“How come you’re not … Wait,” he remembered something, “I’ll take you to see the captain, this is not my business.”
He did not wait long outside one of the doors in the corridor. The lieutenant came out and said go in, and off he went, probably to get back under the blanket again, to sweat …
Melkior suddenly found himself facing a lean officer, grave and morose under a drooping black moustache. Four stars: captain first class, interpreted Melkior. He was sitting at a bare army desk and staring with boredom through the window.
“Don’t you know how to close the door after you?” the captain muttered sternly without even a look at the newcomer.
When Melkior had closed the door: “Over here, come closer.” He now turned to cast a glance at Melkior, superficially, with a strange smile.
“So you want tooo …”
“Yes.”
“What?” the captain snorted angrily; his moustache shook.
“To enlist as a volunteer.” Melkior could no longer recognize his own voice (everything here was stern, brief, regular …), the words came out of their own volition, as if under hypnosis.
The captain was now examining him with a cold, mocking gaze. Melkior felt like a comical worn-out object offered at the Kikinis pawnshop: he’s bartering to lower my price with that gaze …
“How come you weren’t drafted? You’re young enough and you look fit,” he was gauging Melkior’s legs and shoulders, chest, arms, head …
“I was discharged … unfit for service,” said Melkior with a tinge of shame. It’s a disgrace here. … Why did I get into this? He wanted to turn and go.
“Unfit for service. … So you haven’t done your stint. No rank. Intellectual?”
Melkior nodded mechanically, looking over the captain’s head, at a map of the kingdom, for the town of Varaždin. So that’s where they already are? Near enough …
The captain took out a sheet of paper and dipped his pen into the inkwelclass="underline"
“Last name, father’s name, first name? Year and place of birth? Military district and unit where you served?”
Melkior duly told him everything. He then addressed Pupo: there, see?
“Now there’s another thing I want you to tell me,” the captain raised a kind look at Melkior and said in a seemingly fatherly voice: “Why are you enlisting?”
“Well … the country has been attacked!” He now really meant to feign ardent patriotism (Pechárek, Kink and Countwy), but instead he was thinking of Pupo: rifles and ammunition, boots …
“And you care an awful lot for this country, is that it?” The captain’s smile was twinkling with insidious distrust. “Anyway, I’d like you to tell me, in confidence … look, it’s not that I object or anything — no, you’re doing a fine thing … you were told to enlist, were you? Come on, tell me, there’s nothing to be afraid of, everything’s fine, see, I’ve taken down your statement, but who sent you here?” Melkior’s blood stopped running for an instant: this is an interrogation! But Pupo did not send me …
“Why would anyone send me? I came on my own.” Some common decency protested inside him.
“To fight, eh?” The captain went on looking at him for some time, with the same twinkling smile.
He’s studying me, he’s thinking: does this simple fellow really want to lay down his life in vain? The scoundrel doesn’t believe in patriotism, he’s got civilian clothes stashed in the locker, he’ll skedaddle when they get here, shave the moustache …
“Goood,” concluded the captain. “If that’s what it is, young man, fiiine.” He stood up and took the sheet of paper from the desk: “Wait here a minute. Here, have a smoke,” he gave him a wink, “good man,” and left the room.
Sure, they offer you cigarettes to gain your confidence. … Just like in the cinema: pushing a silver case under his nose, “Cigarette?” lighting his first (such manners!) and then his own afterward, with the same flame, fraternally. Both smoking, blowing smoke away, their clouds of smoke merging in the air (so, a pipe of peace, you might say) ahh, never mind which smoke is whose, believe me, my dear fellow … I’ve nothing against you personally (switching to a more intimate tone) but there you are, you’ve got to handle this boring piece of business, it’s orders from above, if you ask me I’d much rather down a couple of shots with you (the damned fools have banned alcoholic beverages on the premises) and go for a game of cards (that’s forbidden, too, everything that’s any fun is forbidden) or just have a good old chat, ha-ha, about you know what. … I’ve seen you with that dame, you sly so-and-so. … Now, the surgeon fellow, isn’t he her hubbie, heh-heh? Coco? That’s what she calls him? Hang on a second, finish the cigarette, back in a jiffy …
A telephone was jangling somewhere in the building. Call Enka. Coco has been “called up.” War, wounded men, torn flesh, surgeons in their element. … What am I sitting here waiting for? He’s now speaking to the police, goood, send a man over, goood, an intellectual, having a smoke, yes of course, I’ll keep him here until you arrive, goood …
Melkior stole on tiptoe to the door: silence in the corridor, silence in the army building … and there’s a war raging out there along all the frontiers! A voice in the adjoining room was elocuting confidentially over the phone: it was he, the captain, supplying Melkior’s description … nose: regular, moustache: clean-shaven, beard: clean-shaven, distinguishing marks: none. … He pressed the knob and gave the door a slight push … it squealed, a stool pigeon, everything’s set up this way here, purposely not oiled …
The empty corridor stretched away in both directions … To the right, of course! The captain was still chatting into the telephone on the left … Behind the lieutenant’s door came the sick man’s groans, burning up with fever, brandy and garlic, folk remedies. Smells. He tiptoed along. Heels pound straight from the coccyx, from the spine, from the head, with the entire weight of the body; on tiptoe the body loses weight, moves on light springs — ballet … The way thieves, spies, lovers walk, the way people who are skulking and escaping walk, with fear crawling over their skin.
Once in the doorway he treaded on his whole feet. Within reach of salvation: street, corner, broad urban expanse — tiny needle in haystack, adieu, mon capitane, regards from the volunteer deserter, now there’s a paradox.
“All OK, mate? Sorted it out with the brass?” asked the sergeant at the gate, already with a grin of familiarity.
“Yes indeed, sssergeant! Sssee you! Sssee you, too, sssentry!” he hissed mischievously.
The sergeant replied “See ya,” the soldier clicked his heels mechanically. He was in for a dressing-down by the sergeant: What did you click your heels for, nitwit? Saluting a civilian! — A volunteer deserter, Sergeant … if you’ve heard of that arm in the royal forces.
Melkior was in a great hurry to get around the next corner.
But why should I call her? — He halted in front of a telephone booth — that four, four, Ambulance Service business … I’ve forgotten the number anyway. I’ll go straight there. Coco has, as we said, been “called up.” That officer must be looking for me now, goood … Yelling at the sergeant: Why did you let him leave, you cretin! And the Black Maria standing in front of the Garrison Command gate, wide open … its bowels stinking of Lysol … waiting for the volunteer deserter — apparently, in vain.
The tram was chiming with holiday courtesy, greeting acquaintances on the street — hey there! It did not care that the day was cold and bleak. Coming calmly to a halt, its windows smiling: won’t you come in? It took Melkior aboard, too, ting-a-ling, let’s go. The traveling burghers were morose, angry, call this Palm Sunday? — You’ve got to wear a winter coat, snowing like it’s New Year’s Eve! No, honestly — everything’s gone haywire!