The Athenian Murders (38 page)

'Which one?' asked Heracles. 'The one you get from that potion you all drink?'

Itys smiled.
'Kyon,
yes. I see you know everything. Actually, I never doubted your deductive powers. I knew you would find us out eventually. We do indeed drink
kyon,
but it's not a magic potion: it simply makes us become our true selves. We stop reasoning and become bodies that enjoy and feel. Bodies to which it makes no difference if they're killed or mutilated, that offer themselves for sacrifice with childlike joy ...'

He was falling. He was vaguely aware of falling.

The descent could not have been more perilous: his body wilfully maintained a vertical trajectory, while the rock-strewn slope of the
barathrum -
the precipice near the Acropolis where prisoners condemned to death were thrown - was at an angle similar to the sides of a crater. Very soon, his body and the rocks would meet. It would happen
now,
as he was thinking it. He would smash into them and roll, and smash into them again. His hands would be of no use - they were tied behind his back. Perhaps he would crash against the rocks many times before reaching the cadaverously pale stones at the bottom. But what did it all matter as long as he experienced the
sacrifice? A
good friend, Triptemes, servant of the Eleven and cult member like himself, had brought him some
kyon
in prison, as agreed, and the sacred drink brought comfort to him now. He was the
sacrifice
and he would die for his brothers. He was the victim of the holocaust, one of the oxen of the hecatomb. He could see it: his life spilling over the ground and, in appropriate symmetry, the brotherhood, the secret fraternity of free men and women to which he belonged, spreading throughout Hellas and welcoming new followers ... He smiled joyfully at the thought.

The first impact snapped his right arm like a lily stem and crushed half of his face.

He went on falling. When he reached the bottom, his small breasts were crushed against the rocks, the beautiful smile froze, the pretty blonde hair was scattered like treasure and the lovely little body resembled a broken doll.
¹³⁰

¹³⁰
This is grotesque - as he dies, the repulsive Menaechmus turns into the girl with the lily. I find this cruel game with the eidetic images highly disturbing. (T.'s
N.)

'Why don't you join us, Heracles?' There was barely concealed eagerness in Itys' voice. 'You can't imagine the joy that liberating your instincts brings! It's an end to worry, fear, suffering ... You become a god.' She stopped, then added, more gently: 'We could ... who knows? ... start over... you and I...'

Heracles said nothing. He stared at them all, one by one. There were six of them: two old slaves (perhaps one was Iphimachus), two young slave women, and Itys and Elea. He was reassured to see that the boy was not among them. He stopped at the pale face of Itys' daughter and said: 'You suffered greatly, didn't you, Elea? Unlike your mother's grief, your cries were sincere.'

The girl did not reply. Her face, like Itys', was expressionless. He now saw the strong resemblance between them. He went on, imperturbable: 'No, you weren't pretending. Your pain was
real.
Once the drug had worn off, you remembered, didn't you? And you couldn't endure it.'

The girl made as if to answer, but Itys intervened. 'Elea is very young. There are things she finds hard to understand. But she's happy now.'

He looked at them both, mother and daughter. Their faces were white walls, empty of emotion, intelligence. He looked around: the slaves' faces were the same. It would be futile for him to try to break through the blank adobe of fixed stares. 'Such is religious faith,' he said to himself. 'As with the simple-minded, anxiety or doubt is wiped from your face.' He cleared his throat and asked: 'Why did it have to be Tramachus?'

'It was his turn,' said Itys. 'One day it will be mine, and Elea's...'

'And the Attican peasants',' said Heracles.

For a moment, Itys looked like a mother explaining something patiently to a small child. 'Our victims are always willing, Heracles. We offer the peasants
kyon,
and they can agree to drink it or not. But most accept.' And she added, with a faint smile: 'One cannot be happy if one is ruled by thoughts alone...'

Heracles retorted: 'But remember, Itys, I would have been an unwilling victim.'

'You found us out, and we couldn't allow it. The brotherhood must remain secret. Didn't you all do the same to my husband when you thought men like him threatened your wonderful democracy? But we want to give you one last chance. Join us, Heracles.' And she added suddenly, as if pleading: 'Be happy for once in your life!'

The Decipherer breathed deeply. He assumed that everything had been said, and that they now expected an answer. So he began, firmly and quietly: 'I don't want to be dismembered. That's not my way of finding happiness. I'll tell you, Itys, what I intend to do, and you can tell your leader, whoever that might be. I'm going to bring you before the archon. All of you. I'm going to see that justice is done. You're an illegal sect. You've murdered a number of Athenian citizens, and numerous Attican peasants who don't share your ridiculous beliefs . . . You will be sentenced, and tortured to death. That will make me happy.'

Once more he looked around at the stony faces staring at him. He stopped at Itys' dark gaze and added: 'After all, as you said yourself, it's a question of personal responsibility, isn't it?'

After a silence, she said: 'Do you think the prospect of death or torture frightens us? You've understood nothing, Heracles. We've found a kind of happiness that goes beyond reason . . . What do we care about your threats? If necessary, we'll die smiling ... and you'll never understand why.'

Heracles had his back to the door of the cenacle. Suddenly, a new voice - thick and powerful but with a hint of mockery, as if it didn't take itself seriously - came from the doorway. 'We've been found out! The archon has received a papyrus revealing everything about us, and your name is mentioned in it, Itys. Our good friend here took precautions before he came to see you.'

Heracles turned and saw the deformed head of a dog. The dog was in the arms of a huge man.

'You asked a moment ago about our leader, didn't you, Heracles?' said Itys.

Just then, Heracles felt a sharp blow to his head
¹³¹

¹³¹
He's standing in front of me as I write this note. The truth is, I don't care, I've become almost used to his presence.

He came in, as usual, just as I was finishing the chapter and was about to rest. I wondered, when I heard the door, what mask he would be wearing this time. But he wasn't wearing one. I recognised him immediately, of course, because his face is well-known to those in the profession: white hair swept back and falling to his shoulders, deeply lined face, sparse beard ...

'As you see, I want to be honest with you,' said Montalo. 'You were right, up to a point, so I'm not going to keep my identity from you any longer. I did indeed fake my own death and come here to hide, but I followed the trail of my book. I wanted to know who would be translating it. Once I'd found you, I kept an eye on you and then, at last, brought you here. It's also true that I pretended to threaten you so that you wouldn't lose interest in the novel, when I repeated Yasintra's words and gestures, for instance. It's all true. But you're wrong if you think I wrote
The Athenian Murders

'Is that what you call being honest?' I asked.

He breathed deeply. 'I swear I'm not lying,' he said. 'Why would I kidnap you and get you to translate my own work?'

'Because you needed a reader,' I answered calmly. 'What is an author without a reader?'

Montalo seemed amused by my theory. He said: 'Am I such a bad writer that I have to kidnap someone before they'll read my work?'

'No. But what is reading?' I replied. 'An unseen activity. My father was a writer and he knew: when you write, you create images that will be illuminated by the eyes of others and take on forms that their creator could never have imagined. But you needed to know what the reader was thinking
day by day,
because you wanted this novel to prove the existence of Ideas!'

Montalo smiled, nervously affable. 'It's true, for many years I
wanted to prove that Plato was right when he cla
imed that Ideas existed’
he admitted, 'and that the world was therefore good, reasonable and just. And I thought eidetic novels would provide that proof. I never succeeded, but nor was I ever hugely disappointed
... until I found the manuscript of
The Athenian Murders,
forgotten on the shelves of an old library.' He paused and his gaze became lost in the darkness of my cell. 'I was terribly excited about it at first. Like you, I identified the subtle thread of images running through it - the Labours of Hercules, the girl with the lily. I became more and more convinced that, at last, I'd found the book I'd been searching for all my life!'

He turned his eyes to me, and I saw his deep desperation. 'But then ... I started to sense something strange ... I found the image of the "translator" confusing. I wanted to believe that, like any novice, I'd taken the "bait" and was allowing myself be swept along by the text, but as I read on, my mind was brimming with suspicions. No, it wasn't simply "bait", there was something else ... And w
hen I got to the last chapter,
I
found out what it was.'

He paused. He was terrifyingly pale, as if he had died the day before. He went on: 'I suddenly discovered the key. And I understood that
The Athenian Murders
wasn't proof of the existence of Plato's good, reasonable and just world, but of the
exact opposite.'
Suddenly he exploded: 'Yes, though you may not believe me, this novel proves that our universe, this ordered, luminous space full of causes and effects and governed by just, kind laws,
doesn't exist!

He was breathless, and his face had become a mask with trembling lips and a faraway look. I thought (and I don't care if Montalo reads this): he's completely insane. He appeared to recover his composure and added gravely: 'Such was my horror at this discovery that I wanted to
die.
I shut myself away ... I stopped working and refused to see anyone. There were rumours that I'd gone mad. And maybe I had - sometimes the truth can make you lose your mind! I even considered destroying the novel, but what would I gain by that, if I already
knew the workl
So I opted for something in between. As you suspected, I faked my death, appropriating the idea of the body ripped apart by wolves. I dressed the corpse of a poor old man in my clothes and disfigured him. Then I created my own version of
The Athenian Murders,
preserving the original text but emphasising the eidesis, while not mentioning it explicitly—' 'Why?' I interrupted.

He stared at me for a moment as if he were about to strike me. 'Because I wanted to
see if a
future reader would make the same discovery I had, without
my helpl
Because there is still the hope, however faint, that I might be
zurongV
His eyes grew moist as he added: 'And if I am, and I pray that I am, the world - our world -will have been
saved.'

I tried to smile, remembering that madmen should be treated gently. 'Please, Montalo, that's enough,' I said. 'The novel is a bit strange, admittedly, but it has nothing to do with the existence of the world ... or the universe ... or even us. It's just a book. However eidetic, and however obsessed with it we might both have become, we mustn't get carried away. I've read almost all of it and—'

'You still haven't read the final chapter,' he said.

'No. But I've read almost all of it, and I don't—'

'You still haven't read the final chapter,' he repeated.

I swallowed and looked at the book lying open on the desk, then back at Montalo. 'Fine,' I said, 'this is what we'll do: I'll finish the translation and I'll prove to you that - that it's just a fantasy, not too badly written, but—'

'Translate,' he said.

I didn't want to make him angry, so I obeyed. He's still here, watching me. I'm now
starting the final chapter. (T
.'s N.)

XII

The cave at first, was a gleam of gold handing somewhere in
the darkness. It became pure pain. It turned back into the gleam of gold. It went ceaselessly from one to the other. Then there were shapes - a brazier of hot coals that was, strangely, as pliable as water and contained irons resembling bodies of frightened snakes. And a yellow patch, a man whose outline was stretched at one end and shortened at the other, as if hanging by invisible ropes. And, yes, there were noises, too: a faint metallic ring and, from time to time, the piercing torment of a dog barking. A wide variety of damp smells. And once again everything closed up like a papyrus scroll and the pain returned. End of story.