And so Melkior the worm entered the worm hole called the Give’nTake. But inside he did not find Ugo the worm nor did he find Viviana the she-worm. The absence smote Melkior sorely to his very core and he bent painfully with the ache. So they were together, tied up in a fornicating knot, those accursed worms! He slithered over to the table at which sat bloated worm Maestro and pale worm Chicory, at the very moment when repugnant caterpillar Thénardier was setting down before them two shots, shot to shot.
“Bring a third, you spotted salamander, for our pain-wrenched Eustachius.” Thus did Maestro, the bloated worm, welcome the arrival of Melkior the worm. Chicory the worm Hasdrubalson laughed a spasmodic laugh, energetically flicking his fair hair across his handsomely elongated brow.
They had been having a Low Mass colloquy at the altar of St. Giventake’s. They stopped their sweet conversation short at the approach of Melkior, the wormy worm, thereby arousing his suspicion at the sudden silence greeting his arrival. He therefore chose not to take a seat but strove to justify his approach to their table by inquiring:
“Look, have you seen Ugo the Wo—” he sliced the worm in two in the nick of time.
“No, we haven’t, Wo,” said Chicory in jest, his face nervous, and Wo offered him a chair, saying Wo in a worm-eaten tone, being dilapidated.
“Have a seat, kind Eustachius,” and Maestro began pushing the chair under Melkior. Using the edge of the seat he bent Melkior’s knees so that Melkior sat down automatically. “He’ll be along soon enough, to report back. It’s the feat that matters … though it’s not as difficult as he imagines. Be that as it may, don’t fret, Eustachius, he’ll be lying anyway. Ugo’s a born … no, better said: an invent-as-U-go liar.”
Melkior saw red. It’s all so public, so embarrassing. And she’s a shameless …
“Don’t go pale and wan, Eustachius. Ugo’s an ugotistical little twit. Quite unlike you. You aspire toward … I mean to say, you have noble aspirations. That business between the two of them can’t last long. She’s after something permanent, matrimonial, and Ugo’s no more than an ugreeable evening.”
“Why are you trying to draw me into this?” said Melkior in protest and made to get up.
“Don Fernando’s just been in, looking for you,” Chicory stopped him. “Said he’d be back.”
“Looking for me? Why?”
“Cause unknown,” responded Maestro, helpfully. “But he was being very important. Got a personal message from Leo Trotsky.” Noticing ill will on Melkior’s face, he hastened to change the subject. “Now Chicory and I have just been debating a point: how far does it’s written reach? I mean the sort of thing soothsayers read in your palms, the sort of thing you find in horoscopes under Leo, Virgo, Capricorn, Sagittarius, and whatnot. Because it might be nothing but a mere suggestion, which we then unthinkingly take for a guideline — that is to say, arrange our destiny to fit. I myself, as you know full well, don’t give a tinker’s damn for all those futures, personal and historical alike. But if someone tells me, ‘I see complications on your life line.’ I become a hypochondriac, I shy away from the least chill of a draft, drink herbal teas, wear amulets around my neck. I even pray. But the complications will not stop pecking on my brain, and they keep on pecking until they’ve got it riddled like a sieve. I then become a perfect madman. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, all I do is sit and stare, repeating in desperation: why me, why me? And so I do whatever Fate wills. Actually coaxing death inside me.
“I once heard,” Maestro spoke to Melkior, “from that con artist — now that’s an understatement — from the practitioner operating in your building, Mr. Adam, how he read a great calamity in a lady’s palm. After she’d gone he suddenly remembered seeing something like the presence of death in her eyes. He was overcome by apprehension, possibly by fear of the responsibility as well, so off he ran after her and arrived just in time to take her down off the noose. The crook had suggested and ‘got it right,’ see? She had hanged herself on a clothesline in her back yard. He gave her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and brought her back to life. You can well imagine how sweet those kisses must have been. Anyway, he breathed life into her, like God.”
“You believe him?”
“Certainly. Indeed, she later went to bed with him and generally put herself under his powerful (Maestro made a gesture) protection. And she’s still in his bed. Crawling after him, as it were, impossible to get rid of. Mr. Adam dabbled at being Fate for a bit and, presto! He has her hanging around his neck.”
Melkior had a grin on his face. He was fitting together some of his fragmented observations about ATMAN and getting a much clearer picture of things. And he felt sorry … no, he did not feel sorry for ATMAN.
“You’re smiling, Eustachius the Noble, but it’s you Mr. Adam fears the most. Concerning the main thing. Never mind Freddie, never mind Ugo, or all the cohorts and various fraternities of her bedfellows … you, you”—Maestro jabbed a finger at him—“you are the worst danger. You have the ability to love … don’t give me that baleful look, I’m talking about the most exalted of sentiments … and, what matters most, you are capable of marrying for such feelings. And that’s exactly who she’s after — a Parsifal. She’ll nab you in the end, Eustachius, you Lamb of God. Which is why Adam is trying to strike you out.”
Melkior was smiling, his heart bathing in bliss. Could it be …? Viviana? This was clearly a plot of theirs. A Giventakian ploy. For all his will to disbelieve, he kept looking for her trap to rush in with all his heart.
“Oh well, that’s it then, Adam’s going to strike me down,” he was already showing off, Fortune’s child walking on carpets of strewn flowers.
“I said strike you out, didn’t I, Chicory? Anyway, you’d do well to help him in the matter if you’ve got an ounce of brains. Meanwhile may I strongly recommend that you lay the duck on her back, Eustachius the Blessed. Give her a good ride. Join the family, ha, ha …”
“You’re lying.” The words sprayed out of his mouth somehow or other, like excess spittle during an incautious yawn. Idiot style.
“Oh, we’re a well-ramified family. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind having a more mature relative. Am I right, Cousin Chicory Hasdrubalson?”
“I beg pardon, my lord, my title does not stem from that particular line. My pedigree’s a much humbler one, with quite a few bastard elements,” replied Chicory with a straight face.
“But what about Princess van den … what’s her name? That was a trophy for Casanova himself to be proud of!”
“Oh, please don’t torment me, Maestro! Mercy! It was but a morganatic mistake for her.”
“But did you not, Chicory, once vouchsafe to me in the strictest of confidences that you had exchanged certain sexual instruments after all with our … what is it you call her, Eustachius the Chrysostom? with our Bibiana?”
“You overestimate me, I’m sure,” replied Chicory meekly, closing his eyes with modesty. Then both burst out laughing.
Melkior stood up, offended. No doubt the pair of them had arranged it all beforehand. Wordlessly he made for the door, only to bump into Don Fernando, who was just coming in.