It doesn’t matter … Again there was that something that put him off of Pupo. What a perfect dutiful instrument! That other man was quiet, modest, sensible, presumably he was dutiful enough, yet in addition to that he had a strange expression of concern in his eyes … “If I didn’t work, I wouldn’t believe …” Pupo would be unable to muster such a thought.
“So,” concluded Pupo with a smile, “don’t meddle in things which don’t concern you … and find your place in these times. You’re an honest man,” he added before leaving and shook Melkior’s hand firmly: he understood and forgave.
Melkior took the handshake as an insult; that, too, was dutiful … as was the “You’re an honest man.”
At the main entrance he was greeted by a familiar cap with large golden letters on it spelling PORTER. Behind the large glass panes of the courtyard building it was dark and quiet, no lead was running into moulds, the print rollers were lying still on their axles. The clock in the porter’s lodge had stopped.
“Your clock stopped,” said Melkior to the Cap.
The smooth red face with a thick yellow moustache and golden eyebrows (which had earned him the nickname of Carrot) nodded worriedly:
“Everything’s stopped today, my dear sir. For the first time in the twenty seven years I have been sitting here.”
“What, are we having the day off?”
“We haven’t come out with an edition at all. Did you see the Morning News—‘Situation Improving …’ and the capital city gone! They’re all laughing about it upstairs.” He laughed himself, loyally. “You going up? They’re all there. Rooms full of cigarette smoke, everybody smoking like … Nobody’s doing anything. The compositors went and got drunk first thing in the morning.”
“So the situation’s …”
“… ‘bloody offal,’ as our Russian gal likes to say.”
“Carrot, don’t tell me you, too, are propagating defeatism!” Coming down the stairs was a tall cowboyish individual, the Foreign Affairs Editor. His head was unsuitable for any kind of hat and stood out with an air of importance, vast and bare as it was. While still on the stairs he attacked the red-headed porter: “I’ll shove that damned cap down your throat, gold letters and all! Already preparing to serve the new masters, are you?” He then spoke to Melkior with unspent rage, which had made his head swell further still: “Send the lot of them out to the border, let them spout their shit there! Defeatist damned nits! Already watching out not to get off on the wrong foot with the new masters, fifth-column scum!” His strong hands seemed to be looking for something to break and crush … and they unconsciously crushed between their fingers an innocent little Morava cigarette.
The porter had taken timely refuge in his cubicle and went about winding the clock.
“Why didn’t we come out with an edition today?” asked Melkior with accommodating naïveté.
“Why?” bellowed the editor again. “Didn’t I tell you—out of consideration for the enemy! I brought them news from the front, from the Fourth Army Headquarters, but no—the gentlemen want to check it, we can’t publish he-said she-said, they grumble. So what I bring is he-said she-said, is it? God damn you all!”
“Perhaps it’s because the news is bad …” Melkior was playing the fool.
“What do you mean, bad?” yelled the editor (Melkior took a step back).
“Our army’s already taken Rijeka, Zadar, Skadar! The northern frontier is firmly in our hands. The young King has left for the front line in person. The operations are moving ahead favorably … and in their book that is he-said she-said!”
Perhaps it’s true after all, hoped Melkior foolishly. He watched the little Morava, crushed between the mighty fingers, and it struck him as symbolic … those awesome, invincible fingers … and brushwood and brambles, all the brackens …
“And what does the Old Man say?”
“The Old Man’s invisible as never before! Hidden himself away in the Black Room, the Jesuit! Phoning left and right, demanding to be put through to Lord God! Asking for top guarantees for his career! Why take risks, right? Oh, God damn him!”
And off went the editor, striding hurriedly as if he had decided to undertake something elsewhere which would make all of “them up there” wail in mortal anguish. Melkior waited until the furious editor had left. He no longer wanted to go upstairs, he preferred believing our boys had taken Zadar, Skadar …
“The creep must be thinking the King will send him a decoration for this,” grumbled the offended porter. “Why don’t he go fight himself? He’s strong as an ox! Instead of taking it all out on me like … There he goes,” he jerked his head angrily to the other side, “off to the bar … to guzzle cognacs and liqueurs … and the rabble can damned well go to the wall for their lordships. No, honestly—am I right?”
“I gather you’re against …”
“Me? Neither for nor against,” the porter hastened to cut the question short. “How much is my head worth? As long as I’ve got this cap on it … that’s what it’s worth. If the cap goes, the head goes with it, as the late Maestro used to say. PORTER,” he pointed a finger at his golden letters, “it doesn’t hurt nobody’s political feelings. Look after your cap, Carrot, the late Maestro he used to shout to me when he passed by. He called me that on account of these hairs of mine.”
“He was a good sort …”
“Polda? Now there was a man!” exclaimed Carrot respectfully. “Many’s the time he’d tell me, in confidence, like: You, Carrot, you’re the only real man in the bunch! So, honest, was I a match for him—an ordinary porter? He knew each of us like the inside of his pocket, and a nice word for the ordinary man always on his lips … All the brains and all, and look how he goes—by the electricity, like a gangster. No funeral and no grave, but such a man! No, honestly—am I right or am I right?” Carrot actually brushed away a tear. “Why don’t they take that ox instead, have the vets study him?” He then asked confidentially: “Is it true they’re gonna put his skeleton on show? I’d like to take him a bunch of flowers …”
“What exhibit?”
“Up the Faculty of Medicine … he left it for the poor students to learn on …”
This is already Act Five, at the cemetery. Yorick’s skull. Prithee, Eustachius, tell me one thing … Melkior felt a chill in his bones: why this conversation just now? He felt a superstitious fear at his presentiment, left the astounded porter and hurried out into the street.
And there’s a war on again! He didn’t know which side to join—both were equally pointless. A staff automobile with a high chassis zipped past him. Inside were red lapels, white moustaches, gold: generals. He set out after them. Follow the commanders (he said) in times of war! They’re making for the front, where the young King is … Or fleeing, perhaps—leaving the King in the lurch? Whatever the case—after them!
The automobile had long since disappeared but he moved on with resolve: he had decided which direction to take. “I may be floating in formaldehyde tomorrow.” That memory, now? He tried to chase it off by means of a pretty picture postcard: city panorama—green spring, arborways, park—a view from the railway station. … A small square pool in the middle of the park: a naked pale corpse floating face down; posterior flashing white, formaldehyde reeking. … Ay, thy poor ghost, while memory … Release me from my promise!
I’m off to where the war is, he said inside with a kind of firmness —follow the generals! “Everyone is bound to fight if of hero stock he be,” they sang at school outings, children’s patriotic piping voices, the teacher with beautiful neck walking at the head, the boys following, in love with her … “Lay down his life like a knight for our homeland’s libertee!” And little Melkior was ready to “lay down his life” for the teacher-homeland with her beautiful arching neck, him unhappy at being a child, her neck full and soft, with dark tender folds. … It gave Melkior goose bumps. … When I grow up I’ll marry her. … “For our homeland’s libertee.” And now I’m following in the generals’ footsteps. …
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Before him he saw: a deserted street. A squad of ragged soldiers with outdated long rifles. Hey, where are the generals? He felt their disappearance as treason. Poor soldiers, abandoned in the middle of the street, tramping their hobnailed boots in dead earnest. Where are they off to? With those knee-length rifles? To get dry straw for Caesar at the front? Which way do you go when you go off to war?
Look, he’s still there with those ears! exclaimed Melkior almost aloud. At about ten meters ahead he had spotted that pair of huge ears and the familiar scrawny neck … Making for the invalid’s weighing machine. The desperate warfare for every gram was still on! “Everyone is bound to fight,” sang Melkior inside.
He approached the machine as if he were the “next customer”; he waited patiently for his turn.
“Now then, in God’s name,” said the catechist, removing the ballast from his pockets. About to float away, thought Melkior. “But do pay attention (he had stepped onto the machine)—precision, precision!”
“Not to worry, Reverend,” the invalid cajoled him. “Nothing but the best for a regular such as yourself. …” The invalid was missing his left arm right up to the shoulder, and the left side of his face was poorly patched together. A trench bomb, explained Melkior with expertise.
“What? It can’t be!” the catechist was astonished. “Sixty grams down since last night! No, you’ve got it wrong.”
“No way, Reverend, no way,” said the invalid with scientific certainty, “that’s what it is and no mistake.”
“But, hey, man, sixty grams since last night! You weighed me yourself.”
“I know, Reverend, I know,” shrugged the invalid indifferently, “but there’s nothing I can do—it’s what the equipment shows.” (“The equipment”—that’s what executioners call the guillotine, the gallows …) Melkior loathed the invalid’s indifference. “After all, what’s sixty grams, Reverend? It’s only a tad over two ounces … just running a light sweat would have been enough.”
“Running a sweat, indeed,” the catechist snorted. “I’m shivering with the cold! Look, it’s beginning to snow!” Indeed, there was the odd snowflake here and there to heighten Dom Kuzma’s suspicion.
“Well, there are losses beside sweating,” the invalid smiled at Melkior, “I don’t have to spell it out, do I?”
“Losses beside sweating …” repeated Dom Kuzma, unthinking. Having noticed Melkior by his side, he began to stuff his belongings back into his pockets in embarrassment. All of a sudden he raised his head toward the invalid, radiant with joy: “You were right, friend, I had an orange in my pocket last night! That’s the sixty grams!” He stepped down with a smile, full of unexpected optimism. But the devil relished spoiling his joy: “All the same, I do have my doubts about your machine …” He went off entirely unhappy.
“God give me strength!” sighed the invalid with relief. “Yes, sir.”
Melkior lay a one-dinar coin shamefully on the cover of the little box and went away without stepping onto the machine.
“What about the weighing?” said the owner of “the equipment” in surprise: it takes all kinds …
“No need,” said Melkior, more or less to himself. Davos, the glaciers … white all around and a tinge of illness … there was no need for anything. He felt shame and anger. The Cyclops Polyphemus, the beast, now treads the Earth! (He was foaming at the mouth.) A stinger and wasp’s venom … so I could stab his gorge …
He noticed what he was saying and it struck him as comical. But laughter was deaf at his observation. Laughter is a robot anyway! he said angrily.
But the sound of laughter came … from somewhere close, so near as to surprise him: where did the echo come from?
“Your attention, heh, heh, heh …”
All of a sudden there materialized before him a leering drunken face with dark fillings. Ugo was leading a mob of drunks picked up in dives along the way … a noisy and motley crew, from ragamuffins like Four Eyes to the elegant dandy Freddie. What’s this combination, now? wondered Melkior. As a matter of fact, Freddie was rather standing “aside” (not his crowd), but Four Eyes kept addressing him as “Your Highness” and attempting to fling an arm around Freddie’s shoulders.
“Your attention, lowlifes,” spoke Ugo to the mob, “here’s our Conscience—bow down!”
Four Eyes bowed humbly, who knows, it might turn out to be a wise move. An unshaven and dirty individual laughed in his face.
“Cut the cackling, Shitface!” Four Eyes warned him. “He’s got more in his little finger than …” He was remembering the drinks on Melkior at Kurt’s Cozy Corner … ahh, those had been the days!
“Shut up, Basilisk!” Ugo snapped at him, “you always ruin everything!”
“Yes, Master …” Four Eyes looked around the mob, honored: he had acquired a moniker.
“Welcome at long last to our midst, oh, Sun!” Ugo waved his arms fawningly, “we’re lost without you! Just say the word and … Where shall we go?”
“To …” Melkior opened his mouth, but rage rent all his words. In his dry, bitter mouth he felt the vexing taste of a kind of spite; a brackish vengeful hatred which had long been gathering momentum inside him burst its inarticulate, savage, animal-like, speech-deprived way into his mouth, and he spat it out unconsciously, dryly, almost symbolically, right in Ugo’s face which was grinning fetchingly before him in confident expectation.
This is what Freddie had been waiting for: he rushed in first (to settle accounts with the pen-wielding artist at last!), the others followed. … Get the weirdo!
Ugo elicited Melkior’s admiration once again. He never even winked after being spat on—he only gave him a moist, blurred look. He then calmly turned to face the mob and stepped in front of Melkior spreading his arms in protection:
“Over my dead body!” he said resolutely. “Shitface,” who had been spoiling for a fight, cursed. “Quiet! And everyone to his proper place! There’s a higher form of justice, this is not your calling. Fredegarius, resheath your pinewood prop sword! Open the ranks, make way for Eustachius the Magnificent!”
The mob parted obediently, and he made a gracious gesture, waving Melkior through.
It’s a hoax … thought Melkior, distrustful. (Freddie was smirking insidiously from the side.) But there was nothing to be done, he had to go … His back broke out in goose bumps, expecting blows … He passed halfway through the gauntlet; nothing happened (this is how people used to be flogged); he reached the end; this is where it starts … But there was nothing, not a thing, not even a single nasty poke …
O Parampion! He felt like turning back and giving Ugo a hug. But he was still not convinced. And once he’d been convinced he still thought: it could just as well make the madman regret what he’d just done …
“And now, you crew of good-for-nothings, forward to new adventures!” he heard Ugo command behind him. But there was a despondent and sad undertone to the voice, like a desperate call after something that had been lost … or so it seemed to Melkior.
He now wished only to move on around the next corner, as if there were a different world there.
Everything was the same around the next corner. The street, the infrequent passersby with half-frozen noses. (It was the sixth of April —some spring!) They were watching the random Sunday passersby with indifference. Idle, useless watching. … Was that war—people looking on, indifferent, dull? Had they stared at Sunday mornings before?—He could not recall. Ugo is talking gibberish—the war is invisible.
An aeroplane droned very high overhead. There it is, said Melkior. Solitary onlookers were gathering into knots as if an accident had taken place, raising their noses. “Reconnaissance,” explained an expert (everybody was listening trustingly), “he’s flying solo at a great altitude—he must be on a reconnaissance flight. Photographing. The bombers follow later … And our anti-aircraft fellows are not lifting a finger …”
The man barely said the words before guns started booming. The aeroplane was a tiny toy high
among the clouds. Small white cloudlets blossomed beneath it. … “He’s too high—they’re wasting their ammo,” said the expert.
Should they save it for Christmas then? thought Melkior irascibly. Let them boom on!
Funny, the rumbling … (he walked away with derisive thoughts) … as if we were celebrating something down here …
“It’s not very wise to stand around in the street,” he heard the expert behind him, “shrapnel comes down all over.” Melkior drew closer to the façades … as if it were raining, he laughed at his prudence.
“Keep away from the wall!”
A soldier—a sentry—was standing in front of him, on his rifle a bayonet, on his head a helmet. Over the gate was dejected gray lettering on a dirtied gray background: GARRISON COMMAND.
“Keep away, you hear!” The soldier was already unslinging his rifle.
“I’m going in,” Melkior told him uncaringly and tried to enter.
“Wait!” bawled the sentry rudely, then yelled into the gate: “Sarge!”
Out came a young, emaciated man, his face sickly but his eyes keen and feverish.
“This one here,” the sentry tilted his head at Melkior.
“What do you want?” asked the sergeant, irritated.
“To see the Orderly Officer,” replied Melkior importantly. This must be the place, he thought.
“You’re looking at him.”
“Your superior,” said Melkior.
“Can’t see you. He’s busy. There’s a war on, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“I’m on official business.”
“What kind?”
“Important.” Saying this, Melkior smiled and, so it seemed, gave a slight wink.
“C’mon in.” Outside one of the doors the sergeant said: “Wait.”
A long empty corridor with a floor scarred by army boots, a row of gray doors opposite which tall windows looked out on a barren, mournful yard. Why is everything so hopeless in here? Melkior was about to leave, but then the door opened and the sergeant said: “Come in.”
The room smelled of garlic and brandy. It appeared to be empty. On the desk, under a picture of the young King, were a half-full bottle, an inkwell in a wooden holder, and the remnants of some processed food among several sheets of paper scattered helter-skelter. It was moments later that Melkior noticed an army bed as well, and on it a man under a gray blanket.
Cyclops (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) Page 60
