"Take the smelly bastards down a notch," he thundered. "Shovel away all that crap, crush their bones, polish 'em off!"
It's simply amazing how such speeches affect the boys. They all got furious and started waving their hands, and Calais sputtered and stammered more violently than ever, since he couldn't pronounce a word in his great agitation. But here grouchy Paralus, the only one of us to keep cool, noted that besides the comptroller and the architect, there still happened to be living in the city, in his summer residence, the best friend of these two - a certain Mr. Laomedon. At this everyone fell silent and began to puff on the cigars and cigarettes, which had gone out during the discussion, because you couldn't take Mr. Laomedon down a notch or polish him off so easily. And when in the settling silence Calais inadvertently burst out, finally, with his favorite curse - "S-s-sock 'em in the snoot!" - everyone looked at him with displeasure.
I remembered that I should have gone to the mayor's office a long time before, so I inserted the remainder of my cigar into the aluminum case and went up to the second floor, to the reception room of Mr. Mayor. I was struck by the unusual bustle of the office. All the employees were excited somehow. Even Mr. Secretary, instead of examining his fingernails as usual, was busy imprinting wax seals on large envelopes, although, to be sure, with an expression of distaste and obligation. Feeling very out of place, I approached this fashionably slicked-down beauty. Lord, I'd give anything on earth to have nothing to do with him, neither to see him nor to hear him. Even before this I hadn't liked Mr. Nicostratus, just as I didn't like any of our town dandies. To tell the truth, I didn't like him even when he studied under me, because he was lazy, crude and insolent. But after yesterday it makes me sick just to look at him. I had no idea what tone to take with him. But there was no getting out of it, and finally I decided to say "Mr. Nicostratus, have you heard anything concerning my case?"
He didn't even glance at me, didn't even, so to say, favor me with a glance. "Sorry, Mr. Apollo, but the answer hasn't come in yet from the ministry," he said, continuing to press the seals. I hung around a moment and then headed for the exit, feeling rotten, as I always do in official places. However, quite unexpectedly, he stopped me with a surprising piece of news. He said there had been no communication with Marathon since yesterday.
"What are you saying!" said I. "Haven't the maneuvers ended yet?"
"What maneuvers?" he asked in surprise.
Here I lost my composure. I still don't know if I should have done it, but I stared straight at him and said, "What do you mean - 'what maneuvers?' The same ones you happened to see last night."
"So they were maneuvers, were they?" he declared with enviable indifference, again bending over his envelopes. "They were fireworks. Read the morning papers."
I should have, I really should have said a couple of words to him, especially since at that moment we were alone in the room. But can I be like that?
When I returned to The Five Spot, an argument was underway about the nature of last night's phenomenon. Our number had grown: Myrtilus and Pandareus had joined us. Pandareus had the jacket of his uniform unbuttoned; he was unshaven and tired after his night duty. Myrtilus didn't look any better, because he had spent the entire night patrolling the grounds around his house, expecting the worst. Everyone had the morning paper in hand, and they were discussing the column of "our observer," which bore the following heading: holiday in the offing.
"Our observer" reported that Marathon was preparing to commemorate its 153rd anniversary. From his usually well-informed sources he had learned that last night there had been a fireworks practice which residents of the surrounding towns and villages within a radius of up to two hundred kilometers had been able to enjoy.
That's all that was needed! Charon goes away on assignment, and our newspaper falls into catastrophic stupidity. They should at least have tried to figure out what a fireworks display would look like from two hundred kilometers away. And they should at least have asked themselves when fireworks displays began to be accompanied by subterranean tremors. I immediately explained this to the boys, but they answered that they knew perfectly well the time of day and advised me to read The Milesian Herald. In the Herald it was printed black on white that last night "the Milesians could admire the impressive spectacle of military exercises employing the latest devices of war technology."
"What did I tell you!" I burst out, but Myrtilus interrupted me. He related that early this morning an unknown driver from the Long-Distance Transport Company had driven up to his pump, had gotten 150 liters of gas, two cans of motor oil, and a crate of marmalade and had told him, in secret, that last night, for reasons unknown, the underground rocket-fuel factories had exploded. Supposedly the 23 guards and the entire night shift had perished, and 179 more men had vanished without a trace. This news threw us all into a panic, but then grouchy Paralus put forward the question "What then, I'd like to know, did he need the marmalade for?"
This question stumped Myrtilus. "Sure, sure," he said, "you heard it. That's all you're getting out of me."
We also had nothing to say. Really, what has marmalade got to do with it? Calais sputtered, sprayed, but didn't say anything. And then that old horse's ass, Pandareus, took the floor.
"Listen, old boys," says he, "those weren't any rocket factories. They were marmalade factories, obviously. Now, behave yourselves."
We sat down.
"Underground marmalade factories?" says Paralus. "Well, old-timer, you're in superb form today."
We began to slap Pandareus on the back, adding, "Yes, Pan, one can see right away that you slept poorly today, old-timer. Minotaur has run you ragged, Pan, it's a hard life. Time you took your pension, Pan, good old boy!"
"A policeman, and he plants the seeds of panic himself," said Myrtilus, highly offended. He was the only one who had taken Pandareus's words seriously.
"That's why he's Pan - to plant seeds everywhere," quipped Dymus. And Polyphemus also made a successful quip, although a completely indecent one. We went on amusing ourselves in this fashion, while Pandareus stood stock-still, then puffed himself up before our very eyes and tossed his head from side to side like a bull taunted by matadors.
Finally he buttoned his jacket up to the very last button, set his eyes above our heads and bawled: "You've had your say - enough! Dis-s-sperse! In the name of the law." Myrtilus went back to his gas pump, and the rest of us headed for the tavern.
In the tavern we all immediately ordered beer. This is a satisfaction I was denied until I went on my pension! In such a small town as ours, everyone knows the teacher. The parents of your pupils imagine for some reason that you are a wonder-worker and are able by your personal example to keep the children from following in their parents' footsteps. From morning to night the tavern literally swarms with these parents, but if you permit yourself an innocent mug of beer, then the next day without fail you will have a humiliating conversation with the principal. And yet I love the tavern! I love to sit in the company of good men, having leisurely and serious conversations on subjects of your choice, half catching the drone of voices and the clinking of glasses behind your back. I love to tell and to hear a salty little story, to play four kings - for a small amount, but with honor, and when I win I like to order a mug for everyone. Well, enough.
Iapetus served us our beer, and we began talking about the war. One-legged Polyphemus declared that if this were a war, they would already be mobilizing the troops, but grouchy Paralus objected that if it were a war, we wouldn't know anything about it. I don't like conversations about war and would gladly have turned the conversation to pensions, but who am I to do this?