“Catch-22” By Joseph - Khamkoo

“Catch-22” By Joseph Heller 173
down, never tiring, never pausing in his relentless, methodical, monotonous procedure
unless it was to leer at Yossarian with maniacal mischief. Yossarian tried not to watch
him. He counted the parts and thought he would go clear out of his mind. He turned
away, shutting his eyes, but that was even worse, for now he had only the sounds, the
tiny maddening, indefatigable, distinct clicks and rustles of hands and weightless parts.
Orr was breathing rhythmically with a noise that was stertorous and repulsive. Yossarian
clenched his fists and looked at the long bone-handled hunting knife hanging in a holster
over the cot of the dead man in the tent. As soon as he thought of stabbing Orr, his
tension eased. The idea of murdering Orr was so ridiculous that he began to consider it
seriously with queer whimsy and fascination. He searched the nape of Orr’s neck for the
probable site of the medulla oblongata. Just the daintiest stick there would kill him and
solve so many serious, agonizing problems for them both.
‘Does it hurt?’ Orr asked at precisely that moment, as though by protective instinct.
Yossarian eyed him closely. ‘Does what hurt?’
‘Your leg,’ said Orr with a strange, mysterious laugh. ‘You still limp a little.’
‘It’s just a habit, I guess,’ said Yossarian, breathing again with relief. ‘I’ll probably get
over it soon.’ Orr rolled over sideways to the floor and came up on one knee, facing
toward Yossarian. ‘Do you remember,’ he drawled reflectively, with an air of labored
recollection, ‘that girl who was hitting me on the head that day in Rome?’ He chuckled at
Yossarian’s involuntary exclamation of tricked annoyance. ‘I’ll make a deal with you
about that girl. I’ll tell you why that girl was hitting me on the head with her shoe that day
if you answer one question.’
‘What’s the question?’
‘Did you ever screw Nately’s girl?’ Yossarian laughed with surprise. ‘Me? No. Now tell
me why that girl hit you with her shoe.’
‘That wasn’t the question,’ Orr informed him with victorious delight. ‘That was just
conversation. She acts like you screwed her.’
‘Well, I didn’t. How does she act?’
‘She acts like she don’t like you.’
‘She doesn’t like anyone.’
‘She likes Captain Black,’ Orr reminded.
‘That’s because he treats her like dirt. Anyone can get a girl that way.’
‘She wears a slave bracelet on her leg with his name on it.’
‘He makes her wear it to needle Nately.’
‘She even gives him some of the money she gets from Nately.’
‘Listen, what do you want from me?’
‘Did you ever screw my girl?’
‘Your girl? Who the hell is your girl?’
‘The one who hit me over the head with her shoe.’
‘I’ve been with her a couple of times,’ Yossarian admitted. ‘Since when is she your
girl? What are you getting at?’
‘She don’t like you, either.’
‘What the hell do I care if she likes me or not? She likes me as much as she likes you.’
‘Did she ever hit you over the head with her shoe?’
‘Orr, I’m tired. Why don’t you leave me alone?’
‘Tee-hee-hee. How about that skinny countess in Rome and her skinny daughter-inlaw?’
Orr persisted impishly with increasing zest. ‘Did you ever screw them?’
‘Oh, how I wish I could,’ sighed Yossarian honestly, imagining, at the mere question,
the prurient, used, decaying feel in his petting hands of their teeny, pulpy buttocks and
breasts.
‘They don’t like you either,’ commented Orr. ‘They like Aarfy, and they like Nately, but
they don’t like you. Women just don’t seem to like you. I think they think you’re a bad
influence.’
‘Women are crazy,’ Yossarian answered, and waited grimly for what he knew was
coming next.