Cyclops (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) by Ranko Marinkovic Page B
Authors: Ranko Marinkovic
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so beloved, popular, ordinary, friendly, familial, lovers’ number—the number two—grew an endless monster, the inconceivable body of infinity, as terrible as fear, as vast as eternity.
That, too, was a form of torture: infinity and eternity. For we have become accustomed to seeing things tamed by forms, harnessed to our limited needs, cut up into mouthfuls to fit our appetite. Things in costume, clean-shaven, groomed for parade, for show; the humiliation of matter, being reduced to a prop, a camera, a razor, a brush.
And things are weirdly superior and heedless. Undimensional. Infinite. And all the symbols that have grown above things—like clouds condensing into being above endless waters—roam inside our heads in the guise of thoughts, worries, wishes, daydreams. Tortures.
Melkior entered his torture chamber with delight. But there was no joy to his delight, only calculation. He took pleasure in reckoning that in the twists and turns among which he ran, in the labyrinths around which he raced blithely shouting at the top of his lungs, “I’ve disappeared, I’m not here,” he would really and truly disappear from the sight of the absurdity that lay in wait for him. That he would be invisible and elude those huge, hairy, greasy fingers getting closer to him whenever his thought faltered, whenever he forgot himself and surrendered to pleasure.
Over there, around the corner, is where he lives: a room with its own access overlooking the parade ground of the 35th Regiment barracks from across the street. And over here, before the corner, is the Cozy Corner, a small bar or café which Ugo calls a
bistro.
That is where Melkior drops in of an evening on his way home to “have a drink.” The Cozy Corner is run by a German family: a small pink pot-bellied father, his face certain of the importance of his existence, a long and lean mother speaking Croatian-German in a good-natured, comical way, a plump pale daughter, Else, who looked as if she recently quit a convent, shielding her femininity from male lust and dropping her gaze when serving the tables (as if she were serving at an altar), and the son, Kurt, narrow-shouldered, broad-hipped, and with a large blonde head. Cozy Corner was the local watering hole for the sergeants from the barracks of the 35th; Melkior often wondered why only sergeants, it may be that the establishment was the right match for their rank, or some such thing.
Melkior entered and was greeted by three members of the German family (the father was seldom seen, he was always off on his business rounds), but the mother’s greeting rang out, “Goot eefnink.”
The sergeants had taken the four sides of one table; on a corner chair sat demure Else, twiddling her fingers in her lap, her eyes downcast, naturally. Kurt was serving another table: a giant and a little old man in a white linen suit left over from summer. A half-pint each.
Two tables were free. Melkior sat down at the one farther away from the sergeants’ table, sensibly, out of reach of the mothball smell of the army. Kurt was a deft waiter; he described himself as a waiter although he was a student of engineering. He served Melkior with one of “their own” special sausages and asked permission to join him.
“Ach, Herr Professor” (he addressed Melkior as Herr Professor to elevate the level of the conversation or, more likely, his own image), “I’m sick and tired of it all, you know. You toil and toil—for what? You work for a living. And why do you live? To work. It’s a
circulus vitiosus
, Herr Professor, an absurdity. Did you ever think, Herr Professor, that we all go around and around in an absurd circle, that there is no way out, none at all,” and Kurt rested his sizeable hands on the table next to Melkior’s plate. Ten fingers, fleshy, sausagelike. Melkior had just made the first incision in his sausage, but now granted it free pardon, gave up the idea of slaughtering it after seeing Kurt’s fingers on the table.
That, too, was a form of torture: infinity and eternity. For we have become accustomed to seeing things tamed by forms, harnessed to our limited needs, cut up into mouthfuls to fit our appetite. Things in costume, clean-shaven, groomed for parade, for show; the humiliation of matter, being reduced to a prop, a camera, a razor, a brush.
And things are weirdly superior and heedless. Undimensional. Infinite. And all the symbols that have grown above things—like clouds condensing into being above endless waters—roam inside our heads in the guise of thoughts, worries, wishes, daydreams. Tortures.
Melkior entered his torture chamber with delight. But there was no joy to his delight, only calculation. He took pleasure in reckoning that in the twists and turns among which he ran, in the labyrinths around which he raced blithely shouting at the top of his lungs, “I’ve disappeared, I’m not here,” he would really and truly disappear from the sight of the absurdity that lay in wait for him. That he would be invisible and elude those huge, hairy, greasy fingers getting closer to him whenever his thought faltered, whenever he forgot himself and surrendered to pleasure.
Over there, around the corner, is where he lives: a room with its own access overlooking the parade ground of the 35th Regiment barracks from across the street. And over here, before the corner, is the Cozy Corner, a small bar or café which Ugo calls a
bistro.
That is where Melkior drops in of an evening on his way home to “have a drink.” The Cozy Corner is run by a German family: a small pink pot-bellied father, his face certain of the importance of his existence, a long and lean mother speaking Croatian-German in a good-natured, comical way, a plump pale daughter, Else, who looked as if she recently quit a convent, shielding her femininity from male lust and dropping her gaze when serving the tables (as if she were serving at an altar), and the son, Kurt, narrow-shouldered, broad-hipped, and with a large blonde head. Cozy Corner was the local watering hole for the sergeants from the barracks of the 35th; Melkior often wondered why only sergeants, it may be that the establishment was the right match for their rank, or some such thing.
Melkior entered and was greeted by three members of the German family (the father was seldom seen, he was always off on his business rounds), but the mother’s greeting rang out, “Goot eefnink.”
The sergeants had taken the four sides of one table; on a corner chair sat demure Else, twiddling her fingers in her lap, her eyes downcast, naturally. Kurt was serving another table: a giant and a little old man in a white linen suit left over from summer. A half-pint each.
Two tables were free. Melkior sat down at the one farther away from the sergeants’ table, sensibly, out of reach of the mothball smell of the army. Kurt was a deft waiter; he described himself as a waiter although he was a student of engineering. He served Melkior with one of “their own” special sausages and asked permission to join him.
“Ach, Herr Professor” (he addressed Melkior as Herr Professor to elevate the level of the conversation or, more likely, his own image), “I’m sick and tired of it all, you know. You toil and toil—for what? You work for a living. And why do you live? To work. It’s a
circulus vitiosus
, Herr Professor, an absurdity. Did you ever think, Herr Professor, that we all go around and around in an absurd circle, that there is no way out, none at all,” and Kurt rested his sizeable hands on the table next to Melkior’s plate. Ten fingers, fleshy, sausagelike. Melkior had just made the first incision in his sausage, but now granted it free pardon, gave up the idea of slaughtering it after seeing Kurt’s fingers on the table.
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