Ranko Marinkovic - Cyclops

The room smelled of garlic and brandy. It appeared to be empty. On the desk, under a picture of the young King, were a half-full bottle, an inkwell in a wooden holder, and the remnants of some processed food among several sheets of paper scattered helter-skelter. It was moments later that Melkior noticed an army bed as well, and on it a man under a gray blanket.

“Well, what is it, you …” came the voice from underneath the blanket, only to be overcome by a volley of sneezes so it couldn’t curse at Melkior, which it most probably had been about to do judging by the tone of the question.

Atchoo. Melkior waited for the sneezing to stop. He then sensibly thought: how can I say this to a man under a blanket? I haven’t even seen his face … He’s clearly got the flu — seeing as he’s eating garlic and drinking brandy; now he’s sweating under there …

“You still here?”

“Yes.” It suddenly seemed to Melkior that he was talking to a man dead and buried.

“Well, speak up …” this time he managed to get his oath in. “Can’t you see I’m damned near death’s door here … Make it snappy!”

“I believe you need hot tea and aspirin.” Melkior approached the bed meekly: “Have you got the flu?”

“What’s the matter, did you come here to make a monkey out of me?” The officer threw the blanket aside in a threatening gesture.

Melkior remained in place. He watched the man with pity. A young second lieutenant in a wrinkled old (field) uniform with cracked epaulettes. The eyes feverish, turbid, the face burning with heat, the hair wet, plastered down over the ears and forehead … poor lieutenant! They had left him, sick as he was, under that blanket, with a bottle of slivovitz and a bulb of garlic … and off they went, fled …

“Well, what the hell is it?” He didn’t have the strength to get up, he only propped himself on an elbow.

Careful! You still have time to say: I’m looking for So-and-So, he’s a staff captain, a relative of mine …

“I came to report for service,” enunciated Melkior nevertheless. Who knows why he was now reminded of Numbskull … the man brought me oranges …

“Draft-dodger?” asked the lieutenant with accustomed boredom. He closed his eyes in pain, his head was splitting.

“Volunteer,” said Melkior with resolute clarity.

“What did you say?” the lieutenant seemed not to have heard him right.

“I’m reporting as a volunteer,” repeated Melkior clearly.

“Why?” the lieutenant let slip unthinkingly.

“To fight …” Pupo slapped his back: see, you’re an honest man.

“How come you’re not … Wait,” he remembered something, “I’ll take you to see the captain, this is not my business.”

He did not wait long outside one of the doors in the corridor. The lieutenant came out and said go in, and off he went, probably to get back under the blanket again, to sweat …

Melkior suddenly found himself facing a lean officer, grave and morose under a drooping black moustache. Four stars: captain first class, interpreted Melkior. He was sitting at a bare army desk and staring with boredom through the window.

“Don’t you know how to close the door after you?” the captain muttered sternly without even a look at the newcomer.

When Melkior had closed the door: “Over here, come closer.” He now turned to cast a glance at Melkior, superficially, with a strange smile.

“So you want tooo …”

“Yes.”

“What?” the captain snorted angrily; his moustache shook.

“To enlist as a volunteer.” Melkior could no longer recognize his own voice (everything here was stern, brief, regular …), the words came out of their own volition, as if under hypnosis.

The captain was now examining him with a cold, mocking gaze. Melkior felt like a comical worn-out object offered at the Kikinis pawnshop: he’s bartering to lower my price with that gaze …

“How come you weren’t drafted? You’re young enough and you look fit,” he was gauging Melkior’s legs and shoulders, chest, arms, head …

“I was discharged … unfit for service,” said Melkior with a tinge of shame. It’s a disgrace here. … Why did I get into this? He wanted to turn and go.

“Unfit for service. … So you haven’t done your stint. No rank. Intellectual?”

Melkior nodded mechanically, looking over the captain’s head, at a map of the kingdom, for the town of Varaždin. So that’s where they already are? Near enough …

The captain took out a sheet of paper and dipped his pen into the inkwell:

“Last name, father’s name, first name? Year and place of birth? Military district and unit where you served?”

Melkior duly told him everything. He then addressed Pupo: there, see?

“Now there’s another thing I want you to tell me,” the captain raised a kind look at Melkior and said in a seemingly fatherly voice: “Why are you enlisting?”

“Well … the country has been attacked!” He now really meant to feign ardent patriotism (Pechárek, Kink and Countwy), but instead he was thinking of Pupo: rifles and ammunition, boots …

“And you care an awful lot for this country, is that it?” The captain’s smile was twinkling with insidious distrust. “Anyway, I’d like you to tell me, in confidence … look, it’s not that I object or anything — no, you’re doing a fine thing … you were told to enlist, were you? Come on, tell me, there’s nothing to be afraid of, everything’s fine, see, I’ve taken down your statement, but who sent you here?” Melkior’s blood stopped running for an instant: this is an interrogation! But Pupo did not send me …

“Why would anyone send me? I came on my own.” Some common decency protested inside him.

“To fight, eh?” The captain went on looking at him for some time, with the same twinkling smile.

He’s studying me, he’s thinking: does this simple fellow really want to lay down his life in vain? The scoundrel doesn’t believe in patriotism, he’s got civilian clothes stashed in the locker, he’ll skedaddle when they get here, shave the moustache …

“Goood,” concluded the captain. “If that’s what it is, young man, fiiine.” He stood up and took the sheet of paper from the desk: “Wait here a minute. Here, have a smoke,” he gave him a wink, “good man,” and left the room.

Sure, they offer you cigarettes to gain your confidence. … Just like in the cinema: pushing a silver case under his nose, “Cigarette?” lighting his first (such manners!) and then his own afterward, with the same flame, fraternally. Both smoking, blowing smoke away, their clouds of smoke merging in the air (so, a pipe of peace, you might say) ahh, never mind which smoke is whose, believe me, my dear fellow … I’ve nothing against you personally (switching to a more intimate tone) but there you are, you’ve got to handle this boring piece of business, it’s orders from above, if you ask me I’d much rather down a couple of shots with you (the damned fools have banned alcoholic beverages on the premises) and go for a game of cards (that’s forbidden, too, everything that’s any fun is forbidden) or just have a good old chat, ha-ha, about you know what. … I’ve seen you with that dame, you sly so-and-so. … Now, the surgeon fellow, isn’t he her hubbie, heh-heh? Coco? That’s what she calls him? Hang on a second, finish the cigarette, back in a jiffy …

A telephone was jangling somewhere in the building. Call Enka. Coco has been “called up.” War, wounded men, torn flesh, surgeons in their element. … What am I sitting here waiting for? He’s now speaking to the police, goood , send a man over, goood , an intellectual, having a smoke, yes of course, I’ll keep him here until you arrive, goood …