Ranko Marinkovic - Cyclops

From somewhere up above, from the staircase, in between the sentry’s boots on gravel — crunch! — there comes the snoring of a colossus, legendary, dragonlike, a sheep a day, a girl a night. Gargantua has stretched out between two stories and is shaking the entire building. Whooshing the huge bellows pressed in his armpit, blowing and playing his monstrous bagpipes harr-harr, oooh-hah, plhh-phoo, oooh prlhh, pweehh-pliouff … Sweeping, rich, luxurious snoring. Careless, cannibalistic. Optimistic.

Mrs. Ema does not snore like that. Mrs. Ema, a widow, Melkior’s landlady, snores in a complex, climacterial way, afflicted by dreams of fat snakes and robbers thrusting knives into her navel. She tells Melkior about it all the next day over coffee. She neighs, squeals, meows, brays with dream-felt pains. She is a martyr. Whereas this relisher is a man, brother, snoring for all the five continents of the world, hugely, outstandingly, provocatively.

Here we are, with some damp autumn air we’ve stored in our nests for the night, and look what’s happening — this chap is going to suck it all, gobble it all up, guzzle it all. The voracious sleeper. He’zh going to shuffocate ush all, bud , make no mishtake.

The hours pass and the harrr-harrr rolls unstoppably down the stairs, shoots back up from the cellar with the sound and the fury, reaching the attic and tumbling back down again, and splashing and sploshing and hewling and shloofing, craffing, roaring, whistling, dropping — pluff — and rising again, flying, a missile zooming past, whooosh, and piercing, burrowing, drilling, boring — rrrrrr — smashing, cutting, sawing iron bars, sawing the staircase lengthwise, the staircase across, he will bring down the house, the one-eyed terrible cyclops Polyphemus.

What an odyssey! Melkior enjoys the event like a child relishing a catastrophe. Everything is upside down. There is no sleeping. Everybody is getting up. The house is on fire.

There is a stirring in the next flat, that of the Court of Appeals judge. Slippers on the floor, fumblings in the dark. Voices. Excitement. Muffled calls of “Daddy, Daddy” from his daughters. The judge grumbles angrily. He can hear it himself: a supernatural snore. He sends the maid to reconnoiter the snore and report back.

The door of the judge’s flat opens slowly, cautiously, to prevent the snore from sneaking in. The maid’s hands tremble, the door gives irresolute creaks. She has thrust the oil lamp through the door into the staircase, better let the oil lamp have a look first. … But the door suddenly slams shut and smash! — the lamp has of course crashed to the floor, and the maid shouts fire. Confusion, slamming of doors, great commotion. It seems that the maid is indeed on fire. Mistress shouts “Water!” the judge shouts “Not water! An overcoat. An old one!” They put the fire out. The maid is not on fire at all, it is the anteroom rug. Mistress wails, “Oh my God, the carpet! It’s only fit for the rubbish heap now!”

“Who cares about the carpet!” the judge exclaims in anger. Turning to the maid:

“You. How did this happen?”

“There was a draft,” stammers the maid. “Something blew and put it out …”

“Put what out? The lamp, you mean?” the judge questions her expertly. “But how could the fire start if the lamp was out?”

“I dropped it … There was a draft when I opened the door, all suddenlike, and it came on …”

“Came alight? The lamp came alight?” The judge is losing his patience.

“It was burning …” The maid is already in tears.

“Was the lamp burning or was it not when you dropped it, that’s what I want to know!” The judge insists, he wants pure facts, the truth and nothing but the truth!

“I don’t know,” weeps the girl. “There was a draft …”

“A draft? Yes, you’ve got a draft in your head! Come on, go back to sleep. No, wait. Hold the door and mind it doesn’t close … in case of a draft …”

“Draft, my foot,” the judge thinks in a masculine way. He goes out onto the staircase to reconnoiter for himself. But mistress opposes him, his daughters beseech him, “Daddy, Daddy.” They will not let him go into the darkness. “What blasted darkness? I’ll turn the staircase light on!”

The snoring bursts in through the open door, forceful, mustachioed.

Threatening.

“Can’t you hear it, you mad, mad man?” Mistress will not let her husband rush into adventure.

“Daddy, Daddy,” weep his daughters. They are losing their father.

“Doctor, sir!” agrees the maid.

“What the hell’s got into all of you? What’re you blubbering for? Will you let go of me, damn it! Here, you’ve torn my pajamas, you fools!”

He has broken free of the womenfolk and steps out, bravely. “You hold the door. Watch out.”

He has turned the staircase light on and is listening. He is now at a loss for what to do.

“Mr. Tresić! Mr. Tresić!” the mistress bangs on his door. Calling for help.

He does not like his name being shouted. “They know my name, even. Keeping tabs, discussing me …” That was what he thinks before he comes to the door.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Tresić, please.” Mistress is trembling at his door. “Did you hear?”

(She gathers her housecoat on her breast under Melkior’s random look.) “Do you hear what’s going on here?”

“No, Madam. What?”

“Can’t you hear it, for God’s sake?”

The snoring is still “going on.” It is serene now, almost sage. Exalted.

“Oh, that? Someone’s sleeping.” Melkior was enjoying himself.

On the staircase he comes upon a tableau. The judge in the middle, gray-haired, tall, lean, peering up toward the attic, both palms behind the ears, like a priest of a sect at prayer. On either side of him, his daughters in long nightgowns (angel-like), ministering. The maid gripping the door firmly, with both hands, according to instructions, the wife ringing at all the doors, summoning the faithful …

When Melkior appears, the daughters squeal and leave the scene of the ritual. “Fled. The foolish virgins.” He sees the first florescence of breasts—“buds”—and the two other curves, smooth, sprightly, in flight. And the silhouetted legs, long, swift, — “wild animals”—joined by a shy acute angle. Heretical, blasphemous thoughts smile at Melkior. He forgets the sanctity of fear and gives the angels a parting glance — a lustful one.

“We ought to wake him up,” the judge says to him.

“Why bother? Let him sleep.”

“Sleep? The man’s a cannibal!”

“Polyphemus the Cyclops, the beast, will eat us all, one-eyed …”

“What did you say?”

“I said, what magnificent snoring! Homeric!”

The judge turns away from him with an I’m-not-in-the-mood-for-joking grimace.

His wife has woken up two floors, the second and the third. Everyone comes out onto the stairs, like characters in a French film. Everyone is talking at once, pointlessly, without direction. The judge calms them down before explaining the matter. The sleeper is a giant of a man, he could batter them all to death, the situation calls for circumspect and concerted action. They propose getting brooms and umbrellas. Calling the fire brigade (by all means!), alerting the troops in the barracks across the way. Mrs. Ema, still under the sway of a dream, feels it is “quite simple”: shear the man’s hair while he is asleep and he will be left helpless. Just as Delilah sheared Samson’s …

At last there appears on the staircase ATMAN himself. The black dressing gown, white scarf and golden spider, the black goatee, and the grin put an end to all the chatter. Reverence reigns on the stairs. Even the judge is relegated to the ranks. ATMAN ascends like the Savior. He takes his right elbow in his left palm, formally, and, stroking his goatee, waits patiently until there is complete silence. Then he says, “I’m going to hypnotize him!”