The Athenian Murders (37 page)

'It doesn't matter. I arrived in a great hurry'

'Are you so anxious to tell me what you know?'

'Yes.' He averted his eyes from Itys' dark gaze.

He heard her say: 'Speak, then.'

Staring at his hands resting with chubby fingers intertwined before him, Heracles said: 'When I was last here, I mentioned that Tramachus was in some kind of trouble. I wasn't wrong. Of course, at his age anything can become a problem. The souls of the young are clay that we shape as we please. But they're never entirely immune to contradictions, doubts . . . They need firm guidance.'

'Which Tramachus had.'

'Doubtless he did. But he was very young.'

'He was a man.'

'No, Itys. He might have
become
one, but the Moirai denied him the opportunity. He was still a child when he died.' There was a silence. Heracles slowly stroked his silver beard, then said: 'Perhaps that was the trouble: that he wasn't to be allowed to become a man.'

'I see.' Itys sighed. 'You're referring to the sculptor . . . Menaechmus. I am aware of all that happened between them, though, fortunately, I wasn't forced to attend his trial. Tramachus was free to choose, and he chose him. It was a question of personal responsibility.'

'Perhaps,' said Heracles.

'And I'm quite sure he was never afraid.'

'Are you?' Heracles raised his eyebrows. 'I don't know. Maybe he hid his terror from you, to spare you any suffering.'

'What do you mean?'

He ignored the question, continuing as if he were thinking aloud: 'Who knows? Perhaps his terror wasn't entirely unfamiliar to you. When Meragrus died, you endured great loneliness, didn't you? The onerous burden of two children to educate, living in a city that had closed its doors to you, in this dark house ... Your house is very dark, Itys. Your slaves say it's haunted. I wonder how many ghosts you and your children have seen here over the years. How much loneliness, how much darkness does it take to change a person? In the past, everything was different—'

Unexpectedly gentle, Itys interrupted: 'But you don't remember the past, Heracles.'

'Not willingly, I admit, but you're wrong if you think the past has meant nothing to me ...' Lowering his voice, he went on, coldly, as if talking to himself: 'The past looked like you. I now know, and can tell you. The past smiled at me with your face as a young girl. For a long time, my past was your smile ... True, I had no control over it, but things are as they are, and it may be time to concede, to admit, that it is so. I mean, for me to admit it to myself, even though it's too late for either of us to do anything about it.' He muttered all this quickly, eyes lowered, relentlessly filling the silence.

'But now . . . now I look at you and I'm not sure whether I can see any of that past in your face . .. I'm not sure I care. As I've said, things are as the gods wish, it's no use complaining. And, anyway, I've never been much given to emotion, as you know ... But I've suddenly discovered that I'm not immune to feelings, however rare or brief ... That's all.'

He paused and swallowed. The ghost of a blush coloured his fleshy cheeks. She must be wondering why on earth I've told her all this, he thought. Raising his voice a little now, he went on casually: 'I'd like to know something before I leave. It's very important to me, Itys. I assure you, it has nothing to do with my work as a Decipherer. It's a purely personal matter.'

'What do you want to know?'

Heracles raised his hand to his mouth, as if he had a sudden pain. After a pause, still not looking at Itys, he said: 'I have to explain something first. Since I began investigating Tramachus' death, a terrifying dream has disturbed my nights. I'd see a hand gripping a recently torn-out heart and a soldier in the distance saying something I couldn't make out. I've never attached much importance to dreams; they've always seemed ridiculous, irrational, opposed to the laws of logic. But this one has made me think that... I have to admit that the Truth sometimes manifests itself in strange ways. Because this dream was pointing out something that I had forgotten, a trifle that my mind had refused to recall all this time ...'

He licked his dry lips and went on: 'The night they found Tramachus' body, the captain of the border guard claimed that all he'd told you was that your son was dead, without giving you any details. Those were the words that the soldier in my dream was repeating, over and over again: "She knows
only
that her son is dead." When I visited you to offer my condolences, you said something like: "The gods smiled when
they tore out and devoured my son's heart."
Now, Tramachus' heart was indeed ripped out, Aschilos confirmed it on examining the corpse ... But how did you know, Itys?'

For the first time, Heracles looked into the woman's expressionless face. He went on, without any sign of emotion, as if he were about to die: 'A simple sentence, that was all. Mere words. Rationally, there was no reason to suppose they were other than lamentation, metaphor, hyperbole . . . But we're talking not of reason but of my dream, and my dream was telling me that your sentence was a mistake. It was, wasn't it? You tried to deceive me with your false cries of anguish, with your imprecations against the gods, but you made a mistake. That simple sentence remained inside me like a seed, which later germinated and grew into a terrifying dream . . . The dream was telling me the truth, but I couldn't make out who the hand gripping the heart belonged to, a hand that made me tremble and moan in my sleep. That slender hand, Itys

His voice cracked and he stopped. He looked down, then went on calmly: 'The rest was easy. You claimed to worship the Sacred Mysteries, like your son, and Antisus, Euneos and Menaechmus . . . and like the slave who tried to kill me last night. But you didn't mean the Sacred Mysteries of Eleusis, did you?' He raised his hand quickly, as if fearing an answer. 'Oh, I don't care! I don't want to interfere in your religious beliefs ...

As I said, I just came to find out one thing, and then I'll leave.'

He stared at the woman's face. Gently, almost tenderly, he added: 'Tell me, Itys, for doubt torments my soul. If you are, as I think, one of
them,
tell me . . . Did you just
watch,
or did you . . .' He raised his hand quickly again, as if to stop her answering, though she had not made a single gesture, moved her lips, even blinked, or indicated in any other way that she might be about to speak. He went on, entreating: 'By the gods, Itys, tell me you didn't harm your own son ... Lie, if you have to. Please. Say: "No, Heracles, I didn't take part." That's all. Lying with words is easy. I need another sentence from you to relieve the anguish caused by your first. I swear by Zeus that I don't want to know which of them is the Truth. Tell me that you didn't take part, and you have my word that I'll leave and never bother you again.'

There was a brief silence.

'I didn't take part, Heracles, I assure you,' said Itys, moved. 'I couldn't hurt my own son.'

Heracles tried to say something, but found, strangely, that the words, though clearly formed in his mind, refused to issue from his lips. He blinked, confused and surprised by his unexpected
¹²⁸

¹²⁸
I'm sorry, Heracles, old friend. What can I do to ease your distress? You needed a sentence and I, as omnipotent translator, had it in my power to provide one . . . But no, I mustn't! The text is sacrosanct, Heracles. My work is sacred. You beg me, encouraging me to perpetuate the lie. 'It's easy to lie with words,' you say. You're right, but I can't help you. I'm not a writer, just a translator. It's my duty to confess to the reader that I made up Itys' reply, and I apologise for it. I'll go back a few lines and, this time, set down the character's reply as it appears in the original. Forgive me, H
eracles. Forgive me, reader. (T
'.s N.)

'I need another sentence from you to relieve the anguish caused by your first. I swear by Zeus that I don't want to know which of them is the Truth. Tell me that you didn't take part, and you have my word that I'll leave and never bother you again.'

There was a brief silence.

'I was the first to sink my nails into his chest,' said Itys, in a flat voice.

Heracles tried to say something, but found, strangely, that the words, though clearly formed in his mind, refused to issue from his lips. He blinked, confused and surprised by his unexpected muteness. He heard her voice, faint and terrible, like a painful memory.

'I don't care if you understand or not. How could you understand, Heracles Pontor? You've obeyed the rules since you were born. What do you know of freedom, of instinct, of . . . rage? How did you put it? 'You endured great loneliness.' What do you know of my loneliness? To you it's just another word. For me, it's been a dead weight on my chest, an end to sleep, to rest.. . What do you know of all this?'

She has no right to abuse me, thought Heracles.

'We loved each other, you and I,' continued Itys, 'but you demeaned yourself when your father ordered, or advised you, if you prefer, to marry Hagesikora. She was more ... how shall I put it? Suitable? She came from a noble family. And if that was your father's will, how were you to disobey? It would have been neither virtuous nor legal. Law, Virtue. Behold the names of the heads of the dog that guards the kingdom of the dead that is Athens: Law, Virtue, Reason, Justice! Does it surprise you that some of us refuse to continue languishing in this beautiful tomb?' Her dark gaze seemed to become lost in a corner ofthe room, as she went on: 'My husband, your childhood friend, wanted to transform our absurd political system. He believed that the Spartans weren't hypocrites, at least. They waged war and admitted to it, even boasted of it. Yes, he collaborated with the Thirty, but that wasn't his greatest mistake. It was having more faith in others than in himself . . . until the day came when a majority of 'others' at the Assembly condemned him to death.' She pressed her lips together. 'But perhaps he made an even graver error - believing that all of this, this kingdom of thinking dead, of corpses that ponder and discuss, could be transformed through mere political change.' Her laughter sounded hollow, empty. 'That naive fool Plato believes the same! But many of us have learned that we can only change things if we ourselves change first! Yes, Heracles Pontor, I am proud of my faith! To minds like yours, a religion that pays homage to the most ancient gods through the ritual dismemberment of its followers is absurd, I know, and I won't try to convince you otherwise. But what religion is not absurd? Socrates, the great rationalist, reviled every one of them, and that's why you all condemned him! But a time will come when devouring someone you love will be considered an act of piety. Why not? Neither you nor I will live to see it, but our priests claim that, in the future, there will be religions that worship tortured, ravaged gods! Who knows? Perhaps
devouring the gods
may constitute the most sacred act of adoration!'
¹²⁹

¹²⁹
Itys' prophecy has obviously not come true: fortunately, religious beliefs have taken a different path (T
’
sN)

This new tone was easier for Heracles to deal with. Her blank face, her apparent indifference had been like molten lead on his soul. But the awakening of her rage allowed him a certain detachment. He said calmly: 'You mean devouring the gods
in the same way
you devoured
your
son's heart? Is that what you mean, Itys?' She did not reply.

Suddenly, quite unexpectedly, the Decipherer felt vomit rise to his mouth. But, just as abruptly, he realised that it was, in fact, words that he had to spew out, making him lose his composure for a moment: 'And was all this what made you tear at his heart, while he looked at you in agony? What did you feel as you
mutilated
your son, Itys?'

'Pleasure,' she said.

For some reason, her simple answer didn't anger Heracles Pontor. She's admitted it, he thought. Ah, well . . . She's been able to admit it! He even allowed himself to regain his serenity, but then growing anxiety made him rise from his couch. Itys rose too, as if to indicate that the visit was at an end. Elea and several slave women were now in the room, though Heracles hadn't noticed them enter. It seemed like a family meeting. Elea approached her mother and embraced her, as if she wished to show that she supported her to the end.

Still addressing Heracles, Itys said: 'I know that it is difficult to understand what we have done. Perhaps I can explain it to you thus: Tramachus was dearer to Elea and me than life itself, for he was the only man we had. And
that
is the reason, because of our love for him, that we rejoiced when he was chosen for the ritual sacrifice. For it was Tramachus' greatest
wish ...
And what greater joy could a poor widow hope for, than to grant her only son's greatest wish?' She stopped, exultant. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, tender, almost musical, as if she were lulling a baby to sleep. 'When the time came, we loved him more than ever ... I swear, Heracles, I've never felt as close to him as when I sank my fingers into his chest... It was as beautiful and mysterious as giving birth.' And she added, as if, having confided a most intimate secret, she had now decided to continue with a normal conversation: 'I know you can't understand, because this is something that reason cannot comprehend. You have to feel it, Heracles, just as Elea and I do. You have to make an effort to feel it.' She sounded suddenly as if she were begging: 'Stop thinking for one moment and give yourself up to the
feeling!
'