The Athenian Murders (5 page)

They confronted the multiple heads of the financial side of the matter and reached an agreement. Then Heracles said he would begin his investigation the following day - he'd go to Piraeus and try to find the hetaera Tramachus frequented.

'May I go with you?' Diagoras asked eagerly. And, as the Decipherer stared at him in amazement, Diagoras added: 'I know it's not necessary, but
I
would like to.
I want to work with you. It would make me feel I was helping Tramachus. I promise to do exactly as you say.'

Heracles Pontor shrugged and smiled. 'Very well. It's your money, Diagoras, so I suppose you have every right to take part in the investigation.'And at that moment, the multiple snakes coiled at his feet raised their scaly heads and flicked out their slimy tongues in fury.
¹⁰

^{10 I'm sure readers were as surprised as I was by these last lines! We should definitely not see them as a complicated metaphor, but neither should we take them too literally - it really would be going too far to believe that 'multiple snakes' were 'coiled' on the floor of Heracles' room and that the entire conversation between Diagoras and the Decipherer of Enigmas therefore takes place in 'a place full of snakes slithering, cold and slow, up the arms and legs of the protagonists while they talk on, oblivious', as Montalo puts it. (This distinguished expert in Greek literature offers an
absurd justification: 'Why shouldn't there be snakes in the room if the author
so wishes?'
he says. 'It is the author who has the last word over what takes place in the world of his novel, not us.'). But the reader shouldn't worry:
the sentence about the snakes is pure fantasy. As are all the previous ones of course, this being a work of fiction, but let us be clear: this sentence is a fantasy in which the reader
is not to believe,
while the others, equally fictitious, are to be
believed,
at least during reading, in order for the story to make sense. In fact, the only
purpose of this ridiculous last sentence is, in my view, to emphasise the eidesis. The author wants us to see the image hidden in this chapter. Even so, it's a deceptive device and the reader should not jump to the
obvious conclusion]
This morning, before I had reached this stage of the translation, Helena and I unexpectedly discovered not only the correct eidetic image, but also - or so I believe - the key to the whole book. We immediately told Elio, our boss.}

'"Damp cold", "sliminess" or "stickiness", "sinuous" and "slithering" movements ... It could be a snake, couldn't it?' suggested Elio. 'Chapter One, a lion. Chapter Two, a snake.'

'But what about "head"?' I objected. 'Why all the "multiple heads"?' Elio shrugged. So I showed him the little statue I'd brought from home. 'Helena and I think we know. This is a statue of the Hydra, the mythical monster with many snake heads that multiplied when they were cut off. Hence the emphasis on the "beheading" of the figs.'

'But there's more,' said Helena. 'Defeating the Lernean Hydra was the second Labour performed by Hercules, the hero of many Greek legends.'

'So what?' said Elio.

I went on excitedly:
'The Athenian Murders
has twelve chapters and, according to legend, Hercules performed, in all, twelve labours. His Greek name was Heracles. The name of the novel's central character is Heracles, too. And the first Labour of Hercules, or Heracles, consisted in slaying the Nemean lion . . . and the hidden image in Chapter One is a lion.'

'And in Chapter Two it's the Hydra,' said Elio quickly. 'It does all seem to fit... For now, that is.'

'What do you mean "for now"?' I was slightly annoyed by this qualification.

Elio smiled calmly. 'I agree with your conclusions,' he said, 'but eidetic works can be treacherous. You have to remember that you're dealing here with things that are entirely imaginary, not even words but ... ideas. Distilled images. How can we be sure what final key the author had in mind?'

'Simple,' I replied. 'We just have to prove our theory. In most versions, the third Labour is the capture of the Erymanthian Boar. If the image hidden in Chapter Three turns out to be a boar, that's one more item of proof . . .'

'And so on until the end,' said Helena confidently.

'I have one objection.' Elio scratched his bald head. 'The Labours of Hercules weren't a secret when this work was written. Why use eidesis to hide them in the text?'

There was silence.

'A valid point,' admitted Helena. 'But let's suppose that the author created an eidesis of the eidesis, and that the Labours of Hercules are, in turn, hiding another image—'

'And so on
ad infinitum?'
interrupted Elio. 'If that's so, we'll never find the original idea. You have to stop somewhere. According to that view, Helena, any written thing can refer the reader to an image which, in turn, can refer him to another, and another ... It would make reading impossible!'

They both looked at me expectantly. I admitted I didn't understand either. 'Montalo edited the original text,' I said, 'but unbelievably he doesn't seem to have noticed anything. I've written to him. His thoughts may prove useful...'

'Did you say Montalo?' Elio raised his eyebrows. 'I'm afraid you've wasted your time. Montalo died last year. Didn't you know? It was big news. You didn't know either, Helena?'

'No,' admitted Helena. She glanced at me sympathetically. 'That's bad luck.'

'Isn't it?' agreed Elio. He turned to me. 'And since his was the only edition of the original and so far yours is the only translation, it seems that finding the final key to
The Athenian Murders
is entirely down to you.'

'What a responsibility,' joked Helena.

I didn't know what to say. And I'm still going over it in my mind. (T.'sN.)

III
¹¹

I
t seems appropriate to interrupt the swift progress of the story for a moment and say a few quick words about the central characters, Heracles, son of Phrynichus, from the
deme
of Pontor, and Diagoras, son of Iampsachus, from the
deme
of Mardontes. Who were they? Who did they think they were? Who did others think they were?

¹¹
'Haste, carelessness. The handwriting here is uneven and, at
times, illegible, as if the scribe was in a hurry to get to the end of the
chapter,' Montalo says of the original text. I, for my part, am looking
out to see if I can 'capture' my wild boar in these sentences. I'm now
beginning to translate Chapter Three.
(T
.'s N.)

¹²
'There follow five indecipherable lines,' assures Montalo.
Apparently, the handwriting in this section was dreadful. Montalo
can only make out five words in the entire paragraph: 'enigmas',
'reason', 'wife', and 'fat man'. The editor of the original text adds,
not without irony: 'The reader must try to reconstruct Heracles'
biography from these five words, a task that seems both very easy
and enormously difficult.'
(T
.'s N
.)

With regard to Heracles, let us say that
¹²

As for Diagoras
¹³

Now that the reader is fully acquainted with the details of the lives of our protagonists, let us swiftly resume our story with an account of what occurred in the port of Piraeus, where Heracles and Diagoras went in search of the hetaera named Yasintra.

¹³
The three lines the anonymous author devotes to the character of Diagoras are also illegible. Montalo can make out only the following words: 'did he live?' (including the question mar
k), 'spirit', and 'passion'. (T
.'s
N.)

They sought her down narrow streets along which the smell of the sea travelled swiftly; in dark spaces left by open doors; here and there, among small clusters of silent women who smiled as the two men approached but grew abruptly serious on being questioned; up and down rises and hillsides that sank to the sea's edge; on corners where a shadow - man or woman - waited silently. They asked old women with painted faces, whose hard blank countenances, daubed with white lead, seemed as ancient as the houses; they placed obols in trembling palms as cracked as papyrus; they heard the jangle of golden bracelets as arms were waved in the direction of a place or person: ask Kopsias, Melitta knows, maybe at Thalia's, Amphitrite is looking for her, too, Eos has lived longer in this neighbourhood, Clito knows her better, I'm not Thalia, I'm Merope. And all the while, their eyes, beneath lids thick with pigments, always half-closed, swiftly moving, surrounded by black lashes and patterns of saffron or ivory or red gold; as if the women were free only in their gazes, as if they reigned only behind the black of their pupils. The still features and brief answers concealed their thoughts; only the eyes were sincere and fleeting, quick, eager.

The afternoon steadily drained away. Rubbing his arms beneath his cloak with swift movements, Diagoras said: 'The day has passed quickly and soon it will be night. . .'

Heracles said nothing.

They walked up a narrow, sloping street. Beyond the rooftops, the sea's end was revealed by a purple sunset. The crowds and frenetic rhythms of the port, and the places frequented by those seeking pleasure and amusement, were all left behind. They were now in the neighbourhood where
they
lived, a forest with stone paths and adobe trees through which darkness ran swiftly and Night rose up prematurely; a place of peopled desolation, hidden, full of quick glances.

'Your conversation is entertaining at least,' said Diagoras, not even attempting to hide his irritation - he felt as if he'd been talking to himself for hours. His companion simply walked along, grunting from time to time and working through the figs in his knapsack. 'You have a gift for dialogue, by Zeus.' He stopped and looked round, but only the echo of their footsteps followed them. He exclaimed in disgust: 'These revolting, foul-smelling alleys, piled with rubbish. Where is the "well-constructed" city, as Piraeus is always described? Is this the famous "gridiron" layout of streets designed, it is claimed, by Hippodamus of Miletus? By Hera, I haven't even seen any district inspectors,
astynomi,
or slaves or soldiers, not like in Athens! I feel I am not among Greeks but in a world of barbarians . . . And this is more than my impression - this really is a dangerous place. I can smell Danger as distinctly as the sea.' He glanced at Heracles again and added drily: 'Of course, I'm reassured by your animated chatter . . . Your conversation is so comforting, it makes me quite forget where I am.'

'You're not paying me to chat, Diagoras,' said Heracles, with absolute indifference.

'Thanks be to Apollo, I hear your voice!' said the philosopher sarcastically. 'Pygmalion could not have been as astonished when Galatea spoke! I will sacrifice a goat tomorrow in honour of—'

'Be quiet,' interrupted the Decipherer abruptly. 'That's the house.'

A cracked grey wall stood precariously on one side of the street, with a conclave of shadows gathered by the door.

'The seventh house, you mean,' grumbled Diagoras. 'I've asked after her in six previous houses, to no avail.'

'Well, with your great experience, you should have no difficulty in questioning these women.'

The dark shawls concealing their features swiftly revealed gazes and smiles when Diagoras approached. A blush coloured the philosopher's cheeks. He began clumsily: 'Excuse me. My friend and I seek the dancer Yasintra. We were told . . .'

Just as the careless foot of a hunter crunching on a branch causes his prey to disappear in a flash into the undergrowth, Diagoras' words had an unexpected effect on the women: one ran off down the street at great speed, while the rest hurried into the house.

'Wait!' Diagoras shouted after the fleeing shadow. 'Is that Yasintra?' he asked the other women. 'Wait, by Zeus! We just want to ...'

The door slammed shut. The street was now deserted. Heracles walked away slowly and Diagoras followed him reluctantly. A moment later he said: 'Now what are we to do? Why are we still walking? She's gone. Run away! Do you imagine you can catch her at this pace?' Heracles grunted and calmly took another fig from his knapsack. Utterly exasperated, the philosopher stopped and shouted angrily: 'Listen to me! We've spent all day searching for the hetaera, in the streets on the seafront and inland, in houses of ill-repute, in the upper district and in the lower. We've rushed here, there and everywhere, trusting the false word of mediocre souls, uncultured spirits, coarse procuresses and wicked women! And now that Zeus seems to have allowed us to find her, we've lost her again! Yet you plod on, like a contented dog, while—'