Ranko Marinkovic - Cyclops

He felt miserable and superfluous. He followed her faithfully and dejectedly. She went into shops with the self-important dignity of a grand customer. Rifling, plucking, touching, pinching … Pushing away mountains of fabric. He could see the assistants’ sweaty armpits: lifting their arms, taking down bolts of cloth from the shelves, stars from the sky, here you are, Miss, rolling out the bolts with easy sweeping gestures, intoning the usual textile lauds. She turning away with the fetching disgust of an overpampered taste, spotting this, that, the other, it can’t be, you had it only yesterday, here, let me see that one up there, no, not that, darn! hands up, armpit sweat, armpit smell, oh for fresh air! Give it a miss, Miss! The mess on the counter tops, the multicolored massacre of merchandise. You don’t seem to have anything I need. The grand exit. Dignified. Taste above all.

Melkior felt the shame of shared guilt for torture inflicted. But he went on following her docilely like an Ivan, a servant, a martyr. She gave him only an occasional smile to show that she now acknowledged his presence. The insult of it he felt only later, when considering the small kindness thrown his way. But the kindness began recurring at ever shorter intervals as an apology, as tidbits to a lapdog, as a reward for fidelity. And he followed her with gratitude, aquiver with the pleasure of her nearness. A wealth of curves moving within reach. The up-down-up-down of the two exquisite hemispheres of most holy flesh (kiss left, kiss right), the rustle of tightly stretched stockings, of full legs passionately fondling each other in the skirt’s semidarkness, joined to the Mound of Venus, to the Delphian gorge at the foot of Parnassus. Oh Pythian mystery, Oh weird sister, will I ever be the thane of Viviana? Nay, you shall be more, king, you shall be king! screamed the astounded Fool as if seeing the blood of one murdered in his sleep. He hankered for grapes, for the eating of grapes: the crisp globules popping open between the teeth (the cranky worm? it’s in the apple), the juice flowing down the throat, the sun’s sweet juice that has not matured to the vertigo of fermentation and become wine-the-lad, the alcohol brave. Ugo drinks the must, acidy-sweet, at the Give’nTake, at doctor’s orders, he has a spot on his liver. From alcohol. For he’s a jolly good fellow. October’s gentle breath …

“He’s nowhere to be seen today,” he said, glumly contemplating the barrow of the man who bought used bottles and kept shouting at the top of his voice that he did. For Glassville, he thought in passing. “Was he out drinking last night?”

She gave him a cursory interrogative look, but all her attention was directly sucked in by the shop window.

“Because he usually makes a night of it,” insisted Melkior, as if he meant to extort an admission from her. “He would still be asleep now.” He looked at his watch: “Why, of course, it’s not ten yet. He’s asleep.”

“Who’s asleep?” she asked distractedly, absorbed in some fresh textile phenomenon in a display. “What do you think of the yardage over there for a two-piece suit? A nice classical one, close-fitting, eh? Let’s go in to have a closer look — it doesn’t look bad in the window. Who did you say was asleep? I’ll be disappointed again when I see it up close, I know myself. It all looks lovely in the window, but as soon as I take the stuff in my hands it feels like matting, like a horse blanket. Sackcloth, really. I’m awfully unhappy when I have to buy something. I keep thinking there’s got to be something better somewhere else. That’s the story of my life. I always end up disappointed.”

Sure enough, she bought nothing this time either. She had everything taken down from the shelves, turned the lot upside down, and went out again. Disappointed.

“What did I tell you?” she said all hot and bothered, splotches coming out all over her face. Who is she angry at? She’s gone a bit ugly even, he smirked to himself with a kind of glee. Look, she’s even got tears in her eyes!

“No, no, I tell you,” she said, barely managing to hold back the tears. “Nothing ever works for me. Nothing, nothing, ever! Don’t laugh at me, it’s true.”

“I’m not laughing,” but inside he was, impudent and vengeful. He was deriding the mannequin-like sorrow that robbed him of the importance of his existence with her, making him a lonely companion: he was trotting along by her side all but unnoticed. He suffered grumpily. Homeomeries, the great-grandmothers to atoms, the seed of the world according to Anaxagoras, I know about them, too. He was reminding himself of his own importance, to prevent himself from sinking. He was clutching at straws. At homeomeries. Embraced by Aristotle, too. How well-shaped and pretty her mouth is, the lower lip slightly swelling — for a kiss! But no, it’s not only a kiss. Oh love, for delights! The subjective derivative of proliferation. The bait. The biblical apple. The warbling. Come to me, darling, we’ll have a lovely time. Enka naked. Kior! Oh, Kior …

He kept trying to ward off the black fillings in Ugo’s wide-open, lustful mouth, which guzzled lechery with kisses. The fleshly feminine existence. If I am then I am what am I. The pride of the body. The breasts making their announcement in advance, trumpeting to the world to tell it who is coming. The fascinating damned holy leg tapping the patient Earth’s head with pointed sandal, the elevation of the rump. Here she comes, here comes the proudly exalted empress of the world. Noses jerking after her, eyes staring, tongues dropping. The great drooling of mankind. While NATURE, the old seductress, the Madam of The Great Brothel, murmurs contentedly, Aren’t my girls lovely?

“I buy bottles! Bottles! Old newspapers, bottles!” the voice of one crying in the wilderness, issuing a final warning. Vanitas vanitatum et omnia vanitas. Repent while ye still have time. The Great Pestilence is upon us. It’s ravaging these lands. Say your prayers and sell your bottles. Old newspapers, too. Bottles.

“I just don’t see what they want those newspapers for,” she spoke up derisively. “Forever whining about things. Now, the bottles I can understand … but the old newspapers? What can they possibly need trash for?”

“To cook and recook, and make into new newsprint.”

“New newspapers from old? No wonder you can’t find anything worth reading in the papers. Just a load of rubbish, nothing but war and bombs. They’ve nothing better to do.”

“While they could be weaving marquisette …” Where had he come up with “marquisette”? He wondered himself.

“Why marquisette?” But the penny dropped: “You’re making fun of me, aren’t you? Well, I did tell you I was looking for cloth … for Aunt Flora. But there’s no point in boring you. I’ll go on alone.”

Melkior was afraid she might abandon him mid-street. “No, Viviana, please don’t, I’m not bored at all. I only said, wouldn’t it be more useful to weave pretty fabrics for pretty women? To make the world a more beautiful place. Then you’d find what you’re looking for.”

“Ah, if only I knew what I’m looking for!” she admitted with a sincere smile. “I have to find it first to discover what it was I was looking for. I’m over the moon when I finally find it. And I don’t mean just the cloth — that’s who I am.”

That’s who I am —did she mean “unfortunately” or “hooray”? For there was neither sad tinge nor boastful triumph in her voice, it was a simple statement of fact: anything goes — I’ll see what you have to offer.

Melkior was offering himself. Offering up his person with all his heart and soul, in order to be found, discovered. Here I am, Viviana, with all the devotion of a love which … No, they prefer charm boys, euphoric babblers using fetching lies to decorate a night. A wonderful night. The very stars were bursting with laughter. Wow, what a time we had!