Voices from the Past

  “If I were invited, I’d consider.”

  My teasing brought a flash from him and laughter and he moved back a little,nodding agreeably.

  As I walked home, I felt that my mind had been invaded by everythingaround me. I tried to hurry, thinking I’d remember all, the prices of the traders,the baskets of starfish, the white parrot; I’ll remember his voice, his feet in thedust, his smiles.

  Exekias babbled dully about food and flagrant cheating, her basket bumpingmy hip. I wondered how I could wait, through the days ahead, how could I oc-cupy myself, until Phaon and I sailed? It was a question for water clocks andgulls, spindrift and wind, thought unfolding in my room, scudding across thefloor to the window, stopping there, leaping out, to other lands, other times,backlashing with the net that contains yesterday...flames in a cruse...Atthis, slip-ping her perfumed hands over my eyes...

  (

  My lips burn, my hands are moist, I feel faint... Is that my voice, the sound ofmy laughter? Am I walking over these tiles?

  Did I have supper last night? Drink? Rehearse a song?

  My girls realize I am lost—wandering. I can’t look into their eyes for long.When I see Kleis cross the room a trickle of ice slips down my back.

  What if he finds me too old, what if my love doesn’t please him...if he mocksme, or stands in awe, or wants to amuse himself?

  Phaon...

  I see you against every wall, against the sky, in the dark, in the sun under thetrees. My flesh aches, my arms melt. Never has passion fermented so strongly inme.

  Yet no messenger comes.

  I can’t bear the nights, to lie alone, to feel my breath on my pillow, feel thecool sheet.

  In the morning, I ask Exekias questions, just to hear her voice, not listening,for how can she know whether he has forgotten me or is afraid or sick?

  He is busy with his boat and port affairs. He has gone to visit his sister, withno thought of returning soon. He has sailed. He talks with his men—coarsetalks. He eats, drinks, works, sleeps, snores.

  No—he is fixing our boat for our trip.

  No, he has many sweethearts, dark, tall, frivolous, lusty, daring—all young.

  Why do I punish myself?

  I hurt with weariness and desire. I will simply face the bedroom wall and shutout the light. No, I will concentrate on my work. What shall I write about?

  (

  Where is the sea that we sailed?

  Was it a long trip?

  Was our sail grey or brown?

  Was the water rough?

  The answers mean so little. Born of the sea, where is love more beautifulthan on the sea? Like water, light, warm, swaying, the indispensable ingredient,the transformations, the necessities, the luxury, with the whites of the waveswhiter than salt, with gulls flashing in the sun, with the bow of the boat swing-ing.

  We swam, dove, played, laughed. There was bread soaked in honey and nutsdipped in wine and fruit, whose peelings we tossed to the birds. There was thecreaking of the sail for our silences, the long brown tiller arm reaching to thesun, his hands on my shoulders.

  He padded the bottom of the boat and we lay there, the wind heeling usbriefly, the water sucking and his mouth sucking mine and the hunger of hisbody—the hunger I knew no sea could satisfy. Cradled, we talked softly:

  “Was your trip good?”

  “We had good weather for several days, then storms... It’s like that, youknow, most every trip. I try to keep far away from the coast, to avoid shiftingwinds. I keep farther away than most sailors. It shortens the trip...”

  “You’re not afraid?”

  “No.”

  “When will you be leaving?”

  “I have no cargo.”

  “Stay...Phaon...”

  We had supper and I hated the food that kept us from our love-making.

  A sponge lay on the floor and he dipped water over me as the sun washedover us, sinking rapidly. Why couldn’t it stay for us? I saw him as Cretan, asBabylonian, as Persian, inventing his lineage. His atavistic hands moved certainly,oarsman’s hands, netman’s hands, the sea’s...mine.

  Nothing’s more rhythmic than love with waves for bed, rocking, sucking,soothing. I lay there in his arms, thinking of the plants below, the glassy windowof the water, the fish, coral, ruined cities...the lovers of other days, the mother ofus all, love, pulsing in the rigging, in the pull of his legs, the hasp of his fingers.The rollers were kind to us, never too violent yet tingling the blood. The backsof waves looked at us. The spray spilled salt on our skin, gulls screaming.

  We made love again, better than before, this time under the moon, our bod-ies wet from swimming, the summer night blowing over us, bringing us closer toshore where the surf boomed. Moonlight ignited inside the water and phospho-rescence added to the brilliance. Flying fish sprang free. His body was so dark,mine so white...la, the rough of him!

  Were any other lovers as happy that day?

  As we stretched side by side, he said, with sleepy tongue:

  “I remember an evening like this, a night of phosphorescence. I was lying onthe deck, almost asleep. A flash tore the sky, silver light...it came streaking nearerand nearer. I woke some of my sailors. My helmsman shouted. We pointed andargued. The light hit the water and sent up boiling steam. We smelled something.Stripping, I swam where the light had hit the water. We were becalmed and Ithought I had seen something white but found only dead fish, their bellies shin-ing. The largest one filled my arms and I swam back to the boat and hauled itaboard. It had a brand across one side. We argued, and threw it back.”

  “What was it that fell?” I asked.

  “Some said it was a star,” he said.

  (

  “I was born in Pyrgos,” Phaon tells me, his head on my lap. “I was born in aterrible thunderstorm, in my father’s hut. He was a very clever fisherman butthere were times when we got very hungry and on one of those times we wadedout to sea, he and I, to throw a net...we were hungry. I wasn’t helping much but Iwas there, small, perhaps learning something. Ah, that little island was barrenand poor. And there I was in the water, the sun coming out of the sea, blindingme. And then my father screamed and I saw him fall. I tried to reach him. Isplashed. I ran. I fell. I shouted. We were alone, we two. My father was thrashingabout. It seems he had fallen into a pool, a rock pool, you know what they are.Maybe he forgot it was there, or didn’t know. I can’t say. But he had been hit bya shark and was bleeding. So I helped him, as best I could, both of us splashing,falling, the surf rising around us, big. He fell on the beach and I ran for help butbefore I could find help and come to him he had bled to death, on the sand, hishands on his wound, the wound from the shark.”

  (

  We went up the mountain, to the outcrop and the temple, spent all day alone,the sheep tinkling their bells, the heat steady. He knew of a spring unknown tome and a hollow olive where bees had a hive. Only deep in the olive grove was itcooler and we buried ourselves under the trees.

  The watery brown of his body was mine. I found his voice deeper than I hadthought. I found his mouth. Discoveries went on, nothing repetitive, the wind,no, the olive shade, or the moss and mushrooms. Crushing a mushroom herubbed it against his thighs. The smell of mushroom in the cool, dark place! Hissmell and mine; the smell of earth: life was a vortex of fragrances, peace on thefringes, then a shepherd’s bell!

  “I’ve wanted to be a shepherd,” I said.

  “It would be too lonely for me,” he said. “It’s lonely enough at sea. I look fora sign of land, a strip of floating bark, land bird or turtle. I look...there at the bowI’m always looking...now it will be you, ahead, in the sea. At sea I have mycrew...no, I couldn’t be a shepherd. But you?”

  “For me, I’d have more time to think, to write, to gather the world of still-ness. I could weave it into a pattern we’d recognize as important: succor, inspi-ration, hope. There i
s a cliff...you know it... the Leucadian cliff... I’d go therewith my flock and dream as they fed about me, the sea below us, the murmur ofantiquity around us.

  (

  It wasn’t easy to visit Alcaeus and hear him talk, as he reclined at supper, hishands close to a lighted lamp, restless fingers, perturbed in a blunted way: thetensility of the battlefield gone from them: moving, they move in on themselves.

  “Sometimes, I want to see a face...your face, Sappho. I want to see manyfaces, the faces of my men. I’d like to see a helmet and plume, the scarlet horse-hair plume...color...what a great thing...

  “My house has no window or door. Who wants a house that way?

  “What of other blind men and their darkness! What good can that darknessdo them?

  “When my father was small he was scared of the dark. I never was. But thisdark has become fear...words can’t break it. Only sleep breaks it. When I’m lyingin bed, on the verge of waking, I think, remembering the old light, I think, thesun’s up. But where’s the sun!”

  Someone had dusted his shields and spears on the wall: I noticed the blackpoint of an Egyptian lance, the cold grey pennons on a Persian hide: perhapsthey had decorated the sand outside his tent.

  This contrast troubled me and yet I longed to share my happiness: the childin me wanted to discountenance reason: the brown shoulders and rolling seanever left me as we talked and I tried to comfort, reminding him of days when itwas fun to climb the hills and explore the beaches, fun all day: he admitted therehad been time without pain and wondered why we were eventually cheated?

  Fog leaned against the house and I described it and he asked me to walk withhim. As we followed the shore, he talked of warriors he had know, “strategists,”he called them; he boomed his words, excited by memories and the walk and thefog, which he could feel on his face and hands. His cane cracked against drift-wood and I restrained him, to find his hands trembling.

  (

 

  The blue of the Aegean is reflected

  in the faces of the 50 rowers of the trireme

  as they chant and pull;

  the blue is reflected on the ship’s hull

  and the banks of oars.

  P

  haon and I were offshore in his rowboat, the small sail furled, the surf near by,doubling into smooth green, sunset brazing the horizon. We had been gay,drifting, oar dragging, taking chances with the surf. Upright at the stern, Phaonlooked about idly: we had been talking about going for a swim. Suddenly, hefaced me and shouted:

  “Over there...see them...pirate boats!”

  “What?”

  “Over there, the other way...those three boats...see the red shields at thebow...Turkish pirates...they’re attacking Mytilene. I’ll row for the beach. Hangon.”

  His oar splashed and the boat pitched; pulling with all his strength, he droveus toward the shore, the surf rising, the bow high. I thought we would capsizebut before I could make out the pirate ships he beached us and we scrambledashore, drenched and shoeless. Together, we raced for the square, shouting ateveryone we met. Together, we dashed for Alcaeus’ house, and threw open hisdoor.

  Men in gold, red and blue uniforms stormed our dock and invaded the town.I hung on, behind shutters, unable to tear myself away as the armed gang rushedpast the house, forty or more, most of them yelling, one of them, in silver tur-ban, whistling through his fingers, brandishing a scimitar. My mother had de-scribed such an attack...I could hear her and see her pained face...a terrible storyI had never quite believed.

  Phaon yanked shields and spears off the wall and armed Thasos and anotherman I scarcely knew, a visitor. Women and children hollered and scuttled inside,making for the rear of the house. Something crashed against our street door andmen bellowed wildly at us. I saw wood rip the door. Thasos moved in front ofme, urging me to hide. Phaon, with shield and sword, his clothes still sopping,threw open the door and beat off a Turkish spear. Catching two men by surprise,he wounded one in the neck and both fled, the uninjured man, a youngster,helping the other one, his shoulder turning red, their short swords rapping theirlegs as they ran. The injured man lost his turban as they rounded a corner...

  “What happened...What’s going on?” bellowed Alcaeus, behind Thasos.

  “Turks,” Phaon shouted, checking the damage to the door, swinging it on itshinges, his hairy shield high on his arm.

  Long after dusk, men scouted the streets, all the Turkish boats at sea: thetown buzzed with shouts and whistles: a drum throbbed: the raiders had killedtwo and injured several and plundered a winery and mill, removing flour andfilling goat skins with fresh water at several fountains. I piloted Alcaeus about fora while, until my girls discovered me and begged me home, dreading a repetition,though by now armed soldiers had set up guards.

  Stars shone brilliantly.

  The bay, mirror-smooth, seemed utterly innocent of piracy and death. It ac-cused us of our own folly.

  Alone in my room, I reviewed the raid, our floundering ashore, our dash toAlcaeus’ house, the brilliant uniforms, wild faces, wild cries, Phaon at the door,Thasos wanting me to hide, children whimpering.

  The drummers were signaling each other, the surf sullen, the wind rising.

  In a room near me, someone was sobbing. Peace would not return to myhouse or Mytilene for a while: how long, I wondered? Peace, how frail it is, howcarefully it must be protected.

  I realized I should comfort my girls and not sit and watch the ocean. It washard to go to them, harder still to listen to their fears and accusations. When theyquestioned me I felt that what I described had never happened or happened tosomeone else. Atthis, holding a puppy in her arms, said she wanted someone toprotect her and burst into tears, realizing how unprotected she had been.

  Why hadn’t I come with Phaon? What if the Turks had climbed the hill?

  “You forgot all about us, you just left us here! Oh, Sappho!”

  (

  Next day, with my house quieted, I had time to write:

  Accomplishments require sacrifice of mind and body; for some, accomplish-ment will be slow as the sea eating sand. I prefer the swift attainment—it is mostinspiring. Death, because it is an incessant threat, retards progress, inhibiting ourwill to succeed, seeping under us at unexpected moments.

  Surely, if we are to conspire against death, if we are to get the most of life, wemust be clever, relying on intuition and knowledge, to reach any goal. Surely, themost important element in life is the humane, the kindly, the uncorrupted, tyingtogether little things into something worth while, that will have significance nowand later.

  (

  Poseidon

  641 B.C.

  Then, what is love? Isn’t it sharing a personality never encountered before? Ithink it is this kind of interchange and it is exploring someone’s thinking, withand without words. With Phaon, it is sharing the sea, the oarsman’s hands, theswimmer’s legs, yarns on the beach in the firelight. With Alcaeus, it has been ourfriends, our families, our town, our writing, our exile—years of knowing eachother. The differences between Phaon and Alcaeus are so many it would befoolish to try to list them. Comparison gets me nowhere.

  I suspect that love is too subtle for any analysis: love is so subtle it escapeswhile we look. Being in love is rather like being someone else, laughing some-one’s laughter, tasting someone’s wine, dreaming someone’s dreams. I feel thatclose to Phaon. Together, we share the fire, the fire that wakes us in the night,that flies into our eyes, the fire that makes my mouth tremble, that makes melaugh in my mirror, that makes me test my perfume bottles and sends my girlsfor new powder.

  I steal to him—with dignity. I crush him to me, dignity gone. I lose, I gain. Icringe, I lunge. Phaon, you are my body, in me, wanting you, wanting... We arethe wanters, haters of nights that keep us apart, haters of time.

  Its roaring deafens me: I, I didn’t hear you. I, I was wrapped in thought. Iwas making love
...I was reliving the sea, I was in the boat. I was planning ournext meeting...I was singing... Darling, I was saying.

  (

  Riding donkeys, Phaon and I set out across the island, to visit his sister,riding all day in slow stages, to reach her hut and sleep there. I thought we wouldnever find it, but that was my thinking. Phaon led us through a jumble of hillsiderocks, through little valleys, right to her door, a hut of rocks and straw, hershepherd’s crook beside the door.

  Kleis is so unlike my Kleis.

  She seems able to speak without words, perhaps because words are not veryuseful to her since she lives alone. She nods and smiles, her smile serene. Small,dark, light-boned, she appears out of the past, no sister of Phaon, unrelated toour island. I had not expected her to be so unlike us. Using her particular mys-tery, she made us comfortable, made us feel at home, a gesture now and then, aword, some roasted seeds, another word, as we talked. Her delight in having uswas obvious, coming from deep inside. She has wonderful wind-swept sight,from the rapture of lonely skies, her communions. She is priestess of self-contained youth. She shared her food and we shared things we had brought.Phaon talked of his sea trip, the Mytilene raid, his voice in accord with her qual-ity.

  As our relationship deepens, I am more and more aware of his quality. It isbest seen in his slow, slow gesture. Or in a spontaneous grin ending in a chuckle.It is in his carriage—his calculating look. His qualities are older than mine, sea-soned by the primordial: his speech is older, in vocabulary, accent, intonation.