Read Online Cyclops (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) by Ranko Marinkovic - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ranko Marinkovic
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her beauty. He felt a mighty fear in his body. … While everyone was calm around him, everyone protected by indifferent laughter. … And there: his hand resting on the table was not lying still, it was trembling, frightened …
“Are you scared of him?” asked Maestro in a whisper, one eye squinting in the smoke from the sodden butt in the corner of his mouth, giving him a derisive air.
“Scared of whom?”
“That Freddie character.”
“What makes you think I’m scared?”
“You keep glancing his way. Move the hand off the table, it’s trembling very convincingly. That might encourage him,” said Maestro paternally. “And be careful. In nineteen twenty an actor whupped our drama critic. Thrashed him in broad daylight, in front of the Theater Café with a dog whip. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“Why did he whip him? Did he get a bad review?” Melkior felt his voice quaver.
“Rumor had it that … well, it may have had something to do with a review, the man wrote that the actor spoke with a squeak or something, I don’t know, it has been ages since I last went to the theater. He might well have spoken with a squeak for all I know. But it wasn’t over the squeak, it was over a blonde.”
“A blonde?” smiled Melkior, and there was an agitated twinkle in his eyes.
“Oh yes, a plump one, with all-around curvaceous qualities. I knew her personally. Pulp novels were the total extent of her interest in the written word. She sat around in bars like this one here. … Her stock reply to compliments was ‘You don’t say’ and whatever she talked about invariably contained the attribute ‘awfully.’ So much for charm and coquetry.”
Maestro spat out the butt, took a sip of the local brandy, and lit a fresh cigarette, which he immediately maneuvered with his tongue to the corner of his mouth to keep his speech unimpeded.
“But it seems that both artists were smitten with her curves, wherefore the performing artist trounced the pen-wielding artist. Mind your step.”
“Why? It’s not as if I …” Melkior felt the need to hide.
“I’m not saying that you …” and Maestro raised his eyebrows in the direction of
her.
“No, that would be a foolishness unworthy of you, great Eustachius. After all, you are different. … Come on, no blushing, I’m old enough to be your father. Ahh,” sighed Maestro with profound sadness, “I have seen Fijan act! That’s why I don’t go to the theater any more. When the late Fijan walked down the street, it was as if King Lear himself was passing by. While nowadays, as you can see for yourself, it’s Freddie! And as for the thrashing, I told you the story for comparative reasons, to draw the distinction between God and a milliner. Fijan was God! Or at least a demigod … a magnificent presence at any rate. People stepped aside out of respect, they made room for him on the street to clear the way for his greatness. And when he shouted, with dead Cordelia in his arms, ‘Howl, howl, howl, howl!’ our very souls shook. Only a jackass could respond to Freddie’s braying, out of brotherly solidarity. I really don’t know what he baits his hook with to catch those eels. Because his sinker has indeed sunk. The man’s impotent. That’s a known fact.”
Within Melkior there shone up a feeling brimming with embarrassment and hope. But it’s all Maestro’s hair-brained malarkey … and everything went dark again.
“I used to have artistic ambitions myself in my younger days,” stated Maestro all of a sudden.
“Thespian?”
“Literary. Poetic. But that was at a time when we drank wine, pagan style, and sang ‘sunny dithyrambs.’ We were all of us phallic instrumentalists, the crazed brethren of Eros. And Zeus was a wonderful god. There was never a poem without something ‘gasping’ in it, the better-class girls were nymphs and our ladies of the night, hetaerae. Vineyards, autumn, the leather flask and Pan. We drank the blazing sun. Bearded satyrs to a
“Are you scared of him?” asked Maestro in a whisper, one eye squinting in the smoke from the sodden butt in the corner of his mouth, giving him a derisive air.
“Scared of whom?”
“That Freddie character.”
“What makes you think I’m scared?”
“You keep glancing his way. Move the hand off the table, it’s trembling very convincingly. That might encourage him,” said Maestro paternally. “And be careful. In nineteen twenty an actor whupped our drama critic. Thrashed him in broad daylight, in front of the Theater Café with a dog whip. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“Why did he whip him? Did he get a bad review?” Melkior felt his voice quaver.
“Rumor had it that … well, it may have had something to do with a review, the man wrote that the actor spoke with a squeak or something, I don’t know, it has been ages since I last went to the theater. He might well have spoken with a squeak for all I know. But it wasn’t over the squeak, it was over a blonde.”
“A blonde?” smiled Melkior, and there was an agitated twinkle in his eyes.
“Oh yes, a plump one, with all-around curvaceous qualities. I knew her personally. Pulp novels were the total extent of her interest in the written word. She sat around in bars like this one here. … Her stock reply to compliments was ‘You don’t say’ and whatever she talked about invariably contained the attribute ‘awfully.’ So much for charm and coquetry.”
Maestro spat out the butt, took a sip of the local brandy, and lit a fresh cigarette, which he immediately maneuvered with his tongue to the corner of his mouth to keep his speech unimpeded.
“But it seems that both artists were smitten with her curves, wherefore the performing artist trounced the pen-wielding artist. Mind your step.”
“Why? It’s not as if I …” Melkior felt the need to hide.
“I’m not saying that you …” and Maestro raised his eyebrows in the direction of
her.
“No, that would be a foolishness unworthy of you, great Eustachius. After all, you are different. … Come on, no blushing, I’m old enough to be your father. Ahh,” sighed Maestro with profound sadness, “I have seen Fijan act! That’s why I don’t go to the theater any more. When the late Fijan walked down the street, it was as if King Lear himself was passing by. While nowadays, as you can see for yourself, it’s Freddie! And as for the thrashing, I told you the story for comparative reasons, to draw the distinction between God and a milliner. Fijan was God! Or at least a demigod … a magnificent presence at any rate. People stepped aside out of respect, they made room for him on the street to clear the way for his greatness. And when he shouted, with dead Cordelia in his arms, ‘Howl, howl, howl, howl!’ our very souls shook. Only a jackass could respond to Freddie’s braying, out of brotherly solidarity. I really don’t know what he baits his hook with to catch those eels. Because his sinker has indeed sunk. The man’s impotent. That’s a known fact.”
Within Melkior there shone up a feeling brimming with embarrassment and hope. But it’s all Maestro’s hair-brained malarkey … and everything went dark again.
“I used to have artistic ambitions myself in my younger days,” stated Maestro all of a sudden.
“Thespian?”
“Literary. Poetic. But that was at a time when we drank wine, pagan style, and sang ‘sunny dithyrambs.’ We were all of us phallic instrumentalists, the crazed brethren of Eros. And Zeus was a wonderful god. There was never a poem without something ‘gasping’ in it, the better-class girls were nymphs and our ladies of the night, hetaerae. Vineyards, autumn, the leather flask and Pan. We drank the blazing sun. Bearded satyrs to a
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