Cyclops (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) by Ranko Marinkovic Read Free Book Online Page A

General Queipo de Llano? Getting old, isn’t he? Hemorrhoids, confession, come over all holy?”
    “Listen, you!” the bill-sticker went serious. “A joke is a joke, but this …! Me and the Fascists? Think I’m crazy, do you?” The last sentence was directly linked with his right hand, which had already handed the bicycle to the left …
    But Parampion … was his grinning mug to be punished for the mischievous little game of the harlequin who was performing his silly show inside his head?
    “Bicycletissime!”
he cried with delight and went on in a sober, bright, and solemn tone, “May I, before the honorable folk of this ancient, royal, free, capital city, firmly shake your hand for your proud and manly revulsion at the idea of being in any way connected with mankind’s greatest enemy, illiterate Fascism!” and he grabbed the cyclist’s abovementioned right hand, all ready to do a job of another kind, and pumped it thoroughly to mark “eternal friendship.” There was even a kiss to the man’s brow, the seal on the covenant.
    The well-pleased employee of Franck-O, whose job it was to stick up posters advertising the Franck factory’s chicory coffee substitute, was happily excited over the public proclamation of his political integrity.
    “And now, gentlemen,” Ugo addressed the audience, “I’m off … perhaps to Pampeluna. This concludes our Street Treat Show for today. We wish our listeners a very pleasant goodnight. The anthem —and we’re done.
A propos, bicycletissime
, would Your Velocipederasty happen to have a cigarette to spare?”
    “Make it two, make it two,” and the cyclist took out a large pigskin cigarette case, filled to bursting. “Here you are, help yourself.”
    “I thank you from the heart of my bottom! No, no, only one, for what the Ragusan gentry called
harmonious memory.
Then again … perhaps another one for my Eustachius. No, not a parrot, it’s that friend of mine on the weighing machine. Certain specialists he has been seeing prescribe smoking for his condition. Look, I’ve got him riled, heh, heh … Right, thanks a million and a half. Such a velocipederastic gesture shall never be forgotten. Hail, fair knight!” exclaimed Ugo.
    Taking three steps backward he made a flourish with his hat, bowing to the cyclist in a ceremonial manner. He then shot Melkior a quick glance and burst out laughing.
    “Hah, good-looking people, pay attention, he’s angry. No, both smokes are for me actually, and the third … if I may, bicycletissime” —and he slipped one more cigarette from the posterer’s case—“the third I will give him tonight at the Give’nTake. He’s ashamed of me for the moment, but as a rule I enjoy his affection and respect. And you, honorable Mr. Ferdyshchenko … open Sesame!”—and he surreptitiously lifted the CLOSED sign from Nosey’s belly. Nosey took offense at the drunkard handling his person for a second time and calling him what could only be an insulting name, but he wanted to be sensible and only said in a cautious mutter:
    “Wonder who these scoundrels mooch off.”
    “And now, gentlemen, hah … you thought I was off to a place called Pampeluna? No, they were wrong! I am now off to Pantogegone. And Pantogegone is … nothing. Zero,
nihil, nitchevo! Adieu
, perhaps
pour toujours
, you never can tell …”
    Ugo elbowed his way through the crowd toward a passerby on the other side of the street, cadged a light off of him and went on his way singing
Auprès de ma blonde
without a care in the world.
    Melkior remained alone before the crowd of disappointed spectators, like a culprit who was now to answer for the letdown. They were looking at him as if he had invited them to a show which had not amused them and they would now ask him to explain. Indeed, he began behaving as though he had really wronged the disgruntled mob …
    “All I want to know is, who these scoundrels mooch off?” repeated the curious citizen with the CLOSED sign. His