Ranko Marinkovic - Cyclops

“Oh my pigeon!” she sang derisively. “You did think of it, it came to you as you were going after pigeons up in the attic. He eats pigeons, you know. And how does he kill them? He drowns them. Imagine those darling little heads that look at you so coquettishly, well he pushes them under water till they drown! Oh, Mac, you are a butcher.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, kitten, you eat pigeons — right, Mr. Melkior? You must drown them to keep the blood in the flesh.”

“Do you hear what this cannibal is saying about blood and flesh? Shut up, you horrible man!” and she turned away from him capriciously. “All right, sir, I know you don’t like Fred, you’ve never given him a good review, but I’m sure you would never do such a beastly thing to him. While Mac here … He pretends to be his bosom pal, mind you. Fred was marvelous, if it hadn’t been for the stupid prank with the pigeon he would have got a round of applause on stage, but he loosed the pigeon himself! No, you’re a terrible Jesuit! Don’t believe a word he says, Mr., Mr. Trecić.”

“Better use my first name,” said Melkior, offended, “you seem to have difficulty remembering my last. My name is Melkior.”

“That’s even worse. Did I make a mistake?” she said coyly. “Why do you dislike Fred?”

“Well, you don’t have to love everyone, do you?”

“But Fred isn’t everyone. He’s a prominent artist. A protagonist. What are you smirking for, you sadist, isn’t protagonist the right word?”

“Oh, definitely, kitten, definitely. Exemplar!” and ATMAN gave Melkior a wink.

“You’re an exemplar yourself!” she flared. “An exemplar of a dolt. No, honestly, Mr. Melkior, why don’t you like Fred?”

“Why don’t you like him anymore?” Melkior dared to ask, his face very visibly red.

“That’s different. I know him, I know him very well. You hardly know him at all, so to speak, except on stage … Anyway, how can you speak of actors if you’re not in close contact with them?”

“An astronomer is not in close contact with the stars, but that doesn’t prevent him from speaking of them,” said Melkior. “And Freddie is not such a star that I should not speak of him.”

The retort pleased her hugely. She gave a contented laugh.

“That’s good. Freddie’s not such a star that … Very good indeed. You’re a witty crew, you from Ugo’s crowd. And each of you is called something funny. What do they call you?”

“Eustachius.”

“Why?”

“Who knows. There was a Roman soldier in the army of Emperor Trajan …”

“… the Goat Ears? And what do they call Ugo?”

“Parampion.”

“Why?”

“He chose it himself.”

“Why?” she asked with childlike insistence, but her mind was already elsewhere.

That elsewhere offended Melkior. But he no longer hated her. He thought, Sure, she’s superficial, fickle, and — if it came to that — definitely unfaithful. But he loved the artlessness which seemed to him incapable of being false. She was singing in an angelic choir amid a scent of roses. This is it — I’m in love. And he was in high spirits.

He had found a nest among the branches. Chirping. Baby, he said to her in his mind.

“As for you, Mac, don’t you think it’s time you stopped that chewing?” She gave a laugh tinged with disgust.

Well, perhaps she, too, was relishing an inner celebration that was being interrupted by Mac’s smacking lips.

“Sorry, Mic, I’ll be finished in a moment.” He began to tidy the table. “That was my lunch. I completed a major commission today. Two horoscopes of historic importance. They took me nearly two years to work out. Well, they are done. Both will end up on the bottom. I finished this morning.”

“Oh, it’s those ships, Mac?”

“The steel behemoths will be sunk next year. Here, have a look, Mr. Melkior”—he spread some sheets of paper out on the table with constellations, figures, and names on them. “On February the thirteenth last year, at one-fifteen p.m., the battleship Bismarck was launched in Hamburg, while on February the twenty-first of the same year, at three-forty-two p.m., the battleship George V was launched in Newcastle. Both are going to be smashed like a couple of tin buckets. The greatnesses.” He gave a mordant laugh, evidently with something else on his mind.

“Why do you do such things? Who commissioned you? See what he fritters away his time on.”

“It’s for the papers. For your own paper’s Sunday edition, Mr. Melkior. Both horoscopes to appear under the title Veritas. This will be a sensation. I’ve already spoken to Maestro. He was delighted.”

“That I believe. He would sink all ships,” said Melkior.

“And all humans,” she muttered and went red with a great hatred of some sort.

“You know him?”

“Everyone in town knows the fiend. He was telling you rude things about me last night — I saw him. Take care, he’s syphilitic.” She was speaking fast and breathlessly.

“Come now, kitten, how can you claim something like that?” the palmist protested mildly. “He’s simply an unhappy man. You of all people should know.”

“Mac, I wish you’d stop throwing me in with that beast!” she cried and stood up. Her breasts were heaving rapidly with some very tempestuous breathing. That was Melkior’s first exciting observation; another one, also exciting, was her hatred of Maestro. What was it that Tersitus had done to her? The hatred had a very cruel past. It was still untouched, untapped, full to the brim. What had grubby Tersitus done?

She sat down again and turned her back to them both. She was angry. You’re all the same, you’re all against me. Her shoulders shook. She covered her face with her hands. Now we’re going to see those famous tears in her eyes. ATMAN gave him a phenomenon-announcing look. In for a bit of waiting for her to turn around, still in tears. Perhaps he had insulted her on purpose, with the pretty eyes in mind. He was a real creep, was Mr. Adam. Smiling, patiently. Waiting.

“And I was having such a good time here,” she said sobbing. “You always have to go and spoil it.”

“Now we’re going to make coffee and when we’ve had our coffee we’ll turn the cup upside down. All right?” He was speaking like someone in a kindergarten.

“I won’t. I don’t want anything from you anymore. And I’ll never come back here again, not ever,” she was saying through her hands. “And there I was going to stay the whole afternoon. I was having such a nice time.” And she fell to sobbing again.

“He’s now perhaps in a war chariot, the young warrior,” crooned Mr. Adam. “Perhaps he’s no longer on his horse, the fearsome knight …”

“You’re lying now, you’re lying! I’ll marry the shoeshine man on the square …” She started another round of weeping, her gaze on a black tin of shoe polish. Despairingly.

He went up to her and lightly stroked her hair with a trembling, avid hand. She gave a queasy shudder. He grinned forlornly in Melkior’s direction and shrugged. It’s going to be a long wait, this meant.

The water started grumbling on the hotplate. Mr. Adam opened a tin, the smell of coffee filled the room. This worked on her like a whispered summons: come and see a marvelous scene, darling. A box with a new, hitherto unseen toy inside has been opened. We shall now take a peek at the future’s kaleidoscope: bits of colored glass will paint our dreams. Colored geometry, the lunatic’s landscape, the innocent girl clad in white walking above the flaming tongues of horrible serpents (symbolizing human malice), a big light in the distance. And he. The cavalryman. Waiting. Ah, I’m coming, darling, leaving all else behind me. Cursed be this world. I was born for you. Far, far away.