A Dream of Kings

by Harry Mark Petrakis

  He would not release her, knowing if he did that she would be forever lost. Against this condemnation he performed with a rampant artifice and guile. He fought a dazzling dance on her body, toe-touchings, beats, turns, twists, arms raised, legs together and apart, back humped and swayed, hand grasps, arm hooks, and cross grasps.

  The battle rose to a fevered pitch and in desperation he swept her up, spun her over, her breasts mashed against the sheet, imprisoning the ring, her buttocks hung before him. For a moment their bodies poised suspended on the precipice of the earth, then, holding her thighs like the frame of a chariot, he drove forward and down.

  He roweled the mares with a shout and lashed forward and away. He heard the stamp of cloven feet behind him and he drove with abandon and fury, pulling on the right and then the left, meeting each maddened lunge of the steeds with a firm rooted stance of his own.

  Rocks sailed about them, struck sparks from their wheels, the black and lustrous wings of birds beat about their ears, thin columns of smoke rose in the shadows. They hurtled toward the rock-bound shore of a somber sea, dead of any flower but mosses, seaweed and shell along the desolate bays. He felt the salt-flakes on his chest and the mares became brutal dolphins plunging beneath the dark surface of the storm-ravaged waters, above the whitened and sepulchred hulls of sunken ships.

  They sprang from the sea in a great wave of spray and above them glittered the fiery purple dawn. They surged up a turret-circled steep of cloud, across the spangled arc of the sky, into a landscape of bloodstained sun.

  A searing cry ripped the heavens. The cry faded, haunting as the echoes of a lute. The earth returned in a sonorous calm. He fell across her quivering legs and like a great beached whale, flopped on his side.

  Anthoula's face was close to him, her eyes filled with a massive wonder and warmth. She moved slightly to draw closer to his body and put the palm of her hand upon his flesh, stroking the dark curled tangle of hair on his chest with awe and ardency. Even as her fingers tickled and he started to howl with laughter, he thought again of the coming journey, Stavros and he taking flight, and the laughter became a great hoarse and triumphant cry.

  CHAPTER NINE

  He entered the spacious splendor of the airline ticket office downtown and stood for a moment inside the door. He marveled at the opulence and beauty of the surroundings, the carpeted and paneled magnificence of the high-ceilinged and venerable enclosure. It might have been the throne room of some king's palace.

  His attention was swept to a massive map of the world adorning one full wall, a map showing continents and oceans crisscrossed by an assembly of sharp red lines. These traced the routes the airline flew. He approached the wall and under his breath with poignant delight he read off the names of the capitals. Paris ... Geneva ... Rome... and then, Athens. His gaze lingered on that flower of cities marked by a single glittering pin. From there the distance to his beloved Crete could be measured with the tip of his finger.

  He turned under a surge of excitement and moved briskly toward the long counter where a half-dozen trim and chic young women waited eagerly to serve him. He approached one lovely and short-haired girl with a beguiling smile.

  "Athens!" he said loudly to her. He swept his hand in a majestic gesture toward the great map. "Two tickets for Athens, Greece!" He was rewarded by several of the other young women looking his way with what he understood to be admiration. "One ticket for myself and one ticket for my son who is seven."

  She made a rapid notation on a pad. "Yes sir," she said brightly. "When would you like to go?"

  He looked at her and nodded gravely. The question was the most pertinent one and he appreciated her asking it at once. "As soon as possible," he said. "Even sooner."

  She picked up a timetable and leafed through it with admirable efficiency. "Our next flight for Athens is tomorrow morning, Saturday," she said. "I can check if there are two seats available."

  "Splendid!" he said. With a shade of impatience he remembered the young Cournos boy he had promised a wrestling lesson in the morning at the gym. For an instant he considered taking the flight anyway and then he shook his head. "I have a business appointment tomorrow morning," he said regretfully.

  "The next flight will be early Sunday morning," she said.

  "That will be fine," he said.

  She made another notation on her pad. He was delighted at how smoothly everything was proceeding.

  "First class or economy?"

  "Economy."

  "Round trip?"

  "One way," he said.

  "Do you have your passport?"

  He drew it from his pocket and handed it to her with a flourish.

  "Leonidas Matsoukas and son Stavros," he said.

  She nodded as she examined it and copied the names down on her pad.

  "You will need smallpox inoculations," she said.

  "I roused the doctor at dawn this morning," he said gleefully. "My son and I both received our shots."

  She smiled and picked up the phone. He listened with jubilation as she confirmed his reservation. She hung up the phone and drew out a blank ticket. He leaned forward slightly and watched her filling in their names and the flight.

  "Your flight number 227 will leave at 5:00 a.m. Sunday morning," she said, "arriving in New York at 8:10 a.m. You leave New York at 9:15 a.m. and after a single stop in Rome arrive in Athens after a total flight time of eight and a half hours."

  "Marvelous!" he said. He was astonished at how easily the whole transaction had been accomplished.

  "That will be seven hundred and forty dollars," she said.

  "Right!" he said seriously. "Please hold the tickets right here. I am going at this moment to meet my business associate." He coughed discreetly. "He is liquidating some investments for me and we will return with the cash."

  She smiled once more and put down her pen. "We will hold them right at the will-call counter, Mr. Matsoukas."

  "What time do you close?" he asked.

  "At nine this evening."

  "I will be here hours before that," he said. He moved away from the counter and then turned anxiously back. "If you have to leave, Miss, will you be sure to have the tickets here with someone else?"

  "They will be held here under your name," she said.

  Back in the neighborhood after a bus ride from downtown, he spent thirty minutes appraising luggage in the pawnshop of Oboleski.

  "That is a sturdy bag, Matsoukas," Oboleski said. "Hardly used at all."

  "Save those lies for your other poor customers," Matsoukas said sharply. "The straps are weak and the bottom is stitched together with glue. I have told you, lout, that this bag is for no short lazy trip across a lake. We are crossing the world."

  His gaze caught on a stout leather bag on a shelf in back of the counter. "That one," he pointed. "That one is a treasure. I can see the quality from here."

  Oboleski threw up his hands in admiration. "You have the eyes of a hawk, Matsoukas," he said. "That is one of the best bags I have in the store. A wealthy young man from Evanston pawned it because it belonged to his father who passed away. The boy couldn't bear to be reminded of the beloved old man."

  "Hide the bloody case history," Matsoukas said. "How much?"

  Oboleski looked at him in apprehension. "Ten dollars," he said in a low voice.

  Matsoukas did not disappoint him. "Robber!" Matsoukas cried. "Thief! Let me see the entry. If you gave that poor devil more than two dollars, I will eat the book!"

  "Overhead, Matsoukas," Oboleski pleaded.

  "Four dollars," Matsoukas said. "That will take care of overhead and all."

  "Five dollars," Oboleski said. "Because I value your friendship."

  "You are a dense-souled scoundrel and do not give a damn about my friendship," Matsoukas said. "Four-fifty and not a cent more."

  "Cash?"

  "Of course," Matsoukas said impatiently.

  Oboleski sighed. "Four-fifty then," he said. He stared sharply at Matsoukas. "You do h
ave four-fifty?"

  "O weasel of little faith," Matsoukas said scornfully. "I have just purchased tickets for Greece at a cost of more than a thousand dollars."

  Oboleski sniffed. "Do you have four-fifty left?"

  "I will be back in several hours," Matsoukas said. "I will have the money then."

  Oboleski groaned. He picked up the bag and carried it dolefully behind the counter to place it back on the shelf.

  "I will return!" Matsoukas cried. "Sell that bag and I will suspend you by your callous-riddled feet from the globes outside!"

  Sitting on a stool at the Olympia bar, Matsoukas waved his glass of ouzo cheerfully at the bartender, Toundas, nervously wiping glasses behind the bar.

  "I will see them all again," Matsoukas said. "The River Nestos, and the Cathedral in Rhodes. The island fort of Bourtzi on Nauplia, and the tragic bridge of Arta. I will see all those blessed places again."

  "Wonderful," Toundas licked his lips. "That will be thirty cents for the ouzo, Matsoukas," he smiled weakly.

  "There is no sight on this earth more serene than a shepherd at twilight," Matsoukas said, "leading his flock to the grazing grounds."

  "Lovely," Toundas tried to speak heartily. His lips twisted. "Can you pay me now, Matsoukas?" he asked plaintively. "I may get busy and forget to collect."

  "And I will dance again in Crete to the three-stringed lyre," Matsoukas said. "I tell you, old sport, to dance to a Cretan lyre is to invade the domain of the Gods."

  "I will do some dancing myself tonight if the boss finds the drawer short thirty cents," Toundas tried to laugh but managed only a mirthless squeak.

  Matsoukas turned to look at the clock on the wall which read twenty minutes past ten. "Cicero is late," he said. He sighed. "The blessed man probably fell asleep at the Minoan. I will speed over there and rouse him." He slipped swiftly off the stool. "If he comes in meanwhile, ask him to go over to my office and wait for me." He started for the door. "See you later, old sport."

  "I may not be here," Toundas called grievously after him. "I may be looking for another job."

  He tried the front door of the Minoan Music Store even though he knew that Falconis did not open until noon. He walked around to the alley door that was tightly barred. He knocked several times on the chance that Cicero was still inside, asleep.

  He walked impatiently to the building where Cicero lived, ascended the stairs to the dealer's room and knocked on his door. He knocked again more loudly and then bent and peered through the keyhole. He could only see the foot of the bed, disheveled as usual, not revealing whether the bed was occupied or not. He knocked again, waited another moment, and then pulled an envelope from his pocket. He scrawled a note on the back that he would be waiting for Cicero in his office. He slipped the envelope under the door.

  On the way back to his office he detoured a block to the Midtown Bank where he knew Cicero had his account. He walked briskly in through the revolving door and stood for a moment in the vaulted and colonnaded interior. From all the cages rose the sibilant murmur of money passing back and forth. He circled the bank checking the lines at each window for Cicero. All the time he breathed deeply the effervescent scents of cash. It gave him an emollient feeling of delight, producing the same pleasing little ripples of gas that a hearty meal with a bottle of wine achieved. He passed a fair wave of wind and smiled benignly at the uniformed guard who looked at him sharply.

  He left the bank and walked rapidly to his office. He paused in the grocery downstairs where Akragas was short-weighting clusters of grapes.

  "Has my friend, Cicero, been in looking for me?"

  The grocer sneered and did not answer. Matsoukas waited in an ominous silence. The grocer finally mumbled no.

  Matsoukas started for the stairs. "I will be vacating these abominable premises effective tomorrow," he called back over his shoulder. "I am going to Greece."

  Akragas waited until he had reached the top of the stairs. "More likely you will go to jail!" he hollered.

  In his office Matsoukas paced around his desk. He appraised his belongings and felt a pang of regret at leaving them behind. He would have to bring in a stout wooden crate and wrap his treasures carefully for storage.

  He sat down at his desk. He made a note to be sure to take his wrestling belt on the trip. He pulled the jar containing the Cretan earth to him. He uncapped it and poured some of the black earth into his palm. He felt it curl and throb against his flesh as if it contained some vibrant seed.

  He felt in that moment a longing for the old country so intense that it surpassed any hunger he had ever known, any thirst, any love. He imagined himself ascending a path up the side of a white-capped mountain, Stavros secure in his arms. The sky above the peak would be luminous and blue, and clusters of blossom would flame on the shrubs and vines. Stretched out below them would be the cubed roofs of houses, the whitewashed taverns along the shore, and the sea, the blue-hued water glittering and clear, the ocean floor visible through fathomless depths. And even at twilight, he recalled now with awe, the sun would not sink into the sea. There was always another shadowy island to absorb it, another island between the sunset and the horizon, another sanctuary keeping the sun eternal.

  He felt his breath grow short and his heart beginning to pound. He could not bear to remain still and after pouring the black earth back into the jar he rose and descended the stairs.

  "Tell Cicero to wait for me," he told Akragas.

  "I am not an answering service," the grocer squawked.

  "Listen, rump-head," Matsoukas said quietly. "Give him my message or you will not be able to speak at all."

  He started from the grocery and crossed the street on his way back to Cicero's room and to wait for the Minoan to open. He passed the bakery at a vigorous clip as Anthoula was reaching into the window for a small tray of baklava. She saw him at the same instant he noticed her and the flame in her cheeks and eyes singed him through the glass. With a barely perceptible nod of her head, a flurried movement of her eyes, she bade him come around to the alley door.

  He was anxious to reach Cicero but he did not wish to affront her. In addition even though less than twelve hours had passed since their first fierce union he recalled the feel of her body with a sharp tingling ardor in his flesh. He consoled himself that an hour more or less would do no harm.

  He walked casually around the corner and started down the alley. He looked to make sure there was nobody watching and then slipped over to wait outside the bakery door. He heard the bolt snapped back on the other side. Anthoula opened the door and reached out and pulled him in. She embraced him with a silent but ardently weighted kiss that quivered his toenails and then motioned him up the stairs. He leaped swiftly on his toes for the stairway leading to her apartment. As he ascended the stairs with muffled treads he heard her speaking to the old lady in the front of the store.

  "I have a headache," Anthoula spoke in a grieving voice. "I am going to sleep for an hour. Please do not disturb me."

  Matsoukas waited at the top of the landing and watched her sweep like a wild wraith up the stairs, her apron whipping the walls, until with a kind of frenzy, she exploded into his arms.

  Later, when she moved from the bed, for the first time in daylight he saw the full blossom of her nakedness. From his angle of vision she loomed above him in terraces of beauty. She bent once to kiss his shoulder where she had bitten him in passion, and her breasts, full and tipped with daggered nipples, stabbed against his arm.

  "My darling," she whispered. "O my darling."

  She raised the filmy peignoir and slipped her arms lazily into the sleeves. She let it hang open dividing her breasts by twin wisps of silk. She walked to the dressing table and sat down. She stared back to where he lay naked in the bed, sheet across his belly, his arms raised and folded under his head. She blew him a kiss.

  "I adore you," she said.

  She raised her arms and pulled loose the length of her hair until it hung like a ruffled cape almost to her
waist. She bent her head forward and then to one side so that the great abundance of hair tumbled into thick sections. She picked up a boar-bristled brush from the vanity table and went at each tusk, brushing with long vigorous strokes.

  He watched with wonder at the way each thrust caused her hair to rise and quiver, growing fuller and shaking off glitters of light. Finally, when she arched her head back, her hair had become enormous, radiating like a sunburst about her temples and cheeks.

  "You are a vision," he said softly.

  He remembered Cicero and sneaked a quick look at his watch. He had been with Anthoula almost an hour and he made an effort to rise but his body felt drained. He marveled again at the intensity of her passion. Impaled within her he had felt her closing on him as if her body were a great claw seeking to pull him into her completely, capable of gorging all his blood and muscle and bone.

  She saw him watching her and must have sensed what he was thinking for she laughed, a sensual vigorous laugh of fulfillment.

  "You naughty boy," she said. "O you naughty boy."

  She stuck out her long crimson tongue at him and then twisting toward him, the peignoir falling away from her breasts, she swiftly swept her hair up into the shape of a heart. With the mastery of a deft mimic she reshaped the mass into a sleek mound and tucked the backs under her fingers. She released the fall of hair again and pulled the strands away from her head in the shape of a butterfly's wings. Each new forming of hair changed her incredibly, and Matsoukas was astounded at how it transformed and altered the features of her face and the contours of her body. He realized he was witnessing some strange ritual of feminine sorcery, the ways in which a woman revealed to some hapless man another facet of her multifarious being.

  He made another anxious effort to rise and she cried out hoarsely in protest and came sweeping back to the bed.

  "I must go," he said quickly. "An important business appointment."