The Athenian Murders

by Jose Carlos Somoza

  My mind now turns to Montalo. I've found out a little more about him in the last few days. There are many similarities between us: both choosing to live alone in the country, in a large house with an internal and external courtyard, like the mansions of rich ancient Greeks in Olynthus or Troezen. And both of us passionate about translating ancient Greek texts. Neither of us has enjoyed (or suffered) the love of a woman, or had children, and our friends (Aristides, for instance, in his case; Helena - with a few obvious differences - in mine) are above all work colleagues. A few queries spring to mind: what happened to Montalo during the last years of his life? Aristides said he was obsessed with using an eidetic text to prove Plato's Theory of Ideas ... Perhaps he found the proof he was looking for in The Athenian Murders, and it made him lose his mind. But why, if he was an expert on eidetic texts, does he not seem to have noticed that The Athenian Murders was one?

  I'm not sure why, but I'm more and more convinced that the answer to these questions is hidden in the text. I must carry on translating.

  I apologise to the reader for the lengthy interruption. I'll start again from the sentence: 'In the darkness, a voice asked'. (T.'s N.)

  It was dark and dusty. The floor was strewn with rubble and possibly rubbish - things that sounded and felt like stones when trodden on, and things that sounded and felt soft, crumbly. The darkness was total, and it was impossible to see where they were going. The place might have been huge or very small. There might have been an exit other than the portico through which they had entered, or there might not.

  'Heracles, wait,' whispered another voice. 'I can't see you.' In the darkness, the slightest sound made them jump uncontrollably. 'Heracles?' 'I'm over here.' 'Where?' 'Here.'

  In the darkness, finding that there really was somebody there almost made them scream. 'What's the matter, Diagoras?'

  'Oh, gods ... for a moment I thought... It's just a statue.'

  Heracles groped his way closer, stretched out a hand and touched something: had it been a real face, his fingers would have gone straight into the eyes. He felt the sockets, recognised the geometric slope of a nose, the undulating outline of lips, the cleft promontory of a chin. He smiled and said: 'You're right, it is a statue. There must be quite a few around. We're in his workshop.'

  'Indeed,' said Diagoras. 'I can almost see them now - my eyes are growing used to the dark.'

  And so they were: sight, like a paintbrush, had begun to render white figures in the blackness, sketches, rough drafts. Choked by dust, Heracles coughed and poked the dirt at his feet with the tip of his sandal - a sound like a box of beads being shaken. 'Where can he be?' he asked.

  'Why don't we wait for him in the hallway?' suggested Diagoras, made uneasy by the inexhaustible darkness and the slowly looming statues. 'I'm sure he won't be long.'

  'He's here,' said Heracles. 'If not, why was the door open?'

  This is a very strange place.'

  'It's simply an artist's workshop. But it's odd that the shutters are closed. Come on.'

  They moved forward. It was easier now: gradually they discerned islands of marble, busts on high wooden shelves, bodies that had yet to emerge from the stone, slabs to be carved for friezes. The space that contained them, too, was becoming visible. The room was large, with a door at one end opening on to a hallway, and what appeared to be heavy hangings or curtains at the other. One wall was scarred by gold filaments, faint gleaming marks spreading over huge, closed, wooden shutters. Sculptures, or the blocks of stone in which they gestated, stood everywhere, rising out of the remains of artistic endeavour - fragments, splinters, pebbles, sand, tools, rubble, rags. A large wooden podium, with a couple of shallow steps on either side, stood in front of the curtains. On it, a row of white sheets was being besieged by a large container of rubble. The air in the workshop was cold and actually smelt of stone - a strangely dense, dirty smell, as if one had sniffed the ground and inhaled the light, prickly specks of dust.

  'Menaechmus?' Heracles Pontor called out.

  A sound shattered the silence - immense, jarring with the mineral gloom. Someone had removed the plank barring one of the vast windows - the one nearest the podium - and let it fall to the floor. As fierce as a god's curse, the resplendent midday sun cut across the room unhindered, clouds of chalky dust swirling around it.

  'My workshop is closed in the afternoons,' said the man.

  There must have been a door hidden behind the hangings, for neither Heracles nor Diagoras had seen him enter. He was thin, with an unhealthy, slovenly appearance. Dirty tufts of grey sprouted unevenly in his untidy hair. His pale face was stained with dark circles under the eyes. There was not one detail of his appearance that an artist would not have been tempted to alter: the sparse, uneven beard, the irregular cuts in the cloak, the worn-out sandals. His brown, sinewy hands displayed a motley collection of stains, as did his feet. In fact, his entire body was a worn tool. He coughed, and tried to smooth down his hair; he blinked, his eyes bloodshot. He turned his back on his visitors, ignoring them, and went to a tool-strewn table by the podium, where he began, it seemed - though there was no way of knowing for sure - selecting the ones he needed. They made a variety of ringing sounds, like out-of-tune cymbals.

  'We are aware of it, good Menaechmus,' said Heracles, with studied gentleness. 'We haven't come to purchase a statue.'

  Menaechmus turned, directing the remnants of his gaze at Heracles. 'What are you doing here, Decipherer of Enigmas?'

  'Simply conversing with a colleague,' answered Heracles. 'We are both artists - your skill lies in carving the truth, mine in discovering it.'

  The sculptor turned back to the table and rummaged clumsily among the tools. 'Who have you brought with you?' he asked.

  'My name—' began Diagoras, with dignity.

  'He's a friend,' interrupted Heracles. 'You can believe me when I say that I am here, in great part, due to him. But let us waste no more time.'

  'Good,' said Menaechmus, 'for I must work. I have a commission from a noble family from the Escambonidai, which must be completed within a month. And many other things ...' He coughed again. The cough, like his words, was dusty, damaged. He suddenly stopped what he was doing - his movements always abrupt, ungainly - and climbed the stairs to the podium.

  Heracles said, in a friendly tone: 'I simply wish to ask you a few questions, my dear Menaechmus, and if you help me, we'll finish more quickly. Does the name Tramachus, son of Meragrus, mean anything to you? Or Antisus, son of Praxinoe, or Euneos, son of Trisipus?'

  Up on the podium, Menaechmus stopped removing sheets from the statue. 'Why do you wish to know?'

  'Oh, Menaechmus, if you answer my questions with questions, how will we ever finish? Let us proceed in an orderly fashion: you answer my questions, then I will answer yours.'

  'I know them.'

  'Through your work?'

  'I know many ephebes in the City—' He broke off to tug at a sheet that was caught. He was impatient. His movements had an agonistic quality. Objects seemed to defy him. He granted the cloth the opportunity of two more brief attempts, almost warnings. Then he clenched his teeth, braced himself and, with a dirty grunt, pulled with both hands. The sheet came away from the statue making a sound that was like a pile of rubbish being knocked over, disturbing ephemeral deposits of dust.

  The sculpture, uncovered at last, was elaborate: a man sitting at a table covered with papyrus scrolls. The unfinished base writhed formlessly, the pure marble undefiled by the chisel. Apparently intent on some task, the figure had its back to Heracles and Diagoras and, of the head, only the crown was visible.

  'Did any of them pose for you?' asked Heracles.

  'Occasionally,' came the terse reply.

  'But not all your models perform in your plays.'

  Menaechmus was back at the tool table, setting out a row of chisels of different sizes. They are free to choose’ he said, not looking at Heracles. 'Sometimes they do both.'

  'Like Euneos?'

 
The sculptor turned his head abruptly. Diagoras reflected that Menaechmus seemed to ill-treat his own muscles, like a drunken father battering his children.

  'I have just heard about Euneos, if that's what you mean,' said Menaechmus. His eyes were two shadows fixed on Heracles. 'I had nothing to do with his fit of madness.'

  'Nobody is claiming you did.' Heracles raised his hands, palms outwards, as if Menaechmus were threatening him.

  The sculptor returned to his tools, and Heracles said: 'Incidentally, did you know that Tramachus, Antisus and Euneos had to perform in your plays in secret? Their tutors at the Academy forbade it.'

  Menaechmus shrugged his bony shoulders. 'I've heard something to that effect. It's nonsense!' And with that, he bounded up the steps to the podium. 'Nobody has the right to prohibit art!' he cried, striking a corner of the marble table impulsively, dangerously, with his chisel. It left the vestige of a musical note in the air.

  Diagoras was about to retort, but seemed to think better of it. Heracles said: 'Were they afraid of being discovered?'

  Menaechmus circled the statue eagerly, as if seeking another disobedient corner to punish. He said: 'I suppose so. But I took no interest in their lives. I simply gave them the opportunity to be in the chorus. They accepted without hesitation, and the gods know I was grateful: my tragedies, unlike my statues, bring me neither fame nor fortune, only pleasure, and it's difficult finding actors to play in them.'

  'When did you meet them?'

  After a pause, Menaechmus replied: 'During visits to Eleusis. I worship the Mysteries.'

  'But your relationship with them went beyond the sharing of religious beliefs, didn't it?' Heracles was strolling around the workshop, pausing to examine several sculptures with the casual interest of a Maecenas.

  'What do you mean?'

  'I mean, O Menaechmus, that you loved them.' The Decipherer stood before an unfinished statue of Hermes complete with caduceus, petasus and winged sandals. He said: 'Particularly Antisus, from what I see.' He pointed to the god's face, with its beautiful, slightly malevolent smile. 'And that head of Bacchus, crowned with grapes?' continued Heracles. 'And this bust of Athena?' He went from figure to figure, gesticulating like a trader trying to raise his price. 'A great many of the gods and goddesses of sacred Olympus seem to bear Antisus' beautiful countenance!'

  'Antisus is loved by many.' Menaechmus resumed his work furiously.

  'And praised by you. I wonder, how did you deal with Tramachus' and Euneos' jealousy? I should imagine they weren't too happy about your obvious preference for their friend.'

  For a moment, in the midst of the clinking of chisels, it seemed as if Menaechmus was panting vigorously, but when he turned, Heracles and Diagoras saw that he was smiling.

  'By Zeus, do you think I mattered to them that much?'

  'Yes, since they agreed to model for you and perform in your plays, thus disobeying the sacred precepts laid down by the Academy. I believe they admired you, Menaechmus. They posed for you naked or dressed in women's clothing and, once the work was finished, they displayed their naked bodies or their androgynous attire for your pleasure . . . and in so doing they risked being discovered and dishonouring their families.'

  Still smiling, Menaechmus cried: 'By Athena! Do you really believe I'm worth that much, either as an artist or a man, Heracles Pontor?'

  Heracles replied: 'Young spirits, unfinished like your sculptures, can take root in any soil, Menaechmus of Carisio. And best of all is well-manured soil...'

  Menaechmus appeared not to listen. He was concentrating intensely on sculpting some of the folds in the statue's garments. Ching! Ching! Suddenly he began talking, but as if addressing the marble. His rough, uneven voice daubed the workshop walls with echoes. 'Yes, I am a mentor to many ephebes . . . Do you think our young men don't need mentors, Heracles? Is the world ...' His growing anger seemed to make him strike the stone ever harder. Ching!'. .. the world they're going to inherit a pleasant place? Look around you! Our art here in Athens . . . What art? Our statues used to be charged with power. We imitated the Egyptians, always so much wiser than us!' Ching! 'But now, what do we do? We draw geometrical forms, figures that comply strictly with the Canon! We've lost spontaneity, strength, beauty!' Ching! Ching! 'You say my works are unfinished, and you're right. Do you know why? Because I can't create anything in accordance with the Canon!'

  Heracles tried to interrupt, but the clean opening of his speech was lost in a quagmire of blows and exclamations from Menaechmus.

  'And the theatre! It used to be an orgy in which even the gods took part! But with Euripides, what did it become? Cheap dialectics to suit the noble minds of Athens!' Ching! 'Theatre that is a thoughtful meditation rather than a sacred celebration! As an old man, at the end of his life, Euripides himself conceded that it was so!' He stopped chiselling and turned to Heracles with a smile. 'He changed his views completely And, as if this last sentence alone had required a pause, he resumed striking the marble even harder than before, and went on: 'In old age Euripides gave up philosophy and turned to making real theatre! Ching! 'Do you remember his last play?' And, brandishing the word as if it were a precious stone that he had found in the rubble, he cried:'Bacchantes!

  'Yes!' A voice rang out. 'Bacchantes! The work of a madman!' Menaechmus looked at Diagoras, who seemed to be expelling his shouts in great agitation, as if his silence until then had cost him a great effort. 'Euripides lost his faculties in old age, as happens to many, and his work deteriorated to an inconceivable degree! In his middle years, his pure, reasoning spirit was devoted to the search for philosophical Truth, but over time its noble foundations collapsed ... and his last play was, like those of Aeschylus and Sophocles, a reeking heap of rubbish teeming with all the sicknesses of the soul and flowing with innocent blood!' Red in the face after his impassioned speech, he glared at Menaechmus.

  After a short silence, the sculptor asked quietly: 'Would you mind telling me who this idiot is?'

  Heracles raised his hand to forestall his companion's angry reply: 'Forgive us, good Menaechmus, we didn't come to discuss the plays of Euripides. No, let me finish, Diagoras!' The philosopher could barely contain himself. 'We wanted to ask you—'

  He was interrupted by thunderous echoes - Menaechmus was shouting, pacing up and down the podium, occasionally pointing at one of the two men with his small hammer, as if he might throw it. 'What of philosophy? Think of Heraclitus! "Without strife there can be no existence"! That was the view of the philosopher Heraclitus! Philosophy, too, has changed! It was once a driving force! But what is it now? Pure intellect! What fascinated us in the past? Matter itself: Thales, Anaximander, Empedocles! We used to ponder matter itself! But now what do we think about?' His voice was horribly distorted as he said: 'The world of Ideas! Ideas exist, of course, but they're somewhere else, far away! They're perfect, pure, good and useful!'

  'They are!' screamed Diagoras. 'They are, whereas you are imperfect, vulgar, contemptible and—'

  'Please, Diagoras, let me speak!' cried Heracles.

  'We mustn't love ephebes, oh, no!' mocked Menaechmus. 'We must love the idea of ephebes! We must kiss the thought of lips, caress the definition of a thigh! And let us not create statues, by Zeus! That's nothing but vulgar imitative art! Let us create ideas of statues! This is the philosophy that the young will inherit! Aristophanes was right to place it in the clouds.’

  Diagoras spluttered with indignation. 'How can you express an opinion with such confidence about something of which you know nothing?'

  'Diagoras!' Heracles' firmness caused a sudden silence. 'Can't you see that Menaechmus is trying to keep us off the subject? You must let me speak!' And, surprisingly calm, he went on: 'Menaechmus, we came to question you about Tramachus' and Euneos' deaths.' He sounded almost apologetic, as if he regretted having to mention such a trivial matter to someone so important.

  After a brief silence, Menaechmus spat, wiped his nose and said: 'Tramachus was killed by wolves while out hunting. As
for Euneos, I'm told he got drunk and the fingers of Dionysus gripped his brain, forcing him to stab himself repeatedly. What have I to do with any of that?'

  Heracles replied quickly: 'Together with Antisus, they came to your workshop in the evenings and took part in your strange amusements. All three admired you and responded to your amorous demands, but you favoured one of them. They probably argued, perhaps threats were even made - the entertainments you organise with your ephebes don't exactly have a good reputation, so they wouldn't have wanted any of it to become public. Tramachus didn't go hunting, but the day he left Athens your workshop was closed and you were nowhere to be seen.'