The Athenian Murders

by Jose Carlos Somoza

  61 I must be insane - I've been talking to a character in a book! I suddenly felt he was addressing me, and I answered him in my notes. It must be because I've been locked in this cell all this time, with no one to talk to. But Crantor does always stand on the dividing line between fiction and reality ... Or rather, the dividing line between the literary and the non-literary. And he doesn't care whether he's believable or not; he even enjoys drawing attention to the verbal artifice that surrounds him, as when he stresses the eidetic words. The unexpected move to the second person ('he smiled at you') is a clever way of drawing in the reader. It's drawn me in, anyway. (T.'s N.)

  'Crantor uses words only to criticise them,' said Speusippus. 'As you see, he contradicts himself as he speaks.'

  'Well, I rather like the idea of a book bringing together all our thoughts,' remarked Philotextus from the shadows. 'Would it be possible to create such a book?'

  Plato burst out laughing. 'It's obvious you're a writer and not a philosopher! I, too, wrote once. That's why I make a clear distinction between the two.'

  'Perhaps they are the same,' said Philotextus. 'I invent characters, you invent truths. But I want to keep to the subject. I was talking about a book that would reflect our way of thinking ... our knowledge of things and beings. Could such a book be written?'

  Just then Callicles, a young geometrician whose only, though highly visible, fault was his ungainly way of moving - as if his extremities were dislocated - excused himself, rose, and shifted the collection of bones that was his body into the shadows. Diagoras thought Antisus' absence conspicuous, as he was principal cup-bearer. Where could he be? Heracles had not returned either.

  After a pause, Plato declared: 'The book of which you speak, Philotextus, cannot be written.'

  'Why not?'

  'It would be impossible,' replied Plato calmly.

  'Please explain’ said Philotextus.

  Slowly stroking his grey beard, Plato said: 'For some time now, we members of the Academy have known that knowledge of anything has five levels or elements: the name of the thing, the definition, the image, intelligence or knowledge of the thing, and then the thing itself, which is the true aim of knowledge. But writing can give us only the first two: the name and the definition. The written word is not an image, thus precluding the third element. And the written word does not think, and so cannot have intelligence or knowledge. And, of course, the last one of all, the Idea itself, is truly beyond its reach. It would thus be impossible to write a book describing our knowledge of things.'

  Philotextus remained thoughtful a moment, before saying: 'Would you be so kind as to give me an example of each of these elements, so that I may understand them?'

  Speusippus stepped in quickly, as if it were beneath Plato to provide examples. 'It's very simple, Philotextus. The first element is the "name", and it could be any name. "Book", or "house", or "cenacle". The second element is the "definition", which consists of sentences relating to those names. In the case of "book", one definition would be: "a book consists of writing on a papyrus that comprises a complete text". Literature, obviously, can only include names and definitions. The third element is the "image", the vision that each of us forms in our head when we think of a thing. For instance, when I think of a book I see a papyrus scroll spread out on a table ... The fourth element, "intelligence", covers precisely what we're doing now: discussing a subject, using our intelligence. In our case, this consists of talking about the book, its origins, its purpose. The fifth and final element is the "Idea itself", in other words, the true aim of knowledge. In the case of the book, this would be the book itself, the ideal book, which was superior to all other books.'

  'That's why we believe the written word is imperfect, Philotextus,' said Plato. 'But by that we certainly don't mean any disrespect to writers.' There was discreet laughter. Plato added: 'In any case, I'm sure you now understand why it would be impossible to create such a book.'

  Philotextus looked thoughtful. After a pause, he said in his thin, trembling voice: 'What shall we wager?'

  The laughter was louder now.

  Diagoras was starting to find the discussion rather silly. He shifted uneasily on his couch and wondered where Heracles and Antisus could have got to. At last, to his great relief, he saw the Decipherer's obese figure returning from the kitchens. His face, as always, was expressionless. What could have happened?

  Heracles didn't return to his couch. He expressed his thanks for the meal, and claimed that he had business to attend to back in Athens. The tutors bade him farewell quickly but cordially, and Diagoras accompanied him to the door.

  'Where have you been?' he asked, once he was sure no one else could hear.

  'My investigation is almost at an end. There is one last, important step. But we've got him.'

  'Who? Menaechmus?' Agitated, Diagoras realised he was still holding his goblet. 'Is it him? Can I accuse him publicly?'

  'Not yet. Everything will become clear tomorrow.' 'What about Antisus?'

  'He has left. But don't worry: I will have him watched tonight.' Heracles smiled. 'I have to leave now. But rest assured, good Diagoras, you'll find out the truth tomorrow.'62

  62 I've realised that I haven't yet recounted how I ended up in this cell. If these notes are to help me stay sane, it may do me good to relate everything that I can remember about what happened, as if I were addressing a future (unlikely) reader. So, dear reader, allow me yet another interruption. I know you would much rather carry on reading the book than listen to my woes, but remember that however marginal I may seem down here, you owe me a little attention -were it not for my labours, you wouldn't be enjoying said book. So read me patiently.

  You may remember that on the evening 1 finished translating the previous chapter, I decided to catch the mysterious intruder who had been adding bogus passages in the text. To that end, I turned out all the lights and pretended to go to bed. In fact, I hid behind the sitting-room door, awaiting his 'visit'. I had almost convinced myself that he wouldn't turn up that night when I heard a noise. I peeped round the door, and only just had time to see a shadow bearing down on me. I came to with a bad headache, and found myself locked up within these four walls. (I've already described the cell, so I refer the interested reader to my earlier footnote on the subject.) Montalo's text and my translation, up to Chapter Six, were lying on the table. On top of my translation there was a note written in a fine hand: 'my identity doesn't concern you. call me "whoever he is". if you really want to get out of here, carry on with the translation. you'll be set free once you've finished.' This is the Only contact I've had so far with my anonymous kidnapper. Well, that and his genderless voice, which I hear from time to time through the door of my cell, ordering me to: 'Translate!' So that's what I do. (T.'sN.)

  VIII

  I had fallen asleep at the desk (not for the first time since I've been in here), but woke up immediately when I heard the sound. I sat up slowly, thick with sleep, prodding my right cheek, which was numb from having borne the entire weight of my head. I moved the muscles of my face. I wiped away a faint trail of saliva. I lifted my elbows, knocking the translation of the end of Chapter Seven off the desk. I rubbed my eyes and looked around: nothing had changed. I was in the same room, sitting at the desk, alone in a pool of lamplight. I was hungry, and that, too, was nothing new. Then I peered into the shadows and realised that something was different.

  Heracles Pontor stood in the darkness, watching me with his placid grey eyes.

  'What are you doing here?' I whispered 'You're in quite a mess,' he said. His voice was just as I'd imagined, though that only occurred to me later. 'You're a character in the novel,' I complained. 'This is the novel,' the Decipherer of Enigmas replied. 'You're

  obviously part of it. And you need help, which is why I'm here. Let's reason it out: you've been locked up while you translate The Athenian Murders, but there's no guarantee you'll be released once you've finished. Now, don't forget, your jailer is very keen to get the
translation. You just have to find out why. Once you know that, you can offer him a deal - you want your freedom, he wants something. You can both get what you want, can't you?'

  'He doesn't want anything!' I moaned. 'He's insane!'

  Heracles shook his stout head. 'What does it matter? Concern yourself not with his sanity, but his interests. Why is it so important to him that you translate this novel?'

  I pondered a moment. 'It contains a secret.'

  I could see from his face that this wasn't the answer he'd expected. But he said: 'Very good! That's one obvious reason. An obvious question must have an obvious answer. Because it contains a secret. So if you found out what that secret was, you'd be in a position to make a deal, wouldn't you? "I know what the secret is", you'd say, "but I won't talk, unless you let me out of here". It's a good idea.'

  He was trying to sound encouraging, to give me hope, but I could tell he didn't think it such a good idea. 'Actually,' I said, 'I have discovered something - the Labours of Hercules, and a girl with a lily who—'

  'They mean nothing,' he interrupted impatiently. 'They're just images! To you they may be the Labours of Hercules or a girl with a lily, but to another reader they might be something quite different. Don't you see? Images change, they're imperfect! You have to find a final idea that's the same for all readers! You have to ask yourself what the key is. There must be a hidden meaning!'

  I stammered a few clumsy words. Heracles observed me, coldly curious, before saying: 'Pah! Why are you crying? You should be getting down to work, not giving up! Look for the central idea. Use my method of logic: you know me, you know how I work. Delve into the words! There must be something! Something!'

  I leaned over the papers, my eyes still wet. But it suddenly seemed terribly

  important to ask him how he'd managed to get out of the novel and to appear in my cell. He interrupted imperiously: ‘The end of the chapter’ he said. 63

  63 I've resisted a strong urge to destroy this bogus Chapter Eight, no doubt added to the book by my kidnapper. The only thing the bastard has succeeded in doing is making me cry - something I seem to be doing all the time lately. It's one of the ways I measure time. But Whoever He Is is quite wrong if he thinks these interpolated pages are going to make me lose my mind. I now know what he's up to - they're messages, instructions, orders, threats ... He no longer even tries to disguise the fact that they're fake. Reading myself in the first person made me feel quite sick. To dispel the feeling, I tried to think of what I really would have said. I don't think I would have 'moaned', as it puts it in the text. I'm sure I would have asked a lot more questions than the pathetic creature that was supposed to be me. He got it completely right about the crying though. I'm now starting on what I assume to be the real Chapter Eight. (T.'s N.)

  VIII 64

  The final days of the Lenaea slowed the usual rhythm of the City. That sunny morning, a dense line of merchants' carts was blocking the Dipylon Gate; insults and orders filled the air, but movements remained heavy and clumsy. By the Piraeus Gate, the pace was even slower, and a complete turn of a cart's wheel could take a quarter of a clepsydra. Slaves carrying amphorae, messages, bundles of firewood and sacks of wheat through the streets shouted at one another to clear the way. People rose late. The Assembly at the Dionysus Eleuthereus was behind schedule. Since many of the prytaneis were absent, votes could not be held. Speeches flagged, and the few spectators dozed on the tiers. Let us now listen to the magnificent Janocrates. Owner of large estates on the outskirts of the City, Janocrates went with a shambling gait to the speaker's podium and began slowly declaiming, to general indifference. In the temples, sacrifices were delayed because the priests were busy preparing the last few processions. At the Monument to the Eponymous Heroes, heads bowed reluctantly over edicts and new regulations. The situation in Thebes was stable. The return of Pelopidas, the exiled Cadmean general, was expected. Agesilaus, King of Sparta, was opposed by almost all Hellas. Citizens, our support for Thebes is crucial to the stability of ... But, judging by the tired faces of those reading, nobody seemed to feel anything was 'crucial' just then.

  64 I'm working very slowly! Very, very slowly! I've got to work faster if I want to get out of here. (T.'s N.)

  Two men stood peering at a tablet and exchanging leisurely words: 'Look, Amphicus, it says here that more volunteers are needed for a patrol to exterminate the wolves on Lycabettus.'

  'We're so much slower and clumsier than the Spartans.'

  'Peace has made us soft - we won't even sign up to kill wolves.'

  Another man was gazing at the tablets with the same torpid interest as the rest. From the blank look on his face - set into a bald, spherical head - one might have thought that his mind was clumsy and slow. In fact he had hardly slept the previous night. Time to go and see the Decipherer, he thought. He walked away from the Monument, directing his slow steps towards the district of Escambonidai.

  What was wrong with the day, Diagoras wondered. Why did everything around him seem to be sliding clumsily, slowly, like honey?65 The sun's chariot stood motionless in its furrow in the sky; time felt like thick mead; it was as if the goddesses of Night, Dawn and Morning refused to move and remained still, united, fusing darkness and light into a stagnant grey colour. Diagoras felt slow and confused, but his anxiety kept him going - it was like a weight in his stomach; it emanated slowly as sweat on his palms; it plagued him like a horsefly; it drove him on despite his lethargy.

  65 It's eidesis, idiot, eidesis, eidesis! It changes everything, gets into everything, influences everything. Now we have the idea of 'slowness' which, in turn, hides another idea. ('I.'s N.)

  The journey to Heracles Pontor's house seemed as endless as the distance from Marathon. The garden was quiet, the silence embellished only by the slow repetitive chant of a cuckoo. He knocked hard at the door and waited. He heard steps. The door opened, and he said: 'I've come to see Heracles Po—'

  The young woman was not Ponsica. Her untidy, curly hair floated freely, framing an angular face. While not exactly beautiful, she was strange, mysterious, as challenging as a hieroglyph carved in stone - unblinking eyes as clear as quartz, thick lips, a slender neck. Her prominent bosom filled her peplos and ... By Zeus, now he remembered who she was!

  'Come in, come in, Diagoras,' said Heracles Pontor, poking his head over the girl's shoulder. 'I was expecting someone else, so that's why

  'I don't wish to disturb you ... if you're busy' Diagoras' eyes went from Heracles to the girl and back again, as if seeking an answer from either.

  'You're not disturbing me. Come in.' There was a slow, clumsy moment as the girl moved aside in silence. Heracles gestured towards her: 'You've met Yasintra. Come on. We'll be more comfortable on the terrace in the orchard.'

  Diagoras followed the Decipherer down a dark corridor. He sensed - he didn't want to look round - that she wasn't behind them, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Outside, the light of the sun was powerful, blinding. It was hot, but not uncomfortably so. Among the apple trees, Ponsica was leaning over the parapet of a white stone well, struggling to draw water with a heavy bucket; her grunts of effort echoed faintly through the mask. Heracles invited Diagoras to be seated. The Decipherer seemed pleased, delighted even; he smiled, rubbing his fat hands together, his podgy cheeks flushed (flushed!). There was a new mischievous twinkle in his eyes that took the philosopher aback.

  'You may not believe it, but that young woman has helped me a great deal!'

  'Of course I believe it.'

  Surprised, Heracles suddenly understood Diagoras' suspicions.

  'Please, it's not what you think, good Diagoras. Allow me to recount what happened last night, when I returned home after satisfactorily completing my task ...'

  By the time Heracles arrived home, Selene's gleaming sandals had trodden more than half of the celestial furrow that she ploughed each night. He entered the familiar darkness of his garden. The thick foliage of the trees, silvered by the cold emanations of the moon
, waved soundlessly without disturbing the light sleep of the cold little birds dozing on the heavy branches, densely packed into their nests.66

  Then he saw it: thrown into relief by the moon, a shadow among the trees. It stopped suddenly. He regretted not carrying a dagger beneath his cloak - in his profession it was sometimes needed.

  66 I'm sorry, but I can't stand it. Eidesis has now slipped into the descriptions, and Heracles' meeting with Yasintra is being recounted at an exasperatingly slow pace. In an attempt to speed things up, I'm going to take advantage of my position as translator and condense the text, including only the essentials. (T.'s N.)