“Madam Keppler? I don’t know, she wouldn’t have been so amusing. But the little cousin … heh-heh, now she would’ve made a tasty roast duckling … Don’t be horrified, I’m only teasing, you’re egging me on … Seriously now, they had found how to get rid of the women, because these females were really dangerous — never mind whether they were witches or not. Some innocent ones died, too, of course, but which of them, tell me honestly, which of them was completely innocent? Which of them would not have let the devil mount her … if only out of curiosity? According to the Malleus maleficarum they would dance around him kissing him on the bum while he, the swine, farted with relish, ha-ha!” Maestro had clearly brought the scene to life in his mind and was enjoying himself devilishly.
“I don’t believe, sweet Eustachius, that there have been no bitter mouthfuls in your love’s flask. Indeed you may have had your fill of that very bitterness, the bitterest of all, the one that forever poisons the heart. You see (I’m giving an example to clarify my views, even though they may disgust you — what do I care?) the whole world mourns for Desdemona — but not I. If she’d been completely innocent she would’ve tickled her husband’s armpit when he came in to strangle her. Why didn’t she tickle him, eh? I may be the only one in the world who thinks she was strangled fully in accordance with the rules of masculine prevention. You haven’t yet, you little whore, but you will … if I don’t strangle you first. For the time being I persist in you, Desdemona, shot to shot you have knocked again — shots twain (look, rhyming verse!), you’re still drunk … but we know all too well, glorious Eustachius, how long their inebriation lasts; so make with the prevention — klklkl! (Maestro made a strangling gesture) and be done with it. And rest assured you won’t have made a mistake.”
A weird thought tickled Melkior hard.
“You must have discussed this long and loud with Don Fernando?”
“Discussed what?”
“Why … preventive action.”
“Could be, I don’t know really … He wants to save mankind, no less, and I want mankind to leave off.”
“To be destroyed … by war?”
“Nonsense, sensible Eustachius! Wars nurture it, multiply it. War is a sign of rage. I want a peaceful liquidation, a sort of bankruptcy — everyone realizing the deal’s off … and joining the ranks of eunuchs. Infertile women no longer give birth to living dolls; as for everything else, let microbes devour the lot. Let them eat all the books and the museums, the cities and the machines, they’ll devour each other in the end … only the Spirit will remain to move upon the face of the waters as in the opening chapter of Genesis.”
“But what’s the point of all that?”
“What’s the point of all this, life-saving Eustachius? Perhaps you’re hiding meaning in your pocket? So, show it to me!”
Maestro bared his teeth at Melkior like a dog at a helpless man, feeling the advantage. Melkior was alarmed: he may go for me next with those teeth …
“Don’t fear, Eustachius,” laughed Maestro quite mildly, “we won’t start with you. We’ll start somewhere much closer, heh-heh, much, much closer … Here, see for yourself — no books. I’ve gone without long since. I gave them to someone downstairs — a Russian, a count, a general, a relative of the Grand Prince. Not to read though — he’s even forgotten his Russian — but … he cuts and pastes paper silhouettes and presses them with books. That’s how the general makes his living, in noble penury, in rags worn with dignity. Here’s another use for books — to press the imagination of the Grand Prince’s relative. Habent sua fata libelli.”
ATMAN never returned the Adler book, remembered Melkior with regret, which presumably reflected in some feature of his face.
“Don’t frown, bookish Eustachius — the book does not deserve our respect. Verily, verily I say unto thee that thought, imagination, feeling, have gone dull in lead and resin. The book has imposed on the spirit a stupid, heavy (particularly heavy!) and totally unsuitable corpus. Did you ever wonder, featherweight Eustachius, why the book needed such weight? If there’s anything ridiculous in this world, it’s that weight. We glorify Guttenberg … for what? For transforming thought into a brick. To conserve the thoughts inside! Mummies, dried cods. Bourgeoises, garamonds, minions, italics … for thoughts to be ‘clear,’ to be preserved for generations to come. Homer and Socrates never wrote a single letter between them, and yet they were preserved for generations to come. Did Socrates need italics to make his thoughts clearer? While our Don Fernando drives typesetters up the wall with his italics and boldface, the better to set out some par-ti-cu-lar thought for posterity. Pharaoh Don Fernando (life — health — power) wants his mummy to be prepared carefully for distant centuries … but what of it? In a year or two it’ll be nothing but a dried cod — with no head, of course.”
Melkior was grinning. He was enjoying the image of the “headless dried cod.” A malicious imp of revenge was having its field day inside him. He tried to set his own “modesty” against Don Fernando’s “pharaonic grandeur” and bask in it.
“Smiling, Eustachius? You think his mummy will be anything more than a dried fish?”
“It will indeed,” replied Melkior ambiguously. “Don Fernando has some engaging notions. He has expounded them to you, too …”
“Expounded … yes …” Maestro’s mind had already moved on to something else. “Death disgusts me, Eustachius. I’m imaginative enough, I can picture my own skeleton, and it’s a horrible sight. Take a look, Eustachius — is my bald spot dirty?” he bent his head low: the denuded pate featured a mud-dirtied bruise, “I like cleanliness.”
“Why, they hit you on the head, too!”
“No, no, of my own volition I lay down on my back … in the middle of the road, in lieu of a protest rally, for freedom of movement …”
Maestro was speaking rapidly, in a muddle. He meant to hide from Melkior that he had been thrown out of the café head first. His “protest lie-down” was an ad-lib.
“But you’ve got a bruise on the top of your head?”
“Never mind, it’s not a bruise, it’s my beret leaking blue dye …”
“It’s muddy. You should clean it. The nose, too.”
“The pate I’ll clean, of course. But not the nose!” he declared defiantly.
“The nose is not dirty — it’s bloody, which makes all the difference. Tomorrow I’ll appear, bloody nose and all, at the Corso when the whole crowd is there.”
“But what’s the use of parading it in public?”
“What’s the use? It’ll be a public indictment! I’ll show the culprit up (as nose is my witness), I’ll thrash him, I’ll raze his nose to the ground! Right there, in front of everyone! Perhaps even Městrović will be there!”
Again Melkior felt the burn of the evening’s café tableau: Freddie with Viviana. “Why did Freddie go for you? Was he alone?”
“What do you mean, alone? Everyone was on his side! All the waiters, the cooks … even the cleaning lady in charge of the restrooms. Aah, if he’d been alone, then his nose would have looked like this!”
His nose is now grazing on her fragrances … his imagination tormented Melkior.
“I mean, did Freddie have company?” he was purposely stoking Maestro’s hatred.
“What’s the thrust of this diplomacy, Eustachius?” Maestro gave a sly wink. “Trying to set me up, eh? You know who he was sitting with, heh-heh, and that’s why you’re asking.”