The Athenian Murders

  'Is this some kind of joke?'

  The heads of Heracles' eyes emitted multiple glints of mockery as if all he had said up till then had, indeed, been nothing but an immense joke. He explained: "The night the soldiers brought Tramachus' body, an old madman named Candaulus roused the whole neighbourhood. Like everyone else, I went outside to find out what was going on, and I saw the corpse. A doctor, Aschilos, was examining it, but the incompetent fool couldn't see beyond his own beard. I, however, did see something that I thought strange. I'd forgotten all about it, until now.' He stroked his beard thoughtfully. Then, as if he'd suddenly come to a decision, he cried: 'Yes, I accept! I will solve the mystery of your disciple, Diagoras, but not because of what you thought you saw when you spoke to him, but because of what I saw when I looked at his corpse!'

  The Decipherer would answer none of the multiple questions that had formed in Diagoras' head, saying only: 'Let's not discuss the fig until we've opened it up. I may be mistaken, so I'd rather say nothing more for now. But trust me, Diagoras: if I solve my enigma, it's likely that yours, too, will be solved. If you like, I'll visit you to discuss my fee.'

  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.)

  III11

  It 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 that12

  As for Diagoras13

  Now that the reader is fully acquainted with the details of the lives of our protagonist
s, 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 mark), '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—'

  Heracles interrupted placidly: 'Calm down, Diagoras. Have a fig. It'll give you the strength to—'

  'I've had enough of your figs! I want to know why we're still walking! I think we should try to talk to the women who went into the house and—'

  'No. The woman who ran away is the one we want,' said the Decipherer calmly.

  'So why aren't we chasing her?'

  'Because we're very tired. At least, I am. Aren't you?'

  'If we're so tired,' said Diagoras, growing yet more irritable, 'why don't we stop?'

  Heracles trudged on, eating his fig in silence. 'You're so Socratic, Diagoras,' he said at last.

  They walked on for a while in the smoothly approaching Night. The street rolled on uninterrupted between two rows of dilapidated houses. Very soon, they would be in absolute darkness, unable even to make out the surrounding buildings.

  'Athena knows where that woman has got to!' muttered Diagoras, rubbing his hands briskly to warm them. 'She was young and agile ... I believe she could have run without stopping until she was out of Attica . ..'

  He imagined her running for the nearby forest, leaving prints of her bare feet behind her, by the light of a moon as white as a lily in the hands of a young girl. She would be unconcerned by the dark (she must know the way), her breath leaping in her chest, the sound of her steps muffled by the distance, her fawn-like eyes wide. Unafraid, she would shed her clothes so as to run more swiftly, her lily-white body a delicate flash of lightning shooting through the undergrowth, dodging the trees, her loose hair barely catching on their antlers (slender as stems or a girl's fingers), quite naked and resplendent, like an ivory flower held by a young girl as she runs.14

  They soon reached a crossroads. Beyond it, the street narrowed to a passage strewn with stones. An alley started to the left. To the right, a small bridge between two tall houses created a tunnel, its end lost in shadow.

  'What now?' enquired Diagoras irritably. 'Do we draw lots to decide on the way forward?'

  14 The original text is missing several words (written so 'hastily' they prove 'illegible', according to Montalo) making this mysterious paragraph difficult to interpret. The implicit eidesis seems to relate to 'speed', which has featured since the beginning of the chapter, but there are also images of deer (though not wild boar): 'fawn-like eyes', the 'antlers' of the trees, suggesting, not the third Labour of Hercules, but the fourth, the capture of the Arcadian Stag. I don't find it too surprising that the order of the Labours should have been altered, as this was often the practice of writers in antiquity. But a new metaphor stands out: a young girl holding a lily. Is this an eidetic image? And if so, what does it have to do with the hunting of the stag? Does the author intend it to represent the purity of the goddess Artemis, to whom the stag was sacred? In any case, I don't
think one can dismiss it, as Montalo does, 'as an instance of poetic licence of no real significance'. (T.'s N.)

  He felt a pressure on his arm and, in compliant silence, allowed himself to be led quickly to the street corner nearest the tunnel. 'Let's wait here,' whispered Heracles.

  'But what about the woman?'

  'Waiting can be a means of pursuit.'

  'Surely you don't believe she's going to retrace her steps?'

  'Of course she is.' Heracles captured another fig. 'Everyone always returns. And speak a little lower - we don't want to frighten off our quarry.'

  They waited. The moon's white horns appeared. A brief gust of wind disturbed the stillness of the night. The two men wrapped their cloaks tightly around them. Diagoras suppressed a shiver, even though the moderating presence of the sea made it milder here than in the City.

  'Someone's coming,' whispered Heracles.

  It sounded like the supple rhythm of a girl dancing in bare feet, tiptoeing over the stones. But it was a flower, not a person, that emerged from the streets beyond the crossroads, a lily damaged by the rough hands of the wind. It fell apart as it brushed the wall near their hiding place and, scattering petals, it went quickly on its way through air that smelt of foam and salt. It disappeared, carried by the Zephyr as if by a beautiful young girl - eyes of sea, hair of moonlight - wearing it in her hair.