Ranko Marinkovic - Cyclops

Several passersby had stopped on a corner, watching the soldiers and laughing. One of them pointed a finger at him, Melkior, and instantly they all laughed anew.

The sergeant slowed down his pace, dropping to the rear, and spoke through clenched teeth without looking at him: “You’re putting me to shame, damn your eyes, I don’t know where to hide my damned face! I could kill you here and now, you seditious bastard!”

Numbskull said so, thought Melkior. There was no going back under Nettle’s wing, now: the sergeant had supplied him with all the strength he needed. The specialist checkup was sending him benevolent smiles already: there’s the hospital, hopefully there would be red crosses there, too … white all around and a tinge of illness. The entire tableau was less ambitious now: no need for a terrace at Davos, or glaciers, or pedestrian reading matter. All I need is just to get my head under the sign of the red cross, out of reach of Nettle’s and Caesar’s world.

“You, over here!” yelled the sergeant after they had entered the hospital grounds. “Wait here.” Melkior waited. The others knew their way to wherever they needed to take their maladies. But they envied him, they told him, “Goodbye, you’ll be staying here.”

The sergeant returned. “Through this door. Assembly point outside the canteen. Over there, see it?”

“Yes.”

“Like hell you do! Be the best thing for all of us if you kicked the bucket while you’re here!” the sergeant bared his teeth in a canine grin. “Rid the army of the likes of you,” and he went off, lighting a cigarette.

True to form it was white all around … He was greeted by a white nurse, young, white arms to the elbow, hips, a pleasant smile as she entered Melkior into the large logbook. This was perhaps how you were admitted to Paradise — a heavenly secretary …

“Tresić?” smiled the secretary above the book. “Perhaps we’re related. My name is Tresić-Pavičić, the poet’s my uncle.”

“Well, I’m just Tresić,” Melkior smiled modestly, his heart fluttering with gratitude.

“But you know Uncle, don’t you?” She lifted her heavenly head and looked at him with her pretty eyes. “I mean, you’ve read his poetry?”

Melkior recited a handful of the poet’s pathos-drenched verse.

“Ahh,” she marveled. “Tell me, are you from one of the Dalmatian islands, too?”

“No, I’m not.” He did not want to afford her even that little pleasure. “I’m from …” but he was interrupted by the buzzer: the major wanted her.

“Excuse me.” She went through a white door and returned in a moment.

“The Major will see you now. Step in here, please, and strip to the waist, then go through the other door. Don’t be afraid, the Major’s a very nice man,” she added in a confidential whisper, like a cozy secret.

“A very nice man …” He undressed in a dark cubicle saturated with the smelly fumes of sweaty bodies. She’s in love with him. Common knowledge: doctors and nurses … and there’s bound to be a couch inside … “Such a nice man …” Stripped to the waist, a half-peeled banana, a white … no, a dried fish in oversized trousers, a cartoon character in boots … He hugged his emaciation with a virginal shyness. Actresses and directors, horizontal occupations … then go through the other door. He went. The “very nice man,” tall, slim, with a touch of gray at the temples … they go for that particular type of intellectual. With a slow and weary gesture he was told to approach. He felt respect, bowed with the bare half of his body. The Major gave an amicable smile and put his paternal hands on Melkior’s pointy shoulders. Melkior was afraid the man would be disgusted by such a body. …

“Would you turn, please?” said the Major in what was almost an imploring tone. Oh look, they use would you and please here! He felt like kissing the hand on his shoulder!

“Breathe normally, please. Breathe deeply. Cough. Breathe fast. Faster.”

Melkior panted like a dog, fast, comically, immodestly. He looked at the white couch … the panting … that’s where they, the poet’s niece and … but he couldn’t believe it. A nice man, really.

“Now please lie down.” Melkior hesitated: to lie down on that white couch … he feared desecration. That tableau: their love … he thought like a romantic knight. Well, if they’re truly in love … “Do lie down — it’s clean,” the Major pleaded.

He lay down on the clean, cold sheet and begged forgiveness (inside).

The Major tapped all over him, listening carefully, seeking out the hidden enemy. Nothing. The X-ray machine also revealed nothing.

“Nothing,” said the Major with a smile of hidden satisfaction. “Serious asthenia. But you’ll stay here, you need to convalesce,” entering enigmatic words in the Medical Corps form as he spoke. He then pressed the buzzer button.

How do you mean “you’ll stay here”—Caesar, the sergeant, and Nettle are waiting for me! It’s not as if you had a sun here under which I would be warmer than under the sky of their love and affection. Do you realize the implications of depriving Caesar of such a soldier? The centurion Nettle will be terribly worried about me. Also Major Moss, listen up, look at him … Ugo would have made that into a number for his show by now. He’s still asleep at this hour, the cur!

They’re all still asleep, the curs! It’s too early. They’ve got it made. What about Ugo (his liver is swollen), hasn’t he received his call-up papers yet? Mr. Kalisto must have some good connections in the right places, because in these war-threatened times Pechárek will not pass over people so easily, dwaftees, hell no! we’re all equal and naked before the King.

She would come in any moment now, and here he was, all gangly in his trousers, all pitiful and naked …

“Yes, Major?” she came in, the darling niece, rustling all over with whiteness. She remained motionless at the door, waiting piously for the Major’s signal to approach. So this is how it is between them, a formal relationship? Melkior felt relieved. He had his arms crossed on his chest in a manly way, like a naked brave in his Chief’s tepee.

“We’ll keep the boy here,” said the Major taking the stethoscope out of his ears. “Would you take him upstairs to the ward, nurse, Room Seven? Good.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Melkior retreated backward, the trouser mouth around his thin waist blooming with pious gratitude. He had his backside misdirected, aiming at the wrong door, and She directed him with her finger, not that one, this one, get dressed again where you undressed then come back to see me, they were both smiling, he caught a lightning-quick exchange of looks, an arrangement for “later.”

He dressed with the chagrin of a male ridiculed. But when he reentered her “marble halls” with his greatcoat over his arm he felt like a traveler in a tourist office facing a hostess whose most sacred duty, for all her hidden contempt, was to smile in the kindest way possible, showing her teeth a little. She was going to escort him to his stateroom, here’s the bathroom, these are the usual offices, please ring here if you need anything … and the transatlantic liner would set sail over the light waves (suitable for a postprandial on-deck snooze and providing an attractive seascape), making for a bright new world beyond the reach of the cannibal reek of Polyphemus the Cyclops, the one-eyed beast.

“The Major’s a nice man, isn’t he?” she said proudly, as if he were in some way hers. Melkior threw his greatcoat over the other arm in a routine gesture of impatience, and gave an understanding smile. She reddened.

“Yes, an understated and dignified man,” he said to confuse her further and possibly make her confide in him. “Rather aloof, I thought.”