Ranko Marinkovic - Cyclops

Four Eyes was still swaying in the doorway.

“All right, what is it?” asked Melkior tiredly.

“What shall I take back over yonder as your reply? Because things have taken … like I said.”

“Tell them I’m coming. I’m coming,” said Melkior impatiently.

“Straight away, isn’t it? Coming straight away, coming straight away,” and Four Eyes went hopping down the stairs with idiotic glee.

Come out, come out,

See the drunken lout

Being thrown out,

On his ear, out of here …

the drunkard, was saying, gesturing tragically. He went into the Cozy Corner with his recitation still ongoing, but shortly he came back out — or rather flew out back first and sat down on the pavement. Behind this piece of action were Kurt’s strong arms. Melkior saw his silhouette against the yellow curtain: immobile, sleeves rolled back, at the ready.

“As I said, out of here, on his ear … correction, on his bum. Well, who cares, it’s still the same old fun.” The drunkard was not getting up from the pavement or speaking to anyone in particular: he was now explaining an important and very complex point under his nose, using small, myopic gestures like someone doing lacework.

Inside, things seemed to have got out of hand. One of Ugo’s favorites, Spare the Horses, Driver , could be heard, a number from The Russian Balalaika; Ugo’s solo passages alternating with a ragged chorus (of the sergeants, probably), destroying the song with drunken disorder.

Out in the street Melkior laughed at Kurt’s silhouette, standing at attention guarding unwavering sobriety amid the crazed orgy of Russian song. And when Melkior, after hesitating for quite a while, was finally driven by his sensitive conscience to enter the Cozy Corner, Kurt took this as a ray of sunshine. He immediately abandoned his post at the door and all but licked Melkior’s hand, wagging an invisible tail.

“Ach, Herr Professor, Herr Professor! Would you just look at what’s going on — this is sheer Bolshevism,” whispered Kurt confidentially, as one sober man to another. “Nevertheless I didn’t call the police. We got word from you. I was sure you would come …”

Ugo was standing on the table among overturned glasses and waving an unsheathed saber like a leader of the insurgents, and the sergeants around him were screeching, insolently, in a mutinous mood, “iamshchik, ne goni …” a Russian song. Four Eyes was kneeling piously on a bench at Ugo’s feet and following, with marveling fear, the swish of the saber above his defenseless head. Else had retreated to her mother behind the bar and the two of them were counting the broken glasses in strictest secrecy.

“Caliban, you sluggish fish, can’t you see who’s here?” said Ugo to Four Eyes, interrupting his singing for an instant.

“I’m swimming, my Lord and Master, swimming,” and Four Eyes swam, his fingers splayed at his hips in imitation of fins.

“Bow low, hideous son of Mistress Barrel, and pour a wassail for my friend Eustachius. Eustachius the Magnanimous, I leave you in the charge of my cup-bearer.”

“But there’s nothing to pour, oh Lord and Master,” whined Four Eyes, holding the bottles up to the light, “the wellsprings have gone dry. Mother’s corked the barrel!”

“Crawl, you turtle, over to Mama Cork and knock your useless head on the stone floor until you’ve softened her heart,” said Ugo, sovereign, and was swept up in a fresh song with the sergeants: Chubchik, chubchik, chubchik kucheriavyi …

“There, you see, Herr Professor,” lamented Kurt in a lowered voice. “He’s quite mad. He’s driven our regulars away and brought in this guttersnipe instead. They’ve broken a lot of glasses, too. … I’m very sorry, Herr Professor, but the bill is going to be rather steep.” Kurt noticed Melkior’s baffled face and hastened to explain:

“He said it was all to go on your account. Otherwise we wouldn’t have served him. I’m sorry, Herr Professor. I hope there won’t be a fine to pay as well. We haven’t got an entertainment license you see.”

“I told him only to have a drink for himself …”

“… and he went and started ordering drinks for everyone, as you can see. And breaking things! Tsk-tsk-tsk …” said Kurt in dismay at the appalling display.

Melkior watched Ugo savor his madness. God, the sheer amount of energy this madman blows off — into the air, into the smoke of the night! He tried to imagine him old, tired, spent, slouching in a café and playing a one-handed game of dominoes, coughing slightly every now and then. The row of dominoes progressed, but instead of Ugo he found himself, his own shriveled hands, lining up the tiles. And he chuckled at his imagination’s deception. He’ll die as he is: he’ll be stupidly, accidentally killed in the drunken euphoria of a night like this … or take his own life. The animal setting this force in motion will not be able to languish in the cage of old age.

“Gentlemen centurions,” Ugo addressed the sergeants, the saber whistling playfully over their heads, “gentlemen centurions of the 35th Legion, may I now request a song for Fraülein Else of Germany. Enough of the Russian steppe and swirling snow. A song for the Fraülein now, as befits your military dignity. If you please!” and Ugo, dipping the saber in a formal way, launched into song: Adieu, mein kleiner Gardeoffizier … But the song was unfamiliar to the sergeants and Ugo sang it through on his own, ceremonially facing Else with Junker-like dignity.

Four Eyes was ranging about happily like a drunken dog under the table, where he had been lapping spilt wine off the linoleum and making clicking noises with his tongue in derisive rhythmic accompaniment.

And when the sergeants saw the honorary smile on Else’s face (for manners and female vanity required it, let Kurt say what he liked) they, too, unsheathed their sabers and, at the final adieu, adieu , crossed them above Ugo’s head in an operetta-style apotheosis.

The tableau with the sabers (there was some military order to it after all!) managed to move even the angry Kurt: “That was a very good display the rascals made, wasn’t it, Herr Professor?” and he gave an admiring smile. But his sober gravity returned presently and his sober worries got hold of him again: “Well, this, I take it, concludes the show. Well done, gentlemen, bravo!” and he applauded artfully.

“And now it’s time, gentlemen, please, we’re closing, that’s it for tonight, gentlemen, if you would be so kind …”

How wrong Kurt was. Now was in fact the time to begin the crowning mad revelry in which Ugo was expecting a reward from the Corner owner in the form of further drinks on the house. If only for the sake of the establishment’s reputation, sir.

“Sir,” he addressed Kurt with the haughtiness of a celebrated virtuoso, “I do not remember when I last visited your highly esteemed establishment. Your name is Kurt, but there is no courtesy in your arrogant nature, sir. We have already performed, bona fide, a part of tonight’s show which promises much enjoyment to follow (Caliban, stop smacking your chops like a ravenous beast!) but where, Oh Mr. Kurt, is the due courtage for this worthy artistic body, not forgetting our household cur that is in this critical moment sniffing the ground vainly for bones and gnawing at a table leg in desperation? (Four Eyes gave a consensual growl under the table. — “Hush, Caliban!”) Very well, take no notice of the cur, or indeed of my humble self, but do take notice, sir, of these intrepid men who may all too soon lay down their lives on the altar of their country. Is that not so, gentlemen centurions of the 35th Legion?”