The Athenian Murders (18 page)

'Yes, yes. He took his obsession with eidesis much further. He believed that eidetic texts constituted irrefutable proof of Plato's Theory of Ideas. I expect you know it.'

'Of course,' I replied. 'Everyone does. Plato claimed that ideas exist independently of our thoughts. He said they were real entities, more real than human beings and objects.'

He didn't look too pleased with my summary of Plato's philosophy, nodding his small chubby head. 'Yes . . .' he said hesitantly. 'Montalo believed that if an eidetic text evokes the
same
hidden idea in
all
readers, that is, if we all find the
same
final key, that
proves
that ideas have their own independent existence. Childish as his reasoning may seem, he was on the right track: if everyone finds a desk in this room - the
same
desk - that means that the desk exists. In addition - and this is what most interested Montalo - should there be such a consensus among all readers, it would prove, too, that the world is rational and therefore good, beautiful and just.'

'I don't get that last point,' I said.

'It's a consequence of my previous point. If we all find the same idea in an eidetic text, then Ideas exist, and if Ideas exist, then the world is rational, as Plato and most ancient Greeks believed. And what is a rational world, made according to our thoughts and ideals, if not good, beautiful and just?'

'So for Montalo,' I murmured, amazed, 'an eidetic text was nothing less than ... the key to our existence.'

'Something like that.' Aristides gave a short sigh and gazed at his neat little nails. 'I hardly need tell you that he never found the proof he was looking for. Perhaps it was frustration that caused his illness.'

'What illness?'

He raised one eyebrow expertly.

'Montalo went insane. He spent the last years of his life shut up in his house. We all knew that he was ill and never saw anyone, so we left him alone. One day, his body was found in the forest near his house ... He'd been attacked by wild animals. He must have been wandering aimlessly, during one of his attacks, and fainted and ...' His voice trailed off as if to emphasise (eidetically?) his friend's sad end. He finished, almost inaudibly: 'What a horrible way to die.'

'Were his arms untouched?' I asked, stupidly.
(T
.'s N.)

VI
⁴⁸

'I
t was the corpse of a young girl. She wore a veil, a
peplos
that
covered her head and a cloak around her shoulders. She lay on her side on top of an endless erratic outline of rubble and, from the position of her legs - they were uncovered to the thigh and, in a way, it still seemed improper to look at them, even in these circumstances - one might almost believe that death had surprised her as she ran or leapt, her
peplos
hitched up. Her left hand was clenched, as in a children's game where something is hidden in the fist, but her right gripped a dagger with a blade, of a hand-span in length, that seemed wrought entirely from blood. She was barefoot. As to the rest, there seemed to be no part of the slender body, from her neck to her calves, that wounds had not marked - short, long, straight, curved, triangular, square, deep, superficial, light, grave, the entire
peplos
had been ravaged; the edges of the torn cloth were bloodstained. The sight, while sad, was merely a preamble: naked, the body would no doubt display the horrific mutilations suggested by the gruesome bulges in the clothing where humours had congealed - dirty excrescences that looked like aquatic plants seen from the surface of crystal-clear water. Surely the death could yield no more surprises.

⁴⁸
'The papyrus is dirty, riddled with corrections, stains, and illegible or corrupt sentences,' notes Montalo about Chapter Six.
(T.'sN.)

But there
was
a surprise: when Heracles parted the veil, he found a man's face.

'You are astonished, Decipherer!' cried the
astynomos
,
effeminately pleased. 'By Zeus, I do not criticise you for it! I did not want to believe it myself when my servants told me! But may I ask you why yo
u are here? This kind gentleman’
he said, indicating a bald man, 'assured me that you would want to see the body. But I don't understand why. There is nothing to decipher here save the obscure motive that prompted this ephebe . . .' He turned towards the bald man. 'What did you say his name was?'

'Euneos,' said Diagoras, as if in a dream.

'. .. the obscure motive that prompted Euneos to dress as a courtesan, get drunk and inflict these dreadful wounds upon himself... What are you looking for?'

Heracles was gently lifting the edges of the peplos. 'Ta, ta, ta, ba, ba, ba,' he hummed softly to himself.

The corpse appeared taken aback by the humiliating exploration: it gazed up at the dawn sky with its remaining eye, while the other, torn out and hanging by a viscous string, stared at the inside of an ear. Split in two, the muscle of the tongue protruded, mocking, from the open mouth.

'What are you looking at?' cried the
astynomos
impatiently, for he wished to complete his task. He was charged with
cleansing the city of excrement and litter, and with supervising the final destination of any bodies that sprouted among them. The early-morning appearance of a corpse on a piece of land strewn with rubble and waste in the district of the Inner Ceramicus was, therefore, his responsibility.

'How can you be so sure,
astynomos,
that all this was self-inflicted?' asked Heracles, now busy opening the corpse's left hand.

The
astynomos
savoured the moment, a grotesque smile smeared over his small, smooth face. 'I don't need a Decipherer to tell me what happened!' he shouted. 'Can't you smell his filthy clothes? They stink of wine! And there are
witnesses
who saw him slashing himself with the dagger.'

'Witnesses?' Heracles didn't seem impressed. He'd found a small object in the corpse's left hand and had put it away under his cloak.

'Highly respectable witnesses. I have one of them right here.' Heracles looked up. The
astynomos
was pointing at Diagoras.
⁴⁹

⁴⁹
'The sentences appear deliberately vulgar. The lyricism of the previous chapters has been lost, and instead we have satire, vacuous mockery, causticity, foulness. The style is no more than a residue of the original, a scrap tossed into this chapter,' states Montalo, and I couldn't agree more. I would add that the images of 'dirt' and 'rubble' seem to suggest the Labour of the Stables of Augeas in which the hero must clean out the filthy stables of the King of Elis. Montalo had to do much the same here: 'I've removed all the corrupt sentences and polished certain expressions; the text is, if not exactly gleaming, a little cleaner as a result.'
(T.'s N.)

They offered their condolences to Trisipus, Euneos' father. The news had spread quickly so there were a lot of people there when they arrived, mostly family and friends, for Trisipus was highly respected. He was remembered for his exploits as a general in Sicily and, more importantly, he was one of the few who returned to tell of them. Should anyone have doubted him, his history was engraved in dirty scars on the tombstone of his face, which, as he would say, was 'blackened at the siege of Syracuse'. One scar in particular was the source of more pride than all the honours received in his lifetime - a deep, oblique fissure running from the left side of his forehead to his right cheek and distorting the moist eye in its path, the result of a blow from a Syracusan sword. While unpleasant to behold, his weathered face, with its pale cleft and eyeball resembling a raw egg, was a badge of honour, and many a handsome youth envied it.

There was a great stir at Trisipus' house, but one got the impression that it was always thus, it mattered not that this was an exceptional day. As Diagoras and the
astynomos
arrived (with the Decipherer lagging behind - for some reason he had been reluctant to accompany them), two slaves emerged carrying bulging baskets of rubbish, the result, perhaps, of one of the many large banquets held by the military hero for the great men of the City. It was almost impossible to enter due to the piles of people deposited at the door - they asked questions; they were baffled; they expressed opinions but knew nothing; they watched; they complained when the ritual wailing of the women interrupted their conversations. There was another subject, apart from death, at the animated gathering: there was, above all, the
stench
.
Euneos' death
reeked
.
Dressed as a courtesan? But. . . drunk? Insane? Trisipus' eldest son? Euneos, the general's son? The ephebe from the Academy? A knife? But...

It was still too early for theories, explanations, enigmas. For now, general interest was focused on the facts of the case. And those facts were like rubbish piled under the bed: no one knew exactly what they were, but everyone was aware of the bad smell.

In the cenacle, Trisipus sat like a patriarch, surrounded by family and friends, receiving tokens of condolence, paying little heed to the givers. He held out one hand or both, kept his head high, expressed thanks. He looked confused - not sad or angry, but confused (and this made him worthy of compassion), as if he were disconcerted by the presence of so many people, and preparing to make the funeral speech. Grief had turned the bronze face, with its dishevelled grey beard, darker still, highlighting the dirty white scar, and making him appear poorly constructed, as if disparate pieces had been stuck together.

Weakly he requested silence and, seeming to have found the appropriate words at last, he said: 'My thanks to you all. Had I as many arms as Briareus, I would use them - heed me well -to clasp you all tightly to me. To my joy, I see that my son was well loved . . . And now allow me to honour you with a few brief words of praise . . .'
⁵⁰

'I thought I knew my son’
said Trisipus, nearing the end of his speech. 'He worshipped the Sacred Mysteries, though he wa
s the only devout member of our
family. And he was considered a good student at Plato's school... His tutor, here with us, can testify to it.'

⁵⁰
There is a gap in the text at this point. According to Montalo, 'There is a large dark brown stain, elliptical in shape and quite unexpected, covering thirty whole lines. What a shame! Trisipus' speech has been lost to posterity!'

I'm now back at my desk after an odd incident: I was writing this note when I noticed something move in the garden. The weather is fine, so the window was open - I like, even at night, to see the row of little apple trees that marks the boundary of my modest plot. Although my nearest neighbour is only a stone's throw away from the trees, I'm not used to seeing anyone, particularly in the early
hours. Anyway, I was immersed in Montalo's words when I glimpsed a shadow out of the corner of my eye, an indistinct figure moving among the apple trees, as if searching for the best spot from which to spy on me. Needless to say, I got up and went to the window; just then I saw someone emerge from the trees to the right and run away. I shouted, futilely, at him to stop. I've no idea who he was - I saw little more than an outline. I'm starting work again, feeling distinctly nervous -
I
live alone, so I'm an easy target for burglars. I've closed the window now. Oh, well, it was probably nothing. I'm continuing the translation, starting with the next legible line: 'I thought I knew my son . . .'
(T.'s N.)

All faces turned towards Diagora
s, who reddened. 'Indeed he was’
he said.

Trisipus paused, sniffing and summoning a little more dirty saliva: when he spoke he expelled some, with calculated precision, from a corner of his mouth - the least firm of the two, although he may have alternated corners at each pause in his lengthy speech. Since he always spoke as a military man, he never expected anyone to talk back. He therefore went on too long, when the subject was more than exhausted. Just then, however, even the greatest advocate of concision would have hoped for more. Indeed, everyone was listening with an almost unhealthy interest: 'I am told that he was inebriated ... that he was wearing women's clothing and slashed himself with a dagger ...' Spitting out tiny drops of saliva, he continued: 'My son? My Euneos? No, he would never do something so . . .
foul-smelling
.
You must mean another, not my Euneos! I am told that he lost his mind! That he lost his mind in a single night and desecrated the temple of his virtuous body ... By Zeus and aegis-bearing Athena, it is a lie! If not, am I to believe that my son was a stranger to his own father? And, further, that you are all as mysterious to me as the designs of the gods? If such rubbish is true, I will, from now on, take it that your faces, your expressions of grief and sympathy, are as foul as carrion!'