Sappho's Journal

by Paul Alexander Bartlett

  For a while, we practiced archery, her shooting more accurate thanmine. A lost arrow sent us near the sea. Then games...games...whatwould life be without games and laughter!

  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 is too effervescent, toodelightful: the moment swells over us: then, another moment, even whilewe are eating together, growing sleepy together: ours is a gift thathas come from our island without men, years of femininity.

  ?

  Someone sent me the doll Aesop had when he died, his Cretan doll. Itcame from Adelphi; badly wrapped, I opened it in my library, laid it onmy desk, amazed to see it, startled, fingers fumbling. Someone hadwanted to be kind, but it wasn’t kindness to send it. What fadedcolors, what worn cloth, how had the doll gotten this old? It hadsuffered another kind of death.

  With the doll in my arms, I smelled the incense of his house, dinneron the table, fresh fruit piled before us: the broad bracelet he worebothered him and he shoved it higher on his arm: silent tonight, helistened to what we had been doing during the day: he had such heartfor Alcaeus and me.

  I could not keep the figure but packed it away. Its evocativeintimacy, its forlorn quality...they would serve no purpose I couldthink of. I was glad Alcaeus could not see it. Yet, I felt I hadrejected Aesop.

  ?

  A sweltering day was made worse when Gogu had a seizure near Serfo’sshop. Serfo and Libus carried him inside and I found them working overGogu, kneeling beside him, Serfo’s slave fanning the sick man, swayinghis palm frond low, Libus’ face tense and canvas-colored. Serfo turnedhis barbaric features, square-cut beard and blazing green eyes, on me,resentful when I placed a damp sponge on Gogu’s head, when I suggestedwe pull him farther 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’s teethchattered and his head and shoulders shook, Libus restrained him, handson his shoulders. When he spoke to Gogu, I could detect an immediateresponse. The slave brought water and poured it for Gogu and Libus gothim to drink: the frond dipping closer, rising and falling. “Libus—Libus,” he said, and sighed, thin lashes over upturned eyes. The blackhitched his broadcloth and sighed too.

  The room was windowless and cool, lit from overhead. A pigeon cooedon the roof. For a while I sat near Libus but when Serfo offereddrinks, we went into his shop where he displayed ivory figurines on hisdusty 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 rapid breathing.

  “He’ll be all right by evening,” Libus said.

  So we examined the collection, Libus questioning their antiquity: Ipointed out the yellowing and flaking: he held an Amazon in thedoorway, dust cracks mottling her face and armor, the texture of hishands obvious as well.

  He seems to be holding me in his fingers, as small. I felt the flakesof time—my life flaking, like Gogu’s, less lasting than the ivory.

  ?

  The hours I spend with Libus and his sister are hours of talk andwine, at his small house, in its garden of figs and olives, poppies inbloom along the paths. Their place, nearer the bay than mine, absorbsthe bay’s placidity. The furniture stresses comfort. His mosaicsreflect his regard for ease...scenes of old days and old creatures.

  I was glad when Libus gave up staying with Alcaeus; I had missedthose visits to his home where Helen has taught me designs for my loomand reaffirmed what patience really is. She has read to me, acquaintingme with books I would never have found...

  Libus talks and toys with a loop of beads, in a thoughtful mood, hishands, as they move, remind me of their healing quality and his voicehas that same beneficence, distinctly personal, meanings having extrameaning most of the time.

  Helen’s face has none of his ephemerality but has, instead, a countrywholesomeness I love. She chats about flowers she has grown, seeds shekeeps in jars, promising me a selection.

  Their poppies, grey-leafed, sea-bitten, have large centers and beesloll on the petals and the sea lolls beyond them.

  Why is it the hours loll here? I have seen whales from their garden,sporting near beds of kelp, their blue backs like so many watery hills.I think something lures them offshore...another something makes Libus’servants sing more than my servants.

  ?

  A gigantic sea-rock assumes the face of a crying woman when the fogcomes: some say she cries for our dead in the wars, some say it’s forthose lost at sea: I have often seen her, head bowed: she faces thetown, 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 fogabout me, I cling to Atthis or Exekias. No woman goes alone there, whenthe 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 her arms around meand 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 I held her close,my body remembering hers, fingers slipping around the back of her neck,staying in her hair.

  Pushing me aside, she exclaimed:

  “Mama, let’s go to your house and be together, like old times. Shallwe?”

  How easy to consent—and we walked home, arms around each other, gullsover us, shadows skimming roofs, dusty cobbles asking for rain: Iwanted to remember her chatter, each inflection...

  I would see Alcaeus tomorrow. I needed time with my own...

  Pittakos stoned...Aesop stoned...the mob’s disgrace...

  Year after year, is there greater calumny than our own communalperfidy? Is there greater stupidity? One man starts it, then five, thenten, manacled together.

  For our island’s sake, I’m glad I cheated death.

  Like old times, we sat at our looms and Kleis showed me a periwinkledesign, whispering confidences, saying he was good, saying the housewas good, the sea...she put her faith on the loom, the thread of itgoing beyond life. Mother must have heard me say such things,reflecting the same hope. Finches gathered in the olive trees as weworked. I asked time to stop and let us have the day last, at leastlonger than evening and the shepherd’s bells.

  ?

  Charaxos brought him to my house, a castaway, I thought, dreg of theworst sea. Charaxos stood behind him in Cairo red, the sun blazing overthe town, as the castaway bowed, holding together his rags, eyeswandering, skin and bones, nose snuffing at his hand, his mouth loweron one side, a canine look on his face.

  Muttering, he fished in a sack tied about his waist and offered mesomething.

  I hesitated to take it, feeling Charaxos’ curiosity—or was itgloating? I grew afraid as the castaway insisted, wagging head andhand, Charaxos silent; forcing myself, I bent and peered at hishand...seeing a drachma.

  I saw it had been pierced for a chain...taking it, I made out theletters my mother had gouged...in the metal...yes, it was her drachma.

  I wanted to run, throw down the coin, send Charaxos away, turn asidethe castaway. I wanted to crumble on the steps and bury my head in myarms 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 cam
e from Cos,” I said.

  “Phaon died on the island...he and others...thrown on the beach...wehave rocky shores...he was injured in the big storm...you see, we foundhim, my wife and son and I. He gave us the coin and sent me toyou...he...”

  So, he died after that storm, I told myself, and I got up, wonderingwhere I could go: I saw the castaway’s blazing eyes and torn clothingand the greedy face of my brother:

  “Stay at my house...as long as you like,” I said. “I will sendservants 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 my bed? Will Iplace it on my desk or hurl it out my window? And I opened my fingersto see if the bronze was on fire.

  Now, you have seen me grief-stricken, I thought, as I gazed atCharaxos. You may go and tell your friends. Tell them, Sappho isbeaten. Tell them...

  I excused myself and retreated to my room.

  Far at sea, I saw a dot: Phaon’s ship, and I opened my hand and laidhis 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 bea mistake? Better to find Xerxes and say to him, “Remember yourpromise,” and take his powder. This is my inheritance, from parents,Cercolas, friends, this degree of misfortune, final degradation. Waslove a mirage, or this?

  ?

  Libus sat beside my bed, his hands alleviating the pain that draggedat every nerve: his hands warmed me, crossing my back and shoulders,assuaging with their mirage the storm that seemed everywhere inside me,bursting my throat, my brain, my chest, shattering my reason.

  Yet, as he helped me, he reasoned:

  “I hoped he would be back early enough for Kleis’ wedding...he saidsomething to me about getting back early... I hoped you two would goon...you know all of us watched you...our hearts were yours...it waslike that.

  “I’ve always thought your pride deserved love, Phaon’s kind, free ofpolitics. Yes, I know Alcaeus was sufficient, years ago; then ourisland women adopted you; then Phaon. It was his luck to give you whatyou needed...”

  “My coin didn’t bring luck to him,” I said.

  “A coin means what? Metal can’t tell us about life...only we cantell...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 ancestral line...lossesbecome gain...I recognize bravery.”

  His hands and thoughts continued their palliative, now the fingers,now the voice, as servants replaced lamps and closed windows, moving asslowly as if below the sea, finally to leave us alone again, theocean’s voice mixing with 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 bringsflowers and gifts, bringing them surreptitiously or with a hint ofjollity—sometimes compassion. Old Exekias pats my hands, kisses myskirt or turns away, tears unchecked.

  Atthis, cheek against mine, murmurs her love. As we walk through ourgarden she says:

  “I miss him too... I loved him too... We placed a wreath for him...We three have made a shrine in the woods...”

  Gyrinno appears in the night, as I lie sleepless. Unable to mentionthe tragedy, she whispers hoarsely that she loves me and wants to help:Is there anything she can do for me?

  Anaktoria has probed deeper:

  “You must take care, Sappho. You must do nothing strange, that wouldharm us. We can’t have you obsessed by melancholy. Let us look afteryou.”

  Eyes streaked with tears dim and I see him, imagine his body sprawledbetween the rocks of Cos and I hear his voice speak my name: I see ourLeucadian cliff and know I could throw myself down, die as he diedamong the rocks, far below.

  Then, I find Kleis as I work at my loom, and her voice, revealing hersorrow, eradicates the drama of self: the curse of death needs softhands and blonde hair and blue eyes and tender mouth... “Mama,darling...”

  Sometimes I try to brush aside feminine ties, but there they are,tightening about me: snatches of song come to me: I see women withbabies at the fountain; vineyards creep over the hills, ascendingthrough fog, under the wings of gulls, moving toward me, closer andcloser: they are my father’s vineyards, the vineyards of Alcaeus,Phaon’s vineyards, Libus’, Anaktoria’s; the bone flute, the wholeisland is in them, in the spring leaves and autumn leaves, in the starkvines of winter: the weeping rock moves through them, the defeatedfleet, the red rooftops of home, the bare hills, olive trees: I see awoman, called Sappho, leading a child, named Kleis: I hear shepherd’sbells, and the silence of dawn spills up from the ocean’s shore: aporpoise and a whale, beyond a belt of kelp, churn points of light andshadow: home, home is the red tiles and my mother’s lamps and the viewwhere the vineyards snuggle to sleep for the night: this is my in-heritance, to keep as long as possible, that is what I tell myself,compel myself to feel.

  Kleis has the grape leaf woven in her loom and as she weaves shefaces me and smiles and I know how much love is in that smile.

  ?

 

 

  Sappho stands by the seaward window in her library...

  carved ivory racks hold books, ancient papyri,

  Egyptian clay tablets, copies of hymns.

  Blue from the bay inundates the library, her face,

  obliterates the books.

  Alcaeus, an old man,

  holds a tattered manuscript.

  Mytilene, Lesbos

  S

  uddenly, he stood in front of me, in my library, dressed in black,beard soiled, deep wrinkles underneath his eyes.

  “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 sober very long; heleaned forward, almost stumbling.

  “Can I sit down?”

  “Here, here,” said Thasos, helping him, laying aside a package.

  Silence troubled us.

  I watched Thasos go and then Alcaeus said:

  “I understand your loss. I understand what has happened to you.Phaon’s death has overpowered you. I put it badly...but we haveshared...be patient...I understand...Sappho; I have brought you myHomer. Remember, when I got it years ago? Remember? I want to share. Ishould have given you this before...What good is it 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 awhile, reaching out to him, grateful, hoping I could make him sense mygratitude, I kissed his forehead and his hands, his hands motionless,the sightless 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,
are blinded by grief. Let me tell youyour grief can’t be as bad as mine. Or, if it is, let’sshare...share...we’ve shared before...I’ll take your dark away...hideit in mine...lose some of your burden at least.

  “Sappho, let me help.

  “Accept the old book, find hope in it... I have kicked aside death onthe field...look at my eyes and then look at yours...you need nomirror.

  “He’s dead...dead by the sea...you have your love of beauty to upholdyou. Let it live! Give it new life! Soon enough death will claim bothof us, but, till then, let’s find comradeship...come to my housetomorrow, read to me...

  “Will you?”

  I nodded, then remembered he could not see and remembered his giftand his grace and knelt by him and put my head in his hands and pressedbetween his knees, as he patted me, chuckling a little.

  “I’ll come tomorrow, Alcaeus,” I promised.