Polyphemus laid his crutch across the table and asked what, in fact, did Paralus know about wars. "Do you know, for example, what a bazooka is?" he asked threateningly.
"Do you know what it means to sit in a trench when the tanks are coming at you and you haven't yet noticed that you've dumped in your drawers?"
Paralus objected that he didn't know anything about tanks and dumping in your drawers and he didn't want to know anything about them, but as for nuclear war we all knew the same thing about it. "You lie down with your feet in the blast and crawl to the nearest graveyard," he said.
"You were born a civvy and you'll die a civvy," said one-legged Polyphemus. "Nuclear war - that's a war of nerves, understand? They do us, we do them, and the first one to dump in his drawers loses." Paralus only shrugged his shoulders, and Polyphemus lost his temper completely. "Bazookas!" he yelled. "Tarzons! Ready, aim - dump in your drawers! Right, Apollo?"
Having shouted to his heart's content, he launched into recollections about how he and our troops had repelled a tank attack in the snow. I can't stand these recollections. Nothing but dump in your drawers. I don't know, maybe it all happened, I don't recall. But still I don't like to return to it. Polyphemus was gung-ho then, and he's gung-ho now. I simply don't know what you must take out of a man to make him stop being a noncommissioned officer. Maybe the problem is that he never happened to get caught in a pocket, as I did. Or is it a matter of character?
We had sat a long time, so I decided to go ahead and have lunch. Usually the fare at Iapetus's place is pretty good, but this time the chef's soup with dumplings gave off a heavy odor of cheap olive oil, and I told him about it. It turned out that Iapetus's teeth had been aching for three days, so unbearably that he couldn't prepare anything properly.
"Don't you remember, Phoebus, how I once knocked your tooth in?" he asked mournfully.
How could I not remember! It was in the seventh grade. We were both courting Iphigenia and we fought every day. My God, how distant are the times when I could have a good scrap! Iphigenia, it happens, is now married to some engineer in the south; she already has grandchildren and angina pectoris.
While on my way to Achilles' place, I passed Mr. Laomedon's house with that terrible red car of his with bulletproof windows standing outside. At the wheel that insolent punk who always makes fun of me was smoking himself silly. And this time he lit into me so viciously that I was obliged to cross the street in a dignified manner and pay not the slightest attention to him. Achilles was presiding over the cash register and looking through his Cosmos, Ever since he obtained that blue triangle with the little silver postage mark, he has made it a rule to take out his album just as I enter, as if by coincidence. I can see right through him, but I don't let on. Although, to tell the truth, every time he does it my heart contracts. My only consolation is that part of his triangle is glued on. I mentioned it to him.
"Yes," said I, "there's no denying it, Achilles, it's a nice item. Too bad, though, that it's glued together."
He squinted all over and mumbled that the grapes, it seemed, were sour.
"What can you do?" I answered him calmly. "Glued together is glued together, you can't get around it. I personally wouldn't have taken the stamp at that price. But some people, of course," said I, "are so broad-minded that they'll take stamps that are canceled and glued together. That's not for me, no kidding. I'd take them only for trading. You can always find some simpleton who doesn't care if they're glued together or not."
That'll teach you to stick your silver postmark under my nose!
But otherwise we had a good time together. He tried to persuade me that yesterday's fireworks were a rare type of northern lights which accidentally coincided with a special type of earthquake, and I informed him of the maneuvers and the explosion at the marmalade factory. It's impossible to argue with Achilles. Because you can see that the man doesn't believe in his own words, but still persists in arguing. He sits there like some Mongolian stone image, looks out the window and repeats the same thing over and over again, that Fm not the only one in town who can interpret the phenomena of nature. You'd think that in their pharmaceutical school they would actually train people in the serious sciences. But no, it's impossible to bring an argument with any one of the boys to a reasonable conclusion. Take Polyphemus, for example. He never argues to the heart of the matter. Truth doesn't interest him, for him only one thing is important: disgracing his opponent. Say that we're arguing about the shape of our planet. Employing the precise arguments known to every educated person, I prove to him that the Earth is, to put it crudely, a ball. He savagely and unsuccessfully attacks every argument in turn, and when we come to the shape of the Earth's shadow during a lunar eclipse, he comes out with something like this: "A shadow, a shadow! You bring in a shadow in the broad daylight. First show the beard under your nose and grow the hair on your bald spot before you start arguing about the world." Or take Paralus. I once argued with him about ways to cure alcoholism. I hadn't had time to bat my eyes before we had turned to the foreign policy of our president, and from there - to the problem of panspermia. And the most surprising thing is that I had and still have nothing to do with either panspermia or foreign policy, it's simply that Hermione's cousin's son suffered from alcoholism and tormented everyone around him. Now he's a medic in the army, but at that time my life was an absolute nightmare. Yes, alcoholism is the scourge of the people.
Our argument ended with Achilles taking out his trusty bottle and our drinking a shot of gin. Achilles' business isn't going very well. I have the impression that he wouldn't even have enough for gin if it weren't for Madam Persephone. Someone came from her place again today.
"I can recommend an antihistamine," said Achilles in a discreet whisper.
"No," answers the messenger girl, "something more reliable was requested, please."
Something more reliable, you see, for her. The little cook from Iapetus's place ran in too, for tooth drops, but no one else came, and we talked our fill. I traded a pink "Monument" for his "Red Cross" series. Actually, I don't need "Red Cross," but the day before yesterday Charon told me that he'd received a personal announcement at the editorial offices, which read:
Will take "Red Cross." Offer any inverted postmark from the standard set.
I must confess that, strange as it seems, Charon is the only person in our house who doesn't giggle at me. In general, if you think about it, he's not such a bad fellow. Artemis is acting not only immorally, but also ignobly. And with the likes of Nicostratus!
Returning home at nine in the evening, I saw them again sitting in my garden, in the shadows. True, they weren't kissing this time, but still they ought to have a sense of decency. I went in the garden, took Artemis by the hand and said to that dandy, "Goodbye, Mr. Nicostratus, pleasant dreams." Artemis yanked her hand away from me^ and walked away without a word. And that rake, very ineptly trying to smooth over the awkward situation, struck up a conversation with me about the municipal recommendations which need to be attached to the request for a pension. And so I stand there and listen to him. I ought to drive him from the garden with a stick, but I listen to him. That damned delicacy of mine. And lack of confidence. I really have an inferiority complex.
And then he gave me a nasty smirk and said, "And how is charming Mrs. Hermione getting along? You didn't miss your mark there, Mr. Apollo. I wouldn't have refused such a housekeeper myself."
My heart sank and I lost the power of speech. But without waiting for an answer (what did he need my answer for?}, he went off, laughing all the way down the street. I remained alone in the dark garden.