The Athenian Murders

  Diagoras raised his eyebrows and turned to Heracles - he had been unaware of this last fact. But Heracles went on, as if intoning: 'Tramachus was in fact murdered, or beaten into unconsciousness and left to the mercy of wolves. Last night, Euneos and Antisus came here after your play. Your workshop is the building nearest to where Euneos was found this morning. I know for certain that Euneos, too, was murdered, and that his murderer committed the crime elsewhere and then moved the body And one can assume that the two locations were not far apart, for who would think of crossing Athens with a corpse slung over their shoulder?' He paused and opened his arms wide, in an almost friendly gesture. 'So you see, good Menaechmus, you have rather a lot to do with it.'

  Menaechmus' face was impossible to read. He might almost have been smiling, but his gaze was sombre. Without a word, he turned away slowly from Heracles, and resumed striking the marble with deliberate blows of his chisel. When he spoke there was amusement in his voice: 'Oh, what a wonderful, exquisite piece of reasoning!' He stifled a laugh. 'I'm guilty by syllogism! Better still, I'm guilty because my house is close to the potters' plot of land.' Still chiselling, he shook his head slowly and laughed again, as if the sculpture or his work on it were cause for amusement. 'This is how we Athenians construct truths nowadays: we talk of distances, we make calculations based on emotions, we apply reason to the facts!'

  'Menaechmus . ..' said Heracles gently.

  But the sculptor continued: 'It will be said, in years to come, that Menaechmus was found guilty because of a matter of length! Nowadays everything obeys a Canon. Haven't I said so many times? Justice is now simply a question of distance.'

  'Menaechmus,' insisted Heracles still gently, 'how did you know that Euneos' body was found on the potters' plot of land? I didn't say so.'

  Diagoras was surprised by the sculptor's violent reaction: he turned towards Heracles, eyes wide, as if the Decipherer were a stout Galatea suddenly come to life. For a moment he said not a word. Then he cried, with the remnants of his voice: 'Are you insane? The whole neighbourhood is talking about it! What are you implying?'

  Heracles again sounded meek, apologetic: 'Nothing, don't worry. It was part of my reasoning regarding the distance.' And then, as if he'd remembered something, he scratched his conical head and added: 'What I don't quite understand, good Menaechmus, is why you focused on what I said about the distance, but not on my statement regarding the possibility that someone murdered Euneos ... A far stranger idea, by Zeus, and one that is not being talked about in the neighbourhood, but which you seem readily to have accepted. You began by criticising my argument regarding distance but you didn't ask: 'Heracles, how can you be so sure that Euneos was murdered?' I really don't understand, Menaechmus.'

  Diagoras felt no compassion for Menaechmus as he watched the Decipherer, with his merciless deductive powers, miring the sculptor in his own frenzied words, gradually sinking him into total confusion, as if into one of the putrid pools where, according to travellers' tales, those who try to free themselves by frantic contortions are swallowed all the faster. In the dense silence that followed, he felt the urge to make a mocking, trivial remark to underline their victory over the wretch. He said, smiling scornfully: 'What a beautiful sculpture you're working on, Menaechmus. Who is it meant to be?'

  For a moment he thought the sculptor would not reply. But he became uneasy when he saw that Menaechmus was smiling.

  'It's called The Translator. The man who tries to decipher the mystery of a text written in a foreign language, not realising that words simply lead to other words, and thoughts to other thoughts, while the Truth remains unattainable. Is it not a good metaphor for what we all do?'

  Diagoras was unsure what the sculptor meant, but not wishing to be at a disadvantage, he remarked: 'A strange figure. What form of dress is that? It doesn't look Greek.'

  Menaechmus said nothing. He stared at his work and smiled.

  'Could I take a closer look?'

  'Yes,' said Menaechmus.

  The philosopher mounted the podium. His steps resounded on the dirty wooden boards. He approached the statue and observed its profile. Hunched over the table, the man of marble held a fine quill between forefinger and thumb. He was surrounded by scrolls. What form of dress was that, Diagoras wondered. A sort of highly fitted cloak . . . Clothing from foreign parts, evidently. He peered at the bent neck, with the top vertebrae protruding (he had to admit it was skilfully executed), the thick hair, the ears with almost obscenely thick lobes . . .

  Diagoras couldn't see the face as the figure's head was bowed. He bent over a little and saw a receding hairline . . . And he couldn't help admiring the hands - veined, slender, the right gripping the quill, the left palm down, holding open the scroll on which he was writing. The middle finger bore a large signet ring engraved with a circle. A second roll of papyrus lay to one side - the original work, no doubt. The man was writing out his translation on the parchment. Even the letters on it had been skilfully and meticulously engraved! Intrigued, Diagoras leaned over the statue's shoulder and read the words which the figure had, supposedly, just 'translated'. He didn't understand them. They said: He still hadn't seen the statue's face. He leaned over a little further and looked53

  53 I can't go on. My hands are shaking. (T's N.)

  I'm coming back to the translation after two anxious days. I still don't know whether I'm going to go on or not. I may not have the courage. But at least I've managed to sit at my desk and look at my papers. Yesterday, when I was talking to Helena, I felt I would never be able to do so again. I acted a little impulsively with Helena, I admit. I asked her the day before to come and keep me company

  I didn't feel I could stay in the house alone at night - and, though I didn't tell her the real reason for my request, she must have sensed something because she agreed immediately. I tried not to talk about work. I was friendly, polite and shy. And I continued to be so even when we made love. I made love to her hoping secretly that she would make love to me. I felt her body beneath the sheets, breathed in the acrid smell of pleasure, heard her moan, but it didn't help. I sought - at least I think I did - to feel in her what she could feel of me. I wanted - longed - for her hands to explore me, feel me, come up against me, give me a shape in the darkness . . . No, not a shape. I wanted simply to feel that I was matter, a solid remainder, something that was there, occupying a space, not just an outline, a figure with features and an identity. I didn't want her to talk to me, I didn't want to hear words - especially not my name - or empty sentences relating to me. I now have some understanding of what happened: I think it was due to the panic induced by translating, to a horrible feeling of porousness, as if my existence was suddenly revealed to be much more fragile than the text I'm translating and which manifests itself through me in the upper part of these pages. It's made me feel that I need to augment these footnotes, as a counterbalance to the huge weight of the main text. If only I could write, I thought, not for the first time, but more longingly than ever. If only I could create something of my own . . . My encounter with Helena - her body, her firm breasts, her smooth muscles, her youth - didn't help much; it served perhaps only to make me recognise myself (I desperately needed her body as a mirror in which to see myself without having to look at myself). But this brief reunion, this anagnorisis, only served to help me sleep and, therefore, to disappear again. The following day, as dawn broke over the hills, I stood naked at the bedroom window. I heard a rustling of sheets and Helena's sleepy voice as she lay there naked, and I decided to tell her everything. I spoke calmly, my eyes fixed upon the fire growing on the horizon.

  'I'm in the text, Helena. I don't know how or why, but it's me. I'm the statue, carved by one of the characters, called The Translator, sitting at a desk translating just like I do. It all matches: a receding hairline, delicate ears with thick lobes, slender, veined hands .. .It's me. I don't dare go on with the translation. I couldn't bear to read a description of my own face

  She protested. She sat up in
bed, asked lots of questions, became angry. Still naked, I went to the sitting room and returned with the pages of my translation. I handed them to her. We were a comical sight: both of us naked - her sitting, me standing - colleagues once more. Her breasts - quivering, pink - rising with each breath, she furrowed her teacher's brow. I stood in silence at the window, my member pathetically shrivelled by anxiety and cold.

  'It's ridiculous,' she said, as she finished reading. 'Absolutely ridiculous.' She protested again. She berated me. She said I was becoming obsessed, the description was very vague, it could have been anybody, adding: 'And the signet ring the statue is wearing is engraved with a circle. A circle] Not a swan, like yours!'

  That was the most awful part. And she knew it.

  'You know very well that in Greek 'circle' is kitklos and 'swan' kuknos,' I said calmly. 'Only one letter's difference. If that, that lambda, is an n, then there's absolutely no doubt: it's me.' I stared at the ring on the middle finger of my left hand, engraved with the outline of a swan. It was a gift from my father and I never take it off.

  'But in the text it's kuklos, not—'

  'Montalo says in one of his notes that the word is hard to make out. He takes it to be kitklos, but states that the fourth letter is unclear. Do you understand, Helena? The fourth letter.' My voice was flat, almost offhand. 'My sanity depends on Montalo's opinion as a philologist about a single letter.'

  'But that's absurd!' she said, exasperated. 'What are you doing ... in here?' She thumped the papers. 'This book was written thousands of years ago! How . . .' She pulled off the sheets, uncovering her long legs. She smoothed down her red hair. She went, naked and barefoot, to the door. 'Come on. I want to read the original text.' Her voice was firm now, determined.

  Horrified, I begged her not to.

  'We're going to read Montalo's text together,' she said, standing at the door. 'I don't care if afterwards you decide not to go on with the translation. I just want you to get this mad notion out of your head.'

  We went to the sitting room, both still naked and barefoot. I remember having a ridiculous thought as I followed her: We want to make sure that we're human beings, physical bodies, flesh, organs, not just characters in a novel or readers . . . We're going to find out. We have to. It was cold in the sitting room, but it didn't bother us. Helena got to the desk first and leaned over the papers. I couldn't bring myself to go any closer. I stood behind her, admiring her smooth back, the gentle curve of her spine, the soft buttocks. There was a silence. I remember thinking, She's reading my face. I heard her moan. I closed my eyes. She said: 'Oh.'

  She put her arms around me. I was horrified by her tenderness. She said: 'Oh ... Oh ...'

  I couldn't bring myself to ask, didn't want to know what she had read. I clung to her warm body. Then I heard laughter - gentle, becoming louder, growing in her belly like a new life. 'Oh ... oh . . . oh ...' she laughed.

  Later, much later, when I read what she had read, I understood why she was laughing.

  I've decided to go on with the translation. I'm starting from the sentence: 'But he still hadn't seen the statue's face'. (T.'s N.)

  54 There's a gap in the text at this point. Montalo states that the following five lines are illegible. (T.'s N.)

  But he still hadn't seen the statue's face. He leaned over a little further and looked at it. The features were54

  'A shrewd man,' said Heracles, as they left the workshop. 'He doesn't finish his sentences, or his sculptures. He affects a repulsive personality to make us back away holding our noses, but I'm sure he's utterly charming with his followers.'

  'Do you think he—' said Diagoras.

  'Let's not be too hasty. The truth may be far away, but it will await our arrival with infinite patience. For the moment, I'd like another opportunity to talk to Antisus.'

  'Unless I'm much mistaken, we'll find him at the Academy. There is to be a dinner there this evening in honour of a guest of Plato's, and Antisus is one of the cupbearers.'

  'Very well, Diagoras,' smiled Heracles Pontor. 'I believe the time has come for me to see this Academy of yours.'55

  55 I've just made an amazing discovery! If I'm right - and I'm pretty sure I am - all the strange enigmas surrounding this novel will start to make sense, even if still strange and, as far as I am personally concerned, far more worrying. I made my discovery - as is so often the case - quite by chance. This evening I was looking over the last part of Chapter Six in Montalo's edition, which I hadn't yet finished translating, when I noticed irritably that the edges of the pages were stubbornly sticking together (it's happened before, but I've simply ignored it). I peered at them more closely: they looked normal, but the substance with which they were stuck together was still fresh. I frowned, increasingly anxious. I examined Chapter Six page by page, and became convinced that, without a shadow of a doubt, the last few pages had been added recently. A storm of possible explanations swirled in my brain. I went back to the text and found that the 'new' pages contained the detailed description of Menaechmus' statue. My heart started pounding. What on earth could it mean?

  I put off any more theorising till later and finished translating the chapter. Then, suddenly, as I looked out of the window (it was night by then) at the row of apple trees marking the boundary of my garden, I remembered the man who had been watching me and who ran off when I saw him ... and my feeling, the following night, that someone was in the house. I jumped up.. My forehead was clammy and my temples were throbbing.

  The answer seems obvious: someone has been sitting at my desk swapping some of the pages of Montalo's text and has done so very recently. Could it be someone who knows me, or at least knows what I look like, and who was therefore able to add such accurate details to the description of the sculpture? But if so, who would be capable of ripping out pages from an original work and replacing them with other pages, for the sole purpose of tormenting the translator?

  Whatever the truth, I can obviously no longer sleep peacefully at night. Or work peacefully, because I can't be sure whose words I'm translating. Worse still, will I be able to go on without stopping to wonder if any - or all - of the sentences constitute messages addressed directly to me by the mysterious intruder? Now that I've begun to have doubts, how can I be sure that other paragraphs, in previous chapters, don't have anything to do with me? The fantasy of literature is so full of ambiguity that the rules of the game don't even have to be broken: the mere suspicion that someone might have broken them changes everything, puts a terrible spin on everything. Let's be frank, dear reader, have you never had the mad feeling that a novel - the one you're reading right now, for instance - is addressed to you personally? And once you believe this, do you shake your head, blinking, and think, That's ridiculous. Better to forget it and go on reading? So imagine my terror at knowing with absolute certainty that part of this book concerns me ! And I mean 'terror'. I've been used to looking at novels from a distance . . . and now suddenly to find myself in one!

  I have to do something.

  I'm stopping work on the translation until this is resolved. And I'm going to try to catch my mysterious visitor .. . (T.'s N.)

  VII

  The road to the Academy of Philosophy starts as little more than a narrow path branching off the Sacred Way just outside the Dipylon Gate. There is nothing special about this path: it enters a forest of tall pines, and twists and sharpens to a point, like a tooth, so that one feels that it might, at any moment, end in an impenetrable thicket. But, once the early bends in the path are left behind, one glimpses, beyond a brief though dense expanse of stones and greenery with leaves as curved as eyeteeth, the smooth facade of the main building, a marble cube placed carefully on a small hill. The path then broadens proudly. There is a portico at the entrance, with busts the colour of tooth-ivory standing in niches on either side, observing in symmetrical silence as travellers approach. It is not known for certain whom the sculptor wished the busts to represent. Some say the True and the False, others the Beautiful and
the Good, but the less wise (or possibly the wisest?) say they represent nothing and that they are merely decorations -after all, something had to be placed in those niches. In the centre, an inscription, engraved in twisting letters: 'May no one enter without knowledge of Geometry' And beyond, the beautiful gardens of Academe, laid out with curving paths. At the centre of a small square, a statue of the hero seems to demand respect from the visitor - left hand outstretched with index finger pointing down, a lance in the other, gaze framed by a helmet with bristling horsehair topped with toothlike points. And standing in the leafy glade, the sober marble architecture of the school. There are open spaces surrounded by white colonnades with red serrated roofs for classes in summer, while an indoor area affords protection to students and tutors when the cold bares its teeth. The gymnasium has all the necessary equipment, but is smaller than the one at the Lyceum. More modest buildings serve as dwellings for some of the tutors and as Plato's place of work.

  By the time Heracles and Diagoras arrived, twilight had unleashed a harsh Boreas that shook the twisted branches of the tallest trees. No sooner had they entered the white portico than the Decipherer noticed Diagoras' mood and demeanour change. He became like a hunting dog sniffing for prey: head up, frequently licking his lips, his usually neat beard bristling. He barely listened to Heracles (although the Decipherer spoke little, as was his custom), didn't look at him, and merely nodded and muttered, 'Yes,' to any remark, or 'Wait a moment,' in answer to his questions. Heracles sensed that Diagoras wished to make him see that this was the most perfect place in the world, and that the mere thought of something going wrong was unbearably distressing to him.