior was saying without opening his eyes. “‘A pure death.’ Against bodily mutilation as performed by scoundrels and rogues … He’d sold his cadaver, too …”

“Yes, ‘Snip,’ we do remember, ‘Anatomy, or My Person on Sale’ … Ahh, our poor bug! He knew all the animals in Dostoyevsky. So, Eustachius … did he really … aim and hit at his first go?”

Melkior scowled in disgust and made no reply.

“Don’t frown, I have serious reasons for asking.” Ugo’s face was really serious, even thoughtful.