Melkior made his contrite way past the jet of water sluicing the street. The water spurted noisily past his ear wishing him a good night and pleasant dreams.
You’re a tired man, said the water to him.
~ ~ ~
“Oh when will spring, when will spring send forth its tender shoots,” recited Ugo sadly, sniffling. (He had been sniffling all winter, ever since the night the hose got the better of him.)
Cold, gray, rainy days. Military, uniform days. Soldiers moving, olive drab, uniform, much like the days, monotonous, bundled, miserable, hopeless soldiers. Marching by day, pounding their feet bravely; stealing out by night, soundlessly, stealthily, keeping unit strengths, directions, dispositions TOP SECRET. Melkior listened to the muted commands and countless feet treading cautiously and with fear at night. Going somewhere … which may turn out to be nowhere, nothing. What Kurt had sowed on their path. Sprouting now as nettles and shattered glass: a terrible pilgrimage …
They will reach a certain line and be told halt. By Nettle. Count off — one-two. … Face down! And there will they await that day, Kurtsday. The name day of Polyphemus the man-eating Cyclops celebrated with fierce shooting by his thunder-loving twin brother. War.
It is impossible for the blossoms of spring to bloom. To send forth green shoots and the fragrances of the freshly awakened Earth. To stretch a blue sky overhead. … The milk brother is no longer riding down the Milky Way. … Huge is the boulder with which Polyphemus has plugged the world’s door: ruling inside are silence and darkness and terror at the one-eyed beast.
Melkior unravels and spins long tangled thoughts. Hungry winter gnaws at roots under the cover of snow, hissing nastily: you, too, will be gnawing roots before long. … You’ll wish you could hide in earth like a worm, in water like a crab, under stone like a green pepper. … You say spring will not be sending forth its tender shoots. … — No, it’s Ugo who says that … — … well, you refuse to look at the greenery, you’ll close your eyes so as not to see it. …
Winter spoke like a soothsayer, like a witch. Melkior feared the advent of spring. “They’ll start marching on Russia after the snows start to melt,” Don Fernando had said the other day. “And before they do they’ll say ‘Good morning’ to us here in the Balkans. Protect their right flank. And Vissarionovitch shoved his generals aside and signed the Pact!” Don Fernando laughed bitterly.
They had been discussing this at the Corso Cafe. They were in the know.
“The snows, sure … but what about the Pripet Marshes?” said Melkior; he knew a thing or two himself. Don Fernando laughed.
“The marshes … and the business with Napoleon — oh yes, now that is sure to stop them.” Don Fernando was mocking him. “Berezina,” he laughed.
Why did he strike this conversation up with me? Melkior had recently heard in the office, from the people on the Foreign Desk, about the Pripet Marshes. They can’t have made that up — everyone was counting on the marshes.
“They are counting on the marshes,” Melkior said.
“The marshes?” scoffed Don Fernando. “And Tolstoy’s War and Peace.”
Melkior abandoned the pointless conversation. He knew nothing apart from the marshes. Well, the Russians will bring them to heel somehow, won’t they? There’s a hundred and eighty million of them! A Chinese calculation. As for us (he thought of himself and shuddered), we’ll only be a mere mouthful for Polyphemus the man-eating Cyclops. … He grabbed another two men and devoured them for breakfast sounded like a joke.
Once the snows melt … and they’ll deal with us when spring sends forth its tender shoots.
ATMAN had gone, moved on goodness knows where. He might have known all about it, down to the very date … he was going by the calendar, spring had “officially” come. Kurt and ATMAN … Melkior was now putting two and two together … they had gone.
They’d “opened up for business” across from the 35th’s barracks. … Hang on, when was it that ATMAN took up lodgings downstairs? … two years back … or was it three? Well, Mrs. Ema ought to know, she was one of his first clients. The Cozy Corner dated from that same time. The same “inspiration.” Who would ever have figured that one out — a chiromantist and a tavern, worlds apart. An observation post at ATMAN’S: the “clients” were keeping an eye on the barracks, every bit of information counts. No one was thinking about things that way. Apart from Don Fernando (had he really recruited Maestro?) — he would give them all their comeuppance. … He could sniff out the bastards from miles away. All—preventively!
While she … Melkior’s heart contracted achingly … Mata Hari! Execution at dawn. The small courtyard of the army prison. Eight riflemen, Nettle in command. He has in fact asked permission to “finish off the bitch” himself. Eight gun barrels aimed at her heart. Her false, traitorous heart! Implacable Melkior. Really? she thinks quickly, cunningly. Are they really going to shoot me? She tries to wiggle her hips under the skirt; she thrusts out her chest, pushes her breasts forward … the sergeant’s a man after all … Nettle sees only the bitch, he is no man … Melkior! … Melkior! … will give his blood, ATMAN said … Melkior …
Melkior looks away, gives the order—Fire! The salvo in him resounds dully, as if underground — Viviana is dead.
He stood up from the sofa with relief.
I have buried my dead love, said the poet Sima Pandurovic … he said as he approached the window. Cold, cold, my girl, said Othello after he had strangled Desdemona. Cold, cold …
Rain was falling on wretched, bare, dead branches.
… without love and deceitful spring … he watched raindrops on the glass pane … sliding down … I have shot my false love …
News vendors were hawking a special edition. Passersby grabbed the papers from their hands and greedily thrust their heads between the pages then and there.
The animals are feeding … that was what it looked like to Melkior from up above. The pigs have had fresh swill poured into their trough.
He grabbed another two men and devoured them for dinner … because it looked like evening. The spring morning has gone dusky with rain, with sorrow, with eyes peering into the dark. The little old man is now saying to the giant: musht be shome shenshation or other, eh, bud, sheeing azh they’ve put out an ekshtra edition? — Gr, could be, replies the giant. — Perhapsh the Germansh have landed in England? — No. The giant is on the side of the English; he defended the George Fifth that time. … — What maksh you sho sure they haven’t? You alwayzh know it all! the little old man is querulous. — I do. — You can’t know everything. — I just do, see? — Shee, shee, shee, laughs the little old man.
There was the sound of conversation on the stairs; it was carried on the wave of some kind of mirth.
“Put up or shut up, heh-heh. …” That was the judge.