Cyclops (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) by Ranko Marinkovic Page B
Authors: Ranko Marinkovic
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…
The autumnal melancholy. The aimless streets, the web of tangled dreams. A warm south wind caressing his features with a harlot’s breath; he ran his hand over his face, revulsed.
On the corner glowed the letters of the Give’nTake, blinking on and off, winking to the passerby, “Come on in, have a drink, have a laugh.” Melkior, too, understood their wink. He had passed the place twice already, the blue Give’nTake winking to him from above: “Come on in, don’t sulk, Viviana’s here.”
Viviana, here? That was why he was not going in. How many times lately had he responded to the hint by defying the malicious destiny beckoning to him. “Come on in, come on in, she’s here.” He had resisted, letting time heal … or however it was that the saying went. But tonight it had extended its magical finger, tracing Viviana’s name in the dust …
Behind the steamy glass panels there was an orgy of laughter and, surely enough, Ugo’s voice.
“They are having a good time of it,” he said like a miser watching others squander their fortunes, and decided to move on. But suddenly he spun around and in he went. The bell above the door (fitted to chime after the fleeing drunkard) dutifully announced Melkior’s entrance.
Another drunken night, smoke and antics, he thought with a touch of malice. Where’s it all going to end? But Maestro was already wheezing in a cloud of smoke—“Ah, at last, here comes Eustachius the Sagacious!”—and Ugo was rushing up to meet him and showering kisses on both cheeks, one of them planted on the eyebrow “for the pure mind.” The entire bar had to hear that Eustachius had returned from his splendid isolation. Using sweeping oratorical gestures and most scrupulously chosen words—with a special bow to the cash-register girl,
“Madam!”
—all according to Giventakian ritual, Ugo delivered an
éloge
in honor of his friend.
Melkior made his shy way through the clamor and rhetoric and headed for the familiar table at the foot of the bar, where the full complement of the “boys” was sitting.
“Approach, Eustachius the Lampion, approach the Parampion Brethren,” howled Maestro, pulling Melkior down into the chair next to him. “I’m no longer the Mad Bug, I’m the Inspired Bug—a new title, acquired during your absence,” he confided. His nose tonight was like a ripe plum and his hands were shaking badly.
A man not too old but already dissipated, a brandy-soaked drunk, the City Desk editor. His fingers and teeth were black with nicotine, his mouth reeked with the odor of an animal’s lair. He got ahold of Melkior’s neck and blew the horrible breath into his face.
Melkior coughed, expelling Maestro’s “inspiration,” and nearly choked with revulsion. He longingly remembered his peaceful room with his books; the blank white sheets of paper passionately offering themselves—“Write upon us”—he, watching the play of the flames in the cast iron stove and saying, “Wait until I’ve come up with the right words for you, my chaste little virgins.”
Female titters at the “virgins” splashed upon the play of the flames and put them out. She was here! He also knew that she was with Freddie: the man’s cloying breakfast-spread voice was clearly audible. He was just in the process of generously presenting her and that other female at the table with the outer leaves of his cabbagelike wit. Melkior monitored the voices from
the other
table with both ears and transmuted them into the evil and bitter flowers of his envy.
Ugo spoke movingly, with tears in his eyes, about Melkior’s “return” and finally asked the owner of the Give’nTake to pronounce a word or two of welcome.
“And now it is your turn, Papa Thénardier, to welcome the return of your favorite customer.”
“Oh, nonsense, I’m not much at making speeches,” stalled the owner with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I have no favorites among you, it’s a pleasure to welcome any and all
The autumnal melancholy. The aimless streets, the web of tangled dreams. A warm south wind caressing his features with a harlot’s breath; he ran his hand over his face, revulsed.
On the corner glowed the letters of the Give’nTake, blinking on and off, winking to the passerby, “Come on in, have a drink, have a laugh.” Melkior, too, understood their wink. He had passed the place twice already, the blue Give’nTake winking to him from above: “Come on in, don’t sulk, Viviana’s here.”
Viviana, here? That was why he was not going in. How many times lately had he responded to the hint by defying the malicious destiny beckoning to him. “Come on in, come on in, she’s here.” He had resisted, letting time heal … or however it was that the saying went. But tonight it had extended its magical finger, tracing Viviana’s name in the dust …
Behind the steamy glass panels there was an orgy of laughter and, surely enough, Ugo’s voice.
“They are having a good time of it,” he said like a miser watching others squander their fortunes, and decided to move on. But suddenly he spun around and in he went. The bell above the door (fitted to chime after the fleeing drunkard) dutifully announced Melkior’s entrance.
Another drunken night, smoke and antics, he thought with a touch of malice. Where’s it all going to end? But Maestro was already wheezing in a cloud of smoke—“Ah, at last, here comes Eustachius the Sagacious!”—and Ugo was rushing up to meet him and showering kisses on both cheeks, one of them planted on the eyebrow “for the pure mind.” The entire bar had to hear that Eustachius had returned from his splendid isolation. Using sweeping oratorical gestures and most scrupulously chosen words—with a special bow to the cash-register girl,
“Madam!”
—all according to Giventakian ritual, Ugo delivered an
éloge
in honor of his friend.
Melkior made his shy way through the clamor and rhetoric and headed for the familiar table at the foot of the bar, where the full complement of the “boys” was sitting.
“Approach, Eustachius the Lampion, approach the Parampion Brethren,” howled Maestro, pulling Melkior down into the chair next to him. “I’m no longer the Mad Bug, I’m the Inspired Bug—a new title, acquired during your absence,” he confided. His nose tonight was like a ripe plum and his hands were shaking badly.
A man not too old but already dissipated, a brandy-soaked drunk, the City Desk editor. His fingers and teeth were black with nicotine, his mouth reeked with the odor of an animal’s lair. He got ahold of Melkior’s neck and blew the horrible breath into his face.
Melkior coughed, expelling Maestro’s “inspiration,” and nearly choked with revulsion. He longingly remembered his peaceful room with his books; the blank white sheets of paper passionately offering themselves—“Write upon us”—he, watching the play of the flames in the cast iron stove and saying, “Wait until I’ve come up with the right words for you, my chaste little virgins.”
Female titters at the “virgins” splashed upon the play of the flames and put them out. She was here! He also knew that she was with Freddie: the man’s cloying breakfast-spread voice was clearly audible. He was just in the process of generously presenting her and that other female at the table with the outer leaves of his cabbagelike wit. Melkior monitored the voices from
the other
table with both ears and transmuted them into the evil and bitter flowers of his envy.
Ugo spoke movingly, with tears in his eyes, about Melkior’s “return” and finally asked the owner of the Give’nTake to pronounce a word or two of welcome.
“And now it is your turn, Papa Thénardier, to welcome the return of your favorite customer.”
“Oh, nonsense, I’m not much at making speeches,” stalled the owner with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I have no favorites among you, it’s a pleasure to welcome any and all
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