Cyclops (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) (66 page)

Abruptly he halted. His expression was anxious, he was looking mournfully down at the ground. “I? What am I?” he asked himself bunching his fingers in front of his nose. “I’m a bug,” he replied with a kind of false despair and went resolutely on his way, “but I’m off to Khabarovsk all the same.”

Melkior moved into the shadow of the monument to poet Petar Preradovic to let Ugo pass.

But Ugo halted in front of the statue. The bronze poet held a pencil and sheet of paper; awaiting inspiration, he was staring at the front of the building opposite.

“I say, Petar, sir, do you know what
tartalom
means … in Hungarian?” Ugo asked him; watching him provocatively from down below, he waited a moment for the poet to reply. “You don’t, do you? You think it’s some kind of Greek hell, ha-ha. … It means
content.
So much for today. Take it down,” and he turned to leave, only to spin back right away: “One more thing, Petar—I’m a bug. That’s off the record. Goodbye.”

Melkior gave Ugo time to make some headway, then followed him.

Where’s he coming back from? From …
her?
he thought with hesitation.

But “she is not there—she’s not to be found
there
anymore,”
ATMAN
had said. So, where is she now … now that it’s my
turn?
The
turn
wrested a profound sigh from him.

“I? What am I?” asked Ugo of the entire city that slept on behind darkened windows and cared not a whit. …

Yes, indeed—what is he? wondered Melkior. All right, I’m Eustachius … although that’s not quite clear either … but what is he, the Parampion, Ugo, Mr. Kalisto’s son? And the city doesn’t care, the city (Melkior was having his joke) which has the honor … who knows? … does anyone know what he is, the Parampion, Ugo,
Misterkalistosson?
Or what he might yet become? Approach with caution! Because later on, if he became a He, what might we be in for?—fear or shame, depending on whether he would be lenient or not. Today he’s a bug—but what about tomorrow? Hey nonny noe, does anyone know?

“I? I’m a bug!” Ugo kept informing the sleeping city of his minuscule despair.

… Or his dreadful threat, hey nonny noe, does anyone know? went on Melkior with his joke, but less vigorously now—after all, who knows?

A thick jet of water had blocked Ugo’s way and was hissing threateningly, would not let him pass. The joking workmen had used their hose to stop
the bug.
He was trying to maneuver his way past the watery reptile, to distract its attention and scuttle away, but the arching reptile was rearing at him again and again. The little game had been going on for some time.

“Esteemed hose-wielding working men,” Ugo addressed the workmen, opening the rally, “with this mighty weapon in your hands …”

Why did he cut his speech short? Melkior was unable to make it out from his distance. Look, he’d started a quiet conversation with them; the workmen had taken a break, turned the water off, they were laughing, thumping him on the back. There, he was already having a cigarette with them! Honestly, there must be some dark force on his side! What did I say? He’ll win them over, too. He wins everyone over, men and women, Parampion the Conqueror! And he does it using what? His eyes, his mouth (his fillings!), his words, his gestures … all of it fraudulent. He felt like shouting
across there:
“The man’s lying!” And what would have happened?—They’d only stone me, that is to say they’d sweep me away with the water from their
mighty
hose, the hosers!

Envy shook him, like that, at a distance.
He
was “in the circle of his family” over there, among people, among
his own.
They were patting him on the back and he was laughing at them in his snotty nostrils, amusing himself, mocking them. “Working men!”

What is it they see in him? Melkior was disbelieving
ATMAN
, now. What she sees in him is an entertainer, a monkey, a romp. He had drunk his fill at her place. They’d taken back sausages, bread, booze. … Two couches: now you come to me,
not
like that, visit me on my couch, Mr. Romper … wait, not right away, court me a bit first. Liver-paste smears on the white bedsheets, soak one end of the towel, what will the washerwoman say? Perhaps it was at the very same moment … as “Adam and Eve” (before Coco broke down the door) … perhaps it was at the same moment that we were
romping?

Melkior fingered Enka’s key in his pocket with pleasure. … But he’s got the key to her flat! He showed it to me! he replied to a voice that was trying to console him.

But over there, around the hose, the idyll seemed to have ended. Well, there you are, I knew he was conning them … just to cadge a couple of cigarettes!

Ugo was quickly moving away from the reach of the hose; he was now revealing his deceit:

“Working men … proletariat …” he trumpeted at them with pursed lips, insultingly, sounding like an inflated balloon as it expels the air, “Come on, proletariat, spray me …”

They didn’t hesitate: in the blink of an eye they pointed the hose his way, took aim and opened the valve. The mighty jet shot vengefully forth at Ugo. Will it reach him … will it reach him? … Melkior rooted for the avenging hose.

Then Ugo let out a cry of pain: he had been hit. His hat spun in the air. The workmen shouted “Hooray” like gunners hitting their target. The quickness of the revenge gave them back their self-assurance and a taste for malevolent cackling.

They laughed at their dripping adversary.

“Long live capitalism! Down with surplus value! Long live the First of May devotions!” shouted Ugo in a kind of hysterical despair.

The workmen laughed loftily at the shouts. “Howl on, bud.” They no longer heeded him—they went on washing the street.

The pleasure of the victor, thought Melkior. He was no longer on their side … although … well, they
were
right. The wet clown in the arena. He felt Ugo’s coldness on his own skin. That was what it had been like back at the stable with Nettle … wet, cold, next stop pneumonia, I shouldn’t wonder. O Parampion, you jester, your place ought to be at the royal table. Who knows what oaf will be bumping into your skull with his spade … if, that is, your skull is still in one piece once
all this is over with and done.
And there will be no Hamlet to ask, “Whose was it?” “A whoreson mad fellow’s it was. … A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! This same skull, sir, was the Parampion’s skull.” “Let me see (Hamlet takes the skull)—Alas, poor Parampion!—I knew him, Eustachius: a fellow of infinite jest.—Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table in a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?” Quite, good my prince.

Melkior approached the workmen with a pang of guilt: at least they’re working … at that stupid wet job, while I … where am I coming from? As if they knew, he, too, expected to be drenched by the same human revenge. The rage of the deceived. Kill! Smash! Windows being smashed (a telling effect on stage), the acoustic symbol of revolt, revenge in the sound of shattering glass. You feel like the whole world is crashing down. An irritating sound, a sign of destruction and victory. What will the revolution be like?

Melkior made his contrite way past the jet of water sluicing the street. The water spurted noisily past his ear wishing him a good night and pleasant dreams.

You’re a tired man, said the water to him.

“Oh when will spring, when will spring send forth its tender shoots,” recited Ugo sadly, sniffling. (He had been sniffling all winter, ever since the night the hose got the better of him.)

Cold, gray, rainy days. Military, uniform days. Soldiers moving, olive drab, uniform, much like the days, monotonous, bundled, miserable, hopeless soldiers. Marching by day, pounding their feet bravely; stealing out by night, soundlessly, stealthily, keeping unit strengths, directions, dispositions
TOP
SECRET
. Melkior listened to the muted commands and countless feet treading cautiously and with fear at night. Going somewhere … which may turn out to be nowhere, nothing. What Kurt had sowed on their path. Sprouting now as nettles and shattered glass: a terrible pilgrimage …

They will reach a certain line and be told
halt.
By Nettle.
Count off—one-two. … Face down!
And there will they await
that day, Kurtsday.
The name day of Polyphemus the man-eating Cyclops celebrated with fierce shooting by his thunder-loving twin brother. War.

It is impossible for the blossoms of spring to bloom. To send forth green shoots and the fragrances of the freshly awakened Earth. To stretch a blue sky overhead. … The milk brother is no longer riding down the Milky Way. … Huge is the boulder with which Polyphemus has plugged the world’s door: ruling inside are silence and darkness and terror at the one-eyed beast.

Melkior unravels and spins long tangled thoughts. Hungry winter gnaws at roots under the cover of snow, hissing nastily: you, too, will be gnawing roots before long. … You’ll wish you could hide in earth like a worm, in water like a crab, under stone like a green pepper. … You say spring will not be sending forth its tender shoots. …—No, it’s Ugo who says that … —… well, you refuse to look at the greenery, you’ll close your eyes so as not to see it. …

Winter spoke like a soothsayer, like a witch. Melkior feared the advent of spring. “They’ll start marching on Russia after the snows start to melt,” Don Fernando had said the other day. “And before they do they’ll say ‘Good morning’ to us here in the Balkans. Protect their right flank. And Vissarionovitch shoved his generals aside and signed the Pact!” Don Fernando laughed bitterly.

They had been discussing this at the Corso Cafe. They were in the know.

“The snows, sure … but what about the Pripet Marshes?” said Melkior; he knew a thing or two himself. Don Fernando laughed.

“The marshes … and the business with Napoleon—oh yes, now that is sure to stop them.” Don Fernando was mocking him. “Berezina,” he laughed.

Why did he strike this conversation up with me? Melkior had recently heard in the office, from the people on the Foreign Desk, about the Pripet Marshes. They can’t have made that up—everyone was counting on the marshes.

“They are counting on the marshes,” Melkior said.

“The marshes?” scoffed Don Fernando. “And Tolstoy’s
War and Peace.”

Melkior abandoned the pointless conversation. He knew nothing apart from the marshes. Well, the Russians will bring them to heel somehow, won’t they? There’s a hundred and eighty million of them! A Chinese calculation. As for
us
(he thought of himself and shuddered), we’ll only be a mere mouthful for Polyphemus the man-eating Cyclops. …
He grabbed another two men and devoured them for breakfast
sounded like a joke.

Once the snows melt … and they’ll deal with us when spring sends forth its tender shoots.

ATMAN
had gone, moved on goodness knows where. He might have known all about it, down to the very date … he was going by the calendar, spring had “officially” come. Kurt and
ATMAN
… Melkior was now putting two and two together … they had gone.

They’d “opened up for business” across from the 35th’s barracks. … Hang on, when was it that
ATMAN
took up lodgings downstairs? … two years back … or was it three? Well, Mrs. Ema ought to know, she was one of his first clients. The Cozy Corner dated from that same time. The same “inspiration.” Who would ever have figured that one out—a chiromantist and a tavern, worlds apart. An observation post at
ATMAN’S
: the “clients” were keeping an eye on the barracks, every bit of information counts. No one was thinking about things that way. Apart from Don Fernando (had he really recruited Maestro?) —he would give
them
all their comeuppance. … He could sniff out the bastards from miles away. All—
preventively!

While
she
… Melkior’s heart contracted achingly … Mata Hari! Execution at dawn. The small courtyard of the army prison. Eight riflemen, Nettle in command. He has in fact asked permission to “finish off the bitch” himself. Eight gun barrels aimed at her heart. Her false, traitorous heart! Implacable Melkior. Really? she thinks quickly, cunningly. Are they really going to shoot me? She tries to wiggle her hips under the skirt; she thrusts out her chest, pushes her breasts forward … the sergeant’s a man after all … Nettle sees only
the bitch
, he is no man … Melkior! … Melkior! … will give his blood,
ATMAN
said … Melkior …

Melkior looks away, gives the order
—Fire!
The salvo in him resounds dully, as if underground—Viviana is dead.

He stood up from the sofa with relief.

I have buried my dead love, said the poet Sima Pandurovic … he said as he approached the window. Cold, cold, my girl, said Othello after he had strangled Desdemona. Cold, cold …

Rain was falling on wretched, bare,
dead
branches.

… without love and deceitful spring … he watched raindrops on the glass pane … sliding down … I have shot my false love …

News vendors were hawking a special edition. Passersby grabbed the papers from their hands and greedily thrust their heads between the pages then and there.

The animals are feeding … that was what it looked like to Melkior from up above. The pigs have had fresh swill poured into their trough.

He grabbed another two men and devoured them for dinner
… because it looked like evening. The spring morning has gone dusky with rain, with sorrow, with eyes peering into the dark. The
little old man
is now saying to the
giant:
musht be shome shenshation or other, eh,
bud
, sheeing azh they’ve put out an ekshtra edition?—Gr, could be, replies the
giant
.—Perhapsh the Germansh have landed in England?—No. The
giant
is on the side of the English; he defended the
George Fifth
that time. …—What maksh you sho sure they haven’t? You alwayzh know it all! the
little old man
is querulous. —I do.—You can’t know everything.—I just do, see?—Shee, shee, shee, laughs the
little old man
.