Cyclops (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) (34 page)

“I have bad dreams when it is near me.”

“Ah, I dream of those damned knives myself. Snakes, too.” But she took the knife with a kind of passion. Melkior noticed it.

“Why don’t you remarry, Madam? It’s not too late for you at all.”

“What about you? Why don’t you get married?” she retorted with fresh matutinal coquetry.

On his way back to his room Melkior thought of Viviana. Of Enka, too, in passing. Her knife. She does not have knives stuck into her belly in her sleep like the poor landlady. Her dreams are like a cat’s—nocturnal mouse-hunting.

A bird piped up in a park near by: chee-chee-caw … chee-chee-caw …

“Chi-chi-kov … Chi-chi-kov …” replied Melkior with literary sarcasm.
“Dead Souls.
And so to bed, with our own soul dead”—this he was barely able to say as he toppled on the bed, dead with exhaustion and lack of sleep.

“They have these binges night after night. He’s clearly drunk. He didn’t even take off his clothes.”

“Never mind, don’t wake him. We’ll just leave my things and go.”

He heard the voices above, but couldn’t open his eyes. A tremendous fatigue sat heavy on his eyelids and kept his consciousness in a state of listless floating on the surface of a very shallow sleep. From time to time he felt contact with wakefulness underneath, as if his sleep were bobbing in a shallow and scraping the bottom. He made out “he’s drunk”—that was Pupo speaking; “never mind” was someone else, a stranger. But he thought he was dreaming, so he let himself sink into his stupor like a drunkard, using the voices to put together a small sketch:

“Binges for flowers, thank you, thank you,” says the old lady pianist over his bed. Pupo tries to drag her away, “He didn’t even take his clothes off”; she struggles with him, “Never mind, don’t wake him.” But there is a third person here, someone invisible, important, “We’ll just leave my things and go.” And everyone leaves.

Melkior was suddenly frightened at the prospect of being left; he jumped to his feet: “Wait! No, wait! Right away … I’ll get undressed right away.” … But his eyes were still closed. “He’s dreaming,” said a strange voice. But Melkior was awake already, it was just that his eyes were still glued shut by thick, greasy sleep.

Nevertheless he padded with extraordinary certainty over to the glass carafe with water in it, poured some into his cupped palm, and splashed his eyes. Yes, there were Pupo and a stranger, standing next to his bed, beaming at him.

“I’m so sorry, I’ve … I didn’t sleep all night.” He was making excuses to the stranger. “His kind are early risers,” he thought.

“Was it at least a good binge?” Pupo was smiling contemptuously.

“Binge? No. Insomnia. Can’t sleep.” He smoothed out his rumpled suit, embarrassed. He straightened his tie, too. It was only eight o’clock. “I must have dropped off just a little while ago. Funny, I don’t remember.” But he was still standing in the same spot, face wet, confused.

“Why don’t you put it down on the floor?” said Pupo to the stranger. Indeed, the man was still holding a valise in his hand, undecidedly. A raincoat was draped over his other arm. Tall, fair-haired, lean, fortyish, with a grave, care-ridden face. Melkior finally came out of his trance. He put away the carafe, approached the man, and reached to take his valise. The man put forward his hand. Melkior returned the handshake, cordially. He said his name. The man muttered something unintelligible, looking at Melkior with an apologetic smile. “Right you are, brother,” thinks Melkior, the name remains the Stranger.

Accommodatingly, he opened the wardrobe door.

“This is for your things.” This time he succeeded in taking the valise away from the Stranger. He put it in the wardrobe. “It’s down here. Do sit down. And you, what are you wondering about?” he said to Pupo with erstwhile intimacy. “I haven’t been drinking—here, see for yourself,” and he puffed into Pupo’s face.

The Stranger laughed. “What, does he forbid it?” gesturing at Pupo.

“I educate them. The others are worse,” said Pupo asserting his authority.

“You can imagine the educator: carried by us because he’s been walking on all fours. He chews drinking glasses, not to mention shouting, ‘Down with the monarchy.’ ”

Melkior instantly realized he had gone too far. Pupo gave him a look of contemptuous rage. He had clearly been playing the saint “here,” being in a subordinate position in “those” circles.

The Stranger laughed. But on seeing Pupo’s face he abruptly cut his laughter short and erased it completely from his face. The face was now calm and care-ridden again.

“If you’d like to wash up,” said Melkior to the Stranger, “the bathroom is across there, in the flat proper.” He wished to be alone with Pupo for a moment. He wanted to apologize.

“No, thank you.”

Melkior offered him a cigarette. “Thank you, no. I don’t smoke.”

He offered one to Pupo and smiled in a friendly way. Pupo took it and accepted the smile.

“I always have black coffee in the morning. I’ll fetch some right away.” Melkior was in high spirits.

“Don’t bother on my account,” said the Stranger. “I would like only to sit down here for a minute. I’m tired.” He sat down on the sofa. But he promptly dropped down on an elbow, and then leaned his head back against the cushion. “I’m very tired,” he said apologetically.

“Lie down by all means. I’ve got to go to the office anyway. You can sleep if you like. I’ll tell the landlady not to send the maid in.”

Melkior went across to the flat proper to fetch the coffee. He explained to the landlady that a relative had unexpectedly arrived. He would be staying for a few days. She offered to do the room herself, to make the sofa for the guest, out of curiosity, of course. Melkior put that all off for later. He brought the coffee back. The two of them cut their conversation short. He felt extraneous there between them. He slurped his coffee hastily, explained to the Stranger the technique of living in the room, handed over all the necessary keys, and, with a most courteous
Bye for now
to both of them, fled.

He may be a future Marat for all I know, he thought, hurrying down the stairs, even though he had no reason to hurry at all. But why Marat, of all men? The man was killed in his bath—the whore Charlotte cut his throat. Danton, Saint-Just, Robespierre? … snick-snick-snick … all three heads—snick!—rolling into a basket. None of the examples is good enough. Not Zinoviev, not Kamenev, not Bukharin, not even Leo Bronstein, it was again snick-snick-snick and crash! The ice pick striking Leo’s head, whereas I wish my guest the Stranger to live. Long live my guest the Stranger!—Hip, hip, hoorayyy! He was rallying in the street, semiaudible even, making people turn around after him. He would have dearly loved to rush into the Give’nTake and tell everyone, like Bobchinsky-Dobchinsky, what kind of a guest had arrived. Mysterious, secretive, yet quite straightforward and likable, tall and fair-haired and lean and decidedly on the shy side, “No, thank you, don’t bother on my account.”

No, I must give Enka a buzz. Poor Enka. I’m really a … He nevertheless went by the Theater Café and the Give’nTake, just in case. Perhaps Viviana had decided to parade her pretty self there. But the score was zero and … zero. Making a total of zero. Too early. A rest after last night’s
gentle breath.
He did not telephone Enka either. He mounted the stairs to the office, tired already. Wilted enthusiasm. See proof of review, it’s to go to print today. The day’s copy was no longer with the arts editor, it was already in the composing room.

“The Old Man crossed out a paragraph.”

“Censorship, eh?”—ready for a big showdown.

“Nonsense. Too much copy. Had to trim all around.”

“Which paragraph?”

“Do me a favor. What do you care anyway—it was only ten lines or so.”

“You could’ve asked me—I would’ve done it myself.”

“I looked for you at the Give’nTake last night. ‘He’s just gone out with Don Fernando,’ and you haven’t got a phone at your digs. How was I to ask?”

“It’s wrong all the same.”

“Don Fernando’s with the editor now. He’s brought some article or other, but it’s a no-go. They’re having a discussion … matters of principle.” The arts editor was sneering with mild derision.

That was precisely what Melkior had long wanted—coming to a “matter-of-principle” grips with the editor. But when he entered the editor’s “Black Room” (so-called because everything in it was black, himself included) the two of them were heartily laughing at something. Don Fernando was sunk in a black leather armchair, his long legs crossed so high that one of his knees touched his chin and his glass of cognac, but he couldn’t drink for laughing. The editor seemed to have just finished telling him something and was laughing himself, but his laughter had pauses and long intervals in it, during which he was making it known to his silliness that he could stop this nonsense at any moment if necessary. But he was not stopping it, which meant that
this
—the nonsense, the laughter—was necessary.

So this was what the “matter-of-principle” discussion was all about. The embittered realization could have been read in his face, had there been somebody to read it. They went on laughing. The editor only spared a hand to gesture toward a seat. In a little while Melkior, too, touched his chin to his knee and poured himself a cognac, only he didn’t hold it to his nose—he downed it; he did not laugh. Must be something silly to make them chortle like this. A “matter-of-principle” laugh. He was irritated by the laughter. Late for the show everyone else was enjoying, he was the only one without a clue. Damned silly business! He was hurt. For we are hurt by any laughter we can’t understand.

“I thought there were big issues being discussed here, I thought I would learn a thing or two …” and he knocked back another brandy, miffed.

“Oh, so you think … what is it that Maestro calls you—Eustachius? …” (the two of them burst out laughing again) “… that
big issues
can’t sometimes be handled with laughter?” Don Fernando dropped the question from on high, adding the necessary breezy tone to accentuate his condescension.

“They can,” Melkior swatted at the question as if it were a moth flying across the room, “if it’s a Molière doing it.”

“You wouldn’t settle for a lesser authority then?” The moth was losing altitude.

“It’s the nature of laughter that doesn’t settle—it’s choosy.”

Don Fernando didn’t reply. He tried to catch the editor’s eye, to assert their spiritual bond. But the editor paid no attention. He got up and sat down at his black mahogany desk. This meant, “We’ve had our fun, now back to business.”

“We’ve trimmed your review a bit,” he said to Melkior with a considerate smile. No more than ten lines or so. Had to trim everything today. A lot of small news items.”

“Sorry I was unable to mention personalities …” Melkior was trying to provoke
the thing
, the “matter of principle.”

The editor flashed a wry smile.

“I wouldn’t expect that from you anyway,” he said with a pleasant look at Melkior. “The fellow yesterday was a different case altogether. He himself regretted that he hadn’t remembered to look around the stalls. That’s why I gave him a piece of my mind. He was all excuses and sweet talk, where you would have stalked out and slammed the door on me.”

Melkior was overjoyed that this was said in front of Don Fernando. He actually mumbled a
thank you
, which mercifully went unheard.

“Here you are, then,” the editor handed a manuscript to Don Fernando. “Regretfully. All right?” They smiled at each other with an already hammered-out understanding.

Melkior caught up with Don Fernando on the stairs. They descended in silence. Don Fernando was trying to slide the manuscript into his inside pocket, but something was in the way, blocking passage, so much so that Don Fernando’s small eyes flickered a bit in irritation.

“What, it won’t fit in the pocket either?”

“Sorry?” said Don Fernando unpleasantly and rather sharply.

“I said, the article won’t fit. Why did he reject it?”

“What makes you think he did?” Don Fernando had flushed a virginal pink.

“I know he did. Do you expect to keep a secret in a newspaper office? I don’t have it from the editor—there are at least three people upstairs who are delighted.”

“I don’t know the other two,” said Don Fernando, trying to muster a smile.

“But you know one? And that’s me?” Melkior paused for a moment on the stairs. He suddenly felt a kind of painful sadness at the insinuation and asked Don Fernando, looking bemusedly down the stairs, “Why are you so evil-minded?”

“Who, me personally?” Don Fernando had regained ascendancy over Melkior.

“Both you personally and … people in general,” and Melkior gestured hopelessly.

“My dear Eustachius, whatever’s come over you? Ha, why does Maestro call you Eustachius, anyway? The editor told me a couple of first-class stories about him. That’s what we were laughing at. Maestro is a splendid variety of madman.”

“Splendid? I wouldn’t say so. He’s more of an uncorrupted cynic. A Thersites among all the shining heroes up there.”

“So he is, up to a point …” Don Fernando was clearly trying to be
nice.
“As a matter of fact he ought to live in a tub, ha …”

“With a mind like his, an unwashed bottle would do every bit as well. He guzzles brandy. The tub is for the Dionysian liquid … or Diogenes, if that’s what you meant.”

“Yes, well … sure … But the way he does that job of his! I mean, the way he runs his city desk! The way he pecks passionately like a sparrow among the trash brought in by his garbage collectors (that’s what he calls his reporters), as if he would use all that fecal waste matter, like a crazy alchemist, to distill at least a drop of some ‘genuine’ essence or other, be it somewhat dirty and poisonous—it would nevertheless be the
genuine
truth about people, a truth more authentic and real than all those majestic and authoritative political, and even so-called cultural, scribblings.”

“He enjoys his mucky alchemy!”

“Well … I wouldn’t rule out the personal experience.”

“But he simply bathes in feces! He identifies with garbage because he’s a piece of garbage himself, and there are no libations there apart from the libation of filth dripping from his …”