Ranko Marinkovic - Cyclops

Melkior closed the window. Lost in thought. So they did it straight away, the same evening. No sooner had she met him than … The harlot. That’s their taste in men — talkers and drunks. Didn’t I tell you she’d … said he to himself. This is how ATMAN talks to himself. Me and “myself.”

Hang it all, am I in love? Or is this envy? The thing, I think, is to drink (hey, a rhyme!), to be a lush, a swooze. The floozy! He even felt sorry for Freddie. Sparing but a single thought for it. Hypocritically. How easily this comes to women! And then Ugo walks about shouting L’amour. This is all a brothel.

He threw himself onto the bed. He bit a corner of his pillow and began tugging at it furiously. He felt a chicken feather in his mouth. There you are. L’amour. The hen. She will lie down under any rooster. La cocotte. In any backyard. She will even lie down under a parrot, multicolored, chattering. — Sorry, I thought you were the new rooster. — Not at all, Madame. I’m a general. Nice uniform, eh? — Divine! — I’m a hundred and twenty. A young parrot. — And a general already, eh? — Yes. That is why, Madame , I suggest un peu d’amour before the war. — So there will be one? — Certainly. — And you will kill me. — Yes, and eat you, too. I can already see you, Madame , in soup. Two drumsticks … — Enough of your lasciviousness, monsieur le Perroquet! — Oh no, I’m only a gourmet. Troop movements. We have no time for the finer points. Be mine. — Just like that? — Yes. But with love! — Oh, you’re not to be trusted. All you males are the same. You want everything straight away. — Oh no, not straight away. Half of you boiled today, the other half roasted tomorrow, Madame la Poule. Orderly! See to it that Mrs. Cocotte does not suffer. Use a sharp knife. Give her the Marie Antoinette treatment. Boil the rump. — How tenderhearted you are. — That’s what I am like. My profession is something else altogether. I hate cruelty. Do you like my beak? — It’s divine! — It’s terrific in lovemaking. Il est formidable. You will see. I could tell you my memories. We live long. We, crocodiles, elephants, and porpoises. Pity you’re not a porpoise. You will grow old soon. — I can’t help it, can I? — No, indeed you cannot. Do you lay eggs every day? — How indiscreet you are! I do only when I’m pregnant. — By cocks? — By a cock, by a rooster. By my Coco. — All he does is make noise, the fool. Cock-a-doodle-dooo … What does that mean? Nothing. Rubbish. — You’re jealous of him. It means “the dawn is breaking …”—“… a new day’s in the making.” So much for “cock-a-doodle-doo.” For all that he was a colleague of mine, truth be told. Anyway, they will screech in the middle of the night, too, the fools. And you admire them for it. Women love noise. Women generally love dunderheads. — Not all of them do. — I know. You don’t love them. Those who love us are always the exception. — I did not say I love you. — Never mind. You will. It’s my charm. We parrot-generals are a charming lot. Shall we have a drink? — Heavens, you’ll get me drunk. — Stewed hen. I have seen it before. Not bad. — You are trying to seduce me. — I admit a glass of cognac makes it easier for a woman to understand love. — Is this what you call love? — Well, what do you think love is? Clucking? At least I’m a realist. — You are a seducer of poor helpless women. You are low. — And you are marvelous when angry, Madame la Poule! I’m going to kiss you. — No! Oh, no. For God’s sake, no. Oh, what are you doing? What are you doing to me? — Loving you, my darling. My one and only love. — But I, I love only Coco, my Coco. Him, only … Oh you are terrible, you are! — I am, darling, I am. I’m crazy, my sweet little Poulette! — My little Pappagallo! — I’ll devour you, my sweet little Poupoulette! I’ll devour you! — Eat me, my little one. Eat me, eat me, eat me … ohh …

Tomorrow I’ll give Enka a buzz.

He was tired and out of sorts. He remembered Enka’s furious lovemaking and felt a fierce desire for her. Perhaps Coco was on night duty at the clinic? Should he go down to the pay phone and call her right now? How delighted she would be, now, in the middle of the night. She would say, Quelle surprise! She liked to clothe her adultery in French phrases. For the sake of the décor. Costume muck. À la Pompadour. She was with him, that is to say under him (as Iago would have put it) on the broad canopied bed. The telephone on the night table rang. He tried to prevent her from lifting the handset. No, she wanted to take the call. Precisely because of the situation! She winked at him. It was Coco. Ringing from the university, between two lectures. “How are you, ma poulette?” He was bored stiff. She answered him in French. Mon bichon, mon chéri. She was reading the book he had recommended. She did not like it. Boring. When are you coming home? Two more hours of lectures. Come back as soon as you can, on fera des chikki-chikki. Coco was chuckling into the receiver. Happy. She rang off. She was laughing. “Now then, where were we?”

“What a harlot you are!” he told her with awe. He, too, was laughing. Everyone was laughing.

“And you’re a stupid little burglar. What did you expect me to tell him? That you were here?”

“You could have let it ring.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re so stupid. He would have rushed over in a taxi to see if anything had happened to me.”

“Poor Coco.”

“He’s happy because he knows nothing. He’s wonderful. So clever.”

“You love him?”

“Very much. In a different way.”

“And you have a good time with him?”

“Marvelous. In a different way. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Indeed I would not. Perfidious creatures. We love you, trust you …”

“Why shouldn’t you trust me? Come to me, my skinny one …”

Not tonight. He would have probably slapped her cheeks. He would ring her tomorrow. The petite, perfidious, laughing Enka.

“The tormentor” was jangling eagerly. But its clangor burst into the sleeper’s slumber like a bully and a heedless drunk. What a mess! Sleep sprang into action, slamming windows and doors, putting out lights, letting night flood in and restore peace. Telling a story about sailing the seas on a big white ship. “The tormentor” is now clanging deep down in the bowels of the ship, signaling the engine men to change speed: go slow, go quiet …

Smooth sailing. Stars. Lighthouses winking in the distance: hello, skipper, old chum. He, up there on the bridge, in the dark, smiling: hello, boys, you old night owls. His cigarette pushed to a corner of his mouth, to keep the smoke away. Sea wolf. To the helmsman: fifteen to starboard. Fifteen to starboard, echoes the helmsman as though chanting a litany: pray for me. He harkens to everything. Leading the ship as a general leads an army. She, Viviana, wrapped in a plaid blanket, peers at the compass and trembles like the night. He offers her his hand, she does not take it. He grabs her hand, she pulls it away timidly and tucks it under the plaid. He pushes the cigarette over to the other corner of the mouth with his tongue, squinches the other eye, and says to the helmsman: steady on. To her: let’s go. She (docilely): Where? He (resolutely): To die. She (worriedly): What about the ship? — It’s sailing on. — And the passengers? — They’re asleep. — What about the lighthouses? — Ahoy! — She: I can’t do it. — Why not? — I’ll show you something. Opening the plaid: look. And shows him a tiny penis and tiny, dovelike testicles. He slaps her lightly using only his fingertips, painless, symbolic. She: Does that mean you love me? — Yes. Pointing his cigarette at her miniatures: is this for fidelity? — Yes. — Penelope! — How dare you? — You aren’t familiar with the word? — No, I am not. It must be insulting. — It is not insulting. He’s no Ulysses. He’s a drunk. — It’s insulting anyway. — Helmsman, stuff the ears with wax. Lash me to the mast. One-eighty to port. — One-eighty to port. — Back to Polyphemus. — Back to Polyphemus. — Let the Cyclops, one-eyed beast, eat us all. — Let the Cyclops, one-eyed beast, eat us all. — There is no Ithaca. — There is no Ithaca. — Penelope has a penis. — Penelope has a penis. — Let’s toss her to the sharks …