“He was a good sort …”
“Polda? Now there was a man!” exclaimed Carrot respectfully. “Many’s the time he’d tell me, in confidence, like: You, Carrot, you’re the only real man in the bunch! So, honest, was I a match for him — an ordinary porter? He knew each of us like the inside of his pocket, and a nice word for the ordinary man always on his lips … All the brains and all, and look how he goes — by the electricity, like a gangster. No funeral and no grave, but such a man! No, honestly — am I right or am I right?” Carrot actually brushed away a tear. “Why don’t they take that ox instead, have the vets study him?” He then asked confidentially: “Is it true they’re gonna put his skeleton on show? I’d like to take him a bunch of flowers …”
“What exhibit?”
“Up the Faculty of Medicine … he left it for the poor students to learn on …”
This is already Act Five, at the cemetery. Yorick’s skull. Prithee, Eustachius, tell me one thing … Melkior felt a chill in his bones: why this conversation just now? He felt a superstitious fear at his presentiment, left the astounded porter and hurried out into the street.
And there’s a war on again! He didn’t know which side to join — both were equally pointless. A staff automobile with a high chassis zipped past him. Inside were red lapels, white moustaches, gold: generals. He set out after them. Follow the commanders (he said) in times of war! They’re making for the front, where the young King is … Or fleeing, perhaps — leaving the King in the lurch? Whatever the case — after them!
The automobile had long since disappeared but he moved on with resolve: he had decided which direction to take. “I may be floating in formaldehyde tomorrow.” That memory, now? He tried to chase it off by means of a pretty picture postcard: city panorama — green spring, arborways, park — a view from the railway station. … A small square pool in the middle of the park: a naked pale corpse floating face down; posterior flashing white, formaldehyde reeking. … Ay, thy poor ghost, while memory … Release me from my promise!
I’m off to where the war is, he said inside with a kind of firmness — follow the generals! “Everyone is bound to fight if of hero stock he be,” they sang at school outings, children’s patriotic piping voices, the teacher with beautiful neck walking at the head, the boys following, in love with her … “Lay down his life like a knight for our homeland’s libertee!” And little Melkior was ready to “lay down his life” for the teacher-homeland with her beautiful arching neck, him unhappy at being a child, her neck full and soft, with dark tender folds. … It gave Melkior goose bumps. … When I grow up I’ll marry her. … “For our homeland’s libertee.” And now I’m following in the generals’ footsteps. …
Before him he saw: a deserted street. A squad of ragged soldiers with outdated long rifles. Hey, where are the generals? He felt their disappearance as treason. Poor soldiers, abandoned in the middle of the street, tramping their hobnailed boots in dead earnest. Where are they off to? With those knee-length rifles? To get dry straw for Caesar at the front? Which way do you go when you go off to war?
Look, he’s still there with those ears! exclaimed Melkior almost aloud. At about ten meters ahead he had spotted that pair of huge ears and the familiar scrawny neck … Making for the invalid’s weighing machine. The desperate warfare for every gram was still on! “Everyone is bound to fight,” sang Melkior inside.
He approached the machine as if he were the “next customer”; he waited patiently for his turn.
“Now then, in God’s name,” said the catechist, removing the ballast from his pockets. About to float away, thought Melkior. “But do pay attention (he had stepped onto the machine) — precision, precision!”
“Not to worry, Reverend,” the invalid cajoled him. “Nothing but the best for a regular such as yourself. …” The invalid was missing his left arm right up to the shoulder, and the left side of his face was poorly patched together. A trench bomb, explained Melkior with expertise.
“What? It can’t be!” the catechist was astonished. “Sixty grams down since last night! No, you’ve got it wrong.”
“No way, Reverend, no way,” said the invalid with scientific certainty, “that’s what it is and no mistake.”
“But, hey, man, sixty grams since last night! You weighed me yourself.”
“I know, Reverend, I know,” shrugged the invalid indifferently, “but there’s nothing I can do — it’s what the equipment shows.” (“The equipment”—that’s what executioners call the guillotine, the gallows …) Melkior loathed the invalid’s indifference. “After all, what’s sixty grams, Reverend? It’s only a tad over two ounces … just running a light sweat would have been enough.”
“Running a sweat, indeed,” the catechist snorted. “I’m shivering with the cold! Look, it’s beginning to snow!” Indeed, there was the odd snowflake here and there to heighten Dom Kuzma’s suspicion.
“Well, there are losses beside sweating,” the invalid smiled at Melkior, “I don’t have to spell it out, do I?”
“Losses beside sweating …” repeated Dom Kuzma, unthinking. Having noticed Melkior by his side, he began to stuff his belongings back into his pockets in embarrassment. All of a sudden he raised his head toward the invalid, radiant with joy: “You were right, friend, I had an orange in my pocket last night! That’s the sixty grams!” He stepped down with a smile, full of unexpected optimism. But the devil relished spoiling his joy: “All the same, I do have my doubts about your machine …” He went off entirely unhappy.
“God give me strength!” sighed the invalid with relief. “Yes, sir.”
Melkior lay a one-dinar coin shamefully on the cover of the little box and went away without stepping onto the machine.
“What about the weighing?” said the owner of “the equipment” in surprise: it takes all kinds …
“No need,” said Melkior, more or less to himself. Davos, the glaciers … white all around and a tinge of illness … there was no need for anything. He felt shame and anger. The Cyclops Polyphemus, the beast, now treads the Earth! (He was foaming at the mouth.) A stinger and wasp’s venom … so I could stab his gorge …
He noticed what he was saying and it struck him as comical. But laughter was deaf at his observation. Laughter is a robot anyway! he said angrily.
But the sound of laughter came … from somewhere close, so near as to surprise him: where did the echo come from?
“Your attention, heh, heh, heh …”
All of a sudden there materialized before him a leering drunken face with dark fillings. Ugo was leading a mob of drunks picked up in dives along the way … a noisy and motley crew, from ragamuffins like Four Eyes to the elegant dandy Freddie. What’s this combination, now? wondered Melkior. As a matter of fact, Freddie was rather standing “aside” (not his crowd), but Four Eyes kept addressing him as “Your Highness” and attempting to fling an arm around Freddie’s shoulders.
“Your attention, lowlifes,” spoke Ugo to the mob, “here’s our Conscience — bow down!”
Four Eyes bowed humbly, who knows, it might turn out to be a wise move. An unshaven and dirty individual laughed in his face.
“Cut the cackling, Shitface!” Four Eyes warned him. “He’s got more in his little finger than …” He was remembering the drinks on Melkior at Kurt’s Cozy Corner … ahh, those had been the days!
“Shut up, Basilisk!” Ugo snapped at him, “you always ruin everything!”
“Yes, Master …” Four Eyes looked around the mob, honored: he had acquired a moniker.
“Welcome at long last to our midst, oh, Sun!” Ugo waved his arms fawningly, “we’re lost without you! Just say the word and … Where shall we go?”