Cyclops (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) (54 page)

“He’s apt to slaughter us all in ‘in his sleep,”’ said Menjou like a wise man. “We ought to report this to the Major.”

Judging by the moustache Menjou could be aiming to be a tour guide in the summer season (the Adriatic coast, with Dubrovnik at the top of the list) or, judging by his chivalry, an actor (growing his moustache to match the uniform). I don’t suppose she’s gone back to Freddie … if Parampion has gone the way of the call-up off to Petrovaradin (bastard!), and Don Fernando … By the way—there! I had an idea in my insanity!—if the Maestro has already sold his body, couldn’t Don Fernando use him for … well, let’s call it an experimental preventive murder? So that’s why he is so partial to Maestro! God knows what all may have happened back there by now. How many dead, wounded, under investigation, under suspicion … ?

“And what would you report to the Major?” he heard her voice. “That this patient reached out to me in his sleep?”

“Not ‘weached out’—embwathed you and kithed you!” This from Hermaphrodite.

“That’s not true! He didn’t kiss me!”

Oh Lord, she’s defending me! (Yes she is, you cad! replied the Lord.)

“It’s true—I saw it,” said Little Guy. “He did kiss you, but he was under my hypnosis at the time. It’s not his fault.”

A brilliant little
ATMAN
, thought Melkior, amused.

“Listen, short stuff,” said Tartuffe, “don’t make me hypnotize you, because if I do I guarantee you’ll never come to again! Stop wasting our time with that womanish bilge! This guy’s a loony, no doubt about it. I agree this ought to be reported to the Major. I’m not sharing a room with a lunatic! Let them transfer him to Neurology. For observation!”

Well, I
will
kiss the Major! Prove Tartuffe right.

“I tell you, he’s apt to slaughter us all in our sleep,” said Menjou.

“Are you really so afraid of this emaciated young man?” Speak, Angel, I’m listening! “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Such a coward—and you a cadet, too! An officer-to-be!”

Not a tour guide then? A future warrior?
Sing, Oh goddess, the wrath of Achilles son of Peleus.
… But why did they sneeze at her?

He felt an itch in a nostril and sneezed beneath the covers, a muffled but genuine and forceful sneeze. That’s from the water they poured on me, next stop pneumonia, I shouldn’t wonder, that’s what Lefty said.

“Now, he’s sneezing, too,” she looked back. She approached with circumspection and uncovered his head. “And I thought you were serious!” She was laughing.

Melkior raised a humble gaze in her direction: “I sneezed in earnest. I’m cold.” He was lying, he was in fact hot, but he had a role to play to the end.

“Nervous chills, definitely,” murmured Tartuffe implacably.

“Did you hear it—he sneezed in earnest! Hee, hee, hee,” chortled Little Guy.

“It was a genuine sneeze,” Melkior was playing Prince Mishkin.

“I believe you, I really do,” she tugged at his big toe peeking out from under the covers.

“I may have caught a cold. They poured water on me, over at the barracks. I fainted and they dumped water all over me …”

“Cold showers, of course. Treatment for schizophrenia,” explained Tartuffe.

“Theth he fainted. That would be epilepthy,” said Hermaphrodite. “It’th going to be a pwetty pickle when he thtartth having thiezurth in the woom.”

“I fainted in the stable, from the smell …”

“I’ve never heard of anyone fainting from smells,” said Menjou with superiority. “You can faint from hunger, but … You’re not telling us they didn’t give you anything to eat in the barracks, are you?”

“Of course they did. They gave me good food, meat, even jam. But I fainted before breakfast. You go to the stable before breakfast. But I wasn’t hungry, it was just the pungent smell inside … ‘Next stop pneumonia, I shouldn’t wonder,’ is what Lefty said. It was cold when they carried me outside, and I was soaked … Maybe I’ve got pneumonia?”

“We’ll check that right away,” she took out a thermometer and stuck it in his armpit. “Let’s take your temperature first.” She put her small moist palm on his forehead: “It’s not too hot.”

“So it was ‘Lefty’ who told you so?” Menjou had become curious. “What else did old ‘Lefty’ have to say?”

“Who the hell is ‘Lefty,’ you loony kook?” laughed Tartuffe.

“The one who was to my left when they took me outside the stable,” explained Melkior in detail. “There was also Righty, the one who was to my right. They were detailed by the sergeant.”

“This clinches it. Don’t anyone tell me he’s not mad!” exclaimed Tartuffe angrily. “Why, he’s a total idiot!”

That’s right, a total idiot, approved Melkior. That’s better than a Madman even! For what’s a Madman compared to an Idiot? A mere fool, babbling gibberish and inventing nonsense. Such as that there is a people called the Buriaks or some such thing living there under his bed; boasting that he’d seen the largest hole in the world and demanding that they address him as Your Highness. Now that’s a lunatic. A boaster. A show-off. Wishing to live in grand style. Playing King Lear and Prince Hamlet. An Idiot is a refined and modest sort of fellow. Introverted and taciturn. Quiet as a snail. Says only what he knows, responds when asked, and when he doesn’t know, says nothing. And everything he says is logical. And quaint, because it’s simple; comical, because it’s innocent. Cautious and wise as a donkey, always in love, with a heart so big! Melkior showed under the blanket the size of the Idiot’s heart. There, that’s the Idiot. A distinguished gentleman amid the common folk. Even a bit of a snob. Discriminating. Isolated. Choosy as to company. Taciturn, preoccupied with his thoughts. A wistful, rarefied, refined soul—that’s the Idiot. Just take a look at the wrinkled forehead and the gaze floating above everyday things …

She had sat down on the edge of his bed. Her skirt had stretched tight across the hips and the two hemispheres, one of which was leaning on his outthrust knee. The knee, sunk in the soft warm cushion, was quietly blissful. Knee-deep in clover … He envied his knee. And in the body there sprang up an unexpected desire for Enka, the petite, naughty one … “Priapus, Priapus!” She was in a light sweat all over, the small arrogant bum, two brimming handfuls of overjoyed lust.

Enka had made him forget the thermometer. They follow us everywhere, the accursed vixen (putting it Russian style). He knocked the thermometer on the head under the blanket, three hard taps and one weak one, just in case; high fever does not come all that easily if you’re a soldier. He sneezed (this time artificially) to corroborate the thermometer’s false testimony.

“You’re teasing me, too?” she asked with a bit of natural feminine coquetry.

“Teasing you? Why?” He was afraid of the touch of the knee but dared not break it.

“Haven’t you noticed they all sneeze in here?” she asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

“Yes, I have. Why is that?” Melkior was whispering too. Our Little Secret was born.

“To tease me. My name is Acika,” she reddened, “and it reminds them of the sound ‘atchoo’ so they sneeze to it. A silly name. You sneezed because of it, too.”

“No, Acika,” he said loyally. “I’m actually not well, I’ve got a cold.”

“Please don’t use my name,” she said earnestly. “It makes me feel like you’re teasing me. I’m so embarrassed to hear my name spoken. It’s as if I were caught off guard at … that’s how I feel, if you follow me,” she was blushing bright red. “And what’s your name?”

“You know it—you took it down this morning …”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember. I handle so many names …”

“It’s an odd one … Melkior.” She’s right, it’s not pleasant to hear your name spoken, and when you say it yourself you’re downright awkward.

“Well, that’s a nice name,” she said aloud, even with a tone of encouragement, as though it were a matter of their common interest.

“They’we alweady exchanging namth on the bed, hoo-hoo,” stage-whispered Hermaphrodite, his gut rumbling with laughter.

“What does that … character say his name is?” inquired Menjou, with dignity.

“He’s got a nice name—Melkior! Isn’t it lovely?” she spoke to them peaceably.

“Nithe. Hoo-hoo,” hooted Hermaphrodite mockingly.

“What sort of calendar of saints did your old man find you in?” said Menjou contemptuously.

“Christian,” said Melkior. “There were three kings of the Orient. Following a star they came to Bethlehem, to worship baby Jesus. One of them was called Melchior …”

“And that’th you,” mocked Hermaphrodite.

“Well, there
is
something royal about him, I noticed it right away,” said Tartuffe.

“My word, so there is … and you clods think it’s funny,” stated Menjou, encouraging them to laugh on.

They are laughing like warriors, beating their tom-toms around my stake. My lovable missionary Miss Acika is unable to save me. Lord, how pretty she is! —be it said in passing. Yes, pretty indeed, replies the Lord, as indifferent as a eunuch.

They’ll burn me at the stake like a heretic. They’ll cook me like the cook off the good ship
Menelaus.
But what’s the use of these scrawny bones, Oh brave chieftain the Great Menjou? They are a bundle of misery, covered with mangy ascetic skin! Nothing but three drops of blood inside—wouldn’t make a proper meal for a domestic flea! Spare me, Oh Great Menjou! Mercy!

“Sister Acika” (Menjou did not sneeze, joking time was over), “the thermometers are boiling in our armpits.”

She stood up (Acika surprised … on my knee, thinks Melkior) and looked at her watch: “Pipe down, it has only been five minutes. You never give me a moment’s respite, I’m on my feet all day.”

“Theuw aww other playtheth to thit,” Hermaphrodite offered her the edge of his bed.

“Thanks very much. Perhaps tomorrow.”

“Tomowow will be too late!” Hermaphro gave an offended grin, spittle spuming through his jutting wide-set teeth.

“There, there, don’t be grumpy,” she stroked his head.

“Who’th gwumpy? I’m laughing: hoo-hoo-hoo …”

“That’s better.”

She traced their temperature graphs in their lists, felt their pulses, counted the beats, in a well-practiced way, deftly, with her small, pretty hands.

Her fingers were soft and moist. She held Melkior’s arm, the hand dangling lifelessly, alongside her hip; her eyes were down on her wristwatch and she was counting off the seconds with her long black lashes. It was as if they were animated by a mute suffering (that’s how eyes prepare to shed tears, thought Melkior). He felt like touching the pain, stroking her in a brotherly empathetic way (darling!), and two of his fingers (two mellow eyes, two pure tears gliding down his loving heart) moved eagerly toward the touch. They felt the cold encounter of stiffened fabric (the consecrated armor of cold chastity). And yet there was
she
inside, beautiful and alive … The fingers now huddled miserably at the walls of the ivory tower and fluttered in a desperate plea … And lo, the imprisoned body responded, returning the tremor with the trembling of a frightened bird, as though two fears had touched at the border of unexpected happiness.

With a seemingly accidental movement she brushed his hand away from her hip, heaving a deep sigh and closing her eyes. An instant in which Melkior saw the devil with
ATMAN’S
eyes and Ugo’s fillings, a leering, mocking face: enter my kingdom, Eustachius.

She was by then slowly lowering her hand to the gray blanket, training a dimmed, distant look at his face. The face of a skin-shorn, desiccated,
total
idiot—those were the terms with which Melkior was now despising himself. While she, on high, above him, was a tower, solid and far too tall! What had happened to the frightened bird? … The bird had fluttered away, silent, soundless …

She entered his pulse and temperature in his list.

“Come downstairs tomorrow morning for a lung X-ray,” she said without raising her head.

“At what time, please?” He wished her to say something more to him, be it no more than the time of their “meeting again.”

“Seven,” she said on her way out, without a goodbye, in businesslike haste.

Leaving angry gloom in the room—nobody even sneezed after her.

He lay in state: arms down sides, chin above blanket, eyes closed. This is what it will be like one day. Candles, flowers, whispers all around, everything in black. The widow. Acika. An unfitting name for a widow—too coquettish. She “exchanging” glances with “Menthou,” with my nose not even cold yet. It’s best to beat them while you’re still alive,
preventively.
“Why are you beating me? For staining my memory, you bitch! Two strange trees will grow at the head of my grave, your monument to me—the horns of a cuckold!”—and I’ll carry on: bam! bop! … Or I’ll dispense with the explanation and just beat. No, Acika doesn’t suit her. Not the right name, Acika. Lucretia.—I would have liked your name to be Lucretia.—Why?— Lucretia was a legendary woman. She killed herself after being raped. —I’d kill myself too if that happened to me.—I don’t believe you.—Why? Just because my name is Acika?—I don’t believe in rape any more than I believe in the immaculate conception. I don’t believe a woman can be raped.—It has happened to more than one woman, you know.—It may have happened to some, but only partially. I don’t propose to go into the details, I’ll leave them to your imagination, but the second part of that violent act is no longer violence.—Well, what is it, then? (she, flushed with anger).—A kind of … acceptance, and I won’t swear there isn’t a certain sort of pleasure in it either; a “peculiar” kind of pleasure to be sure; “painful” even, as you might put it. It’s only afterward, when it’s all over and exists only as a memory, that the “shame” sets in. But the shame stems mostly from disappointment. With the man’s savagery and, even more, his lack of consideration, his selfishness and cynicism. If a savage were to convert while on top of her, in a manner of speaking, this could even blossom into love. She would forgive him everything thanks to his subsequent redeeming tenderness. “Ah, I remember how rough you were when you first took me! But I can now confess I liked it so much. What a he-man! A warrior! Then again, perhaps it’s the only way to find true love. You know, we women actually prefer to believe we’re being raped. We would ‘never’ have
acquiesced
if we hadn’t been ‘forced’ into it. We say, ‘no, no, no,’ don’t we, but woe to him who believes us: we never forgive him for it. Now I’ve told you all.” And then he beats her for being sincere (there, that’s the thanks you get for being sincere with them!) and calls her the worst names he can think of, as you can well imagine. —Ugh! That’s a fine opinion to have of women! Since you’re like that, you can’t really love a single one. It can’t be that all women are tarred by the same brush. Do you really think so about all women?—No, Vivi … er, Acika. That’s what the Parampion—my friend Ugo—thinks, and he fancies all women.—Well, that’s the most repugnant thing—fancying all but loving and respecting none.—But they like him, too!—Every one?—Well, most of them. You, too, would find him appealing if you knew him, precisely because he’s like that. —Then you don’t know me at all! (deeply offended).—No, no, I’m sorry (Melkior took fright), I really don’t know you
yet.
Nevertheless … (after some timid hesitation) I daresay you, too, are unable to love someone truly—a man, I mean. You belong to the Major’s Samaritan school (that’s why I’m going to give him a kiss tomorrow): a soldier in hospital is a miserable patient and nothing more. Your kindness has only sanitary value. Duty. Therapeutic, optimistic, a cheery atmosphere for the pulmonary patients: the cheerfulness of a headwaiter in the service of good appetite—have a nice time in our establishment. The winsome blandishments of an air hostess at celestial heights. The angelic smiles for sick bodies, for boils, for wounds, for the reek of rotting lungs, the stale stench of candidates for death. What’s a white swan doing in life’s repulsive hellholes? Is this a climate for love? Swan lake …