The Attic by John K. Cox Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John K. Cox
depends on who ’ s reading them, and how. And of course on what the word denotes outside of its pictorial meaning. Such a letter-kiss, a letter-poem, had ten, or a hundred, variants and interpretations, and I believe that my fate was sealed by one such misunderstanding. I would remind you of that well known, historic misunderstanding which resulted in the godhead being represented with horns instead of a halo; thus Moses became a garden-variety cuckold, ridiculed in secret by everyone in the neighborhood — beginning, of course, with the cleaning lady. And the fact that one venerates him in public, or even prays to him — that is, I believe, the result of hypocrisy. But one should not forget to observe a moment of pathetic reverence: even a cuckolded godhead does inspire respect, after all.
“ You ’ ve really gotten carried away, Cuckold, ” said Igor, peering over my shoulder. “ I ’ d bet my life that you no longer know what you ’ re talking about. ”
“ I do know, ” I said, offended. “ About the horns! And next time don ’ t stick your nose into my papers. ”
“ What horns are you talking about? ” he said. “ About yours? That ’ s obviously the reason you started hiding your papers from me. ”
“ About your horns, ” I said, in the calmest possible voice.
He grew a bit more serious, and then exploded in laughter. “ Maybe you ’ re just a big jerk, banjo-meister. A joker is what you are. ”
“ I was talking about horns, ” I said again. “ About yours . . . and about mine. I wouldn ’ t joke about such things. You know that quite well. ”
He stopped laughing. All at once he grew as pale as . . . well, simply pale, like . . .
“ It ’ s not that . . . ”
“ Uh-huh, ” I said, nodding my head. “ Forgive me for having to tell you this . . . You know . . . this is unpleasant for me, but since you already . . . ”
“ Just go on, ” he said quietly, clenching his teeth. “ I can take it. ”
“ Marija . . . ”
“ I know. She was making out with someone in the lobby of the building. ”
“ No. ”
“ Something more serious? She didn ’ t . . .? ”
“ No, ” I said impatiently, “ but it ’ s simply that . . . ”
“ Maybe it ’ s simple for you! ” he cried out and slammed the binoculars to the ground.
“ That ’ s a shame, ” I said. “ And to think that tonight they ’ ll be celebrating the ‘ golden wedding anniversary ’ in the constellation of Orion. ”
“ I don ’ t care, ” he said, with his head thrust into the palms of his hands. “ Finish telling me what this is all about or I will kill you. ”
“ Take a look at this, ” I said, handing him the postcard that I ’ d gotten at the Grand Festival of Coiffures, Flowers, and Pop Tunes. “ I have no choice but to show you this . . . It wouldn ’ t be fair. ”
He grabbed the Marija-postcard out of my hand and held it closer to the light.
“ So what? ” he said. “ That ’ s Marija. What are you trying to say? This particular number is called ‘ Unforgettable Pussy. ’ She strips to the tune of the Persian March for a whole fifteen minutes . . . ”
“ And you knew about this? ”
“ Of course, ” he said. “ I got her this gig . . . Is that all you had to tell me about Marija? Just that? ”
“ Isn ’ t that enough for you, you old goat? Isn ’ t that enough?! ”
He doubled over with laughter, blushing, and his tears flowed down like . . . His tears were gushing out because of the laughter. When he had calmed down a bit, he pulled out his wallet, which was made of donkey leather and adorned with initials of mother-of-pearl, and he silently handed me another postcard. Then he went back to rolling around in the straw, convulsing with laughter.
Oh, Capricorn . . . why didn ’ t you spare me this?
Why did you help me destroy that monument of gold, flesh, and moonlight?
Oh, Eurydice: the image, the shadow — the whoring viper!
WALPURGIS NIGHT, OR
“ You ’ ve really gotten carried away, Cuckold, ” said Igor, peering over my shoulder. “ I ’ d bet my life that you no longer know what you ’ re talking about. ”
“ I do know, ” I said, offended. “ About the horns! And next time don ’ t stick your nose into my papers. ”
“ What horns are you talking about? ” he said. “ About yours? That ’ s obviously the reason you started hiding your papers from me. ”
“ About your horns, ” I said, in the calmest possible voice.
He grew a bit more serious, and then exploded in laughter. “ Maybe you ’ re just a big jerk, banjo-meister. A joker is what you are. ”
“ I was talking about horns, ” I said again. “ About yours . . . and about mine. I wouldn ’ t joke about such things. You know that quite well. ”
He stopped laughing. All at once he grew as pale as . . . well, simply pale, like . . .
“ It ’ s not that . . . ”
“ Uh-huh, ” I said, nodding my head. “ Forgive me for having to tell you this . . . You know . . . this is unpleasant for me, but since you already . . . ”
“ Just go on, ” he said quietly, clenching his teeth. “ I can take it. ”
“ Marija . . . ”
“ I know. She was making out with someone in the lobby of the building. ”
“ No. ”
“ Something more serious? She didn ’ t . . .? ”
“ No, ” I said impatiently, “ but it ’ s simply that . . . ”
“ Maybe it ’ s simple for you! ” he cried out and slammed the binoculars to the ground.
“ That ’ s a shame, ” I said. “ And to think that tonight they ’ ll be celebrating the ‘ golden wedding anniversary ’ in the constellation of Orion. ”
“ I don ’ t care, ” he said, with his head thrust into the palms of his hands. “ Finish telling me what this is all about or I will kill you. ”
“ Take a look at this, ” I said, handing him the postcard that I ’ d gotten at the Grand Festival of Coiffures, Flowers, and Pop Tunes. “ I have no choice but to show you this . . . It wouldn ’ t be fair. ”
He grabbed the Marija-postcard out of my hand and held it closer to the light.
“ So what? ” he said. “ That ’ s Marija. What are you trying to say? This particular number is called ‘ Unforgettable Pussy. ’ She strips to the tune of the Persian March for a whole fifteen minutes . . . ”
“ And you knew about this? ”
“ Of course, ” he said. “ I got her this gig . . . Is that all you had to tell me about Marija? Just that? ”
“ Isn ’ t that enough for you, you old goat? Isn ’ t that enough?! ”
He doubled over with laughter, blushing, and his tears flowed down like . . . His tears were gushing out because of the laughter. When he had calmed down a bit, he pulled out his wallet, which was made of donkey leather and adorned with initials of mother-of-pearl, and he silently handed me another postcard. Then he went back to rolling around in the straw, convulsing with laughter.
Oh, Capricorn . . . why didn ’ t you spare me this?
Why did you help me destroy that monument of gold, flesh, and moonlight?
Oh, Eurydice: the image, the shadow — the whoring viper!
WALPURGIS NIGHT, OR