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

to relish.
    The silence had become oppressive, as though everyone were waiting for something to happen. Even Ugo was wordless. Or was he purposely letting seriousness kill the fun, rob the jollity, so that he might come on in “grand style” to save the day.
    He was a past master at handling such situations.
    Melkior felt the worst. Whence the guilty feeling? It seemed to him that all eyes were trained on him in a kind of expectation as if he could come up with a solution. What had he gone and tampered with Don Fernando’s ineffable divinity for? It had soared frighteningly high above his pedestrian powers, and he had long been cultivating the patient policy of the believer who envies the omnipotence of his God. But into the envy crept some insidious antipathy that he unconsciously sought to disperse with a strange readiness to sacrifice himself. And every time he caught himself preparing for the sacrifice, even as the inferior feeling of fulsome humility was hatching, there also emerged anger and disgust along the way, with himself along with everything else. Whence the slimy feeling of crawling mendacity which clung faithfully to the superior and hated person? Step forward, any who are immune to that particular brand of perfidy! Oh, human nature! sighed Melkior “from deep down inside,” cleverly impersonating his conscience, as if he had deftly used “human nature” to plug a stench-spewing bottle.
    “I suggest,” Chicory Hasdrubalson spoke up mournfully, mid-silence, “that the entire Parampionic Fraternity humbly ask the great Don Fernando to adopt a sad mask suitable for a
pompe funèbres director
, following which we should equally humbly ask the immortal Maestro to carry the remains of the dear departed out of the house of sorrow so that we might fittingly mourn it as one.”
    They interrupted him with a chorus of laughter (which included Maestro’s angry grunts). Ugo amply rewarded Chicory with kisses on behalf of the entire fraternity … and things got going nicely again after the standstill. But silence descended suddenly again like darkness and choked the barely revived merriment.
    Something was happening on Don Fernando’s face and it instantly affected everyone, as if sunspots had appeared and brought about an abrupt climate change. Indeed, dark spots had appeared on both Don Fernando’s ruddy cheeks and a grim cloud of anger flew across his eyes. True, he whisked the cloud right away so that no lightning flashed in his eyes, but the spots spread on his cheeks, covering them to the ears.
    There was a solar eclipse. A devout silence fell upon the party at the table and mystic anxiety swept through the entire Give’nTake. Doomsday was expected. But in the midst of expectation Maestro finished his glass while Ugo grinned derisively at the darkened sun —Don Fernando’s face—intrepidly displaying his black fillings.
    Was it the fillings themselves or the heretic defiance of the two chief Parampions that upset the exalted balance of Don Fernando’s divine serenity? He snatched his glass greedily as if about to drain it, held it tightly gripped in his hand for a moment (he was trying against all odds to resist temptation), and then with an easy swing, but producing an extremely telling effect, dashed the wine across the table smack into Ugo’s teeth. He then stood up without looking at anyone and strode unhurriedly out of the Give’nTake.
    Freddie was triumphant, of course. Such unexpected revenge at another’s hand! Hurrah! Bravo! He applauded, shouted, chortled with glee, loudly, too loudly. Even
she
tried to tame him, stroking his hand, pleading with him to restrain himself. She saw nothing funny in the excess, her sympathy was apparently with Ugo. (Oh how Melkior was grateful!) At length she let go of Freddie’s hand, stood up and approached Ugo with tender concern.
    “Did he get you in the eyes?” she asked, pulling Ugo’s hands away from his eyes.
    Melkior felt a sweet, unmanly ache of