The Athenian Murders (8 page)

'Helena, look.' I pointed at my translation. 'Here we have the image of a young girl asking for help and warning of danger. Read the whole chapter. Please.'

So she did. I waited, biting my nails. When she'd finished, she again turned her painfully sympathetic gaze upon me. 'Look, you know I'm not as well versed as you in eidetic literature, but as far as I can see the idea of "speed" is the main hidden image here. This alludes to the fourth Labour of Hercules, the capture of the Arcadian Stag, which ran extremely fast. I also find hunting images, referring to the same thing: "trail", "prey", "hunter" .. . And the Stag itself is mentioned a few times: "antlers", "white horns", "mat of fur" ... But the "young girl" and the "lily" are clearly poetic metaphors used—'

'Helena—'

'Let me finish. They're poetic metaphors used by the author to represent the rather artless nature of the philosopher Diagoras
.'

I wasn't convinced. 'But why specifically a "lily"?' I objected, annoyed. 'Why is it repeated so often if it's not an eidetic word? And why the repetition of "help" and "danger"?'

'I think you're confusing eidesis with repetition,' smiled Helena. 'Writers sometimes repeat words in a paragraph out of carelessness, or because they've run out of imagery.'

She stopped when she saw the look on my face. 'Helena, I can't prove it, but I'm
sure
the girl with the lily is an eidetic image ... It's awful ...' 'What is?'

That you hold a completely different view after having read the
same
text. It's awful that the images, the ideas formed by the words in books, should be so fragile! I
saw
a deer as I read, and I
also
saw a girl holding a lily and crying for help ... You see the stag,
but not the girl. If Elio read this, perhaps only the lily would catch his attention ... What might another reader see? And Montalo ... What did Montalo see? Only that the chapter was copied out carelessly! But,' I thumped the papers in an unforgivable moment of anger, 'there
has
to be
a final
idea that doesn't depend on our opinions, surely? In the end the words
must
make up a precise idea!'

'You sound like a man in love.'

'What?'

'You've fallen in love with the girl with the lily, haven't you?' Helena's eyes sparked with derision. 'Remember, she's not even a character in the novel. She's an idea that you've pieced
together
as you translate, an image woven from separate words.' And, pleased to have shut me up, she went back to her classes, just turning to add: 'Some advice: don't get obsessed with it.'

Now, in the evening, in the peace and comfort of my study, I believe Helena's right: I'm just the
translator.
Someone else would, with utter confidence, produce a different version, with different words, evoking different images. And why not? Perhaps, in my eagerness to follow the trail of the 'girl with the lily', I've created her with my own words. Because, in a way, a translator is also a writer ... or rather (and it amuses me to think so) the
eidesis
of a writer - always present yet always invisible.

Maybe. But why am I so
sure
that the girl is the
true
hidden message in this chapter, and that her cry for
help
and her warning of
danger
are so important? I'll only find out if
I carry on.

For now I'll follow the advice of Heracles Pontor, Decipherer of Enigmas: 'Relax . . . And may anxiety
not rob you of sweet sleep.' (T
.'sN.)

IV
²⁰

The City was preparing for the Lenaea, the winter festival in
honour of Dionysus.

The servants of the
astynomi
decorated the streets, scattering hundreds of flowers over the Panathenaic Way, but the violent toing and froing of men and beasts turned the iridescent mosaic to a pulp of crushed petals. Singing and dancing contests, announced on marble tablets on the monument to the Eponymous Heroes, were held in the open air, although the singers' voices were generally displeasing to the ear, and most of the dancers executed their leaps clumsily and furiously, disobeying the oboes. As the archons did not wish to vex the people, street entertainment, though frowned
upon, was permitted. Young men from different
denies
staged rather poor theatrical acts in competition with one another, and people gathered in the squares to watch amateurs performing violent pantomimes based on ancient myths. The Theatre of Dionysus Eleuthereus opened its doors to both new and established authors, mainly of comedies (the great tragedies being reserved for the Festival of Dionysus) so full of brutal obscenities that, usually, only men attended. And everywhere, though particularly in the Agora and Inner Ceramicus, from morning till night, there was a mingling of noise, shouting, laughter, wine and people.

²⁰
A good night's sleep does wonders. I woke up thinking I could see Helena's point. Now that I've reread Chapter Three again, it doesn't seem so obvious that the 'girl with the lily' is an eidetic image. Perhaps my imagination was playing tricks on me. I'm now starting Chapter Four. Montalo says about this particular papyrus: 'Battered, creased in places - could it have been trampled by a beast? It is a miracle that the text has come down to us in its entirety.' As the usual order of the Labours has been altered, I don't yet know which one I'm dealing with here. I'll have to go very carefully.

The City prided itself on its liberality, which set it apart from the barbarians and even from other Greek cities, so slaves were permitted their own, much more modest, festivals. They ate and drank better than during the rest of the year, held dances and, in the noblest houses, were sometimes allowed to go to the theatre, where they could watch themselves, as masked actors playing the parts of slaves clumsily deriding the populace.

But the activity of choice during the festival was religion. The processions in honour of Dionysus Bacchus combined mysticism and savagery: priestesses carried brutal wooden phalluses through the streets, dancing girls performed frenzied dances simulating the religious ecstasy of the maenads or bacchae - crazed women in which all Athenians believed but none had ever seen - and men in masks mimed the god's threefold transfiguration (into Serpent, Lion and Bull), sometimes using the most obscene gestures.

Rising above all the strident violence, the Acropolis remained silent and virgin.
²¹

²¹
The Acropolis (where the great temples to Athena, patroness of the City, stood) was mostly reserved for the Feast of the Panathenaea, although I suspect the patient reader already knows this. The words 'violence' and 'clumsiness' feature prominently. They must be the first eid
etic images of this chapter. (T
.'s N.)

It was a cold, sunny day. That morning a troupe of coarse Theban performers was granted permission to entertain people outside the Poikile Stoa. One, a rather old man, juggled with daggers, but his grip often failed and the knives fell to the ground, clashing violently; another man, huge and almost naked despite the cold, swallowed the flames from two torches and expelled them violently through his nose; the others played tunes on battered Boeotian instruments. After the opening act, they donned masks and performed a poetic farce about Theseus and the Minotaur. The gigantic fire-eater played the Minotaur, lowering his head and charging, playfully threatening to gore the spectators gathered around the columns of the Stoa. Suddenly, the mythical monster drew a broken helmet from a sack and made a great show of placing it on his head. Everyone recognised it - a Spartan hoplite's helmet. Just then, the old man with the daggers, playing Theseus, flung himself at the beast, and struck it until he brought it to the ground. It was a simple parody, its meaning perfectly clear to the audience. Someone shouted, 'Freedom for Thebes!' and the actors chorused the cry wildly while the old man stood triumphantly over the masked beast. Confusion broke out among the increasingly restless crowd, and the actors, fearing the arrival of soldiers, stopped the pantomime. But spirits were running high: slogans against Sparta were chanted, someone forecast the imminent liberation of the city of Thebes (which had suffered under the Spartan yoke for years), and others invoked the name of General Pelopidas - rumoured to be in exile in Athens since the fall of Thebes - calling him 'Liberator'. There was a violent commotion in which reigned equally the old bitterness towards Sparta and the jolly confusion caused by the wine and the feast. Some soldiers intervened, but when they heard that the cries were not against Athens but against Sparta, they restored order only reluctantly.

During all the violent tumult, one man had remained motionless and indifferent, oblivious to the clamour of the crowd. He was tall and thin, and wore a humble grey cloak over his tunic. With his pallor and shiny bald head he resembled one of the polychrome statues adorning the vestibule of the Stoa. A second man - short and fat (the exact opposite, in fact, of the first man) with a thick neck and a head that was slightly pointed at the crown - strolled up to him. They greeted each other briefly, as if expecting to meet, and as the crowd dispersed and the shouting - now crude insults - subsided, they headed down the street and out through one of the narrow gates of the Agora.

'The furious Plebeians insult the Spartans in Dionysus' honour,' remarked Diagoras contemptuously, clumsily attempting to slow his impetuous steps to Heracles' plodding pace. 'They mistake drunkenness for freedom, revelry for politics. What do we care about the fate of Thebes, or any other city, when we have shown that Athens herself matters not to us?'

Heracles Pontor, who had some interest in politics and, as a good Athenian, took part in the violent debates at the

Assembly, said: 'We're bleeding from the wound, Diagoras. In fact, our desire for Thebes to throw off the Spartan yoke shows that Athens matters very much to us. We may have been defeated but we will not forgive open insults.'

'And why were we defeated? Because of our absurd system of democracy! If we had allowed the best among us to govern instead of the people, we would still have an empire.'

'I prefer a small assembly where I can cry out, to a vast empire in which I must keep silent,' Heracles said, and suddenly regretted not having a scribe on hand, because he felt rather pleased with this sentence.

'Why should you have to keep silent? If you were one of the best, you would be able to speak out, and if you were not, why not strive to be so?'

'Because I don't want to be one of the best, but I want to speak out.'

'It's not a question of what you want, Heracles, but of the well-being of the City. For instance, who would you have decide a ship's course? The majority of sailors, or the man with the greatest knowledge of seamanship?'

'The latter, of course,' Heracles replied, adding, after a pause: 'As long as I was allowed to speak up during the journey'

'But what good is the right to speak when you hardly ever exercise it?' cried Diagoras, exasperated.

'You forget that the right to speak consists, among other things, of the right to keep silent when one wishes. Let me now exercise that right, Diagoras, by cutting short this conversation. What I most hate in this world is wasting time, and though I don't really know what that is, discussing politics with a philosopher, I imagine, is what comes closest. Did you receive my message?'

'Yes. And I have to tell you that Antisus and Euneos haven't got lessons at the Academy this morning, so they'll be at the Colonos Gymnasium. Though, by Zeus, I thought you'd get here earlier. I've been waiting for you at the Stoa since the shops opened, and now it's almost midday.'

'Actually, I rose at dawn, but I've been busy making enquiries.'

'Relating to my job?' Diagoras brightened.

'No, mine.' Heracles stopped at a stall that sold figs. 'Remember, Diagoras, that it's
my
job even though the money is yours. I'm not investigating the causes of your student's supposed fear, but the enigma I thought I saw when I looked at his corpse. How much are the figs?'

The philosopher snorted impatiently, while the Decipherer filled the small knapsack hanging at his shoulder, over his linen cloak. They set off once more down the sloping street.

'What have you found out? Can you tell me?'

'In truth, very little,' confessed Heracles. 'There is a tablet on the monument to the Eponymous Heroes announcing that it was decided at the Assembly yesterday to organise a battue to exterminate the wolves on Lycabettus. Did you know?'