Read Online Cyclops (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) by Ranko Marinkovic - Free Book Online
Authors: Ranko Marinkovic
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of you here …” which actually meant: I am over the moon …
Nevertheless he put up with the “Parampion Brethren,” even encouraged them, as a kind of advertisement for his establishment. He was aware of the tongue-in-cheek mockery of their dubbing him Thénardier, but business was business, damn it. The unruly gang, “artsy types and bohemians,” drew the theatrical and journalist crowd; the masterful pranks, the salvos of laughter, who wouldn’t down a drink just to watch them! Mouths cramped with leering, throats scratchy with laughter, let’s have another round, by God, this beats the circus any day of the week!
Ugo’s inspired scenes were more useful than the blue neon tubes flashing
Give’nTake
above the entrance; knowing this, Thénardier even took some pride in his “arty moniker.” They all had funny nicknames, well, it was apparently the thing to do with this crackpot set, and he permitted himself, for the sake of business, to act the role of “Papa Parampion, otherwise known as honorable Thénardier,” as Ugo had once proclaimed him to be. All the same, he kept a Thénardierian eye on things, seeing to it that glassware breakage was kept to a minimum and the bills duly settled—or at least entered on a tab —and a zero or two was even added to the bill when the brethren went too heartily into their frolicking.
“No, no, Papa Thénardier, I want you to tell it straight: who is your absolute favorite?” insisted Ugo, shoving the man’s long equine head toward Melkior’s. “As Christ said of the lost sheep: he rejoiceth more of that sheep than of the ninety and nine which went not astray. Say it, Papa, like Christ in the Bible: I rejoice most in Melkior Tresić, the lost one.”
“Eustachius Lampion the Ineffable!” Maestro wheezed professorially, as if Ugo had got a historical name wrong.
“No, Maestro, sorry! For the moment he’s still Melkior Tresić the Apostate. There’s rehabilitation in the offing, before full privileges may be restored. … For half a year (rhetorical pathos) he has been purifying his mind of Give’nTake smoke, inhaling inspirations from the fragrant ozone of the soul’s storms, fattening his head with sagacious volumes. … Shutting himself away in his room and himself, not answering the door, hiding out like a culprit or someone with bad debts, veiling himself like a nun or a lovely doe-eyed virgin from the lustful looks of this low and crass world … Given up smoking, started going to the blind invalid to weigh his hermit’s body prior to boarding the next God-bound aeroplane. … In short: he entered a loftier sphere of being and opted for the miserable life of a solitary sage dwelling in silence and contemplating his mortal navel with tear-filled eyes. … He has quite possibly fallen in love … (her laughter and Melkior’s saintly pallor) but we shall leave that satisfaction to his destiny. … Nevertheless, brethren, he is back among us in his penitent’s sackcloth (Melkior remembered Dom Kuzma), ready to drink his full of Giventakian smoke and Parampionic wit! Once again he is our Eustachius the Lampion …”
“Imbecile and ass!”
This was interjected by Freddie, who followed it up with a provocative leer. He then leaned toward Viviana’s ear. Melkior watched her at that moment: first she had a surprised face as she listened to Freddie’s whispers, then she burst out laughing. The overripe hollow-eyed actress sitting with them was enjoying the slur.
And all because of the “five, six female fans,” thought Melkior.
In a review during the previous season he had described Freddie as acting like a hairdresser for five or six female fans, and lisping through his lines. If I’d let him have twelve hundred would that have made it right? Ah, five or six was far too few for this head of Hermes.
But Melkior had put the
five or six
there on purpose, using the measly number to slam him in passing. Which was ridiculous. Freddie was why women
Nevertheless he put up with the “Parampion Brethren,” even encouraged them, as a kind of advertisement for his establishment. He was aware of the tongue-in-cheek mockery of their dubbing him Thénardier, but business was business, damn it. The unruly gang, “artsy types and bohemians,” drew the theatrical and journalist crowd; the masterful pranks, the salvos of laughter, who wouldn’t down a drink just to watch them! Mouths cramped with leering, throats scratchy with laughter, let’s have another round, by God, this beats the circus any day of the week!
Ugo’s inspired scenes were more useful than the blue neon tubes flashing
Give’nTake
above the entrance; knowing this, Thénardier even took some pride in his “arty moniker.” They all had funny nicknames, well, it was apparently the thing to do with this crackpot set, and he permitted himself, for the sake of business, to act the role of “Papa Parampion, otherwise known as honorable Thénardier,” as Ugo had once proclaimed him to be. All the same, he kept a Thénardierian eye on things, seeing to it that glassware breakage was kept to a minimum and the bills duly settled—or at least entered on a tab —and a zero or two was even added to the bill when the brethren went too heartily into their frolicking.
“No, no, Papa Thénardier, I want you to tell it straight: who is your absolute favorite?” insisted Ugo, shoving the man’s long equine head toward Melkior’s. “As Christ said of the lost sheep: he rejoiceth more of that sheep than of the ninety and nine which went not astray. Say it, Papa, like Christ in the Bible: I rejoice most in Melkior Tresić, the lost one.”
“Eustachius Lampion the Ineffable!” Maestro wheezed professorially, as if Ugo had got a historical name wrong.
“No, Maestro, sorry! For the moment he’s still Melkior Tresić the Apostate. There’s rehabilitation in the offing, before full privileges may be restored. … For half a year (rhetorical pathos) he has been purifying his mind of Give’nTake smoke, inhaling inspirations from the fragrant ozone of the soul’s storms, fattening his head with sagacious volumes. … Shutting himself away in his room and himself, not answering the door, hiding out like a culprit or someone with bad debts, veiling himself like a nun or a lovely doe-eyed virgin from the lustful looks of this low and crass world … Given up smoking, started going to the blind invalid to weigh his hermit’s body prior to boarding the next God-bound aeroplane. … In short: he entered a loftier sphere of being and opted for the miserable life of a solitary sage dwelling in silence and contemplating his mortal navel with tear-filled eyes. … He has quite possibly fallen in love … (her laughter and Melkior’s saintly pallor) but we shall leave that satisfaction to his destiny. … Nevertheless, brethren, he is back among us in his penitent’s sackcloth (Melkior remembered Dom Kuzma), ready to drink his full of Giventakian smoke and Parampionic wit! Once again he is our Eustachius the Lampion …”
“Imbecile and ass!”
This was interjected by Freddie, who followed it up with a provocative leer. He then leaned toward Viviana’s ear. Melkior watched her at that moment: first she had a surprised face as she listened to Freddie’s whispers, then she burst out laughing. The overripe hollow-eyed actress sitting with them was enjoying the slur.
And all because of the “five, six female fans,” thought Melkior.
In a review during the previous season he had described Freddie as acting like a hairdresser for five or six female fans, and lisping through his lines. If I’d let him have twelve hundred would that have made it right? Ah, five or six was far too few for this head of Hermes.
But Melkior had put the
five or six
there on purpose, using the measly number to slam him in passing. Which was ridiculous. Freddie was why women
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