“I really … can’t …” stammered Melkior, himself ashamed for some reason.
“What? You don’t remember? Junior year of grammar school, two desks behind you … Four Eyes. Rotten grades in Latin the whole time. Ipse dixit, I was so sure I’d fix it — but I couldn’t. You went on, I lagged behind. I can still see you as you were then, your clever little head. You had sitting next to you that little … what was his name now? … Wait, it was something to eat …”
“Tokay?”
“… or drink, see? I knew it had to do with …”
Melkior felt ill at ease. For all that he had never in his life known anyone called Four Eyes, this fellow was quite at home in their conversation, had even grasped him by the elbow and was shaking it in the manner of a close friend, waking boyhood memories inside him.
Melkior fell to rummaging in his memory to see if he could winkle out this man Four Eyes from somewhere after all. Perhaps Four Eyes had really existed at some desk behind him as a modest, unobtrusive little schoolboy who was in no way remarkable? Meanwhile Four Eyes was eyeing him hopefully.
“Well? Remember how we put horse chestnuts in the stove in wintertime, the noise they made cracking in class?”
We did indeed … only my name isn’t Filipović!—and Melkior communicated his reservation to Four Eyes out loud.
“Filipović?” he said in surprise and smacked himself on the forehead. “God, yes, you’re right! I’ve got it all mixed up, it’s been years, you know. God, yes, Filipović used to sit next to me, he was always writing riddles, making crosswords, reading words backwards, tractor — rot cart … Of course, you can’t be Filipović when you’re … er …”
“Tresić,” Melkior blurted out imprudently.
“But of course, Tresić-Pavičić! Christ, I’ve got it all …”
“No, just Tresić. I’m just Tresić.”
“That’s it! Why, we even called you Distressić, remember?” said Four Eyes, delighting in his own memory, so much so that Melkior unconsciously confirmed it with a nod, although he had no recollection of anyone ever calling him Distressić. “There must’ve been others who called you Tresić-Pavičić, too, and you telling them ‘Just Tresić,’ and it came out ‘Distressić.’ Somehow or other it just rolls off the tongue together, Tresić-Pavičić, like Rolls-Royce. As if Rolls could not stand on his own without Royce. Silly, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is silly,” Melkior agreed and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, which Four Eyes interpreted as impatience and showed fear.
“In a hurry, old boy? Now me, I’m fresh out of the hospital. The old kidney problem. The doctor said, ‘We must have it out’—Four Eyes made a sharp gesture as if slicing his own side with his thumb — and I said, ‘Not so fast, doc! I’m not having my kidney pickled in alcohol,’ I said. And so, my dear Distressić, I lost a nice little job with First Croatian. I went to see the Old Man this morning. ‘The Board of Directors meets tomorrow,’ he said, ‘kindly have your resignation in by then.’ ‘With a government stamp?’ ‘Government stamp and all.’ ‘The usual? The one that costs seventy-five in change?’ ‘Seventy-five in change.’
“Short and sweet. Goodbye — Goodbye. While I was in hospital, the wife pawned all we had. If only I had something to pawn! … but there’s nothing left. No job — no credit. I needn’t tell you, do I, you know well enough what our damned Scrooges are like. Got money to burn while you may as well croak for want of a piddling seventy five in change!”
Four Eyes fell silent, hanging his head in expectation. It was only out of the corner of his eye that he followed, animal-like, Melkior’s embarrassed dive into the inside breast pocket, where wallets are usually stored. And surely enough Melkior took out his wallet …
“No, please, I didn’t mean …” and Four Eyes made a belated attempt to stop his arm … “I only told you as an old … I’ve got no one to share my troubles with.”
“Unfortunately, I …” Melkior stammered shyly. “This is all I’ve got,” he offered Four Eyes a silver fifty-dinar piece and displayed his empty wallet, “Look.”
“Heaven forbid!” Four Eyes cried out, flinching as if frightened. “Take a fellow’s last penny? Never! I’m not that kind of guy!”
“But it’s not my last,” Melkior was almost pleading, “I’ve got some coming tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“Well then … But listen, I don’t want you lying to me! If you’re lying, then this is charity, and I won’t have that!” Four Eyes asserted with pride and added in a confidential tone, “And look, I’d like to ask you as a favor, let’s keep this between ourselves, shall we? By the way, where can I find you to pay you back?”
“No problem, we’ll be in touch …”
“Distressić, old boy, I can’t thank you enough. I’ll never forget it, so help me God!” He gave Melkior a hurried handshake, looking him in the eyes with sincere gratitude. “Bye then. I’m off to buy the stamps,” and he took off at the same hurried purposeful clip with which he had come into view a little while before.
Melkior knew that Four Eyes had duped him, but had been unable to resist the extraordinary form of the effrontery. He then wisely resolved never to heed again any baited hooks thrown his way. So he now thought he’d ignore the Trams-are-not-what-kill-you-nowadays man with the newspaper and to hurry after Dom Kuzma; he had lost him again among the passersby. Nevertheless he cast a glance at the man with the newspaper out of some sort of curiosity. The other perceived the glance as a door that was opened a crack and scuttled right inside:
“It’s not the trams that kill you these days, my dear sir, it’s this!” and he nodded at the bold headlines in the newspaper.
Melkior read, BOMBS HIT LONDON IN WAR’S WORST RAID and, underneath, “Six Hours of Hell and Horror — Entire Quarters in Flames” … But he could picture nothing specific behind those alarming words, no dead child, crushed skull, man despairing over his demolished home and slaughtered family, none of those terrible scenes which were really there behind headlines. Melkior remained indifferent, which seemed to offend the man:
“What do you say to that? Hardly a traffic accident, eh?” he was saying with a bitter smile, proud at being able to comprehend the extent of the horror in the headlines.
“What can I say? You could have read the same thing yesterday and the day before …”
“Yesterday and the day before … If it was there yesterday and the day before, does that make today less appalling?” the man asked sternly. “You don’t have to be a doctor to see that. But of course, doctors see only what it’s like to be ill when they get sick themselves. Now, what about when those people over there”—he gestured vaguely with his head—“read about us in the papers one day? When a California doctor starts muttering that the headlines are boring, always the same as yesterday, and the day before? Just because you and yours were spared yesterday and the day before, does that mean you’ll be saying today and tomorrow that everything’s the same?”
Melkior was finding the conversation strange. … And why the devil had this man picked on no one but him?
“Yes, well, people are funny that way,” he said, merely to end the unexpected encounter.
“What way?”
“Well … if one of us were to be run over by a tram they would be more upset about it than about those thousands killed in the ruins in London. Not because they like us more — simply because they don’t want to expend their imagination on things like that.”