The Athenian Murders (21 page)

'Antisus is loved by many.' Menaechmus resumed his work furiously.

'And praised by you. I wonder, how did you deal with Tramachus' and Euneos' jealousy? I should imagine they weren't too happy about your obvious preference for their friend.'

For a moment, in the midst of the clinking of chisels, it seemed as if Menaechmus was panting vigorously, but when he turned, Heracles and Diagoras saw that he was smiling.

'By Zeus, do you think I mattered to them that much?'

'Yes, since they agreed to model for you and perform in your plays, thus disobeying the sacred precepts laid down by the Academy. I believe they admired you, Menaechmus. They posed for you naked or dressed in women's clothing and, once the work was finished, they displayed their naked bodies or their androgynous attire for your pleasure . . . and in so doing they risked being discovered and dishonouring their families.'

Still smiling, Menaechmus cried: 'By Athena! Do you really believe I'm worth that much, either as an artist or a man, Heracles Pontor?'

Heracles replied: 'Young spirits, unfinished like your sculptures, can take root in any soil, Menaechmus of Carisio. And best of all is well-manured soil...'

Menaechmus appeared not to listen. He was concentrating intensely on sculpting some of the folds in the statue's garments. Ching! Ching! Suddenly he began talking, but as if addressing the marble. His rough, uneven voice daubed the workshop walls with echoes. 'Yes, I am a mentor to many ephebes . . . Do you think our young men don't need mentors, Heracles? Is the world ...' His growing anger seemed to make him strike the stone ever harder. Ching!'. .. the world they're going to inherit a pleasant place? Look around you! Our art here in Athens . . . What art? Our statues used to be charged with power. We imitated the Egyptians, always so much wiser than us!' Ching! 'But now, what do we do? We draw geometrical forms, figures that comply strictly with the Canon! We've lost spontaneity, strength, beauty!' Ching! Ching! 'You say my works are unfinished, and you're right. Do you know why? Because I can't create anything in accordance with the Canon!'

Heracles tried to interrupt, but the clean opening of his speech was lost in a quagmire of blows and exclamations from Menaechmus.

'And the theatre! It used to be an orgy in which even the gods took part! But with Euripides, what did it become? Cheap dialectics to suit the noble minds of Athens!' Ching! 'Theatre that is a thoughtful meditation rather than a sacred celebration! As an old man, at the end of his life, Euripides himself conceded that it was so!' He stopped chiselling and turned to Heracles with a smile. 'He changed his views completely And, as if this last sentence alone had required a pause, he resumed striking the marble even harder than before, and went on: 'In old age Euripides gave up philosophy and turned to making real
theatre!
Ching! 'Do you remember his last play?' And, brandishing the word as if it were a precious stone that he had found in the rubble, he cried:
'Bacchantes!

'Yes!' A voice rang out.
'Bacchantes!
The work of a madman!' Menaechmus looked at Diagoras, who seemed to be expelling his shouts in great agitation, as if his silence until then had cost him a great effort. 'Euripides lost his faculties in old age, as happens to many, and his work deteriorated to an inconceivable degree! In his middle years, his pure, reasoning spirit was devoted to the search for philosophical Truth, but over time its noble foundations collapsed ... and his last play was, like those of Aeschylus and Sophocles, a reeking heap of rubbish teeming with all the sicknesses of the soul and flowing with innocent blood!' Red in the face after his impassioned speech, he glared at Menaechmus.

After a short silence, the sculptor asked quietly: 'Would you mind telling me who this idiot is?'

Heracles raised his hand to forestall his companion's angry reply: 'Forgive us, good Menaechmus, we didn't come to discuss the plays of Euripides. No, let me finish, Diagoras!' The philosopher could barely contain himself. 'We wanted to ask you—'

He was interrupted by thunderous echoes - Menaechmus was shouting, pacing up and down the podium, occasionally pointing at one of the two men with his small hammer, as if he might throw it. 'What of philosophy? Think of Heraclitus! "Without strife there can be no existence"! That was the view of the philosopher Heraclitus! Philosophy, too, has changed! It was once a driving force! But what is it now? Pure intellect! What fascinated us in the past? Matter itself: Thales, Anaximander, Empedocles! We used to ponder matter itself! But now what do we think about?' His voice was horribly distorted as he said: 'The world of Ideas! Ideas exist, of course, but they're somewhere else, far away! They're perfect, pure, good and useful!'

'They are!' screamed Diagoras. 'They are, whereas you are imperfect, vulgar, contemptible and—'

'Please, Diagoras, let me speak!' cried Heracles.

'We mustn't love ephebes, oh, no!' mocked Menaechmus. 'We must love the
idea
of ephebes! We must kiss the thought of lips, caress the definition of a thigh! And let us not create statues, by Zeus! That's nothing but vulgar imitative art! Let us create
ideas
of statues! This is the philosophy that the young will inherit! Aristophanes was right to place it in the
clouds.’

Diagoras spluttered with indignation. 'How can you express an opinion with such confidence about something of which you know nothing?'

'Diagoras!' Heracles' firmness caused a sudden silence. 'Can't you see that Menaechmus is trying to keep us off the subject? You must let me speak!' And, surprisingly calm, he went on: 'Menaechmus, we came to question you about Tramachus' and Euneos' deaths.' He sounded almost apologetic, as if he regretted having to mention such a trivial matter to someone so important.

After a brief silence, Menaechmus spat, wiped his nose and said: 'Tramachus was killed by wolves while out hunting. As for Euneos, I'm told he got drunk and the fingers of Dionysus gripped his brain, forcing him to stab himself repeatedly. What have I to do with any of that?'

Heracles replied quickly: 'Together with Antisus, they came to your workshop in the evenings and took part in your strange amusements. All three admired you and responded to your amorous demands, but you favoured one of them. They probably argued, perhaps threats were even made - the entertainments you organise with your ephebes don't exactly have a good reputation, so they wouldn't have wanted any of it to become public. Tramachus didn't go hunting, but the day he left Athens your workshop was closed and you were nowhere to be seen.'

Diagoras raised his eyebrows and turned to Heracles - he had been unaware of this last fact. But Heracles went on, as if intoning: 'Tramachus was in fact murdered, or beaten into unconsciousness and left to the mercy of wolves. Last night, Euneos and Antisus came here after your play. Your workshop is the building nearest to where Euneos was found this morning. I know for certain that Euneos, too, was murdered, and that his murderer committed the crime elsewhere and then moved the body And one can assume that the two locations were not far apart, for who would think of crossing Athens with a corpse slung over their shoulder?' He paused and opened his arms wide, in an almost friendly gesture. 'So you see, good Menaechmus, you have rather a lot to do with it.'

Menaechmus' face was impossible to read. He might almost have been smiling, but his gaze was sombre. Without a word, he turned away slowly from Heracles, and resumed striking the marble with deliberate blows of his chisel. When he spoke there was amusement in his voice: 'Oh, what a wonderful, exquisite piece of reasoning!' He stifled a laugh. 'I'm guilty by syllogism! Better still, I'm guilty because my house is close to the potters' plot of land.' Still chiselling, he shook his head slowly and laughed again, as if the sculpture or his work on it were cause for amusement. 'This is how we Athenians construct truths nowadays: we talk of distances, we make calculations based on emotions, we apply reason to the facts!'

'Menaechmus . ..' said Heracles gently.

But the sculptor continued: 'It will be said, in years to come, that Menaechmus was found guilty because of a matter of length! Nowadays everything obeys a Canon. Haven't I said so many times? Justice is now simply a question of distance.'

'Menaechmus,' insisted Heracles still gently, 'how did you know that Euneos' body was found on the potters' plot of land? I didn't say so.'

Diagoras was surprised by the sculptor's violent reaction: he turned towards Heracles, eyes wide, as if the Decipherer were a stout Galatea suddenly come to life. For a moment he said not a word. Then he cried, with the remnants of his voice: 'Are you insane? The whole neighbourhood is talking about it! What are you implying?'

Heracles again sounded meek, apologetic: 'Nothing, don't worry. It was part of my reasoning regarding the distance.' And then, as if he'd remembered something, he scratched his conical head and added: 'What I don't quite understand, good Menaechmus, is why you focused on what I said about the distance, but not on my statement regarding the
possibility
that
someone murdered
Euneos ... A far stranger idea, by Zeus, and one that is not being talked about in the neighbourhood, but which you seem readily to have accepted. You began by criticising my argument regarding distance but you didn't ask: 'Heracles, how can you be so sure that Euneos was murdered?' I really don't understand, Menaechmus.'

Diagoras felt no compassion for Menaechmus as he watched the Decipherer, with his merciless deductive powers, miring the sculptor in his own frenzied words, gradually sinking him into total confusion, as if into one of the putrid pools where, according to travellers' tales, those who try to free themselves by frantic contortions are swallowed all the faster. In the dense silence that followed, he felt the urge to make a mocking, trivial remark to underline their victory over the wretch. He said, smiling scornfully: 'What a beautiful sculpture you're working on, Menaechmus. Who is it meant to be?'

For a moment he thought the sculptor would not reply. But he became uneasy when he saw that Menaechmus was smiling.

'It's called
The Translator.
The man who tries to decipher the mystery of a text written in a foreign language, not realising that words simply lead to other words, and thoughts to other thoughts, while the Truth remains unattainable. Is it not a good metaphor for what we all do?'

Diagoras was unsure what the sculptor meant, but not wishing to be at a disadvantage, he remarked: 'A strange figure. What form of dress is that? It doesn't look Greek.'

Menaechmus said nothing. He stared at his work and smiled.

'Could I take a closer look?'

'Yes,' said Menaechmus.

The philosopher mounted the podium. His steps resounded on the dirty wooden boards. He approached the statue and observed its profile. Hunched over the table, the man of marble held a fine quill between forefinger and thumb. He was surrounded by scrolls. What form of dress was that, Diagoras wondered. A sort of highly fitted cloak . . . Clothing from foreign parts, evidently. He peered at the bent neck, with the top vertebrae protruding (he had to admit it was skilfully executed), the thick hair, the ears with almost obscenely thick lobes . . .

Diagoras couldn't see the face as the figure's head was bowed. He bent over a little and saw a receding hairline . . . And he couldn't help admiring the hands - veined, slender, the right gripping the quill, the left palm down, holding open the scroll on which he was writing. The middle finger bore a large signet ring engraved with a circle. A second roll of papyrus lay to one side - the original work, no doubt. The man was writing out his translation on the parchment. Even the letters on it had been skilfully and meticulously engraved! Intrigued, Diagoras leaned over the statue's shoulder and read the words which the figure had, supposedly, just 'translated'. He didn't understand them. They said:
He still hadn't seen the statue's face. He leaned over a little further and looke
d
⁵³

⁵³
I can't go on. My hands are shaking. (
T's
N.)

I'm coming back to the translation after two anxious days. I still don't know whether I'm going to go on or not. I may not have the courage. But at least I've managed to sit at my desk and look at my papers. Yesterday, when I was talking to Helena, I felt I would never be able to do so again. I acted a little impulsively with Helena, I admit. I asked her the day before to come and keep me company

I didn't feel I could stay in the house alone at night - and, though I didn't tell her the real reason for my request, she must have sensed something because she agreed immediately. I tried not to talk about work. I was friendly, polite and shy. And I continued to be so even when we made love. I made love to her hoping secretly that she would
make love
to me. I felt her body beneath the sheets, breathed in the acrid smell of pleasure, heard her moan, but it didn't help. I sought - at least I think I did - to feel
in her
what she could feel
of me.
I wanted - longed - for her hands to explore me, feel me,
come up against me,
give me a shape in the darkness . . . No, not a
shape.
I wanted simply to feel that I was matter, a solid remainder, something that was there, occupying a space, not just an outline, a figure with features and an identity. I didn't want her to talk to me, I didn't want to hear words - especially not my name - or empty sentences relating to me. I now have some understanding of what happened: I think it was due to the panic induced by translating, to a horrible feeling of
porousness,
as if my existence was suddenly revealed to be much more fragile than the text I'm translating and which manifests itself through me in the
upper
part of these pages. It's made me feel that I need to augment these footnotes, as a counterbalance to the huge weight of the
main
text.
If only I could write,
I thought, not for the first time, but more longingly than ever.
If only I could create something of my own . . .
My encounter with Helena - her body, her firm breasts, her smooth muscles, her youth - didn't help much; it served perhaps only to make me recognise myself (I desperately needed her body as a mirror in which to see myself without having to
look at myself).
But this brief reunion, this
anagnorisis,
only served to help me sleep and, therefore, to disappear again. The following day, as dawn broke over the hills,
I
stood naked at the bedroom window. I heard a rustling of sheets and Helena's sleepy voice as she lay there naked, and I decided to tell her everything. I spoke calmly, my eyes fixed upon the fire growing on the horizon.