Ranko Marinkovic - Cyclops

“And when the war breaks out they’ll be off to Switzerland with their Mamas, to treat their enlarged hila. You and I have to spit blood, my friend, to make it into the hospital. Unless the horses get you first.”

Melkior shuddered at the prospect. Nothing had helped: the fasting or the vigils. Pechárek had got him in his clutches after all. He had consigned the fifty-six kilograms’ worth of this wretched body (dwaftees … Kink and countwy) to Nettle the trainer in the royal reservation fenced with barbed wire. Procrastinating, delaying, passing examinations and medical boards — no go! Right, pal, this is where you’ll be preparing to shed blood and lay down your life! And here was Melkior trembling in death’s anteroom with cold and fear and a hundred other unspoken pains. He was not made for Nettle’s “man’s work,” the horse urine and the muck … his masculinity wasn’t adequate, the damned exclamation mark in front of his life!

“There’s some dry straw behind the stable, we might as well hide there until it’s black-chicory beverage time (Ah, Chicory Hasdrubalson, gentle my friend! sighed Melkior). Why, you’re shivering all over, pal! Come along,” Lefty dragged him around the corner of the stable and actually buried him in straw, leaving only his face free — to let him watch the birth of the new day.

“You’ll have to get out of here by hook or by crook,” said Righty seriously, rolling a cigarette from dust he had collected in his pockets. “You’re too weak — and you haven’t seen half the trouble yet. First puff of breeze, you’ll be blown off your horse. Ever ridden before?”

“I have. On a donkey,” smiled Melkior in the straw: he had begun to feel the warmth.

“Yes, well, you wouldn’t have horses down in Dalmatia. I’m a country boy myself, I’ve been riding since I was a boy, but the ones in here have got even me scared. Nasty brutes, every last one of them. And Nettle’s assigned you to Caesar, the worst of the lot. Watch your back — he’s got it in for you. Get out of this place. Your goose is cooked if you don’t.”

In the mess hall Numbskull sat next to him for breakfast. Not purposely — it was a quirk of the seating arrangement — but he seemed to take it as a lucky coincidence; he had wanted to talk to Melkior, who had not touched his food. “Don’t take it personal,” said Numbskull, watching the slice of bread spread with some kind of black jam in front of Melkior. “I did it on purpose, see. After all, you’re a high-class intellectual, a teacher, right? You can tell it just looking at you. Now I, well, I enjoy that kind of thing. I always liked barking — bow-wowing, I mean, doing dog imitations. I can rouse all the dogs within hearing distance. I’ll show you one of these nights, you’ll see.”

“I believe you … uh …”

“Call me Numbskull. Doesn’t bother me, let them get used to it, it serves its purpose.”

“What do you mean?”

“Getting labeled. Numbskull is a pet name for dimwit. I mean all this business about pride … what do we need pride for? A prideful recruit? Pull the other one why don’t you! Aren’t you eating? No? Can I have it then? Thanks, mate, I do appreciate it. So: say I show my pride in dealing with the old whore Lisa (the mare, I mean) and she up and bops me one with her hoof, maybe smack in the middle of my pride, eh? No darn way! I’d rather bark at the lightbulb!” He chewed the fresh bread and black jam with gusto and spoke in confidence, revealing his secret. “He knows he’s a nobody. You think he doesn’t? Come on — he’s got seven Honors degrees! But I, I have nine! Ever worn trousers with a patch on the seat … or not even a patch, just a hole? Well, I’m a graduate of that particular institute of higher learning myself. Nettle isn’t — he’s had the army keep him in new trousers. But he’s got the power and I don’t. So when he’s pleased to have his fun with you all you’ve got to do is guess which road he’s taking. He needs it, see? What would he be compared to you, for one? A beat-up insect, that’s all. A nit. You know about the Pythagorean Theorem, and he knows a horse has four legs. So you want to keep your eyes open … or else he’ll kick you with all four, damn him!”

“But what have I ever done to him?” Melkior pleaded mournfully, on the brink of tears. “I obey him.”

“You obey on the outside, but inside you think this and that … I needn’t quote you. And he knows, see? That’s why he asked you how to turn the light off, to destroy your thinking. Which makes your human dignity protest, doesn’t it? Well, forget it. The insects will sooner or later devour mankind, they outnumber us a zillion to one. I look at everything this way and I don’t get all hot and bothered about my temporary dignity. I leave that to the greats. Future archeologists won’t find a trace of it on their skeletons. A hundred years from now, even sooner perhaps, there’ll be Hitler’s bones on the market — fake ones, of course. The Yanks will be paying big bucks for a single filled tooth of his, for two hairs off Mussolini’s head, never mind that he’s bald as an egg. It’s all a load of pitiful crap, Yorick’s skull, nothing more. The thing to do is stay alive. Make sure your bones survive Nettle’s authority, even by barking at electricity if that works. But you seem to have different tactics. All right. Watch out for him. They say Caesar has killed two men so far. When he kills the third, they’ll have him put down. What a satisfaction for the third guy, eh?”

There was a command of some kind in the mess hall. Everyone stood up. “All right, get going,” said Numbskull giving Melkior a nudge to get him up.

“They’re issuing boots and belts — it’s fancy leather goods day. We’re going to the company store.”

Numbskull was waiting faithfully outside the storeroom. When Melkior appeared he gave a skeptical smile.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” he said looking him over. “You’re much too conspicuous, looking like this.”

“Why?” asked Melkior suspiciously, indeed with some fear.

“Oh, come on, old boy — you’ll have everyone wondering what kind of a scarecrow you are. And now you’ve got the boots to match.”

“What do you mean?” Melkior was still playing it close.

“I mean everything you’ve got on looks like your little brother’s. Except the trousers: it’s as if Falstaff lent them to you. Cap plunked down on those ears, right-hand boot big as a bread pan, left-hand boot … it’ll chafe the dickens out of you, believe me, you’ll be cursing the day you were born. It’s an awful fix in the army, having boots the wrong size: there’s nothing for it if your feet get scraped to the bone, it’s Never mind, soldier, forward march, what you’ve got is not a disease.” He went around behind Melkior’s back and clapped his hands: “Look where his half-belt is! Just how do you propose to buckle your belt, you mighty warrior? Under your breasts, like Madame Récamier, Empire style? You made a bad job of it, pal — you stick out like a sore thumb.”

“It wasn’t on purpose …” Melkior tried to defend himself. “I took what they gave me.”

“Come on, pal, don’t give me that nonsense — you took it on purpose,” insisted Numbskull. “Do you really believe they’re that dense? Do you think they don’t know how to make scarecrows? You make a freak of yourself and you think they’ll be so disgusted they’ll send you packing?”

Numbskull walked alongside him with small steps, but remonstrating with him in a paternally mature tone, knowledgeable, and his manner showed sincere selflessness, worry even. Melkior was wondering: why should he care? I’ve known him less than two hours, and he did not trust him, he withdrew into himself and kept silent.