Melkior saw tears of vengeance in his Bible teacher’s eyes and, moved and overwhelmed by the story, driven by a passionate desire for the vengeance to be complete and terrible to the end, he asked excitedly in innocent elation, purely out of a feeling of justice:
“Was Delilah there in the temple, too?”
That was when his darling cheeks were slapped.
Melkior interrupted his primary education. He did not want to face Dom Kuzma again. Because of the shame and the humiliation. Because of the fatal misunderstanding. He had not meant to mock the tears in Dom Kuzma’s eyes, which may have been there, after all, only in his imagination. … But how was he to explain that now? How was he to say, having been slapped in the face, “I was feeling sorry for Samson myself, Father. I only wanted that cow Delilah to be punished, too. That’s why I asked … Why did you hit me?”
But something strange happened to Dom Kuzma shortly thereafter and he mysteriously disappeared. Gossip had it that he had been dispatched to Rome for a rigorous confession, since only a cardinal (indeed, according to others, the Holy Father himself) could absolve him from certain abominable sins. Later on the word went around that he was with the Benedictines at Monte Cassino, doing penance, and later still that he had been “seen” at the Trappist convent in Mostar, wearing a white rope girdle with severe-denial knots, mortifying his flesh by hunger, thirst, and vigils, and making the fabled Trappist cheese in absolute silence.
Melkior had himself heard a thing or two about the cheese … as well as some other things which had elevated Dom Kuzma to biblical martyrdom. Delilah’s identity was never fully established. Some suspected the pretty tobacconist who smiled secretively at men; others said it was the spinster schoolmistress who had fallen in love with Dom Kuzma’s virility (which she made no effort to conceal). Then again, perhaps neither of them was the despicable traitress. It may have been a third woman, angel-faced, who snipped off seven locks of Dom Kuzma’s hair while he slept and sent them to the bishop himself, with a letter in her own hand, as evidence of his sinful ways. The letter is supposed to have said, “Look how his bare ears stick out now.” A terrible piece of mockery.
But why seven locks, no more and no less? Why seven? Might Dom Kuzma have told her, too, in love’s sated ease, chuckling with his masculine superiority, how perfidious Delilah stripped Samson of his strength? The omnipotent male would have had his fun while in the arms of the fragile female, relaxed his tired strength, and cynically launched into the story of the mighty Samson and the scheming little bitch … and fallen asleep. And she, the tobacconist or the schoolmistress … or the third … would have leaned over the sleeper’s repose and thought: “Look how helpless my Samson is now! Why don’t I …” and she would have found in the story a wonderful recipe for her long-contemplated revenge. On top of which she might have been after that silly superiority poor females fall prey to only too often …
The unknown woman had thus deprived him of all his strength, exposed him to horrible shame. And there he was, the wretch, plodding along in the autumn dusk, emaciated and pale as if he had spent all the intervening years in a dark basement, sharing his crust of black bread with mice and asps and drenching it in bitter tears. His once-strong neck whose veins would writhe furiously when he was angry was now a thin, fragile twig bearing its wrinkled desiccated fruit with the two vast ears as though doing penance.
Melkior moved with effort through the dense throng that spilled across the city on this pleasant warm evening. The fragrance of autumn made itself felt in the freshness of ripe fruit coming from the open windows of fruit stands: odors wafted down the streets like a mild hint preceding a momentous farewell. A yellowed leaf or two fell in the alley, rustling sadly like an old letter from a past happy romance.
Autumn, autumn … To the tune of the season’s hit the summer had danced away—Addio, mare. Autumn had come in on little cat feet over the lawns and greens, the wilted courtesan in rustling silks had walked the parks, her breath making the birches shy like innocent little girls.
Melkior plunged insolently into the warm torrent of bodies, words, smells, looking impatiently for Dom Kuzma’s scrawny neck. Using his elbows and shoulders, he forced his way through the thick, tough dough of evening strollers, receiving insults and threats and “underwater” blows to the ribs. But he scarcely minded them. The pathetic soul adrift in the town so occupied his attention that he nearly yelled out loud when all of a sudden he discovered in front of him his poor corporeality preparing to cross the street. Dom Kuzma first cast a cautious look to either side and then, hesitating for a moment as if about to step into crocodile-infested waters, hurriedly crossed the insecure riverbed waving his arms about in a curious way as if really walking on water.
“How prudent he is, the restless soul!” Melkior thought with compassion as he crossed the street with more caution than Dom Kuzma himself.
“Trams are not what kill you nowadays, my dear sir!” remarked a passing stranger to him. He was not drunk, nor was he a meddling sneerer; holding his evening paper open, he was frightened and desperate, and wished to impart his condition to someone. Melkior decided to ignore the man. Of late, since reserve-training calls to the older age groups had begun to multiply, grifters using the “psychological” approach had appeared in town. An operator of that kind would casually cast his hook at a passerby, gauging from afar the extent of the man’s generosity. The gullible and considerate mark would easily swallow the bait, and the expert would proceed to hustle him: he had been called up, not that it mattered so much except that there were the wife, the children, the aging parents, the ailing mother-in-law (an angel!), not to mention the rent that was due and he stone broke, and winter on its way … God, I’m at my wits’ end! And he would flail his arms about in desperation, and his words would flow easily and convincingly and in the blink of an eye he would mesmerize his victim and break any attempt at resistance.
Only the other day a man had been hurrying down the street, striding along at a fast purposeful clip. Topped by a greasy floppy hat, his shoes Chaplinian — each pointing in its own direction — his face stubbly and sad, his look worried, he acknowledged Melkior with a casual, absentminded, and almost careless greeting, as if meeting him for the fifth time that day.
“Hello there, Filipović,” and strode on without looking back.
Surprised, Melkior stopped in his tracks and turned. The man did not turn around right away: he merely registered that Melkior had halted. Only a moment later, still hurrying, he looked back a little, out of sheer curiosity, gave Melkior a casual wave of his hand, “Hey there,” and a pleasant smile. He was in a hurry though, he had no time for friendly banter on life and health. Melkior was still standing there, sheepishly: he couldn’t recall any previous encounter with the face. On the other hand, he knew he had not returned the man’s greeting and feared the man might take offense. He was even about to run after him, to explain himself, to apologize. But the man knew what was up, knew Melkior had stopped and was looking after him, so he, too, stopped and looked at Melkior with the smile of someone who was in no mood for smiling. Wagging his head slightly in disapproval, he made toward Melkior at a slow and seemingly patient pace. His whole behavior (when he came close) reflected embarrassment at “such an appearance” before a friend who had not even recognized him in such a state.
“Four Eyes,” he enunciated with a feeling of utter embarrassment, mourning his cruel fate by way of his sobriquet. “I’ve changed, sure,” he added in elegiac tones, gazing mournfully into his past. His eyes actually went moist … or so it seemed to Melkior.