The Athenian Murders (14 page)

Itys narrowed her eyes. She tensed, like a bird about to fly away. 'Menaechmus?' she said, and gently bit her lip. After a brief pause, she added: 'I think . . . Yes, I remember now. He used to come to the house when Meragrus was alive. A strange man, but then my husband had very strange friends. I don't include you.'

Heracles returned her thin smile, before asking: 'You haven't seen him since then?' Itys said no. 'Do you know if he had any kind of relationship with Tramachus?'

'No, I don't think so. I'm certain Tramachus never mentioned him.' Itys frowned anxiously. 'Heracles, what is this? Your questions are so ... Even if you can't tell me what you're investigating, at least tell me whether my son's death ... I mean, Tramachus was attacked by a pack of wolves, wasn't he? That's what we were told. That is what happened, isn't it?'

Still expressionless, Heracles said: 'It is. His death has nothing to do with all this. But I won't trouble you further. Thank you for your help. May the gods be propitious.' -

He left hurriedly. He had a guilty conscience, for he had had to lie to a good woman.
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My conscience isn't troubling me in the slightest: yesterday I told Helena about the disturbing parallel between events in real life and those in the book. 'You're such a fantasist,' she complained. 'How on earth could Montalo's death have anything to do with the death of a character in a two-thousand-year-old book? You're quite mad! Montalo's death was
real,
an accident. Whatever happens to the character in the book you're translating is pure fiction. Maybe it's another eidetic device, a secret symbol, or something.' Helena's right, as usual. Her devastating common sense would demolish even Heracles Pontor's most intelligent arguments. And, by the way, fictional as he
may be, he is rapidly becoming my favourite character, the only voice that makes sense of all this chaos. What can I say, astonished reader? It suddenly seemed terribly important to find out more about Montalo and his solitary life, so I wrote to Aristides, an academic who was a close friend of his. He replied promptly, saying he'd be happy to see me. I wonder sometimes if I'm trying to imitate Heracles Pontor by carrying out
my own
investigation.
(T
.'s N.)

They say something unprecedented happened that day: an oversight on the part of the temple priests caused hundreds of white butterflies to be released from the great urn of offerings to Athena Nike. That morning, beneath the cool, bright sun of an Athenian winter, their quivering wings, fragile and luminous, invaded the City. Some people saw them enter the unsullied sanctuary of Artemis Brauronia and seek the camouflage of the goddess' snow-white marble; others caught sight of little white flowers flitting around the statue of Athena Promachos, waving their petals, yet not falling to the ground. The butterflies multiplied quickly, beleaguering, without risk of danger, the stone maidens who, needing no help, supported the roof of the Erechtheum; they nested in the sacred olive tree, a gift from aegis-bearing Athena; gleaming, they flew down the hillsides of the Acropolis. An army by now, they erupted, a gentle, feather-light nuisance, into everyday life. Nobody would do anything about them, because they were hardly anything: no more than flickering light, as if Morning had fluttered her delicate eyelashes, sprinkling the fine dust of her gleaming makeup over the City. Watched by the astounded inhabitants, they made their way unhindered through the impalpable ether, to the Temple of Ares and the Stoa of Zeus, the Tholus and the Heliaea, the Theseum and the monument to the Heroes, ever dazzling, flighty, revelling in their translucent freedom. After kissing the friezes of public buildings like capricious little girls, they occupied the trees and snowed, zigzagging, over the grass and the rocks in the springs. Dogs barked at them inoffensively, as they sometimes do at ghosts or whirling dust; cats leapt on to rocks out of their wavering path; mules and oxen raised their heavy heads to stare but, without the capacity for dreams, they weren't saddened.

At last, the butterflies alighted on men and began to die.
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When Heracles Pontor returned home at midday, he found his garden covered with a smooth shroud of butterfly corpses. The birds nesting in the cornices or high up in the pines had, in fact, already begun to devour them - hoopoes, cuckoos, goldcrests, rooks, wood pigeons, crows, nightingales, goldfinches - heads bent over the delicacy, busying themselves like artists at their pigments, turning the fine grass green again. It was a strange sight, but Heracles thought it neither a good nor a bad omen, for, among other things, he didn't believe in omens.

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This invasion of white butterflies (which is quite absurd - there is no historical evidence to suggest that butterflies were ever used as an offering to Athena Nike) must be eidetic: the ideas of 'flight' and
'wings' - present from the beginning of the chapter - invade the reality of the story. The final image, in my view, is that of the Labour of the Stymphalian Birds, in which Hercules has to chase away the myriad birds plaguing the lake of Stymphalia, which he does by clashing bronze cymbals. And has the reader noticed the cleverly disguised presence of the 'girl with the lily'? Please tell me if you do, rea
der, or am I imagining it? The l
ittle white flowers' and the 'maidens (the caryatids of the Erechtheum) are there, as well as those essential words 'help' ('needing no help') and 'danger' ('beleaguering without risk of danger'), always closely linked with this image! (T.'sN.)

As he walked up the garden path, a flapping of wings to his right caught his attention. A hunched black shadow emerged from behind the trees, frightening the birds. 'So you like to jump out and startle people now, do you?' smiled Heracles.

'By Zeus' pointed lightning bolts, I swear I don't, Heracles Pontor,' crackled Eumarchus' old voice. 'You hired me to be discreet, to spy on others without being seen, didn't you? Well, I've learned my trade.'

Startled by the noise, the birds took wing, abandoning their feast. As they rose, their tiny, agile bodies lit up in the air, then
beat down vertically towards the earth, and the two men blinked, dazzled by the glare of the midday sun at its zenith.
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'That horrible mask you have for a slave gesticulated that you were out,' said Eumarchus, 'so I patiently awaited your return. I came to tell you that my work has borne fruit.'

'Did you do as I ordered?'

'As your hands obey your thoughts. Last night I became my pupil's shadow. I followed him, tirelessly, at a prudent distance, like a female falcon accompanying her young on their first flight. I was a pair of eyes tied to his back as he threaded his way through the crowded streets. He met his friend Euneos at nightfall by the Stoa of Zeus and they set off across the City. They were not walking for pleasure, if you understand me: their volatile steps had a cle
ar destination. But Father Cron
us could inflict on me Prometheus' fate, tying me to a rock for a bird to daily peck out my liver with its black beak, and still I could not have imagined a stranger destination, Heracles! I can tell by the faces you're making that you're growing impatient with my tale. Don't worry, I'll get to the point. I found out, at last, where they were going! I'll tell you and you'll be as amazed as I.'

The light of the sun pecked lazily at the grass, before landing on a branch and trilling a few notes. A second nightingale alighted beside it.
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The birds, like the butterflies, are eidetic, so they have now turned into rays of sunlight. The reader should note that there is nothing miraculous or magical about it, it's as much of a literary device as the change of metre in a poem.
(T
.'s N.)

³⁶
The metamorphosis of bird into light here takes place the other way around. Readers encountering an eidetic text for the first time
may find these sentences confusing, but, I repeat, this isn't a miracle but si
mply a question of language. (T
.'s
N
.).

At last, Eumarchus finished his story. 'Explain to me, O great Decipherer, what it all means,' he said.

Heracles pondered a moment before saying: 'Now, I still require your help, good Eumarchus. Follow Antisus' footsteps at night and report to me every two or three days. But first, fly hurriedly to my friend's house with this message ...'

'I am grateful to you, Heracles, for agreeing to have our meal outside,' said Crantor. 'Do you know, I can no longer endure the gloomy interiors of Athenian houses? The inhabitants of villages south of the Nile cannot believe that in our civilised Athens we live cloistered within adobe walls. They believe that only the dead need walls.' He took another piece of fruit from the bowl and drove the sharp beak of his dagger into the table. After a moment, he said: 'You're not in a talkative mood.'

The Decipherer seemed to awaken from a dream. In the intact peace of the garden a small bird warbled a tune. Sharp clattering gave away Cerberus' presence in a corner, as he licked the remains from his dish.

They were dining on the porch. Obeying Crantor's wishes, and aided by the guest himself, Ponsica had brought out the table and two couches from the cenacle. The air was growing cold, for the Sun's chariot of fire was completing its journey, its curved trail of gold stretching, unbroken, across the band of sky above the pines, but it was still possible to sit outside and enjoy the sunset. Though his friend had certainly been loquacious, entertaining even, recounting numerous Odyssean anecdotes and allowing him to listen in silence without having to contribute, Heracles had ended up regretting his invitation: the details of the enigma he was on the verge of solving were tormenting him. And he had to keep a constant watch over the sun's curved trajectory, as he was concerned not to be late for his appointment later that evening. But his Athenian sense of hospitality prompted him to say: 'Crantor, my friend, I apologise for being such a poor host. I have let my thoughts fly elsewhere.'

'Oh, I don't want to disturb you, Heracles. I assume you've been pondering a matter relating to your work.'

‘I
have. But I am ashamed of my inhospitable behaviour. So let me now perch my thoughts on a branch and partake in conversation.'

Crantor wiped his nose with the back of his hand and finished his piece of fruit. 'Are things going well? In your work, I mean.'

'I can't complain. I'm treated better than my colleagues in Corinth and Argos. They do nothing but decipher the enigmas of the Delphic oracle for a few rich clients. Here, I'm much in demand: to solve a mystery in an Egyptian text, establish the whereabouts of a lost object, identify a thief. There was a time, just after you left, at the end of the war, when I had barely enough to eat . . . Don't laugh, it's true. So I, too, turned to solving the riddles of Delphi. But now, in peacetime, we Athenians have nothing better to do than decipher enigmas, even when there are none. We gather in the Agora, or the gardens of the Lyceum, or at the theatre of Dionysus Eleuthereus, or simply in the streets, and question one another incessantly
· · ·
And when no one has an answer, they engage a Decipherer.'

Crantor laughed again. 'You, too, have chosen the life you wanted, Heracles.'

'I don't know, Crantor, I don't know.' He rubbed his bare arms beneath his cloak. 'I think this way of life has chosen me.'

Ponsica brought another jug of undiluted wine. Her silence seemed to infect them. Heracles noticed that his friend (Was Crantor still his friend? Were they not now strangers reminiscing about mutual friends?) was watching the slave. The last, pure rays of sun alighted on the gentle curves of the featureless mask; slender but in constant movement, her snow-white arms emerged from the symmetrical openings of the black, floor-length cloak with pointed edges. Ponsica placed the jug gently on the table, bowed and left. From his corner, Cerberus barked furiously.

'I can't... I couldn't...' muttered Crantor suddenly. 'Couldn't what?'

'Wear a mask to hide my ugliness. I assume your slave wouldn't either if you didn't force her to.'

'The complex pattern of her scars distracts me,' said Heracles. He shrugged, adding: 'She is my slave, after all. Others make them do their work naked. I've covered her up completely'

'Does her body distract you, too?' smiled Crantor, tugging at his beard with his burnt hand.

'No, but all I want from her is efficiency and silence: I need both so that I can think in peace.'

The invisible bird whistled three sharply distinct notes. Crantor turned his head towards the house. 'Have you ever seen her naked?' he asked.

Heracles nodded. 'When I inquired about her at the Phaleron market, the trader stripped her - he thought her body more than made up for her ruined face and that I would therefore pay more. But I said to him: "Have her dress. I simply need to know if she can cook and run a modest-sized house without help." The merchant assured me that she was very efficient, but I wanted her to tell me so herself. When I saw that she didn't answer, I realised that the man had been trying to hide the fact that she couldn't speak. Embarrassed, he explained quickly that she was a mute and told me the story of the Lydian bandits. He added: "But she expresses herself with a simple alphabet of signs." So I bought her.' Heracles paused and sipped his wine, adding: 'It's the best purchase I've ever made, I assure you. But she's gained, too: I have arranged that she should be set free upon my death and have, in fact, already allowed her considerable freedom. Occasionally she even asks for permission to go to Eleusis, as she worships the Sacred Mysteries, and I happily grant it.' He concluded with a smile: 'We're both happy.'