Snakehead

by Ann Halam

  I’d been afraid Kore wouldn’t get on with Anthe and Palikari. She was so proud and reserved, I’d thought she’d look down on my friends. I was wrong about that. In a few days she was best mates with Anthe, our impulsive, sarcastic wildcat. She had Pali confiding in her, as if she was his big sister, about the painful state of his heart. He had no prospects, nothing but his place at Dicty’s. How could he convince Anthe to accept him as a serious marriage suitor? I’d see the two girls with their heads together. I’d see Kore listening to Pali’s troubles while she helped him clean up behind the bar, and I was terribly jealous. But we didn’t talk about our real troubles. Whatever she heard about the truce between Papa Dicty in Seatown and his brother in the High Place, she didn’t hear it from us. And she didn’t tell us her secrets either.

  The feeling that everything had come to a crisis slipped away from me. Yet the tension was still there: in her somber eyes, in the burden she would not share. She was playing a part—trying to be this other girl, Kore, traveling to see the world, our new best friend. But you’d look around and she’d be gone. She’d be back in that poky little room: alone, silent, working at her loom.

  I went up to the roof one night, with the feeble excuse that I was bringing her a better lamp. The door was half open, so I could see her at work. Mémé was curled up on some hanks of green yarn, Seatown yarn: a gift from Balba. Everyone could get close to Kore except me. I even envied the cat. I knocked on the wood. She looked around, and didn’t say a word. At least she didn’t say go away. I propped myself on the doorjamb. “You’ll ruin your eyes.”

  But it was impossible to “make conversation” with this girl. She’d look you dead in the eye, and your pointless phrases crumbled.

  “Am I using too much oil? I’m sorry, I forget myself. I’ll stop.”

  “Oh no!” Panicked by her nearness, I heard my voice come out as a strangled yelp. “I, uh, brought you a better lamp…. Kore, don’t you ever sleep?”

  It was easier to call her Kore now that we weren’t speaking Greek. A lot of islanders have Greek names, after all, including myself. They’re fashionable.

  “Of course I do.”

  “I just wondered, because I hear your loom going through the night.”

  She counted threads with her shuttle. “I’m sorry if I keep you awake. Sometimes I just don’t get sleepy.”

  “Nor I, sometimes. What are you working on? I can’t make it out.”

  “It’ll make sense when it’s done.” Then she turned and smiled, the same look in her eyes as when she’d laughed at me, on Naxos dock, in that moment when I’d known that she felt the same shock of fire as I did. “At least, I hope it will.”

  I said good night. I left her and lay awake with that smile in my arms, like a barbed treasure. How could I feel like this, whenever our eyes met, if she didn’t feel it too? I love you but it can’t happen, that’s what she was telling me.

  Adamant, absolute …

  My mother, when she’d seen the way Kore behaved, said, There’s a girl who has been watched and kept indoors all her life. But I felt that my girl (who could not ever be mine) was in a prison of her own making. She was behind bars even now: shackled by chains no one else could see.

  Kore had been with us ten days; midsummer was upon us. It was the hottest part of the afternoon. I was renewing our whitewash: on the trees, along the coping of the terrace wall and around the flagstones, ready for the festival. The hearth burned low. Mémé the cat and Brébré the ferret were fast asleep on the bench beside it, curled together so that you could hardly tell where orange-spotted tabby cat ended and gingery-furred ferret began. The waterfront was dead quiet, except for the soughing of the summer wind; the taverna was empty. Kore and Anthe, nominally in charge, were sitting by the wall of the dining room in cool shadow, talking about art.

  I could have hustled them into helping me, but the whitewashing job was a peaceful, mindless one. Popo the housepainter had been around, trying to persuade us that we wanted a few red shells or blue dolphins to add to our festive finery. We’d politely declined, but he’d left his colors, saying he’d be back later, to talk to the boss. Out of the corner of my eye I watched Anthe, who kept touching the pots of yellow, red and blue that Popo carried around with him in a bucket. She was fascinated; she couldn’t leave them alone. I was interested to see what would happen.

  “I don’t like these old pictures,” said our wildcat. “I know they’re ancient, and precious. But if you’re just going to copy what already exists in life, why bother? Art should be about making something new.”

  “The court ladies aren’t lifelike,” answered Kore sleepily. “They all have the same face. And whoever saw swallows flying in a double row like that? It’s the patterns that mattered to the painter, you can tell.”

  “All right, but still, why imitate things?” Anthe’s small, strong hand had lifted the brush out of the red paint pot, as if she couldn’t help it. She looked at the wall beside her. Unluckily, there was a bare patch, at a convenient height. “When you’re weaving, don’t you often make patterns without pictures? Don’t you think that your colors are enough on their own? The way the best meat should be served almost raw, and the best salad vegetables barely dressed?”

  “But dyes are imitation colors, Anthe, and so is paint. It’s not ‘redness’ in that pot. It’s ground-up Egyptian beetles. Oh, Anthe, don’t …“

  Too late.

  “I know about the beetles,” said Anthe. “Don’t tell me about beetles.” She looked at the bright red splash she had made, and seemed to decide there was no use stopping now. A sweep of blue, a splotch of yellow, a gaudy orange swirl over the place where red and yellow had dripped into each other. “You see what I mean? Honest colors, and nothing but!”

  It had happened so fast. At least, so far, only a gap in one of the precious paintings was affected. I dumped my whitewash brush and came over, moving like a hunter. Anthe was armed and dangerous; we had to get the yellow brush away from her, carefully, before worse happened….

  I shifted the bucket of paint pots out of reach. “But what is it meant to be, Anthe dear?” asked Kore, edging to grab the wildcat’s wrist.

  “Nothing! It’s just color.“

  Palikari and Papa Dicty came hurrying in from the street.

  “You have to come with us!” Pali was out of breath. “Trouble! We need to move the refugees, right now!”

  The boss looked at the daubs of paint on the wall, and then at Anthe, who was standing there red-handed (or yellow-handed). “Have you changed your trade, child?”

  “No-o-o!” Anthe wailed, coming out of her mad fit. “Oh no! I’ve ruined my life! I don’t know why I did that! Master! Forgive me!”

  “If you haven’t changed your trade, then get started in the kitchen. You’re on your own. People still want to eat, even in hot weather. Send Koukla out to mind the front desk. Perseus, Kore, come with us. You’re both needed at the Enclosure.”

  They told us what had happened as we hurried through the streets. The boss had been making his usual rounds with Moumi, talking to people as they rested in the heat of the day: hearing grievances, picking up news. He’d been met by an informant of ours, who brought an ugly rumor. The king had decided that those ill-omened earthquake refugees had been camped in the Great Mother Enclosure for long enough.

  “Your king would invade a sanctuary!” Kore cried.

  “Oh yes,” said Pali grimly.

  “I doubt if Polydectes would really commit such an affront,” said the boss briskly. “But our relations with the king are not good, Kore, and he could apply pressure. We should put temptation out of his way, right now.”

  We’d reached the Enclosure, which stood at the north end of the curving waterfront, at the foot of the High Place hill, inland from the jumble of Seatown’s houses and alleys. It was an ancient holy place, not walled, just encircled by a fence. The buildings inside were wattle-and-daub, nothing permanent except for the bathing caves, and the sanctuary its
elf. The gates were open. Kore stopped, as if brought up short by an invisible barrier. I saw a look of dread in her eyes.

  “I was hoping you would be able to help us, dear girl,” said Papa Dicty, watching her. “If you know any words of their language at all?”

  She nodded, and swallowed her terror. “I’ll do what I can.”

  Moumi was with Holy Mother and the sisters. There were twenty “families” of refugees who had not yet been resettled, including an old man in the hospital who seemed to have no family or friends…. Holy Mother, who had no respect for anyone alive, was very annoyed with all of us, including the boss.

  “I have no objection to sheltering them, Dicty,” she snapped. “The victims of an earthquake are sacred. They may stay with us as long as need be, no matter what the king says. But first you send them here, then you tell me I have to make fresh plans for distressed foreigners, using nothing but sign language, in an afternoon. Not one of them speaks a word of Greek. I could have used a modicum of notice!”

  The boss apologized humbly, but he’d made up his mind. The next hours passed in a blur. Kore helped the nuns to prepare the refugees. Moumi, Dicty and Holy Mother, who knew every household in Seatown, came up with ideas, and gave us directions. Palikari and I tramped the streets, and the nearby farms. Nobody turned us down when we explained the need, except for the people on the Koutala path who had sickness in the house. I had a new respect for the decency of ordinary Serifiotes by the end of the day. But it was tough going. We were beggars—even if we were begging for others, not for ourselves—and as some wise person once said, there is no harder trade. Nineteen families, with their belongings and babes-in-arms, were moved to private households. The bedridden old man stayed. As Holy Mother said, with any luck he’d be safe home with Great Mother before the king could get down the hill.

  Finally, we went back to the taverna, to start the evening’s work.

  That night Kore didn’t vanish after the last chores. Papa Dicty retired to his room, after congratulating us on a job well done. The rest of us moved into the backyard, to collapse in coolness and privacy. Anthe was brooding, still scared that the boss was going to send her home in disgrace. Kore’d had a stunned, bewildered look all evening—barely concealed by a waitress’s obligatory cheerful smile. She sat on the wellhouse bench, her hands knotted in her lap.

  “I thought Serifos was safe!” she cried suddenly, almost accusingly. “I thought this was a peaceful haven! Why did you help the refugees when you have such troubles of your own!”

  “We have a king we don’t love,” sighed Pali. He was lying flat out on a clean patch of paving, with his eyes closed. “He keeps trying to pick a fight with the boss, who is his brother: a fight that would ruin us. But don’t worry, our boss is cunning as a fox; he’s always found a way out. So far …”

  My friend opened his eyes, and looked at me. I knew what was on his mind. But I looked away.

  “It’s true, we have our troubles,” said Moumi. “Shall I tell you my story, Kore? Or perhaps you know it already?”

  Kore shook her head. We’d finally seen her with the refugees today, and the mystery only deepened. She didn’t know them, they didn’t know her, yet they frightened her. She was so shaken now that she might tell us the truth at last, but a direct question would be no use; she’d just disappear off to her room. I knew what Moumi was trying to do. Trade one painful story for another …

  “I was a princess. I was Danae of Argos; it’s a kingdom on the Mainland. My father had been told that his grandson, his rightful heir, would kill him. I was the only legitimate child, his only child born of a noble mother. When I was nine years old, he locked me in a tower, and swore I would spend my life there. Never see the sky, never touch the earth. I was allowed one nurse to look after me. I cried a lot at first, but she told me I was lucky to be alive, and I had the sense to know it was true. My father was a hard man. So I learned to be happy in my prison. Unfortunately, tale-tellers spread it about that the princess in the tower was astoundingly beautiful and wise.”

  “Absolutely true,” I put in.

  Moumi laughed. “Well, anyway. There was a night, which I remember vividly, when I had a thrilling, frightening, golden dream, and that’s all I’ve ever known of my son’s father. I’m sure the Supernatural Person involved didn’t mean any harm.”

  No matter what they do to you, it’s bad luck to criticize the Supernaturals.

  “But of course I was in a lot of trouble. My nurse knew that no mortal man had been near me. I was like a child; I didn’t understand. I thought it was lovely when she told me I was going to have a baby, because I would have somebody to play with. Well, Perseus was born, and my father found out. He had my nurse killed when she told him the truth. He didn’t kill us, just in case she was right. He had us nailed into a wooden crate, and the crate was taken out to sea, and dumped in the ocean. I was about fourteen. Perseus was three months old.”

  “Great Mother,” breathed Kore. She flashed a glance at me, and resumed staring at the ground. I knew she was thinking of that time on board the Afroditi, when she’d seen me flinch at the sight of a wooden box bobbing on the sea.

  “I hate my father.” The words burst out. I couldn’t possibly remember, but the fear that baby had felt was part of me, right at the heart of me, and I hated it. “My grandfather was a cowardly idiot. Doesn’t he know you never do yourself any good trying to fool an oracle? I don’t care about him. But my so-called holy immortal father has no excuse. He knew exactly what he was doing to Moumi. I hate him!”

  “Luckily he does not hate you,” said my mother sharply. “Not yet, at least. He has left us in peace, for which I thank him. Don’t talk like that, Perseus.”

  “Sorry.”

  Moumi got to the point of the story. “You see, Kore, Perseus and I were condemned to certain death, but we lived. The crate was found on the shore of this island by a fishing-boat owner called Dicty, who opened it up because he heard sounds from inside. My baby and I were alive. Papa Dicty nursed us back to health, and we’ve been with him ever since. We have lived happily, we have lived well. That’s why I helped the refugees, if you need a reason. I know that fate can be changed, that good can come from evil. I know that there’s always hope.”

  There was a long silence. We were sure Kore was on the brink of speech. But she didn’t say a word, just went on staring at the ground.

  “Well, I do blame your grandfather, Perseus,” growled Anthe, tugging off her cook’s head cloth and giving her hair a fierce shake. “Achaeans are all the same. They’re convinced every woman born is a messenger from the Great All, and they’re afraid of us seeing their wickedness. So they lock girls up like criminals, and invent reasons to kill them.”

  Anthe had used the old name Great All, from before the Disaster, which people don’t use anymore. We only speak of the Great Mother. I saw Kore give a start, as if she’d suddenly heard someone speaking her own, lost language, which nobody on Serifos knew. Anthe didn’t notice. My mother sighed, and stood up.

  “Anthe, you are lowering the tone of the conversation. Achaeans are human too: I’m one, and so is Perseus. I’m going to bed. Don’t be too late, children.”

  She took the lamp, as a strong hint that we weren’t to stay up. Mémé could be heard devouring fish heads by the trash, making very strange noises. Palikari hauled himself off the ground, went to sit by Anthe and rumpled her hair. “Honest colors?” he remarked. “Ooh, what a mess. Were you drunk, or what?”

  She shrugged him off. “It’s not funny. The boss might never forgive me.”

  We were four young people, trapped in different ways but glad to be together, only hoping we could go on sharing our good life, troubled as it was. “Nowhere’s safe,” said Anthe at last. “Not Serifos, not anywhere. The world could be so beautiful, but it’s terrible instead, and cruel things happen all the time.”

  I thought of this night often, when things had fallen apart.

  Dicty wouldn’t let Anthe wa
sh her “honest colors” off the wall. He said it was much better than a stuffed mermaid. She was crushed for a whole morning, and winced if she had to pass the place. But secretly we all liked the daub. It meant fun, friends; a little craziness. It reminded us that life was supposed to be sweet.

  Two days later, at the full moon, the famous singer Mando came to Dicty’s taverna. The midsummer festival lasted half a moon, and brought out singers, musicians and dancers all over the island. They didn’t go to the High Place: midsummer was an old-fashioned women’s feast and not to the king’s taste. But Papa Dicty always invited the greatest artists to perform in the restaurant, and he treated them like royalty.

  Mando was a village woman from the north of Serifos. She was supposed to have been a beauty, but for all the midsummers I remembered, she’d been quite an old woman. She was short, squat and heavy, with massive shoulders, a furrowed brow, double chins and a distinct mustache. She was also grasping, quarrelsome, and didn’t have a good word to say for any of her rivals—but none of that mattered. It was her art that was revered. She turned up at noon, wrapped in a thick, dirty mantle, having walked from her last show at Koutala. She shook off the dust, dumped her bundle, took a bath, ate a huge meal and went to sleep in Dicty’s own bed, as all our guest rooms were occupied. She slept until late the next day, took another bath, ordered a very hearty breakfast and stayed in her room.

  By moonrise the waterfront terrace and the dining room were packed, and it was standing room only in the kitchen yard. To hear Mando sing at Papa Dicty’s was one of the highlights of the year. People had come from miles around. I was at the door of the boss’s room, waiting to escort her. When she appeared, she was dressed in the same style as the faded court ladies on the wall: bands of red on her tiered skirts, a tight bodice straining around her thick waist. Her breasts and shoulders were bare, rouged and powdered. Her hair was dressed in long, glistening black ringlets (helped out by false extensions, I could see). Her face paint was a white mask, with black lines around her eyes and red lips. The grumpy old woman with the mustache had vanished, and it wasn’t just the paint. Mando had the power over her appearance that all great performers have. When she was ready to sing, she was still beautiful.