The Beads of Nemesis

by Elizabeth Hunter

  “You see,” said Peggy, “we shan’t get to bed before tomorrow! And I’m tired now!”

  So was Morag! She wondered what time Pericles would be coming home and wished she had never agreed to come. “Don’t whine!”

  Kimon rebuked his sister, “You know Daddy doesn’t like it! He says it makes things worse if you whine - they take longer to live through!”

  Morag began to feel sorry for her mother-in-law. Really it was too had to have three reluctant guests on her hands! To make up for the children’s lack of enthusiasm, she began to ask about the Greek dances they were going to see. “I seem to have heard of Dora Stratou.” “Of course you have!” Dora snapped. “She’s won all sorts of international prizes for her work.” She turned her head so that the children also could hear what she was saying. “The Greek dance is one of the oldest in the world,” she told them. “Much of it was lost at one time and all that there was to go on was the odd mention of it here and there in Homer. But Kyria Stratou has studied the representations of the old dances on ancient vases, on friezes, wherever they could be seen, and has faithfully revived them. The most interesting thing to my mind is that the Greek musical rhythms are based

  on the old poetic rhythms: 5/4, or 5/8, 7/8, 9/8, the very same metres that are to be found in the plays of Aeschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles. You can hear the same beat in the Byzantine music of the Orthodox Church if you listen for it.”

  Morag smiled at the children’s blank feces, realising that they had not understood one word of their grandmother’s introduction to the evening’s entertainment. “I expect you’ll like the costumes,” she suggested, sounding more optimistic than she actually was.

  Dora snorted her contempt at the very idea. “They must learn to use their eyes! Especially Peggy, if she is determined to paint anything worthwhile. She will do better if she considers where she may have seen the costumes and the musical instruments before. It may have been in a Byzantine fresco, or in a statue depicting one of the ancient gods, on a vase in the National Museum, maybe even on a Christmas card! One has to learn to relate the things one sees to other things. This is the secret of a good painting, or a good design. Sometimes I think it’s the best basis for the whole of life!”

  “But Grandpa didn’t think so,” Peggy said in bored tones.

  “No,” Dora was forced to agree in unnaturally subdued tones. “It’s sometimes difficult to see any use in any of the arts. Your grandfather was an essentially practical man and he thought anything that didn’t have an immediate practical use was a waste of time. I think he forgot that the soul can get hungry too!”

  “Was he - was he like Pericles?” Morag heard herself asking.

  Dora considered the question. “In some ways,” she said. “He was a hard man, but he tried always to be gentle with me. I doted on him.” She sighed. “I’d rather have him than my painting any day!”

  Just as Morag would rather have Pericles than all the other gifts all the ancient gods put together could lavish on her. She rubbed her shells between her fingers in a quick, nervous movement. If Nemesis were real, would she think that Morag deserved Pericles? Somehow, Morag couldn’t think so. She had so very little to offer him and someone like Pericles deserved only the best. She tilted her chin into an obstinate angle. Then she would have to become the best for him, because nobody else was going to have him!

  The people who had just seen the Son et Lumiere performance in German were still coming out from the natural theatre that looked out and up at the rock of the Acropolis, surmounted by the Parthenon. Dora allowed the children to buy themselves some Coca-Cola, taking it for granted that Morag, like herself, would prefer to do without.

  “The mosquitoes are bad at this time of year!” the older woman complained, slapping her arms. “Something ought to be done about them!”

  Morag, who had suffered from various bites ever since she had arrived

  in Greece, wondered if the season really made much difference. “They’re

  at their worst at night. I wonder why?”

  Dora shrugged. “One notices them more. Can you see the children

  anywhere? It looks as though we are at last moving.”

  Morag found the children with some difficulty and firmly anchored

  them to her by holding them both by the hand. She knew that they

  resented being treated as younger than they were, but she had no

  intention of losing them in the crowd that pressed all round them. “It

  won’t be for long, just till we get inside,” she told them.

  Kimon blinked up at her. “We’re not going inside,” he corrected her.

  “It’s an outside theatre.”

  “Well, it comes to the same thing,” Morag retorted. “I don’t want to

  lose you and I don’t want to get lost myself either!”

  “You won’t get lost!” he said scornfully.

  “I hope not,” she murmured.

  She was glad they were sufficiently high up in the queue to be able to have a choice of seats. Dora selected the four seats she wanted with enormous care, making certain that the children could see before she sat down herself, her own shoulders sagging a little with fatigue. “Perhaps we shouldn’t have come tonight,” she said to Morag. “We’re all tired!”

  Morag smiled. “I find it rather exciting,” she said. “Did you ever see anything more beautiful than the Acropolis, lit up like that? How fortunate Athens is to have such a monument right at the heart of the city. There’s nothing like it anywhere else in the world, is there?”

  “No,” Dora said. “Compared to London, Paris, or Rome, or even Washington or New York, Athens is little more than a village. But give me my village every time! It is my home and I love it, like a woman loves a man, or a man a woman.”

  Morag was surprised to find that she felt a little bit the same way herself. She supposed it was because so much that was the history of

  Athens belonged to the whole European culture, and therefore everyone was more or less at home there. But she liked to think it was a little more than that. She wanted to think that Pericles had somehow conferred a citizen status on herself, that it was because of him that it was her home too.

  Then the lights went out and the days of Pericles and the Athenian victory against the Persians at Marathon once more came alive before their eyes. It was, perhaps, rather a ragged history of that glorious era when the Parthenon had come into being, and Herodotus, the father of historians, had laboured to reveal the world he knew to itself, with an attempt at objectivity never before seen in the ancient world. The small gem of a temple, dedicated to victory, glowed with a great light as the messenger from Marathon brought the news of victory to the city, though nothing was said of the way the man had run, expiring as he whispered the glad tidings, or that this was the origin of the great marathon race that is still contested by long-distance runners to this very day.

  Last of all came the voice of Athene, the grey-eyed goddess of wisdom who had given her name to the city and to whom the Parthenon was dedicated, and once again she lived among her people, Greeks and strangers, all of them who recognised her patronage that had brought to life this first of Europe’s great civilizations, the first and in many ways the finest of them all.

  Even the children were silent when the last trumpet died away and Athene’s voice faded across the centuries and into oblivion. They rose with the others and scuffed the sides of their shoes on the gravel path as they left the auditorium.

  “Funny,” said Peggy, “but I’m not in the least bit tired now!”

  Her grandmother unbent sufficiently to say that she was feeling more like enjoying herself too. “We haven’t taken Morag out nearly enough,” she said to both of the children. “Never mind, when her family comes out to visit us, we’ll take them all to the Argolid, or Delphi. It’s a long time since I saw the theatre at Epidaurus myself.”

  Morag gave Dora a quick glance.

  “Mmm. That stepsister
of yours, whatever her name is. Didn’t Pericles tell you? She sent a telegram saying that she was coming -the only trouble is she didn’t say when!”

  “But she can’t come here!”

  “Why not?” Dora sounded amused. “I suppose Perry didn’t tell you about her because he only heard this morning. Your father wanted her gone for a while, or so she said.”

  “My father?” Morag exclaimed, “Now that I can’t believe!”

  Dora shrugged, fitting herself into the front seat of her car, “Well, we can hardly refuse to have her with us, dear. Perhaps it won’t be for too long!”

  Morag pressed her point, “Couldn’t you say it isn’t convenient right now?”

  “No, I couldn’t.” Dora hesitated. “Pericles did say she was to stay

  as long as she wants to,” she said then. “I’m sorry, dear.”

  Morag’s spirits sank. “I don’t believe that my father would have

  asked her to leave home. He adores her - just like her mother!”

  “Well, as to that, I couldn’t say, but I think I shall be quite

  interested to see this stepsister of yours. If she’s as lovely as you say,

  I may like to paint her. What do you think?”

  Morag made a face and then pretended that she hadn’t as she

  caught sight of the children watching her. “I wish she wasn’t

  coming!” she declared.

  “Don’t you like her?” Peggy demanded.

  “She’s my stepsister!” Morag said.

  “That’s no answer!” Kimon reproved her. “Is she silly or something?” Morag affected some amusement she did not feel. “Very silly!” she agreed.

  Kimon gave her a very grown-up look. “I’ll be able to see for myself if she comes to stay.” He smiled suddenly, in the same audacious way as his father did. “If you don’t like her,” he said, “I don’t suppose we shall

  either.”

  It was only a short drive to the Dora Stratou Theatre in the Philopappou area. Once again Dora had selected their seats with immense care. She herself sat well forward, her eyes never leaving the colourful figures as they wove in and out of the various patterns of dance on the stage. Morag found it almost as much fun to watch her as to watch the dancers. Later on, she supposed, her mother-in-law would reproduce what she had seen in paint. Almost Morag could envy her gift, for it must be wonderful to be so absorbed in any creative activity. Then, fleetingly, she remembered how Dora had said she would willingly not paint if she could have her husband back, and she wondered if Pericles was home yet, and her heart missed a beat as she thought of the moment when she would see him again. If she only knew what he would expect from her?

  The dancing came to a sudden end and Dora bounced out of her seat, intent on getting the children home as quickly as possible. “You’re to go straight to bed the moment we get home!” she bade them. “Morag too! She looks like a little ghost, especially under these lights.”

  There was no sign of Pericles at the house. Morag went to her room and undressed slowly. Perhaps, if she took a bath, Perry would be home by then? But Pericles wasn’t, and, finding she couldn’t sleep, she slipped into bed and tried to read her book, turning the pages every now and

  then, but taking in nothing of the story.

  She was still reading when the door opened and Pericles came in. She started, smiling nervously at his inscrutable face.

  “My wife sleeps in my bed,” he said. “I thought I’d made that clear last night.”

  Morag’s fingers tightened round the spine of the book. “I prefer my own room,” she murmured.

  He raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. “Come on, Morag.” She pulled the bedclothes more closely about her. “I’m not coming!” she managed.

  She scarcely saw his hand as he whipped the sheet away from her, but she felt the hard strength of his arms all right as he scooped her off the bed and on to her feet beside him. Pericles opened the door and bowed politely to her. “After you, Mrs. Holmes!”

  She cast him a swift look through her eyelashes and lowered her eyes hastily at the unyielding look on his face. She picked up her negligee and, when he took it away from her, began to search for her slippers, only to have them removed from her nerveless fingers as well. She hugged her book to her, but that too joined the growing pile of discarded articles on the bed.

  “Morag,” he said at last, “if you don’t come now, I’ll turn you over my knee and smack you.”

  She turned a scarlet face to him. “I hate you!” she declared. “Do you hear me? I hate you!”

  “Do you?” He put a hand on her shoulder, allowing his fingers to trail down her back, caressing her even while he drew her inexorably to him. “If you want to fight,” he said in her ear, “you can fight me decently in bed, with no holds barred, like a man and woman should. Then, when you’ve had enough-” She clung to him, not trusting her knees to hold her up. “You can’t make me!”

  He held her closer still, running his lips across her eyes and slowly down to her mouth, kissing her so lightly that she stifled a sob and tried to hide her face from him.

  “I think I can make you,” he said. “You are my woman and I’ll make love to you when and how I please, no matter what you think!” He put a hand on her heart. “You need loving, Morag. Why won’t you admit it?” She hid her face in his shoulder. “If you asked me,” she pleaded, “but you don’t care what I think or feel! You had no reason to be angry last night, no reason to - to take it out on me!”

  He dragged his fingers through her hair, pulling her head back and kissing her mouth again. “If I had thought you were playing with Takis in earnest, I should not have been so gentle with you, my Morag! And you would not be standing here arguing with me now! Be grateful that I did believe you! Are you going to pretend that you didn’t want me to make love to you?” He gave her a little shake. “Well?”

  She tried hard to tell him how much she wanted him, but the words would not come. If he only loved her a little, but she knew better than that!

  “I know I’m your wife and -” She swallowed. “Oh, Perry, I want to be more than just a convenience.” His laughter shattered what little pride she had left. “Not a very convenient convenience, as you won’t come to bed,” he teased her. “Come on, Mrs. Holmes, you may as well bow to the inevitable. Will you walk, or shall I carry you?”

  She gave him a speaking look that lost most of its sting as she gave way to the pressure of his arms with something very like relief. He pushed her hair back from her face, running his thumb down the line of her jaw. “Is it war or peace?” he asked her.

  The hot colour flooded her cheeks. “Peace.” Her eyes fell before the look in his. “An armistice until - if that’s what you want?”

  “All right.” He looked down at her, his eyes quizzical. “An armistice it will be. But one day I shall demand a total surrender, karthia mou, and there will be no half measures then! You’ll tell me everything I want to know before I sign a final peace treaty with you.”

  “But you know-”

  “I want the words,” he said very gently. “Is that so much to ask?”

  She couldn’t answer him. If she could have found the words, she would have said them there and then, but how could she when he had not offered her a single word of love? And it was that knowledge which brought a droop to her shoulders and a slowness to her steps as she preceded him out of the room, down the corridor into his bedroom, and finally under the hand-embroidered covers of his bed.

  CHAPTER NINE

  "Perry, I want to learn Greek.”

  Her husband looked amused. “Are you asking my permission?” “Not exactly,” Morag said. “It’s more in the nature of a warning. I don’t like being called names that I don’t understand His laughter made her hesitate, but then she went on: “I don’t like your laughing at me either!”

  His eyes took on a wicked brilliance. “There seems to be a great deal that you don’t like this morning?”

  “You
never take me seriously!” she complained. “It’s not my fault that I can’t speak Greek!”

  “No,” he agreed. “Why don’t you ask for a translation?” “Because you only speak Greek at the most inconvenient moments! You know very well what I mean.” she continued repressively.

  “Indeed I do!”

  “Well, I don’t like it!”

  “Poor Morag,” he drawled. “I don’t remember calling you anything very dreadful, however. What would you like me to call you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. But she did know. She wanted to be called ‘darling’, and ‘beloved’, and 'his much beloved wife’.

  “Then you’ll have to put up with my Greek names for you!” He slid out of bed, looking down at her. “Karthia mou Yneka mou Agapi mou!”

  “Ah,” she said, “I know what yineka means, it means woman!”

  “And wife!”

  She ignored that. “And karthia?”

  He grinned at her. “Karthia? It means heart!”

  “Oh,” said Morag, suddenly breathless.

  “You see,” he said, pressing home his advantage, “it’s nothing very bad, is it? I don’t think you have much to complain about.”

  She sat up, hugging her knees, tossing up in her mind if she would also ask him what agapi mou meant. She decided against it, realising he was still staring down at her and seemed to be expecting something from her.

  “You look doubtful,” Pericles said dryly.

  “I - I didn’t kn-know,” she stammered. “It could have meant anything!”

  “Well, now you do know, I hope I have your permission to call you anything I please, in Greek or English, or any other language?”

  Morag licked her lips, trying to drag her eyes away from his. He looked so splendid, so dark and immovable, so very much the master of the situation!

  “I suppose so,” she said.

  She thought she was going to drown in the brightness of his eyes and that she wouldn’t be able to care that he didn’t love her, but would have to confess her own love for him and beg him to be kind to her. But then another matter came to mind and the moment passed. Her eye kindled with remembered indignation.