Ranko Marinkovic - Cyclops

She has been sucked dry with kisses, gnawed bare by those black fillings. She has got the “wonderful night” circled around her eyes in a spreading sfumato of carnal blue. The stars of pleasure are even now bursting in her pupils. She is still being drenched with caresses. Viviana! Rattling inside him was a shattered sky, Ugo was stomping on the shards.

They walked down a street thick with special offers and passersby. A warm and idle morning. Elbows, shoulders, legs. Heads turned in salute to shop windows. Noses and one ear each in profiles. Eyes, greedy, snatching in passing at the fetishes behind the thick panes of glass of the sanctuaries. Inside, priests and Pharisees discovering with delight the secrets of the genesis of pleasing shapes, deluxe qualities, the wonders of the most-moster-mostest of sophisticated civilization. Suddenly, among the splendor-lovers’ ecstatic profiles, Melkior spotted a heretic en-face scornfully erasing the bustling fairground enthusiasm and leaving in its wake grave concern. The Stranger strode in a “superior” manner towering above all the heads, even though he was no taller than they. Melkior spotted him a long way off. Instinctively he ducked his head down, dived into the dancing waves of heads, shoulders, bodies in motion, moving on through, and hung his head like a culprit. He wished to dissolve like an anonymous droplet in the thick stupid sea of senseless motion, to pass unnoticed, invisible. In the company of this pretty, unnecessary (ah, Viviana!) female I’m loitering among the props of a superficial, irresponsible life, suspected in his mind of being an accomplice, perhaps even a believer.

But the Stranger was moving through the crowd headed directly for him. He was cutting his way through the thick rolling magma like someone wishing to meet a man amid all the frivolity and to offer him his hand. He’s spotted me. So … Melkior straightened up like a man, stood apart from the throng and made his way toward the Stranger, leaving Viviana agog in front of billows of silk in a shop window. He had his hand ready to proffer, along with a question about a good night’s sleep … but he noticed that the man was looking over his head, into the distance, with the eyes of a railway inspector, of a man responsible for regular traffic flow. In this way the Stranger passed by Melkior (for it would have been silly to say over him) like a mute and hermetic armored train with a vital mysterious destination at some unintelligible distance.

Melkior looked after him, disappointed, cast aside, superfluous at this “historic moment.” Now, Danton would have halted, perhaps even offered a hand. But this Dzhugashvilovich … He felt embarrassment at his own outstretched hand, at his thoughtful question, “Did you have a good night’s sleep?” at his puritanical renouncement of Viviana.

“Nice,” she took hold of his elbow, “and me looking all over for you. Trying to give me the slip?”

“I was trying to avoid encountering a man …” He felt her fingers and his own embarrassment at the lie.

“Or a woman?”

“No, a man,” he mouthed, almost repentant, but he was pleased by her suspicion though he knew it was no more than a stab at a conventional flirtation. Which was true — she followed with no retort to his repeated claim. So that’s how it is — she doesn’t care, man or a woman. What on earth am I wasting my time here for? He was beginning to feel tired, for one thing. In need of sleep, hungry, tormented by dreams, thoughts, and wakefulness, he wished to sit down somewhere, alone, to rest from the nearness of her. Gloomily to ruminate on a happy love, withdrawn, in solitude, in the dark… I watch your pretty eyes … and offer life a chance to savor the sweet taste of pain. That legless wretch (the man last night) couldn’t afford it, so he discovered an even more miserable metaphysics of love. Pure music. With no guts or tails, as he put it in his terrible humility. Or was it that he wanted to spill his Penelope’s guts and snip off the tail of her stallion? And him saying he wanted to listen to the cantilena of traitorous love! No, it is undeniably the fate of unhappiness to bite its own fingertips, with pleasure.

“Will you be coming again soon to visit Mr. Adam, Viviana?” he enjoyed using his name for her.

“What, to have him torment me again? No, I won’t,” she said defiantly. “I’ll never go see him again!”

“Why ever not, Viviana? He likes you very much.”

“Oh yes he does, in that way … what’s that word for liking to torture people?”

“Sadistic.”

“Yes, that’s it. You saw what he did to me yesterday. And he keeps insulting me. He’s a really nasty piece of work,” she added with a smile that attenuated the words. “And generally speaking, all you men are such good-for-nothings.”

She laughed, showing her incredibly white teeth.

“All?” asked Melkior rather worriedly, then stammered in fear: “Even Ugo?”

“You mean the one whom Fred …? Oh, he’s the worst of the lot. … And such a liar! He thinks I’m some kind of … Apart from that, he’s quite a likable rascal — he’s so funny,” she gave a cryptic smile, “he had me laughing all the time!”

“Last night?” Melkior groaned bitterly.

“Last night?” she said, perplexed. “No, the night before. At the Give’nTake, when he kept teasing Freddie. Why, you were there, too. Weren’t you? Frankly, I don’t remember.”

She doesn’t remember. “I am democratic,” say the finest ladies.

But she doesn’t; Maestro may have lied about it.

“Oh, I was, I was,” muttered Melkior and heaved a sad sigh. “You were looking at me with such an inexplicable loathing …”

“With loathing?” she said with unconcerned wonder. “Why, yes, of course, you are the critic! It was on account of Fred. Anyway, perhaps I wasn’t quite wrong to have looked at you that way,” and she gave him a birdlike look, coquettishly inclining her head to one side.

“You were wrong, Viviana, you were wrong indeed …” Melkior suddenly threw his soul open like a shirt, with unrestrained sentimentality. “I was looking at you … differently. You were awfully unfair to me.”

“You were looking at me with … you know what kind of interest. That syphilitic pig next to you … I saw it. I know the kind of thing he says about me.” The dark splotches broke out over her face again and her eyes went moist with suppressed tears.

“It was Freddie we were discussing,” he lied, “not you.”

“Why should I believe you? Do I know who you are? The first time I ever spoke to you was yesterday, at that crazy Mac’s. In fact, we didn’t even speak to each other. I scarcely heard you speak at all. You’re a curious person. Mac says you’re a very clever but curious person.”

“What does he mean, a curious person?” Well, at least she did think about me, he thought consolingly.

“I don’t know. I suppose you’re not like everyone else. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“No, it isn’t,” he blurted out nervously. “For one thing, I’m not witty like Ugo. I’m a bore. I’m boring you, too.”

“You’re not boring me at all,” she said candidly. “That’s where you’re wrong … and where it shows you don’t know me. I am democratic (ah-ha!), I’ll talk to anyone … if they’re interesting. You are curious but interesting, and I’m glad I’ve met you.”

“Are you really, Viviana?” He skipped the “democracy” bit and was pleased. “If only you knew how happy I am to have met you! I walk alongside you, thinking: if only she had an inkling of … and so on. I talk sheer drivel to myself — those are not thoughts really. Anyway, where could I get thoughts from when I’m all confused, I expect you’ve noticed. I’m happy one minute, the next I’m totally unhappy again, swearing at you inside, being angry with you … I was about to leave and go away just now.”