Free Cyclops (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) by Ranko Marinkovic

man, lustful centaurs, Bacchus’s drunken little apes. Anacreon, little Arinoë, the Argonauts … all from Volume One of the encyclopaedia, under ‘A’ …” He sneered bitterly and poured brandy down his gullet. “And now it’s brandy,” he said, giving a shudder of some brand of disgust. “The alembic. Chemistry. We guzzle formulas. C-H-O-H, Paracelsus’s hell brews. Brandy is a whorish drink, the seducing tart, the vamp with a hoarse alto voice and blue shadows under her eyes, luscious like our Zara—am I right, Chicory Hasdrubalson?”
    “Sorry, Maestro?” and a wan young man with a nervous face, slicked-down blonde hair, and red eyes with puffy lids started with a spasm of laughter.
    “Zara, our love, I said, isn’t she luscious?” Maestro closed his eyes in admiration.
    “Ahh, Maestro, you are so cruel!” Chicory cried out in mock exasperation and burst into laughter, his face twitching nervously.
    “Perhaps,” Maestro parried, “but such a cinematographic love does bring a new sacrament to our biography. Chicory met her personally, last year, when she was here on a visit. Well, it turned out she was no monstrance, he was disappointed. Fat and stupid, with a pimp or something in tow, heh-heh. … Ergo, we’re sunk, Chicory Hasdrubalson!”
    “Sunk well and truly, my great Master. But Eustachius recommends Viviana, the delectable little fig.”
    Melkior felt onanistic shame at the mention of the name.
    “I don’t look between the sheets,” said Maestro in an offended tone, “I know none of those Platonic shadows. Explain, Chicory. To what tongue does the fig respond?”
    “This fig is Latin.
Figue Romance.
Her little mug drips with nectar for lecherous admirers.”
    “Ahh, ahh,” Maestro sighed quite indifferent and averted his eyes in vexation. “All that is just ‘Come out to play, it’s a lovely day’ … while what I need is peace and serenity,” he suddenly addressed Melkior, soberly, as if he had said to himself, “All right, enough of this nonsense.
    “A cozy little house with flowers all around (so let it be ‘idyllic,’ never you mind it, I
want
it that way!), a table under the green arbor, a glass of wholesome wine on the table. Inside the little house, the devoted housewife with white arms (that business with the elbow just like in
Oblomov
, remember?), the smells of cooking wafting from the kitchen, whetting the imagination and the appetite, and me all pure and solemn. There, that’s the dream I had and still have. And still have, that’s the nasty part. And it will be found inside my head when those professors up in Anatomy open it up. The dream that never came true. How on earth can you make a dream come true here and still remain pure and solemn? Where can I lose myself, disappear, when everybody knows me? There I am, walking down the street, daydreaming, polishing a line or two, all I need is to get it down on paper, when somebody or other jumps out at me, ‘Well, hello there, how are you?’ and it all goes down the drain. If only he cared about how I was! Like hell he does! He’s only being a nuisance. … Or perhaps he wants to show that he, too, knows me, Yorick the fool, the highbrow drunkard. All right, I know,” Maestro went on after a swig, “I can’t very well write another
Crime and Punishment.
Where could I find a Raskolnikov here? Are you Raskolnikov? Is anyone in this lot? Well, all right, I suppose you might do, but this one,” he indicated with his eyes a skinny student at their table, “is he Rodion Romanych Raskolnikov, the redeemer of mankind? The little bastard, they say he robbed his father and set up house with a little tart (a pro) whom he chooses to call
Sonya
, can you see the presumption of the cur? I would kick him out with the tip of my shoe if I didn’t respect Chicory who brought him here. He needs just such a ministrant at the table,
ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam
, to pour the wine for him (there, look!) and tuck him