Ranko Marinkovic - Cyclops

And the day a fine autumn one, without a wisp of a cloud. And the noonday sun still high. Everywhere it was warm, pleasant. He felt light. He felt like running. The shops had been open until just a little earlier, the scents from perfumeries were still wafting down the streets … No, that was the scent of the woman in the close-fitting mouse-gray two-piece suit. Quelle souris, mon Dieu! Those legs, those legs, bearing a body well worth bearing. Left-right, one-two … Colonel Pechárek will shertainly have shigned the shummonsh by now, bud. Dwaftees, one-two …

The day turned dark for Melkior. He became aware of his body with near loathing.

You’ll get me consigned to that accursed shambles, he told it with hostility. You and the likes of you. Rifle slingers for Shoulder Arms, hand on trigger, a head to put an army cap on. As for the legs, it’ll be left-right, the sole purpose of the legs; direction: the tree over there, forward march! On the double!

A moment before he had felt like running through the bright day, just like that, with no tree in front of him, light, transparent. Now he felt a solid heaviness in him as the dreadful presence of his body. Here it is. You’ll get me thrown into the cauldron, to the cannibal warriors, where History is being stewed. Everyone will get their portion on the plate, for the sake of national pride. As for the neutrals … they will get smoke in the eyes for punishment. They have no pride, therefore they shall have no portion of history. What is History? It is: Aristotle, tutor to Alexander the Great … Seneca, tutor to Emperor Nero … Shakespeare, the Elizabethan writer … It is not Aristotle the Great, but Alexander; it is not Seneca the Stoic wasting his time in vain with a criminal; it is not Elizabeth, Queen of England in the Age of Shakespeare; that’s History. Tell me, dwaftee, asks Pechárek, with whom did Napoleon converse in Germany? With what famous man? — I don’t know. I do know that Goethe spoke with Napoleon, but I fear you may mean someone different. I know Beethoven removed his dedication of the Eroica … But that’s not History. History is: the Great, the Small, the Tall, the Short, the Meek, the Fat, the Fair, the Good, the Wise, the Beloved, the Just, the Brave, the Pious, the Posthumous, the Quarrelsome, the Bald, the Stuttering, the Lame, the Hunchbacked, the Stern, the Fearsome, the Terrible, the Red-Bearded, the Landless, the Lion-Hearted, the Father of the People, Born in Porphyry (Porphyrogenitos), the Magnificent … Drunks, murderers, poisoners, cutthroats, arsonists, libertines, madmen … History, the Teacher of Life. A spinster with glasses on her pointy nose, hysterical, unfulfilled, cane-wielding: we never can guess what she wants, we are always guilty of something or other, kneeling in the corner for punishment, face to the wall, freezing, trembling, we pray to the God above the lectern (above the young King): give us rest, let us live, free us from the fear and death our dear teacher visits upon us only too often! We don’t want History, we want Life, oh Lord! But what’s the use of our prayers to You? She has taken good care of You, too! She drove nails through Your hands and legs, nailed You to two crossed planks, elevated You to the level of historical scandal and entered You into her ledger under the adjective Crucified. Oh Lord, is there any protection from that madwoman? And the Lord said to Melkior in a low, shy voice, None.

Feeling the pressure of his rising waters, Melkior suddenly found himself at the entrance to the underworld on Governor Square. Ladies descend to the right, gents descend to the left. What chivalry! This makes me a gent. Well, it says so up overhead in green tiles, it says GENTS. And the gents go downstairs to the left …

“Behold the gent! … Never mind, we’ll talk when you come back out.” Melkior raised his head following the voice. Over the wrought-iron railing he saw Ugo’s leering face with the dark fillings in the front teeth.

“It’s all right, finish your prayers first. I’ll be waiting here.”

Melkior went down. All four corners were taken. Everyone prefers corner positions, to avoid the curiosity of the ministrants impudently peering into secrets from either side. He looked for a free stall and approached the Wall of Sighs. Il muro dei sospiri. He gave a satisfied sigh.

“Sospiri?” asked the ministrant on his left. The voice instantly stopped his flow. Mr. Kalisto, a papal name, retired postal supervisor, Ugo’s father.

“Sighing, sighing, you and that son of miiiine,” remonstrated Mr. Kalisto over the marble slab that endeavored to divide the private lives of two neighbors in these private moments when one wishes for total solitude.

“But every niiiight, every niiiight, Melko my boooy!”

“Every night what?” although he knew what “every night” meant; this was how every encounter with Mr. Kalisto went.

“Every nnniiiight with those giiiirlssssss …” complained Mr. Kalisto with envy (naturally enough) in his voice. “Wherever do you fiiiiind the monnneeey for it, in the nnname of Gaaawwd? It costs monnney, monnneeey, it’s amazing how much monnneey you nnneeeed! Ohh, those girlsss, those girlsss!”

“What girls?”

“The girlsss who call you ‘baby’ out of looove,” leered Mr. Kalisto across the marble partition and Melkior saw a set of lovely pink gums with no teeth in them. Mr. Kalisto hissed across his denuded gums and smacked his words with nasal gusto. “The girlsss who show you their legsss up to their chin, heh-heh. I know it all right, I’ve sssown wild oatsss in my timmme, too. But alwaysss in moderationnn, alwaysss in itsss proper time, but sssleep is sssleep, it’s a nnnecessity for the younnng and old alike. You wassste nnight after nnight. Drinking, carousssing, I knnnow it all too well. I’ve been through it, thank you very mmmuch, I don’t nnneeed you telling me about it!”

The clients at their stalls were turning their heads toward them. Melkior’s visit to the white institution had fallen flat.

“I’m not telling you,” he tried to get Mr. Kalisto to lower the volume.

“Don’t even try! What could you tell me? Artisssts? Ugo is no artissst. Ugo’s got to do hisss Nnnational Service, get a teaching job and get mmarried. I cannnot sssupport him any lonnger. You do assss you like.” And winding up sternly, index finger raised above the marble slab, “You leave my ssson alonnne! Go your ownnnn waay. You’re an artist, you ssstay with the arty crowd. You have no home and no family, you recognizzze no God and no law. You think we decsssent citizensss are ridiculousss. Well, goooo ahead and laugh. Good-bye.”

And performing a final shakeout, Mr. Kalisto buttoned himself and straightened up with remarkable pride. Melkior took a look at him leaving soundlessly on his rubber soles. The father of the son who was waiting upstairs … He’s got corns on the soles of his feet, Ugo says. He walks on his heels. That’s how soldiers walk in boots too big for them — chafed by their destiny.

Melkior let off his jet with pleasure. He watched his parabola like a gunner and fell to conscientiously shelling a cigarette butt until it was completely destroyed. He became aware of a pretender to his stall standing behind and ceded it to him with a fraternal grin.

“You seem to take longer than normal to perform that rite. What is it, prostate?” Ugo greeted him impatiently at the exit from the underworld. “Or has my Dad been knocking again at the door of your rotten conscience?”

“Yes, he’s trying to save you from my influence.”

“Before it’s too late. Dear old parent. After him!” and he waved a hand in which he was carrying something wrapped in a sheet of newspaper.

“I know where my Polonius is off to. That’s why he’s so generous with his advice,” muttered Ugo lifting his knees with effort, like someone treading deep waters. He hurried Melkior along so as to keep his father in sight.