In spite of her comfort, I could not get to sleep. Herarms around me, she lay motionless.
During the afternoon, we arranged flowers, taking themfrom the garden. A rainbow appeared over the bay and armin arm we watched it, its arc faintly reflected on thewater. Her myrrh was everywhere, her spirit too: thethings she said were right: family traditions are a partof her and she adds just enough fantasy.
For a while, we practiced archery, her shooting moreaccurate than mine. A lost arrow sent us near the sea.Then games...games...what would life be without games andlaughter!
Watch the dice in her fingers!
She’s a magician of tricks and youth, my Anaktoria and,oddly enough, I can never bring it all together; it istoo effervescent, too delightful: the moment swells overus: then, another moment, even while we are eatingtogether, growing sleepy together: ours is a gift thathas come from our island without men, years offemininity.
?
Someone sent me the doll Aesop had when he died, hisCretan doll. It came from Adelphi; badly wrapped, Iopened it in my library, laid it on my desk, amazed tosee it, startled, fingers fumbling. Someone had wanted tobe kind, but it wasn’t kindness to send it. What fadedcolors, what worn cloth, how had the doll gotten thisold? It had suffered another kind of death.
With the doll in my arms, I smelled the incense of hishouse, dinner on the table, fresh fruit piled before us:the broad bracelet he wore bothered him and he shoved ithigher on his arm: silent tonight, he listened to what wehad been doing during the day: he had such heart forAlcaeus and me.
I could not keep the figure but packed it away. Itsevocative intimacy, its forlorn quality...they wouldserve no purpose I could think of. I was glad Alcaeuscould not see it. Yet, I felt I had rejected Aesop.
?
A sweltering day was made worse when Gogu had a seizurenear Serfo’s shop. Serfo and Libus carried him inside andI found them working over Gogu, kneeling beside him,Serfo’s slave fanning the sick man, swaying his palmfrond low, Libus’ face tense and canvas-colored. Serfoturned his barbaric features, square-cut beard andblazing green eyes, on me, resentful when I placed a dampsponge on Gogu’s head, when I suggested we pull himfarther away from the wall. He growled and backed off, tocare for some customers.
“Is it Gogu’s old trouble?” I asked.
Libus nodded, his hands comforting the man. When Gogu’steeth chattered and his head and shoulders shook, Libusrestrained him, hands on his shoulders. When he spoke toGogu, I could detect an immediate response. The slavebrought water and poured it for Gogu and Libus got him todrink: the frond dipping closer, rising and falling.“Libus—Libus,” he said, and sighed, thin lashes overupturned eyes. The black hitched his broadcloth andsighed too.
The room was windowless and cool, lit from overhead. Apigeon cooed on the roof. For a while I sat near Libusbut when Serfo offered drinks, we went into his shopwhere he displayed ivory figurines on his dusty counter,Amazons, ibis, Etruscan warriors and sacred cats, nonebigger than my hand.
“The cats are from Luxor,” Serfo said.
“Will Gogu be all right?” I asked, hearing his rapidbreathing.
“He’ll be all right by evening,” Libus said.
So we examined the collection, Libus questioning theirantiquity: I pointed out the yellowing and flaking: heheld an Amazon in the doorway, dust cracks mottling herface and armor, the texture of his hands obvious as well.
He seems to be holding me in his fingers, as small. Ifelt the flakes of time—my life flaking, like Gogu’s,less lasting than the ivory.
?
The hours I spend with Libus and his sister are hoursof talk and wine, at his small house, in its garden offigs and olives, poppies in bloom along the paths. Theirplace, nearer the bay than mine, absorbs the bay’splacidity. The furniture stresses comfort. His mosaicsreflect his regard for ease...scenes of old days and oldcreatures.
I was glad when Libus gave up staying with Alcaeus; Ihad missed those visits to his home where Helen hastaught me designs for my loom and reaffirmed whatpatience really is. She has read to me, acquainting mewith books I would never have found...
Libus talks and toys with a loop of beads, in athoughtful mood, his hands, as they move, remind me oftheir healing quality and his voice has that same be-neficence, distinctly personal, meanings having extrameaning most of the time.
Helen’s face has none of his ephemerality but has,instead, a country wholesomeness I love. She chats aboutflowers she has grown, seeds she keeps in jars, promisingme a selection.
Their poppies, grey-leafed, sea-bitten, have largecenters and bees loll on the petals and the sea lollsbeyond them.
Why is it the hours loll here? I have seen whales fromtheir garden, sporting near beds of kelp, their bluebacks like so many watery hills. I think something luresthem offshore...another something makes Libus’ servantssing more than my servants.
?
A gigantic sea-rock assumes the face of a crying womanwhen the fog comes: some say she cries for our dead inthe wars, some say it’s for those lost at sea: I haveoften seen her, head bowed: she faces the town, staring:the sea sound is her weeping; perhaps it is the weepingof many women: if I walk by that deserted spot at night,with the fog about me, I cling to Atthis or Exekias. Nowoman goes alone there, when the fog is about.
?
The moon has set and
The Pleiades have gone;
The night is half gone
And life speeds by.
I lie in bed, alone.
?
Going to see Alcaeus, I met Kleis and she threw herarms around me and kissed me, saying:
“Mama, dear, it’s good to see you! How I miss you!”
I tried to hide my pleasure but my heart sang and Iheld her close, my body remembering hers, fingersslipping around the back of her neck, staying in herhair.
Pushing me aside, she exclaimed:
“Mama, let’s go to your house and be together, like oldtimes. Shall we?”
How easy to consent—and we walked home, arms aroundeach other, gulls over us, shadows skimming roofs, dustycobbles asking for rain: I wanted to remember herchatter, each inflection...
I would see Alcaeus tomorrow. I needed time with myown...
Pittakos stoned...Aesop stoned...the mob’s disgrace...
Year after year, is there greater calumny than our owncommunal perfidy? Is there greater stupidity? One manstarts it, then five, then ten, manacled together.
For our island’s sake, I’m glad I cheated death.
Like old times, we sat at our looms and Kleis showed mea periwinkle design, whispering confidences, saying hewas good, saying the house was good, the sea...she puther faith on the loom, the thread of it going beyondlife. Mother must have heard me say such things,reflecting the same hope. Finches gathered in the olivetrees as we worked. I asked time to stop and let us havethe day last, at least longer than evening and theshepherd’s bells.
?
Charaxos brought him to my house, a castaway, Ithought, dreg of the worst sea. Charaxos stood behind himin Cairo red, the sun blazing over the town, as thecastaway bowed, holding together his rags, eyeswandering, skin and bones, nose snuffing at his hand, hismouth lower on one side, a canine look on his face.
Muttering, he fished in a sack tied about his waist andoffered me something.
I hesitated to take it, feeling Charaxos’ curiosity—orwas it gloating? I grew afraid as the castaway insisted,wagging head and hand, Charaxos silent; forcing myself, Ibent and peered at his hand...seeing a drachma.
I saw it had been pierced for a chain...taking it, Imade out the letters my mother had gouged...in themetal...yes, it was her drachma.
I wanted to run, throw down the coin, send Charaxosaway, turn aside the castaway. I wanted to crumble on thesteps and bury my head in my arms and deny existence.
“Come in,” I managed.
And
the men entered.
Together, we sat down and I asked:
“Where did you get the coin?”
“At Cos...”
“You are from Cos?”
“Yes, I came from Cos.”
“He came on one of my ships,” Charaxos said.
I could not look at either man.
“He came from Cos,” I said.
“Phaon died on the island...he and others...thrown onthe beach...we have rocky shores...he was injured in thebig storm...you see, we found him, my wife and son and I.He gave us the coin and sent me to you...he...”
So, he died after that storm, I told myself, and I gotup, wondering where I could go: I saw the castaway’sblazing eyes and torn clothing and the greedy face of mybrother:
“Stay at my house...as long as you like,” I said. “Iwill send servants to look after you. I will...”
What will I do? I asked myself.
Will I take the coin and sleep with it? Will it burn mybed? Will I place it on my desk or hurl it out my window?And I opened my fingers to see if the bronze was on fire.
Now, you have seen me grief-stricken, I thought, as Igazed at Charaxos. You may go and tell your friends. Tellthem, Sappho is beaten. Tell them...
I excused myself and retreated to my room.
Far at sea, I saw a dot: Phaon’s ship, and I opened myhand and laid his drachma on the windowsill.
Beauty, is he dead?
What has been gained by taking him from me?
Shall I go to Xerxes, and hold him to his promise?Couldn’t there be a mistake? Better to find Xerxes andsay to him, “Remember your promise,” and take his powder.This is my inheritance, from parents, Cercolas, friends,this degree of misfortune, final degradation. Was love amirage, or this?
?
Libus sat beside my bed, his hands alleviating the painthat dragged at every nerve: his hands warmed me,crossing my back and shoulders, assuaging with theirmirage the storm that seemed everywhere inside me,bursting my throat, my brain, my chest, shattering myreason.
Yet, as he helped me, he reasoned:
“I hoped he would be back early enough for Kleis’wedding...he said something to me about getting backearly... I hoped you two would go on...you know all of uswatched you...our hearts were yours...it was like that.
“I’ve always thought your pride deserved love, Phaon’skind, free of politics. Yes, I know Alcaeus wassufficient, years ago; then our island women adopted you;then Phaon. It was his luck to give you what youneeded...”
“My coin didn’t bring luck to him,” I said.
“A coin means what? Metal can’t tell us aboutlife...only we can tell...to one another...”
“What have I told you through the years?”
He paused a while, hands motionless.
“Beauty...”
“And now?”
“Another kind...in the making. I know your ancestralline...losses become gain...I recognize bravery.”
His hands and thoughts continued their palliative, nowthe fingers, now the voice, as servants replaced lampsand closed windows, moving as slowly as if below the sea,finally to leave us alone again, the ocean’s voice mixingwith the crickets.
“Kleis will bring Phaon back to me,” I said.
“Theirs is a curious resemblance...I agree.”
“What will happen to his house?”
“It will be hers,” he said.
“But she’ll never live in town.”
“No...she won’t change her ways.”
“Have you ever liked his house? I haven’t.”
“No,” he said.
“Libus, why doesn’t Alcaeus come to me?”
“He’s not thinking of your problem.”
“He doesn’t know about Phaon?”
“He knows...but can’t come.”
“Shall I go to him?”
“Wait...for a while,” he said.
?
My girls seldom leave me: Atthis, Gyrinno, Anaktoria,each brings flowers and gifts, bringing themsurreptitiously or with a hint of jollity—sometimescompassion. Old Exekias pats my hands, kisses my skirt orturns away, tears unchecked.
Atthis, cheek against mine, murmurs her love. As wewalk through our garden she says:
“I miss him too... I loved him too... We placed awreath for him... We three have made a shrine in thewoods...”
Gyrinno appears in the night, as I lie sleepless.Unable to mention the tragedy, she whispers hoarsely thatshe loves me and wants to help: Is there anything she cando for me?
Anaktoria has probed deeper:
“You must take care, Sappho. You must do nothingstrange, that would harm us. We can’t have you obsessedby melancholy. Let us look after you.”
Eyes streaked with tears dim and I see him, imagine hisbody sprawled between the rocks of Cos and I hear hisvoice speak my name: I see our Leucadian cliff and know Icould throw myself down, die as he died among the rocks,far below.
Then, I find Kleis as I work at my loom, and her voice,revealing her sorrow, eradicates the drama of self: thecurse of death needs soft hands and blonde hair and blueeyes and tender mouth... “Mama, darling...”
Sometimes I try to brush aside feminine ties, but therethey are, tightening about me: snatches of song come tome: I see women with babies at the fountain; vineyardscreep over the hills, ascending through fog, under thewings of gulls, moving toward me, closer and closer: theyare my father’s vineyards, the vineyards of Alcaeus,Phaon’s vineyards, Libus’, Anaktoria’s; the bone flute,the whole island is in them, in the spring leaves andautumn leaves, in the stark vines of winter: the weepingrock moves through them, the defeated fleet, the redrooftops of home, the bare hills, olive trees: I see awoman, called Sappho, leading a child, named Kleis: Ihear shepherd’s bells, and the silence of dawn spills upfrom the ocean’s shore: a porpoise and a whale, beyond abelt of kelp, churn points of light and shadow: home,home is the red tiles and my mother’s lamps and the viewwhere the vineyards snuggle to sleep for the night: thisis my inheritance, to keep as long as possible, that iswhat I tell myself, compel myself to feel.
Kleis has the grape leaf woven in her loom and as sheweaves she faces me and smiles and I know how much loveis in that smile.
?
Sappho stands by the seaward window in herlibrary...
carved ivory racks hold books, ancientpapyri,
Egyptian clay tablets, copies of hymns.
Blue from the bay inundates the library, herface,
obliterates the books.
Alcaeus, an old man,
holds a tattered manuscript.
Mytilene, Lesbos
S
uddenly, he stood in front of me, in my library, dressedin black, beard soiled, deep wrinkles underneath hiseyes.
“Alcaeus, I didn’t hear you and Thasos.”
“Exekias let us in. Are you working?”
“No...sit down.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
He leaned on Thasos: I felt that he hadn’t been sobervery long; he leaned forward, almost stumbling.
“Can I sit down?”
“Here, here,” said Thasos, helping him, laying aside apackage.
Silence troubled us.
I watched Thasos go and then Alcaeus said:
“I understand your loss. I understand what has happenedto you. Phaon’s death has overpowered you. I put itbadly...but we have shared...be patient...Iunderstand...Sappho; I have brought you my Homer.Remember, when I got it years ago? Remember? I want toshare. I should have given you this before...What good isit to me?”
“Alcaeus.”
“Where is the book?”
“The package Thasos left?”
“Yes...take it...open it...”
I opened it,
remembering how we had thrilled long ago,and, after a while, reaching out to him, grateful, hopingI could make him sense my gratitude, I kissed hisforehead and his hands, his hands motionless, thesightless eyes confusing me.
He went on slowly:
“I’ve come to share my strength...it’s a poor strength,drunk, blind, but it does go on. You, my dear, areblinded by grief. Let me tell you your grief can’t be asbad as mine. Or, if it is, let’s share...share...we’veshared before... I’ll take your dark away...hide it inmine...lose some of your burden at least.
“Sappho, let me help.
“Accept the old book, find hope in it... I have kickedaside death on the field...look at my eyes and then lookat yours...you need no mirror.
“He’s dead...dead by the sea...you have your love ofbeauty to uphold you. Let it live! Give it new life! Soonenough death will claim both of us, but, till then, let’sfind comradeship...come to my house tomorrow, read tome...
“Will you?”