“To …” Melkior opened his mouth, but rage rent all his words. In his dry, bitter mouth he felt the vexing taste of a kind of spite; a brackish vengeful hatred which had long been gathering momentum inside him burst its inarticulate, savage, animal-like, speech-deprived way into his mouth, and he spat it out unconsciously, dryly, almost symbolically, right in Ugo’s face which was grinning fetchingly before him in confident expectation.
This is what Freddie had been waiting for: he rushed in first (to settle accounts with the pen-wielding artist at last!), the others followed. … Get the weirdo!
Ugo elicited Melkior’s admiration once again. He never even winked after being spat on — he only gave him a moist, blurred look. He then calmly turned to face the mob and stepped in front of Melkior spreading his arms in protection:
“Over my dead body!” he said resolutely. “Shitface,” who had been spoiling for a fight, cursed. “Quiet! And everyone to his proper place! There’s a higher form of justice, this is not your calling. Fredegarius, resheath your pinewood prop sword! Open the ranks, make way for Eustachius the Magnificent!”
The mob parted obediently, and he made a gracious gesture, waving Melkior through.
It’s a hoax … thought Melkior, distrustful. (Freddie was smirking insidiously from the side.) But there was nothing to be done, he had to go … His back broke out in goose bumps, expecting blows … He passed halfway through the gauntlet; nothing happened (this is how people used to be flogged); he reached the end; this is where it starts … But there was nothing, not a thing, not even a single nasty poke …
O Parampion! He felt like turning back and giving Ugo a hug. But he was still not convinced. And once he’d been convinced he still thought: it could just as well make the madman regret what he’d just done …
“And now, you crew of good-for-nothings, forward to new adventures!” he heard Ugo command behind him. But there was a despondent and sad undertone to the voice, like a desperate call after something that had been lost … or so it seemed to Melkior.
He now wished only to move on around the next corner, as if there were a different world there.
Everything was the same around the next corner. The street, the infrequent passersby with half-frozen noses. (It was the sixth of April — some spring!) They were watching the random Sunday passersby with indifference. Idle, useless watching. … Was that war — people looking on, indifferent, dull? Had they stared at Sunday mornings before? — He could not recall. Ugo is talking gibberish — the war is invisible.
An aeroplane droned very high overhead. There it is, said Melkior. Solitary onlookers were gathering into knots as if an accident had taken place, raising their noses. “Reconnaissance,” explained an expert (everybody was listening trustingly), “he’s flying solo at a great altitude — he must be on a reconnaissance flight. Photographing. The bombers follow later … And our anti-aircraft fellows are not lifting a finger …”
The man barely said the words before guns started booming. The aeroplane was a tiny toy high among the clouds. Small white cloudlets blossomed beneath it. … “He’s too high — they’re wasting their ammo,” said the expert.
Should they save it for Christmas then? thought Melkior irascibly. Let them boom on!
Funny, the rumbling … (he walked away with derisive thoughts) … as if we were celebrating something down here …
“It’s not very wise to stand around in the street,” he heard the expert behind him, “shrapnel comes down all over.” Melkior drew closer to the façades … as if it were raining, he laughed at his prudence.
“Keep away from the wall!”
A soldier — a sentry — was standing in front of him, on his rifle a bayonet, on his head a helmet. Over the gate was dejected gray lettering on a dirtied gray background: GARRISON COMMAND.
“Keep away, you hear!” The soldier was already unslinging his rifle.
“I’m going in,” Melkior told him uncaringly and tried to enter.
“Wait!” bawled the sentry rudely, then yelled into the gate: “Sarge!”
Out came a young, emaciated man, his face sickly but his eyes keen and feverish.
“This one here,” the sentry tilted his head at Melkior.
“What do you want?” asked the sergeant, irritated.
“To see the Orderly Officer,” replied Melkior importantly. This must be the place, he thought.
“You’re looking at him.”
“Your superior,” said Melkior.
“Can’t see you. He’s busy. There’s a war on, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“I’m on official business.”
“What kind?”
“Important.” Saying this, Melkior smiled and, so it seemed, gave a slight wink.
“C’mon in.” Outside one of the doors the sergeant said: “Wait.”
A long empty corridor with a floor scarred by army boots, a row of gray doors opposite which tall windows looked out on a barren, mournful yard. Why is everything so hopeless in here? Melkior was about to leave, but then the door opened and the sergeant said: “Come in.”
The room smelled of garlic and brandy. It appeared to be empty. On the desk, under a picture of the young King, were a half-full bottle, an inkwell in a wooden holder, and the remnants of some processed food among several sheets of paper scattered helter-skelter. It was moments later that Melkior noticed an army bed as well, and on it a man under a gray blanket.
“Well, what is it, you …” came the voice from underneath the blanket, only to be overcome by a volley of sneezes so it couldn’t curse at Melkior, which it most probably had been about to do judging by the tone of the question.
Atchoo. Melkior waited for the sneezing to stop. He then sensibly thought: how can I say this to a man under a blanket? I haven’t even seen his face … He’s clearly got the flu — seeing as he’s eating garlic and drinking brandy; now he’s sweating under there …
“You still here?”
“Yes.” It suddenly seemed to Melkior that he was talking to a man dead and buried.
“Well, speak up …” this time he managed to get his oath in. “Can’t you see I’m damned near death’s door here … Make it snappy!”
“I believe you need hot tea and aspirin.” Melkior approached the bed meekly: “Have you got the flu?”
“What’s the matter, did you come here to make a monkey out of me?” The officer threw the blanket aside in a threatening gesture.
Melkior remained in place. He watched the man with pity. A young second lieutenant in a wrinkled old (field) uniform with cracked epaulettes. The eyes feverish, turbid, the face burning with heat, the hair wet, plastered down over the ears and forehead … poor lieutenant! They had left him, sick as he was, under that blanket, with a bottle of slivovitz and a bulb of garlic … and off they went, fled …
“Well, what the hell is it?” He didn’t have the strength to get up, he only propped himself on an elbow.
Careful! You still have time to say: I’m looking for So-and-So, he’s a staff captain, a relative of mine …
“I came to report for service,” enunciated Melkior nevertheless. Who knows why he was now reminded of Numbskull … the man brought me oranges …
“Draft-dodger?” asked the lieutenant with accustomed boredom. He closed his eyes in pain, his head was splitting.
“Volunteer,” said Melkior with resolute clarity.
“What did you say?” the lieutenant seemed not to have heard him right.
“I’m reporting as a volunteer,” repeated Melkior clearly.
“Why?” the lieutenant let slip unthinkingly.
“To fight …” Pupo slapped his back: see, you’re an honest man.