“Catch-22” By Joseph - Khamkoo

“Catch-22” By Joseph Heller 101
crinkled face. His eyes were creased and rheumy, and he appeared tragically ill at ease
as he stood awkwardly with the brim of his black felt fedora held in his two brawny
laborer’s hands out in front of his wide lapels. Poverty and hard work had inflicted
iniquitous damage on both. The brother was looking for a fight. His round white cap was
cocked at an insolent tilt, his hands were clenched, and he glared at everything in the
room with a scowl of injured truculence.
The three creaked forward timidly, holding themselves close to each other in a
stealthy, funereal group and inching forward almost in step, until they arrived at the side
of the bed and stood staring down at Yossarian. There was a gruesome and
excruciating silence that threatened to endure forever. Finally Yossarian was unable to
bear it any longer and cleared his throat. The old man spoke at last.
‘He looks terrible,’ he said.
‘He’s sick, Pa.’
‘Giuseppe,’ said the mother, who had seated herself in a chair with her veinous fingers
clasped in her lap.
‘My name is Yossarian,’ Yossarian said.
‘His name is Yossarian, Ma. Yossarian, don’t you recognize me? I’m your brother
John. Don’t you know who I am?’
‘Sure I do. You’re my brother John.’
‘He does recognize me! Pa, he knows who I am. Yossarian, here’s Papa. Say hello to
Papa.’
‘Hello, Papa,’ said Yossarian.
‘Hello, Giuseppe.’
‘His name is Yossarian, Pa.’
‘I can’t get over how terrible he looks,’ the father said.
‘He’s very sick, Pa. The doctor says he’s going to die.’
‘I didn’t know whether to believe the doctor or not,’ the father said. ‘You know how
crooked those guys are.’
‘Giuseppe,’ the mother said again, in a soft, broken chord of muted anguish.
‘His name is Yossarian, Ma. She don’t remember things too good any more. How’re
they treating you in here, kid? They treating you pretty good?’
‘Pretty good,’ Yossarian told him.
‘That’s good. Just don’t let anybody in here push you around. You’re just as good as
anybody else in here even though you are Italian. You’ve got rights, too.’ Yossarian
winced and closed his eyes so that he would not have to look at his brother John. He
began to feel sick.
‘Now see how terrible he looks,’ the father observed.
‘Giuseppe,’ the mother said.
‘Ma, his name is Yossarian,’ the brother interrupted her impatiently. ‘Can’t you
remember?’
‘It’s all right,’ Yossarian interrupted him. ‘She can call me Giuseppe if she wants to.’
‘Giuseppe,’ she said to him.
‘Don’t worry, Yossarian,’ the brother said. ‘Everything is going to be all right.’
‘Don’t worry, Ma,’ Yossarian said. ‘Everything is going to be all right.’
‘Did you have a priest?’ the brother wanted to know.
‘Yes,’ Yossarian lied, wincing again.
‘That’s good,’ the brother decided. ‘Just as long as you’re getting everything you’ve
got coming to you. We came all the way from New York. We were afraid we wouldn’t get
here in time.’
‘In time for what?’
‘In time to see you before you died.’
‘What difference would it make?’
‘We didn’t want you to die by yourself.’
‘What difference would it make?’
‘He must be getting delirious,’ the brother said. ‘He keeps saying the same thing over