The Athenian Murders (24 page)

He continued walking slowly round the table, his tone becoming gloomier. 'Words . . . You talk ... I talk . . . We read . . . We decipher the alphabet . . . And we chew at the same time . . . We're hungry . . . aren't we?
⁵⁸
Our stomachs receive food. We grunt and snort... We sink our teeth into twisted lumps of meat.'

He stopped suddenly and said, stressing every word: 'Note that I said "teeth" and "twisted"!'
⁵⁹

Nobody was sure quite whom Crantor had addressed. After a pause, he resumed his pacing and his speech:
I
repeat, we sink our teeth into twisted lumps of meat; and our hands raise the wine to our lips; and the hair on our skin bristles when the wind blows; and our members stand erect when they sense beauty; and sometimes our intestines are lazy . . . which is a problem, isn't it? Admit it.'
⁶⁰

'You're telling me!' Hypsipylus felt this was addressed to him. 'I haven't had a good bowel movement since the last Thesmopho—'

⁵⁸
Yes, Crantor, very hungry. As I translate your words I'm eating the filth with which Whoever He Is has seen fit to fill my bowl today. Would you like to try some? (T.'s
N.
)

⁵⁹
This chapter's eidetic wo
rds, yes, I had noticed. Thanks
anyway, Cr
antor. (T
.'s
N
.)

⁶⁰
Yes, that's true. You've guessed
everything, Crantor. Since I've
been locked in here, one of my bigg
est problems has been constipa
tion.
(T
.'sN
.)

Indignantly, some of the other tutors told him to be quiet. Crantor went on: 'We have sensations . . . sometimes impossible to define. But how many words we bury them beneath! How we change them for images, ideas, emotions, facts! This world is a torrent of words and we flow along it! Your precious legend of the cave . . . Mere words. I will tell you something, and I will tell it in words, but then I will resume my silence: everything we have thought, and will think,
everything we already know and will know in the future, absolutely everything, makes up a beautiful
book
that we are all writing and reading together! But what of our body while we attempt to deciph
er and compose the text? It makes demands, grows tired, dries up ... and eventually crumbles to dust.' He paused. He smiled, his large face an Aristophanic mask. 'But, oh, what an interesting book! How entertaining, and containing so many words! Isn't that so?'

There was a deep silence when Crantor finished.
⁶¹
Cerberus, who had been following his master, now stood at his feet, barking furiously, his stump of a tail bristling, baring his sharp teeth, as if inquiring what Crantor intended to do
next. Like a parent in conversation with other adults patiently dealing with a child's interruption, Crantor bent down affectionately and gathered up the dog in his huge arms. He then carried it like a little white knapsack, full at one end and almost empty at the other, to the couch. After that, he began playing with the dog, appearing to take no interest in what was going on around him.

⁶¹
I must be insane - I've been talking to a character in a book! I suddenly felt he was addressing me, and I
answered
him in my notes. It must be because I've been locked in this cell all this time, with no one to talk to. But Crantor does always stand on the dividing line between fiction and reality ... Or rather, the dividing line between the literary and the non-literary. And he doesn't care whether he's believable or not; he even enjoys drawing attention to the verbal artifice that surrounds him, as when he stresses the eidetic words. The unexpected move to the second person ('he smiled at you') is a clever way of drawing in the reader. It's drawn me in, anyway.
(T.'s N.)

'Crantor uses words only to criticise them,' said Speusippus. 'As you see, he contradicts himself as he speaks.'

'Well, I rather like the idea of a book bringing together all our thoughts,' remarked Philotextus from the shadows. 'Would it be possible to create such a book?'

Plato burst out laughing. 'It's obvious you're a writer and not a philosopher! I, too, wrote once. That's why I make a clear distinction between the two.'

'Perhaps they are the same,' said Philotextus. 'I invent characters, you invent truths. But I want to keep to the subject. I was talking about a book that would reflect our way of thinking ... our knowledge of things and beings. Could such a book be written?'

Just then Callicles, a young geometrician whose only, though highly visible, fault was his ungainly way of moving - as if his extremities were dislocated - excused himself, rose, and shifted the collection of bones that was his body into the shadows. Diagoras thought Antisus' absence conspicuous, as he was principal cup-bearer. Where could he be? Heracles had not returned either.

After a pause, Plato declared: 'The book of which you speak, Philotextus, cannot be written.'

'Why not?'

'It would be impossible,' replied Plato calmly.

'Please explain’
said Philotextus.

Slowly stroking his grey beard, Plato said: 'For some time now, we members of the Academy have known that knowledge of anything has five levels or elements: the name of the thing, the definition, the image, intelligence or knowledge of the thing, and then the thing itself, which is the true aim of knowledge. But writing can give us only the first two: the name and the definition. The written word is not an image, thus precluding the third element. And the written word does not think, and so cannot have intelligence or knowledge. And, of course, the last one of all, the Idea itself, is truly beyond its reach. It would thus be impossible to write a book describing our knowledge of things.'

Philotextus remained thoughtful a moment, before saying: 'Would you be so kind as to give me an example of each of these elements, so that I may understand them?'

Speusippus stepped in quickly, as if it were beneath Plato to provide examples. 'It's very simple, Philotextus. The first element is the "name", and it could be any name. "Book", or "house", or "cenacle". The second element is the "definition", which consists of sentences relating to those names. In the case of "book", one definition would be: "a book consists of writing on a papyrus that comprises a complete text". Literature, obviously, can only include names and definitions. The third element is the "image", the vision that each of us forms in our head when we think of a thing. For instance, when I think of a book I see a papyrus scroll spread out on a table ... The fourth element, "intelligence", covers precisely what we're doing now: discussing a subject, using our intelligence. In our case, this consists of talking about the book, its origins, its purpose. The fifth and final element is the "Idea itself", in other words, the true aim of knowledge. In the case of the book, this would be the book itself, the ideal book, which was superior to all other books.'

'That's why we believe the written word is imperfect, Philotextus,' said Plato. 'But by that we certainly don't mean any disrespect to writers.' There was discreet laughter. Plato added: 'In any case, I'm sure you now understand why it would be impossible to create such a book.'

Philotextus looked thoughtful. After a pause, he said in his thin, trembling voice: 'What shall we wager?'

The laughter was louder now.

Diagoras was starting to find the discussion rather silly. He shifted uneasily on his couch and wondered where Heracles and Antisus could have got to. At last, to his great relief, he saw the Decipherer's obese figure returning from the kitchens. His face, as always, was expressionless. What could have happened?

Heracles didn't return to his couch. He expressed his thanks for the meal, and claimed that he had business to attend to back in Athens. The tutors bade him farewell quickly but cordially, and Diagoras accompanied him to the door.

'Where have you been?' he asked, once he was sure no one else could hear.

'My investigation is almost at an end. There is one last, important step. But we've got him.'

'Who? Menaechmus?' Agitated, Diagoras realised he was still holding his goblet. 'Is it him? Can I accuse him publicly?'

'Not yet. Everything will become clear tomorrow.' 'What about Antisus?'

'He has left. But don't worry: I will have him watched
tonight.' Heracles smiled. 'I have to leave now. But rest assured, good Diagoras, you'll find out the truth tomorrow.'
⁶²

⁶²
I've realised that I haven't yet recounted how I ended up in this cell. If these notes are to help me stay sane, it may do me good to relate everything that I can remember about what happened, as if I were addressing a future (unlikely) reader. So, dear reader, allow me yet another interruption. I know you would much rather carry on reading the book than listen to my woes, but remember that however marginal I may seem down here, you owe me a little attention -were it not for my labours, you wouldn't be enjoying said book. So read me patiently.

You may remember that on the evening
1
finished translating the previous chapter, I decided to catch the mysterious intruder who had been adding bogus passages in the text. To that end, I turned out all the lights and pretended to go to bed. In fact, I hid behind the sitting-room door, awaiting his 'visit'. I had almost convinced myself that he wouldn't turn up that night when I heard a noise. I peeped round the door, and only just had time to see a shadow bearing down on me. I came to with a bad headache, and found myself locked up within these four walls. (I've already described the cell, so I refer the interested reader to my earlier footnote on the subject.) Montalo's text and my translation, up to Chapter Six, were lying on the table. On top of my translation there was a note written in a fine hand: '
my identity doesn't concern you. call me "whoever he is". if you really want to get out of here, carry on with the translation. you'll be set free once you've finished.'
This is the Only contact I've had so far with my anonymous kidnapper. Well, that and his genderless voice, which I hear from time to time through the door of my cell, ordering me to: 'Translate!' So that's what I do. (T.'sN.)

VIII

I
had fallen asleep at the desk (not for the first time since I've been in here), but woke up immediately when I heard the sound. I sat up slowly, thick with sleep, prodding my right cheek, which was numb from having borne the entire weight of my head. I moved the muscles of my face. I wiped away a faint trail of saliva. I lifted my elbows, knocking the translation of the end of Chapter Seven off the desk. I rubbed my eyes and looked around: nothing had changed. I was in the same room, sitting at the desk, alone in a pool of lamplight. I was hungry, and that, too, was nothing new. Then I peered into the shadows and realised that
something was different
.

Heracles Pontor stood in the darkness, watching me with his placid grey eyes.

'What are you doing here?' I whispered 'You're in quite a mess,' he said. His voice was just as I'd imagined, though that only occurred to me later. 'You're a character in the novel,' I complained. 'This is the novel,' the Decipherer of Enigmas replied. 'You're

obviously part of it. And you need help, which is why I'm here. Let's reason it out: you've been locked up while you translate
The Athenian Murders,
but there's no guarantee you'll be released once you've finished. Now, don't forget, your jailer is very keen to get the translation. You just have to find out why. Once you know that, you can offer him a deal - you want your freedom, he wants
someth
ing.
You can both get what you want, can't you?'

'He doesn't want anything!' I moaned. 'He's insane!'

Heracles shook his stout head. 'What does it matter? Concern yourself not with his sanity, but his interests. Why is it
so
important to him that you translate this novel?'

I pondered a moment. 'It contains a secret.'

I could see from his face that this wasn't the answer he'd expected. But he said: 'Very good! That's one obvious reason. An obvious question must have an obvious answer.
Because it contains a secret.
So if you found
out
what
that secret was, you'd be in a position to make a deal, wouldn't you? "I know what the secret is", you'd say, "but I won't talk, unless you let me out of here". It's a good idea.'