Cretan Teat

by Brian Aldiss

  It was when lying in bed that I began again to think about Agia Anna. It was curious to reflect that a rather vital episode in the life of the infant Jesus Christ seemed to have been edited out of the Gospels. Perhaps that censorship had been accomplished by prudes and religious bigots. There may be those who fear the female breast, as they fear the vagina, because of the lascivious thoughts they engender. Something of that nature may have accounted also for the flabby modesty of Agia Anna’s breast, as depicted in the mural.

  I could not help smiling at such reflections. Alas, I lacked seriousness. How different it was for my hero, Archie Langstreet. How much more Archie was destined to achieve than I!

  Chapter Two

  The monk in Langstreet’s car directed Langstreet into wild and deserted countryside. At a certain bend in the road, the Punto had to be abandoned. Langstreet and the monk proceeded on foot. They made their way down a narrow track, which ran between ancient olive trees; the branches of the trees on one side of the way met the branches of the trees on the other side. It was dark here; evening was approaching. Langstreet stumbled on a stone.

  ‘Who owns this lane?’ he asked his guide.

  ‘Fighting was all here,’ said the monk, with a sweeping gesture.

  ‘I asked you who owned the lane.’

  ‘Maybe is Family Paskateris. At the end of the twelfth century, Byzantine noblemen moved to Crete. They fight against the Venetians. Once was very rich, long ago but not now. Except one man, is now our mayor.’

  They trudged on as the gloom intensified.

  At last, the monk grunted and stopped. He heaved at a section of fencing that guarded the grove on their left. It fell away. Langstreet climbed through, to stand amid rank grass. The monk followed, replacing the fencing behind him.

  He gestured ahead. ‘Here is a chapel, but is too near to darkness to see in a good way.’

  They tramped among the trees, distorted into bizarre shapes by the extremes of old age. The gloom was pierced by a lingering ray of the setting sun which cut through a gap in the mountains nearby. Its smouldering light lit the front of a small stone building. The building was low and square, resembling a stable except for a bell set in its front facade.

  The monk pushed at the door. It yielded grudgingly at his third heave. They entered with bowed shoulders.

  A scent of incense, just a ghost of a trace of incense, reached Langstreet’s nostrils. Incense, mingled with damp and age and old stories. The monk shone a small pocket torch.

  ‘No, wait!’ The thin white beam destroyed the atmosphere. Langstreet went to the rear of the chapel. There was only a cubby-hole, no ikonostasis: clearly this family, Family Paskateris, had not been of the wealthiest. In the cubby-hole lay a few brown candles, slender as willow twigs, and a rather damp box of matches. Getting a match to strike, Langstreet lit the wick of a candle. Its frail glow warmed the preoccupied lines of his face, making of it an ikon in the surrounding gloom. He carried the candle back to where the monk stood.

  ‘Would you permit me to remain here alone for a moment, please?’ he asked.

  ‘I shall remain outside.’ As the monk opened the door, Langstreet had a glimpse of the thicket of olive trees, hieroglyphics of age as they slipped into darkness. The door shut. He was alone in the old chapel. He crossed himself.

  No windows punctuated the rough stone walls of the building. Four cane-bottomed chairs huddled together in a corner, refugees from family congregations. There came to Langstreet’s mind the thought of his family’s fortunes, his parents arriving in England, a foreign land, his mother dying – that pain, still attendant on him – his father’s remarriage into a wealthy Scottish family, his own marriage to Kathi. That change of nationality a generation ago: it was brought about by the tides of history. This chapel must have represented security, piety, to a family facing the changing fortunes of time.

  Langstreet was moved to kneel on a damp patch of carpet. Clasping his hands together, he uttered a short prayer.

  ‘Great Lord, I thank you that I have been able to emerge from the darkness of an evil history into the light of goodness, through your good guidance. Here in this humble place where you still dwell, I beseech you to remain with me while I endeavour still to make restitution for the past. And I pray that my dear wife may come to understand these things which I do in your name. Amen.’

  Whoever the generations had been, worshipping here, they had certainly experienced no diminution in the desire of the outside world for olive oil. But slowly their means of processing and distribution had fallen behind the technological advances elsewhere. Now the olive-crushing machines in Kyriotisa – those old-fashioned engines Langstreet had briefly glimpsed in the town – supplied their oil to Italy, where it was bottled and sold as genuine Italian oil. There was no longer a name for the Kyriotisan olive oil which once had been praised in Constantinople.

  Shading the candlelight from his eyes, Langstreet rose to his feet and gazed about him. He felt the brooding presence of God. The door had no lock on it. Thieves were unknown. But there was nothing worth stealing.

  The light shone on the rough-hewn stone walls, some of which had been plastered. Here, an artist-monk of long ago had attempted some religious decoration. Perhaps at about the time the Fourth Crusade was wreaking havoc in Constantinople, a monk had set out on the journey to Christian Crete, glad enough to escape the chaos in his city. It was apparent at a glance that he had been a poor artist, perhaps the best the Paskaterises could afford. Nor were the rough walls conducive to fine art. However passable the results had been when fresh, the centuries had been about their slow work in destroying colour and form.

  One painting in particular claimed Langstreet’s attention. It was formally headed Agia Anna and showed a woman suckling an infant. He took the candle closer, sheltering its flame with his hand.

  The woman, St Anna, had had her eyes scratched out, the vandalism obliterating most of her face. The ugly child she was clutching sucked at a teat resembling an aubergine. It protruded from St Anna’s garments somewhere about the lower rib cage. It was clear that the artist, holy man that he must have been, had scant personal knowledge of a woman’s anatomy.

  After gazing at the painting with reverence, Langstreet called in the monk, to ask him who St Anna was.

  ‘Anna is auntie of Jesus. The Blessed Virgin Mary, she dries up her milk, so she gives Baby Jesus to his auntie for suckle. Here you see him at the breast.’

  ‘The aunt of Jesus? I don’t understand. What is the evidence on which this painting is based? It seems sacrilegious. It’s not in the Gospels.’

  ‘No, no. Not in Gospels at all. You find him in Protovangelium of James. In Constantinople was erected a church dedicated to Anna by Emperor Justinian. Is getting dark, sir.’

  ‘Well, that’s very interesting.’ Langstreet placed a thousand drachma note in the cubby-hole, extinguished the candle, and followed the monk out into the open. Staring down at his boots, he said, ‘I find it wonderful. A revelation.’

  The monk closed the door firmly. ‘Only one more such painting exists in all the world, sir. They tell it is in Romania or Bulgaria, or thereabouts.’

  Once they were in the car, the monk said, ‘I am only poor man, with no education. So I must live in Kyriotisa for all my life. You must speak to the priest for more better information, sir.’

  ‘Thank you. You have been very helpful to me. Perhaps I may be permitted to buy you a bottle of wine when we get back to Kyriotisa.’

  The monk waved a hand with nicotine-stained fingers in a rough but courteous gesture. ‘Sir, is not necessary. I am glad to help you, as British helped us in the war.’

  Langstreet drove the Punto back across the mountains to Paleohora. The road twisted and turned as it sought a way to the sea. He encountered no other traffic on the way. At one point, he drew into the side of the road, climbed out and walked a short distance to sample the loneliness. Stars shone overhead. The moon had yet to rise. This place was unaltered from e
arliest times; he stood as if on a shore marking the boundary between bygone and modern worlds.

  The sky overhead still retained some light, whereas the gloom of night had already settled over the land, emphasising its antiquity. In the distance, a line of land had been raised to resemble a giant hip, teasing Langstreet’s fancy into imagining that he had trespassed on the sleeping body of some ancient being. He had stepped momentarily back from the ages of a Christian God into a time where women gave gods suck.

  Hunching his shoulders, he walked briskly back to the car and the present day. He slammed the Punto door. Accelerating at once, he headed for the isolated lights of Paleohora.

  Going down to breakfast next morning, I did my best not to limp. Out on the balcony, at the far table, smoking over a cup of coffee, sat Ingrid. She was alone, looking spruce and calm. I recalled that her daughter did not eat breakfast.

  She gave me her usual smile, cynical yet warm, acknowledging, accepting, the follies of the world.

  ‘Were you disturbed by the burglar in the night?’

  ‘I thought I heard something.’

  ‘I guess it frightened you off coming to see me.’

  ‘Crete is known to be a violent country.’

  ‘And England not so?’

  ‘We’re just a little country with a big language.’

  ‘You should visit Denmark. We’re a little country with a big hospitality.’

  ‘I should like to enjoy your big hospitality, Ingrid.’

  ‘Let me give you my address. Lisa and I must leave this morning.’

  ‘I’ll come and visit you, if I may.’

  ‘I hope your leg will be better then.’

  After breakfast, I sat in my room and began to write notes for my novel, until Boris came and suggested that we swam. When I returned to the foyer, I found that Ingrid and her daughter had already left.

  Well, it was not important – just a mild flirtation, in which much or little had been said. That seemed to be about all I was capable of these days. What do you expect?

  Nevertheless, I found myself dwelling with some tenderness on her features: the narrow temples and mild almond eyes, with the cheeks broadening out to accommodate a generous mouth. And her hair, dyed no doubt, swept back in good fashion, leaving a wing of fine quality over each ear. Inevitably, I then slipped into speculating on other parts of her body, of the snug exchequer tucked between her thighs, warm and resilient, ready for tenancy. But, alas, it was farewell to Planet Genitalia, at least for a while.

  I could not help seeing myself as Dr Johnson’s Rasselas, whose ‘chief amusement was to picture to himself that world which he had never seen; to place himself in various conditions: to be entangled in imaginary difficulties, and to be engaged in wild adventures…’

  For eleven years I had lived with an actress; a lady calling herself Diana Coventry, real name Doreen Stephens. Not particularly successful on the boards or even in TV commercials, but a pleasant woman, given to all those highs and lows with which the legendary leading actresses are assailed. In the dark, Diana might have been Vivien Leigh.

  Doreen was as interested in the male sexual organ as I in the female. We never tired of looking as well as doing. There are men I know, men heterosexual to a fault, who admit to disliking the look and aroma of a woman’s genitals. I am not one of them.

  I have a memory from early boyhood. I was in a cinema in Manila. A documentary was showing which employed a method of stop-motion photography on plants. From a bud of a flower, the sepals curled back and the whole flower slowly opened. Its interior revealed intricate details, while the petals, brightly coloured, unfurled, lined with marks to guide the bees to the honey at the heart of the blossom.

  It was beautiful. For the first time in my life, I experienced an erection, entirely spontaneously. I was puzzled by the tiny disturbance in my shorts. From then on, I associated a flower-like beauty with the female organ.

  Unfortunately, Doreen’s and my years together were to end rather unexpectedly. I have always regretted our parting and, looking back, wonder if she has not later regretted it too.

  Doreen secured a role in a soap. She played Viv Baker, a woman who ran a clothes shop in the West End. It upset our comfortable arrangements. She became the part. And when Viv Baker was required to indulge in amorous activities with the local crooked landlord, played by Larry Wingate, my Diana became more interested in Wingate than in me. Before I knew what was what, a note was on the fridge door, pinned there by a magnetic model of a London double-decker bus, saying Adios! (in so few words); and Diana was away to the suburb of Wimbledon with Wingate.

  And so I was free to stew in my own juice. I have been rather at a loss ever since. Rather too prone to attend the racecourse.

  It must have been nostalgia that prompted me at that point to pick up the phone, dial international, and try to speak to Doreen again.

  A choked voice said, ‘Yes, who is it?’

  ‘Doreen, is that you?’

  ‘This is Diana Coventry here. What do you want? I’m about to put the phone down.’

  ‘Hang on, Doreen. It’s me, your lost love, remember? I’m in Crete. I was just ringing to see how you were.’

  ‘I’m utterly miserable, if you must know. Not that it’s any of your business.’

  ‘Are you missing me?’

  ‘What makes you think that? I’ve just heard that poor Jav has died.’ Jav was her brother. I had admired him. Jav was all that I was not: a man with good causes ever close to his heart, perennially adopting African tribes or giving starving Albanians holidays on the Costa Brava, or smuggling imbecile babies out of Romania into Finland. His eccentric ways had not endeared him to his semi-famous sister. When I had last had word of them, they were quarrelling bitterly. He was trying to borrow money from Doreen – all right, Diana – to fly pregnant leopards from the war zone in East Timor to a zoo in Australia. Darwin, if I remember right.

  ‘I’m sorry. What did he die of?’

  ‘I was just having a good weep when you interrupted me.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘Alone. He had taken up the cause of some aborigines near Alice Springs. Just think, a brother of mine to go and die in Australia.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he could help it.’

  ‘But Australia… How degrading!’ Sob. Sob.

  ‘It sounds romantic to me.’ I was trying to cheer her up – always my role where women were concerned. ‘Just imagine the abbo funeral. Didgeridoos wailing across the burning outback, dancing, fire, wallabies roasting on a spit, liquor consumed, screams, mass fornication… An ideal way of being sent off – better than a bloody church service…’

  ‘Oh, you’re so cruel, you wretch!’

  Her phone clicked off. I remembered she was a bit on the religious side. I could but chuckle.

  I had been contemplating writing a novel about my life with Diana Coventry when the better idea of Saint Anna came along. Well, I thought it was better. I sent an outline of the story to my agent, old Welling-Jones. True, there was the annoyance of this idea intruding itself upon a lazy Cretan package holiday, but one is fortunate when an idea arrives at all, no matter how inconveniently.

  Kathi was sitting by the stern of the yacht when Archie Langstreet returned, wearing a new pair of blue velvet slacks and a white T-shirt without inscription. She had her evening glass of vodka and lime by her right hip. Every now and again she glanced at a portable TV set, by her naked feet, where two men and a woman were clinging to the face of a mountain in a howling gale.

  She greeted Langstreet warmly and switched off the set. He kissed her cheek.

  ‘Have you eaten, darling?’ she asked.

  ‘No, no. Where’s Cliff?’

  ‘Where do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. Where is he?’

  ‘You ought to eat something. He’s with his Scandish blonde, isn’t he?’

  Langstreet grunted. ‘Kathi, I’ve made an amazing find. A crude painting of the infant
Jesus being suckled, not by the Virgin Mary, but by his aunt. I came across it in a chapel up in the hills. Eight centuries old. Part of the Christian legend the Christians appear to have forgotten.’

  She laughed, switching off the television set. ‘A bit of blasphemy? A schism within the holy ranks?’

  ‘I’m given to understand that it’s a neglected part of holy legend. Certainly the family who owned the chapel believed in Anna and reverenced her.’

  ‘Oh, there can’t be a jot of truth in it, surely. It’s like Max Ernst’s famous painting of the BVM giving young Jesus a good walloping!’

  He sat down on the deck beside her, being careful to place a newspaper underneath him to protect the white of his canvas trousers.

  ‘The story can be authenticated. That I mean to do. You must take this seriously, Kathi, my dear. If it is true, it is very touching. It seems that, according to my guide, the Virgin Mary’s milk ran dry, so auntie took over.’

  She sat there frowning, drawing her knees up to her chest.

  ‘Does the guide believe this to be true?’

  ‘He doesn’t know much about it. He claims there is only one other such painting in the world – apparently in Bulgaria or Romania.’

  Kathi chuckled. ‘Can you see her tits?’

  ‘One breast protrudes. It’s very modest.’

  Laughing, she said, ‘Pity you didn’t come across a painting of the Virgin Mary showing her tits!’

  He wagged a finger at her. ‘That would never be permitted. It’s no laughing matter. You’re being indecent. I must speak to a local priest and find out more about the subject. The painting is clearly something of a rarity, and should be preserved. There it is, rotting in a stone shack in an olive grove.’

  She remained silent for a while, or else was listening to the lap of water against the sides of the boat.