Cyclops (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

  Yes, that is what the red-haired Asclepian (with unpleasant subcutaneous gland exudations, we must never forget this condition of his) says, but not even he quite means it. What he does mean is beyond Melkior’s invention. The Major has embroiled himself in the story. What is he to do with the poor Asclepian who, through the Major, is now turning into a Nice Man? As recently as yesterday he was about to play a cruel prank, and now he is trying to think of something to do for his lot from the Menelaus, who are waiting to be eaten. Possibly out of mercy (if Don Fernando would allow) there is germinating in him a curious ambition to change these people’s destiny. But how? That is what Melkior cannot work out.

  What is he to do? he asks his imagination in creative despair. In passing he addresses the poor agent’s destiny. But the very next day the old seaman tells him that Mr. Agent has become a big wheel. He had been given a palm-leaf skirt and a parrot-feather cap, become the High Medicine Man’s chief assistant and a personage close to the Chief himself.—And what about the gold chain? Has he been allowed to keep the chain with the cross and the clover leaf?—But this does not allay the doctor’s envy. The merchant fool making such a career! Mercury’s porter assuming the place of a child of Asclepius! Well, one thing was clear: something decisive and important must be done immediately! But what, but what?

  From the corridor came the holy rustle of a stiff dress and hurrying little footsteps on rubber heels. Melkior’s body trembled in fright. He whispered, “She’s coming,” and set about selecting a welcoming face. He felt repeating on his face the selfsame unprepared surprise with which he had encountered Viviana, and closed his eyes like a child, seeking shelter in mimicked sleep. But when he felt her entry he opened his lashes just wide enough to check, will her gaze search for me?

  Darling! Even as she was saying good evening her eyes sought his bed. He closed his eyes happily like a blissful little dog being stroked. Darling! He was choking with a thick feeling of happiness.

  “The new man … is he asleep?” he heard above him the careful whisper by his cot, in the muddled daze of his childhood fevers, the voice of his young mother. But the happy spasm suddenly receded in an unexpected and mournful recuperation. The cold indifference of the familiar, in-house term “the new man” humiliated him like a number on a prison jacket. That’s the extent of my presence here, as the new man, the striped anonymity of one of those. And Melkior did not open his eyes. He went into a false sleep, with the breath of a weary sleeper, from disappointment and spiteful misery. He felt her vertical proximity touch him with cold aloofness. She was moving, rustling like paper, in the magnetic field of his great amorous yearning, with the insensitivity of a foreign, indifferent body. She is not sensing the presence in me (under this army-issue blanket) of a wonderful world made for her beauty. My heart is tired and I no longer have a body with which to kiss you. I give you, beloved, the clouds floating over my dead eyes. And Melkior pictured himself dying (in revenge) under the gray blanket loyally trimmed with the royal colors. Inside, in the death of his eyes, he saw a strange life of liberated colors, a wondrous hovering of multicolored fancy over the black expanses of his dejected solitude. He felt the need to crawl inside his quaint kaleidoscope, to hide and vanish before the fear of further yearnings.

  “All right then, we’d better let him sleep,” came her voice from that other, former space where life was dangerous and bitter. And he wished to return from the labyrinth of his forlorn absence following that voice, to wake up among things in the grayness of the rainy afternoon under the tender protection of her benevolence. But he heard no benevolence in the casual plural, which meant only the resolution of a dilemma—should she or should she not wake him in the line of duty. So much the better if he’s asleep, that had meant, no need to bother with him, then.

  “But he’s not asleep at all, Sister … atchoo!” sneezed the one who had called him Tartuffe; the others responded with a salvo of sneezes.

  It’s some kind of salute, that volley, thought Melkior, and he was afraid it might conceal a form of mockery.

  “Gesundheit!” she replied with a peal of laughter, apparently honored by it. “The epidemic’s still on, is it then?” and she took five thermometers from a breast pocket, one for each to tuck into his armpit.

  But the fifth remained in her hand. “This one’s still asleep.”

  “Like hell he is!” spoke up Menjou. “Stop playing the fool, Tartuffe. Reveal the secret of your bodily temperature.”

  Why couldn’t I be asleep? protested Melkior in his fake sleep. This is a bit too much, doubting a man’s sleep.

  She leaned over the bed studying his face.

  “He really is asleep,” she whispered (he felt her breath on his eyelids).

  “Leave him alone—he’s tired, poor boy.”

  “Tartuffe,” said the little fellow in the bed next to his in a harsh whisper, “there’s an angel hovering over your head. Reach out, embrace the angel, Tartuffe.”

  Everybody laughed in an ugly, teasing way. She, too, was smiling, bent over his face. Through his barely open lashes Melkior could see the sun between the black curtains: the beauty of her breasts under the white shield, and the white neck and the smiling eyes. Her breath caressed his face, he felt the fragrance of her nearness, and the Little Mephistopheles whispered on, “Reach out, Tartuffe, embrace the angel …” and his arms really reached out on their own (he knew full well he did not mean to do it), embraced the pretty niece, and forcefully drew her angelic head down to his lips.

  Her scream shot the two predatorial limbs through, they released the victim and dropped back lifeless onto the royal colors of the army blanket.

  Melkior started from an insane dream (and he really felt like a man waking up), propped himself on his elbows, and peered around in surprise—he was understanding nothing. “No, it wasn’t an acte gratuit, I was dreaming, ahh, I was dreaming … Not an acte gratuit.” Stammering it forth like an explanation to his awakened consciousness.

  She had her face covered with her hands and was still shaking all over.

  Moustache à la Adolphe Menjou was already there at her side, trying to peel her palms from her face: “But what did he do to you, Nurse, what did he do to you?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” she replied from inside the palms, fighting back tears. “He didn’t do anything to me. He was dreaming … God, it gave me such a fright!”

  “Thtuff and nonthenth! He wathn’t dweaming at all!” lisped a fat, toothy hermaphroditic individual from the bed by the door. “He wath going to kith her, that wath hith dweam.”

  “Listen you, whatsyourname,” Moustache a la Adolphe Menjou said threateningly to Melkior, “what were you trying to do to the nurse?”

  She had now moved her hands away from her face and stepped protectively between Menjou and Melkior: “Leave him alone, it was in his sleep. Go back to your bed.”

  “Hee-hee, he was prompted by my suggestion,” triumphed Little Guy. “I had him hypnotized.”

  “You what? Don’t be ridiculous!” interjected Tartuffe angrily. He wished Menjou would tackle Melkior.

  “No, honest! I’ve worked at it!” protested Little Guy. “We did suggestion and hypnosis at the university. I’m a psychologist.”

  “You are a psycho all right! Don’t give us that crap!” Menjou was really angry. He had not succeeded in hitting Melkior. He was jealous. He thought he was entitled to be because he was handsome.

  “Tell me, sir,” Little Guy pleaded with Melkior, “tell me, please —did you do it at my suggestion?”

  “I don’t know what I did,” replied Melkior worriedly and somehow tired. “I must have done something in my sleep. I’m so sorry, Sister.”

  “Why, he’s insane!” exclaimed Tartuffe delightedly. “Can’t you see he’s insane? Look at his glassy eyes! I saw right away he was mad as a hatter.”

  “Why a hatter?” Little Guy the psychologist was being the derisive expert.

  “That’th how the thaying goeth, thtupid,” Herma
phrodite informed Little Guy. But Tartuffe didn’t feel like talking to Little Guy: “Hey look, he’s out of his mind. He’s dreaming about something again … Look at those eyes!”

  Melkior was still sitting motionless in bed, mournfully gazing into an invisible distance. He was muttering the same question over and over again: “Was that an acte gratuit?” No, it was not an acte gratuit, he replied, seemingly disappointed, but that was not what was on his mind at all. He was only using the words to build a roadblock to another thought struggling to break through to his consciousness, a thought he feared and consequently set a trap for in the form of Ugo’s leering black fillings: now that’s what I call an acte gratuit! Well done, Eustachius! But no, no, it wasn’t an acte gratuit … He was fighting for the truth. And while the fight went on he could hear his thought outside, outside this fog enveloping his consciousness, from a clear world where things could be seen for what they were: why, he’s insane! Can’t you see he’s insane?

  This, then, was insanity? Melkior lay down on his back and drew the covers over his head. Such a strange condition: nothing going on in the head, a roar of blood in the ears, and a terrible desire in the arms. I’m insane, then. The thought sounded almost funny in his mind. He was smiling under the blanket. Well, perhaps I’m sly, eh castaways, perhaps I simply pulled a good one with that kissing business? She’ll be feeling sorry for me yet. So, it wasn’t an acte gratuit after all, it was simulated madness. Which is much more preferable in my situation. A military situation. A thtwoke of geniuth! he marveled at himself. It’ll get about, that kiss. And tomorrow I’ll kiss the Major, too, to dispel all thuthpithion. Deprive them of a “sexual” explanation. Never mind an acte gratuit, I’m insane! Parampion, I declare myself insane. Orate, fratres!

  “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!” Sh
e 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.