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,” Hermaphrodite 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.