Ranko Marinkovic - Cyclops

Melkior plunged insolently into the warm torrent of bodies, words, smells, looking impatiently for Dom Kuzma’s scrawny neck. Using his elbows and shoulders, he forced his way through the thick, tough dough of evening strollers, receiving insults and threats and “underwater” blows to the ribs. But he scarcely minded them. The pathetic soul adrift in the town so occupied his attention that he nearly yelled out loud when all of a sudden he discovered in front of him his poor corporeality preparing to cross the street. Dom Kuzma first cast a cautious look to either side and then, hesitating for a moment as if about to step into crocodile-infested waters, hurriedly crossed the insecure riverbed waving his arms about in a curious way as if really walking on water.

“How prudent he is, the restless soul!” Melkior thought with compassion as he crossed the street with more caution than Dom Kuzma himself.

“Trams are not what kill you nowadays, my dear sir!” remarked a passing stranger to him. He was not drunk, nor was he a meddling sneerer; holding his evening paper open, he was frightened and desperate, and wished to impart his condition to someone. Melkior decided to ignore the man. Of late, since reserve-training calls to the older age groups had begun to multiply, grifters using the “psychological” approach had appeared in town. An operator of that kind would casually cast his hook at a passerby, gauging from afar the extent of the man’s generosity. The gullible and considerate mark would easily swallow the bait, and the expert would proceed to hustle him: he had been called up, not that it mattered so much except that there were the wife, the children, the aging parents, the ailing mother-in-law (an angel!), not to mention the rent that was due and he stone broke, and winter on its way … God, I’m at my wits’ end! And he would flail his arms about in desperation, and his words would flow easily and convincingly and in the blink of an eye he would mesmerize his victim and break any attempt at resistance.

Only the other day a man had been hurrying down the street, striding along at a fast purposeful clip. Topped by a greasy floppy hat, his shoes Chaplinian — each pointing in its own direction — his face stubbly and sad, his look worried, he acknowledged Melkior with a casual, absentminded, and almost careless greeting, as if meeting him for the fifth time that day.

“Hello there, Filipović,” and strode on without looking back.

Surprised, Melkior stopped in his tracks and turned. The man did not turn around right away: he merely registered that Melkior had halted. Only a moment later, still hurrying, he looked back a little, out of sheer curiosity, gave Melkior a casual wave of his hand, “Hey there,” and a pleasant smile. He was in a hurry though, he had no time for friendly banter on life and health. Melkior was still standing there, sheepishly: he couldn’t recall any previous encounter with the face. On the other hand, he knew he had not returned the man’s greeting and feared the man might take offense. He was even about to run after him, to explain himself, to apologize. But the man knew what was up, knew Melkior had stopped and was looking after him, so he, too, stopped and looked at Melkior with the smile of someone who was in no mood for smiling. Wagging his head slightly in disapproval, he made toward Melkior at a slow and seemingly patient pace. His whole behavior (when he came close) reflected embarrassment at “such an appearance” before a friend who had not even recognized him in such a state.

“Four Eyes,” he enunciated with a feeling of utter embarrassment, mourning his cruel fate by way of his sobriquet. “I’ve changed, sure,” he added in elegiac tones, gazing mournfully into his past. His eyes actually went moist … or so it seemed to Melkior.

“I really … can’t …” stammered Melkior, himself ashamed for some reason.

“What? You don’t remember? Junior year of grammar school, two desks behind you … Four Eyes. Rotten grades in Latin the whole time. Ipse dixit, I was so sure I’d fix it — but I couldn’t. You went on, I lagged behind. I can still see you as you were then, your clever little head. You had sitting next to you that little … what was his name now? … Wait, it was something to eat …”

“Tokay?”

“… or drink, see? I knew it had to do with …”

Melkior felt ill at ease. For all that he had never in his life known anyone called Four Eyes, this fellow was quite at home in their conversation, had even grasped him by the elbow and was shaking it in the manner of a close friend, waking boyhood memories inside him.

Melkior fell to rummaging in his memory to see if he could winkle out this man Four Eyes from somewhere after all. Perhaps Four Eyes had really existed at some desk behind him as a modest, unobtrusive little schoolboy who was in no way remarkable? Meanwhile Four Eyes was eyeing him hopefully.

“Well? Remember how we put horse chestnuts in the stove in wintertime, the noise they made cracking in class?”

We did indeed … only my name isn’t Filipović!—and Melkior communicated his reservation to Four Eyes out loud.

“Filipović?” he said in surprise and smacked himself on the forehead. “God, yes, you’re right! I’ve got it all mixed up, it’s been years, you know. God, yes, Filipović used to sit next to me, he was always writing riddles, making crosswords, reading words backwards, tractor — rot cart … Of course, you can’t be Filipović when you’re … er …”

“Tresić,” Melkior blurted out imprudently.

“But of course, Tresić-Pavičić! Christ, I’ve got it all …”

“No, just Tresić. I’m just Tresić.”

“That’s it! Why, we even called you Distressić, remember?” said Four Eyes, delighting in his own memory, so much so that Melkior unconsciously confirmed it with a nod, although he had no recollection of anyone ever calling him Distressić. “There must’ve been others who called you Tresić-Pavičić, too, and you telling them ‘Just Tresić,’ and it came out ‘Distressić.’ Somehow or other it just rolls off the tongue together, Tresić-Pavičić, like Rolls-Royce. As if Rolls could not stand on his own without Royce. Silly, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is silly,” Melkior agreed and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, which Four Eyes interpreted as impatience and showed fear.

“In a hurry, old boy? Now me, I’m fresh out of the hospital. The old kidney problem. The doctor said, ‘We must have it out’—Four Eyes made a sharp gesture as if slicing his own side with his thumb — and I said, ‘Not so fast, doc! I’m not having my kidney pickled in alcohol,’ I said. And so, my dear Distressić, I lost a nice little job with First Croatian. I went to see the Old Man this morning. ‘The Board of Directors meets tomorrow,’ he said, ‘kindly have your resignation in by then.’ ‘With a government stamp?’ ‘Government stamp and all.’ ‘The usual? The one that costs seventy-five in change?’ ‘Seventy-five in change.’

“Short and sweet. Goodbye — Goodbye. While I was in hospital, the wife pawned all we had. If only I had something to pawn! … but there’s nothing left. No job — no credit. I needn’t tell you, do I, you know well enough what our damned Scrooges are like. Got money to burn while you may as well croak for want of a piddling seventy five in change!”

Four Eyes fell silent, hanging his head in expectation. It was only out of the corner of his eye that he followed, animal-like, Melkior’s embarrassed dive into the inside breast pocket, where wallets are usually stored. And surely enough Melkior took out his wallet …

“No, please, I didn’t mean …” and Four Eyes made a belated attempt to stop his arm … “I only told you as an old … I’ve got no one to share my troubles with.”