Cyclops (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) by Ranko Marinkovic Page A

whether he was robbed or not.”
    That was the ear-stroking citizen, disgruntled at the matter having been left unsettled.
    “He’d have hardly spoken like that if he hadn’t been, would he?”
    “Oh come on, it’s only thieves nowadays who shout ‘Stop thief.’”
    Only Melkior and the cyclist remained. The blind man was there, too, but he was pottering about his machine, covering it with its oilcloth cover (for the night), and was so intent on it as to be actually absent.
    Melkior felt the uneasy accident of his position and said “There” and, a little later, “Thank you” and, in his confusion, buttoned his raincoat up wrong.
    “Yes, well,” said the cyclist, ill at ease himself, but then he remembered Four Eyes: “The thieving scoundrel! The shoes old Owl says he wants to buy his boy … when the rotten lush hasn’t got a cat to call his own.”
    “Owl?” Melkior voiced his surprise. “But isn’t his name …?”
    “Nah! Everybody calls him Owl. God knows what his real name might be. He does the rounds of the bars at night, rolling the drunks, and sleeps in attics by day. The other day he nearly set our bookkeeper’s house on fire. He was playing with matches, some old papers caught fire … the firemen had a job getting him out of the smoke.”
    The cyclist was silent for a moment, then shyly asked:
    “That other fellow … is he a friend of yours?”
    “Yes. Don’t mind his behavior, he was a bit …”
    “Mind?” said the cyclist genially. “I like his kind. He made fun of us all and went away singing. He can’t be a bad man.” He then asked in a confidential tone:
    “Do you by any chance have any connections with the newspapers?”
    “Yes I do. I write for one.”
    “Well, uh … what’s the word about us getting into the war?”
    “I don’t write anything political … but they say we might …” Melkior shuddered as if they were invoking the devil.
    “Well, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if Hitler bit off more than he can chew here in the Balkans! Mark my words!” said the cyclist with fervid conviction. “We may meet again somewhere. You’re an honest man,” he added with a cheery laugh, then mounted his bicycle and, tossing Melkior a “Bye now!” sped off down the street.
    What’s this? The words were thought soundlessly and had a blind man’s meaning of: Where am I? All of a sudden everything seemed strange: the streets, the trams, the houses, the people … even the human faces themselves. He had been transported here in his sleep, he had woken up on the corner by the weighing machine. … He felt ashamed, naked as he was, he feared they might be watching him, those passersby and those women up there leaning out of windows and laughing in such a …
    “You didn’t pay for the weighing!” The blind man’s rude voice brought him back to familiar relationships. He paid the fee. The small task reminded him of his other duties. In his pocket he still had a ticket for a film with von Stroheim and Viviane Romance, but instead of going to see it he had followed Dom Kuzma down the path of childhood memories. … And ended up by the weighing machine … weight control …
Ta-ta-taaa, ta-ta-taaa, ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-taaa …
the bugler from the barracks was announcing the sad taps of army life. He started down the dark alley of the 35th Regiment, and the sad go-to-sleep tune robbed him of any desire to go up to his rooms across from the barracks.
    He was treading on autumn leaves. The leaves rustled with a withered voice …
and I remembered my sweet dreams; happy days, where are you now?
the song inside him complemented the rustling of leaves underfoot. He was supposed to do a review of the film that night in time for the next day’s issue. Beautiful Viviane Romance played debauched vamps. He was overcome with sadness every time he saw a film of hers. And his heart fluttered inside him for Viviana, the woman he had so dubbed for the sake of purging his love, sad and hopeless