Ranko Marinkovic - Cyclops

“I’ll be right behind you. There’s just a thing or two I …”

But Ugo was no longer listening. He had already turned around to face the audience and was bowing to someone in Spanish ceremonial style:

“My humble respects to the noble hidalgo!” It was the choleric tobacconist who was busily closing his little corner kiosk for the night and had looked back to see what the monkey business was all about. “Your generosity, señor, will surely harvest a cigarette on the tobacco island o’er which you rule?”

The tobacconist took this as an insult. He resolutely dropped his keys into his pocket, muttering angrily, “Damned spongers.” And spat as he left.

“But, sir, what if the tuberculosis you just spat out comes back to your daughter on the eve of her marriage as her paternal dowry? You cannot be too careful. Therefore, no spitting on the floor, gentlemen! Right, Comrade?” he said to a man with a bicycle putting up posters.

“Right,” said the cyclist, proud at being addressed.

“And what are these, swastika posters? Not by any chance working for the German consulate, are you, von Velocitas? Dropping hooks among us, eh?”

“No,” the cyclist laughed artlessly, “I work for Franck-O.”

“For Franco? Well, well! I said you were up to some Fascist business. Working for the Caudillo himself! So how’s General Queipo de Llano? Getting old, isn’t he? Hemorrhoids, confession, come over all holy?”

“Listen, you!” the bill-sticker went serious. “A joke is a joke, but this …! Me and the Fascists? Think I’m crazy, do you?” The last sentence was directly linked with his right hand, which had already handed the bicycle to the left …

But Parampion … was his grinning mug to be punished for the mischievous little game of the harlequin who was performing his silly show inside his head?

“Bicycletissime!” he cried with delight and went on in a sober, bright, and solemn tone, “May I, before the honorable folk of this ancient, royal, free, capital city, firmly shake your hand for your proud and manly revulsion at the idea of being in any way connected with mankind’s greatest enemy, illiterate Fascism!” and he grabbed the cyclist’s abovementioned right hand, all ready to do a job of another kind, and pumped it thoroughly to mark “eternal friendship.” There was even a kiss to the man’s brow, the seal on the covenant.

The well-pleased employee of Franck-O, whose job it was to stick up posters advertising the Franck factory’s chicory coffee substitute, was happily excited over the public proclamation of his political integrity.

“And now, gentlemen,” Ugo addressed the audience, “I’m off … perhaps to Pampeluna. This concludes our Street Treat Show for today. We wish our listeners a very pleasant goodnight. The anthem — and we’re done. A propos, bicycletissime , would Your Velocipederasty happen to have a cigarette to spare?”

“Make it two, make it two,” and the cyclist took out a large pigskin cigarette case, filled to bursting. “Here you are, help yourself.”

“I thank you from the heart of my bottom! No, no, only one, for what the Ragusan gentry called harmonious memory. Then again … perhaps another one for my Eustachius. No, not a parrot, it’s that friend of mine on the weighing machine. Certain specialists he has been seeing prescribe smoking for his condition. Look, I’ve got him riled, heh, heh … Right, thanks a million and a half. Such a velocipederastic gesture shall never be forgotten. Hail, fair knight!” exclaimed Ugo.

Taking three steps backward he made a flourish with his hat, bowing to the cyclist in a ceremonial manner. He then shot Melkior a quick glance and burst out laughing.

“Hah, good-looking people, pay attention, he’s angry. No, both smokes are for me actually, and the third … if I may, bicycletissime” —and he slipped one more cigarette from the posterer’s case—“the third I will give him tonight at the Give’nTake. He’s ashamed of me for the moment, but as a rule I enjoy his affection and respect. And you, honorable Mr. Ferdyshchenko … open Sesame!”—and he surreptitiously lifted the CLOSED sign from Nosey’s belly. Nosey took offense at the drunkard handling his person for a second time and calling him what could only be an insulting name, but he wanted to be sensible and only said in a cautious mutter:

“Wonder who these scoundrels mooch off.”

“And now, gentlemen, hah … you thought I was off to a place called Pampeluna? No, they were wrong! I am now off to Pantogegone. And Pantogegone is … nothing. Zero, nihil, nitchevo! Adieu , perhaps pour toujours , you never can tell …”

Ugo elbowed his way through the crowd toward a passerby on the other side of the street, cadged a light off of him and went on his way singing Auprès de ma blonde without a care in the world.

Melkior remained alone before the crowd of disappointed spectators, like a culprit who was now to answer for the letdown. They were looking at him as if he had invited them to a show which had not amused them and they would now ask him to explain. Indeed, he began behaving as though he had really wronged the disgruntled mob …

“All I want to know is, who these scoundrels mooch off?” repeated the curious citizen with the CLOSED sign. His question had now been asked aloud of all those present; they were duty-bound to supply an answer. “Hah!” shrugged one of those who sees through everything, in a scandal-mongering tone. “Clear enough, isn’t it? Couldn’t you see how they did it? Making like that Mexican general was his pal, all the ‘bicycletimus,’ ‘bicycletimus’ hocus-pocus, a real circus, the sneak, with this guy on the weighing machine playing his second, making a fool of the poor blind man. … It’s all stage-managed, gentlemen, and now you may as well check your pockets and see if you’re missing anything. Well, I’m not; I’ve been to Mexico, I know all their tricks.”

Like marionettes linked to a single string pulled by the experienced Mexican, all those present went through identical swift and anxious motions. There was a round of nervous patting of chests, sides, hips, all the places where pockets are to be found. One man even checked whether his wedding ring was still on his finger …

There was a sudden “Oh no!”—a cry of utter dismay. All arms stopped dead and all eyes stared at the desperate man. He stood there like a man stunned, his arms in an X across his chest, patting his empty pockets; his eyes rolling from one bystander to another seeking help.

Melkior looked at the victim of the theft: naturally, everyone could see his astonishment at recognizing the man as Four Eyes! His innocent idea to slip away unnoticed (he had no wish to be present when the pickpocket was nabbed) now turned out to have been naïve. It soon became clear to him that he had been, at the Mexican’s suggestion, tacitly proclaimed a thief himself! A thief or partner to a thief.

Under the accusation of those terrible looks which demanded that he come clean, Melkior quite foolishly stared at Four Eyes in tense expectation of … what? Proof of his innocence?

He himself did not know what he had expected of Four Eyes. He might possibly have been hoping against hope that Four Eyes hadn’t yet recognized him … the business the other day … the Distressić thing … Meanwhile Four Eyes was giving him a tearful, tragic look, one full of pleading and martyrlike forgiveness (which did not go unnoticed). Then, turning his uncertain and confused gaze somewhere aside, he said in a voice so tearful as to be almost inaudible (but it was audible) … for he was accusing no one, it was only that his paternal heart was breaking: