Cyclops (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) (50 page)

“The magician in the night club … by any chance would his name have been Adam?” asked Melkior, just to ask.

“Where did you pull Adam from? Hang on! Yes, it
was
Adam! How did you know? That’s right, his name was Adam, and he had some kind of artiste-style tag to it. Brahmaputra or something, I forget which. Adam, of course, that’s why they called his wife Eve.”

“Did she also work in the circus?”

“Ticket girl, one heck of a looker, that’s why the manager stuck her in the ticket booth. And this character Adam followed her—joined the circus himself. Oh, Eve rolled into everyone’s bed like a fragrant ripe quince. The whole troupe had tumbled with her in turns, down to the seal and the monkey, and finally it was my turn. I forgot my (heh, ‘my’) angel Marie and got going with Eve the ticket girl. Brahmaputra got to suspecting the fidelity of his lady wife, well, it was the talk of the dressing room after all, everyone knew, except himself of course, which was only to be expected, and she, the mega-whore, ‘confided’ in her husband, which again was only to be expected, told him I kept bugging her, she was at her wits’ end how to defend herself and people were starting to talk, if he hadn’t heard he’d hear soon enough … Of course he couldn’t believe such a beauty would fall for me, the failed son of an unknown father and a random mother, looking like they’d made me in a dustbin.

“Well, to cut it short, he gave me a thrashing (poor
ATMAN
, thought Melkior) in the stable, even the horses were sorry for me, with her singing outside at the top of her lungs, to drown out my cries I suppose. I thought he’d figured it all out and was paying out my just desserts. But I couldn’t see why she would be singing. And when he’d finished she rushed in, pretending to be surprised, harping on him for being too jealous, pleading with him for mercy, also forgiveness or something, me being so young, etcetera. He then let me have another round of the same and I was still wondering why he didn’t give her a beating, too. Well, he didn’t want to light into her in front of me, I thought, he’ll settle with her later … I stayed lying there, all battered by those dreadful bones in his hands. (Melkior remembered
ATMAN’S
fingers cracking at the joints.) And she came back in the evening, while he was doing his number, started hugging and kissing me, wanted to do it right there in the straw. Somebody must’ve told him about us, she says, and he, the fool, can’t do anything short of murder; come on, she says, take your revenge here and now, at the scene of the crime. I was in no condition to do it though, beat up as I was. But she was such a bitch I could have done it dead. Well, never mind—the thing was, his trouble was yet to come. The next day, just before the show, I mucked up all his props, but I took care to leave them looking all right. I watched his catastrophe from behind the curtain: all his tricks seen through, the audience rolling with laughter—they thought the screw-up was a trick, too, they took it there was going to be a clever high point at the end. High point heck, there was no point at all, everything went like that straight to the end, and in the end, when his downfall was complete he grabbed his head with both hands (and you can imagine the booing in the audience) and staggered back to the plush curtain and roared ‘Where is he? I’ll kill him!’ I was of course well away by then. But how did you know his name was Adam?”

“Oh …” said Melkior with hesitation, “I used to know a palmist who was called that.”

“Tall, bony? Eyes by Picasso?”

“Yes, just about …”

“So he’s into palmistry now? Doing old women, ha-ha. Is Eve still with him?”

“He’s by himself,” though, not quite, Melkior added bitterly to himself, thinking of Viviana.

“So, no more Earthly Paradise.” The bugle sounded. “Ah, there it is, Theory Class call. Don’t laugh in class, I strongly recommend. There’ll be important scientific discoveries to hear.”

School. Four shorn heads per bench. Numbskull sitting up front, among the shorter men. A handsome strapping lieutenant walking among the benches. He let his saber clang importantly on the floor (it didn’t seem to have any other military purpose anyhow) while running, up high, his long slim fingers over the stormy waves of firm dark hair, checking the wave level of the officer haircut. A symbol of superiority over the shaved heads. A kind of power, Old Testament style, over the shorn Philistines. The lieutenant was moving his jaw; speaking. Melkior didn’t understand what he was saying—he was only watching the jaw work and the slim fingers dance on the waves. And Melkior spoke, saying: With the jawbone of an ass, heaps upon heaps, with the jaw of an ass hath he slain a thousand men. With the jawbone of an ass hath he slain us. And Melkior’s jaw dropped in wonder at the marvelous wavy hair and the power that lay therein.

“What’re you gaping at like an imbecile? Are you listening to me?”

“I am.”

“I am,
sir
, you moron!”

“I am, sir.”

“All right then, let’s hear Guard Mounting Procedure. On your feet!”

Melkior stood up, speaking not about Guard Mounting Procedure but (inside) about how with the jawbone of an ass, heaps upon heaps, with the jaw of an ass hath he slain a thousand … warrior tales.

“You don’t know? Oh, you’re new? Well, make an effort, listen to the others. Sit down.” He may have sensed a grin somewhere.

“You, big nose, what’re you laughing your silly head off for? C.O.’s report tomorrow! Let’s hear about the GMP,” using the already familiar acronym, “from you, Numbskull!”

Some powerful spring threw Numbskull to his feet; all aquiver with his tense alertness he ripped off Guard Mounting Procedure like a volley into an enemy’s breastbone, in a resolute, soldierlike manner. Nine Honors degrees! thought Melkior.

“Was it Nettle who first called you Numbskull? I must say you seem to be a bright enough boy.”

“Don’t know about that, sir,” reported Numbskull briskly, “I do my best, sir.”

“Very good, Numbskull.”

“Thank you,
sah!
” yelled Numbskull in the prescribed manner.

“All right, no need to shout, this isn’t close order drill. Sit down.”

“Yes, sir.” Only when he sat down did Numbskull command his body, At Ease, but kept his head high, within the lieutenant’s sphere: he was not going to be caught napping or clowning.

“Diplomacy? Balls!” Among the rows of benches strode a large major, a warrior type, a bowlegged horseman in riding boots. Jangling his spurs. Hands clasped on his rear end, shoving the benches with his knees, get out of my way, speaking in a quarrelsome tone: “Lying in their teeth! Dinners, luncheons, grand receptions, champagne, cakes, mayonnaise! Top hatters! Greedy bastards! Going at it in limousines, in damned opera boxes, chignons, lorgnons, white tie and tails, gold, diamonds, buggers, actresses, ballet dancers … Distinction! Protocol! Damned whores, the lot, women and men alike! Scum of the Earth! Right, but there comes a time when the whore’s feast comes to an end! No more drivel at the green table! They are running for it with their damned lorgnons, scrambling down into miserable rat holes, lily-livered vermin! Well, that’s when we soldiers step in and go to war! No more
plizz
and
par-dong, Monsewer
and
Modam
, it’s get shooting and get pounding and we’ll see who ends where! You’ve shat out plenty of ‘diplomatic notes,’ well, by God, it’s time we rolled out a note or two of our own on our own damned instruments!”

The major stopped pacing about—there was a war on. Over was his cursing, quarrelsome, prewar mood when he had borne the diplomatic toadying and whorish duplicity with humiliation. Now you knew who you were: a soldier, damn it! Now you settled your differences openly, face to face, in plain language, and may the best man win!

Yes, but it didn’t follow that any old fool could make war. Resolution and courage were all very well, you couldn’t hope to be a soldier without them, but that was not all. You needed a bit of learning—the art of warfare. That’s why you were here, basic training.

“Listen up, look at him! Say, getting your bearings. You’ve been cut off from your unit—or dispatched on assignment—how are you going to find your bearings? You there. What are you—a professor? Shoot, prof.”

“By the sun, sir.”

“There’s no sun. It’s night.”

“By the stars then, sir.”

“No stars either. Sky’s overcast.”

“Oh, well,” the prof remembered, “I’d use my compass.”

“Clever son of a bitch, you haven’t got a compass, you haven’t got a thing except your useless brains.”

“Then I don’t know, sir.”

“Of course you don’t. That’s why you’re here—to learn. Listen up, look at him! How many of you are from the country? Ah, plenty of peasants, good. All right, you, the hick, suppose you tell these city slickers how you’d get your bearings.”

“I’d ask, sir.”

“Ask who? God the Father?”

“A peasant, sir.”

“Oh, you mean a peasant would be hanging about there in the middle of the night, just waiting for you to ask him?”

“He might happen along …”

“Happen along indeed. … How’s your Hungarian?”

“Hungarian, sir?”

“Well, we ought to be good enough to advance the front line to Hungary, should we not? That would make him a Hungarian peasant.”

“No, I don’t speak a word of Hungarian, sir. I do have a touch of German, but Hungarian …”

“Of course you don’t! Can anyone do better than him?”

“I can, sir. I’m from Senta.”

“Well?”

“I can, sir. I speak Hungarian.”

“Now listen here, Mama’s boy,” the Major brought his face close to his and lowered his voice, and that spelled something truly dreadful, “is this your idea of a joke? A C.O.’s report? no fear! I’ll have you pissing blood, I will! ‘I speak Hungarian’? You’ll be speaking bloody Turkish before I’m done with you—and you’ll be free to complain to Father Allah and Saint Mahomet then!”

“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean no … I thought …”

“Silence!” the Major shot the word at him like a bullet from a pistol. “ ‘I thought,’ indeed! You’re not supposed to think! You can sell your profound thoughts to your no-good buddies over in Senta! You’re just a lot of seditious rebels anyway, all of you from over the Danube and the Sava! Over here you think like I tell you to, see?”

“Yes, sir,” stammered the boy, but the Major was paying him no attention by then.

“Listen up, you … Silence! In a forest, where you can see no sun and no stars … and look at him, wants me to give him a compass, like hell I will! … you will orient yourself … listen up, look at him! … by moss. What’s so funny, look at him! (Nobody was laughing, of course.) Why moss? Anyone?”

“Sir,” spoke up Numbskull.

“Go ahead.”

“Moss grows on the shady side of the trunk, because that’s where it’s damp. …”

“Very good,” enthused the Major.

“Thank you,
sah!”
yelled Numbskull.

“Never mind thanking me—get on with it!”

“… and the shadow is, as we know, on the north side.”

“That’s right, on the north side! Damned good show!”

“Thank you,
sah!”
Numbskull was not forgetting the Royal Regs.

“Right, now establish your bearings. See that dork—thought he’d ask an enemy peasant. So smart he’d try to hitch a ride on a hedgehog.”

“Now that I know which way’s north, I position myself so as to face due north, where the moss is. Behind my back’s south, my right arm is east and my left arm west.”

“Damned straight!”

“Thank you,
sah!”

“Wonder which fool chose to call you Dimwit.”

“Numbskull, sir,” Numbskull corrected him shyly and modestly. “It was only a joke, sir. …”

“This is no joking matter! This is not a circus! I’ll get that Nettle yet!”

“Sir, I never said anything about …”

“Silence! I know him—this is his brand of shenanigans! That Cossack from the steppe making my finest men a laughingstock! Here, you knew about this orientation by moss business all the time—why didn’t you come out with it right away?”

“I hadn’t remembered, sir, until you said.”

“Good. Sit down.”

“Thank you,
sah!”
Numbskull was not letting up. He sat down, broadcasting his pleasure.

The Major was very pleased, too. He was still shouting and swearing, but with a paternal smile—even addressing them as “lads”— “listen up, lads, look at him!” And it was all thanks to Numbskull: he had created a cozy family atmosphere out of nothing, out of a handful of moss, as it were.

“Listen up, lads, look at him! Pay attention to me, slacker! Here, what is it we learned about orientation by moss? Let’s hear it from … you!” and he suddenly skewered a beanpole in the back row with his finger. The beanpole gave a start, jumped to his feet and said all about shadow, damp, north-south, east-west …

And everybody else turned out to have it down pat. Melkior, too, had it down.

“Very good, boys!” exclaimed the Major in delight.

“Thank you,
sah!”
thundered the boys. The Major marched down the aisle between the benches reveling in the tribute from the skin-shorn heads and went out of the triumphal door: with boys like that he had no fear of Hitler’s moustache or Mussolini’s shaven pate!

Melkior, too, was carried away by mellow thoughts: see how we could live in peace and mutual respect … If we took a leaf from Numbskull’s book … But how did he know which side the moss grew on?

“How? Heh-heh, I told you: nine Honors degrees!” replied Numbskull in the mess hall at lunch, tapping his nose. “You know the year of Luther’s death, not me. You can wipe your butt with all the Schopenhauers. What counts here, as you can see for yourself, is moss!” said Numbskull, eating Melkior’s lunch.

Lifemanship. Melkior felt his being trapped, deprived of ingenuity, exposed to Polyphemus the cannibal, defenseless. Oh Lord (why do you invoke Me, said the Lord, if you don’t believe in Me?), I will have to surrender. I have no choice but to surrender to the man-eating Cyclops, come what may. There are fifty-seven young men and thousands of young men more and millions of young men beyond them caught in a high-ceilinged cave overgrown with laurels, and Polyphemus the huge Cyclops has lifted a boulder and plugged the entrance to the cave … and everyone inside awaits, meek as lambs, for their destiny to be chosen by the Lord. So why should you worry at all about your stunted little body?