Dion: His Life and Mine

by Anstey, Sarah Cate

  High on the success of the festival, both relieved and exhilarated at how well Dion’s gig had gone and the warm welcome he had received on Crete, I had no reason to suspect any hidden message in his lines. It was only later, much later, when I climbed Mount Ida, to walk out my grief, it occurred to me why Dion had spent so much time climbing it. His final song “Immortally Mortal” had, actually, been dedicated to his father, who, like Dion had spent his early childhood on a mountain. A mountain on Crete: Mount Ida.

  Authors and directors have creatively pieced together what they believe to have happened during those final nine hours of Dion’s earthly life. Some have had the courtesy to write to me, some have not. Websites have been set up devoted to the subject, including conspiracy theories that Dion didn’t take his own life, but was killed by Me, Cal, Likertes, Silenus or a ‘stranger’ that was seen lurking about the vicinity. Some even believe that he isn’t dead; that he faked his own death to evade the malicious treatment he was getting and is living a quiet life, out of the glare of the public eye. Unbelievably, there may be some truth in that.

  Here, finally, is my own version of that day. I have played it over and over in my mind so much that it will be a relief to get it down on paper. I don’t suppose for one minute that it is any more accurate than any of the others.

  As I was on Crete, I am unable to assess what occurred in the six days that passed between him leaving Crete and taking his life. Maybe, the change I had seen in him had been an illusion and Dion’s resolve hadn’t broken, since the day I had watched the Mas pump his body clean. Maybe, it was the peace he felt on Mount Ida, which he had never truly been able to find anywhere else. What little I do know of his activities, during those six days, is from his journal and the scribbled bits of paper I found lying around the house. He wrote new lyrics, new music; these too, I found scattered.

  He wouldn’t have had any visitors. He kept his activities inconspicuous and unless someone had been closely watching the house, there was no obvious signal that the dark, quiet house held a frenzied inhabitant. Nyx, who had been looking in on the house while we were away, was visiting friends on Kos. Her first course of action, when she arrived back on Naxos, would be to dutifully check on our house and find my husband, who had been dead for three days.

  We know that Dion woke at around six, at least this is the time he states in the journal he kept throughout his life and for which greedy publishers have made me pointless offers. Dion wrote incessantly, both entries in his journal and new songs, knowing he didn’t have much time left and wanting to make the most of it. Crumpled pieces of paper lay all over the bed and pens leaked into the covers. Many of his notes recalled hallucinations he’d experienced at the Mas and on Mount Ida. He played and sang some of his new songs to himself. What did it matter that he would not perform any of them? They would be performed. Through them, his mission would proceed so they needed to be perfected. The song he worked upon the most was the one he dedicated to his fans.

  After playing non-stop for four hours, Dion slept. It seems that the sleep put him in a calmer mood as the next part of his journal recounts how, in sleep, he had travelled to a better place and wanted to return there. During his last few conscious hours left in this life, Dion wrote letters to his sons, his Mas, his fans and to me. While he composed them, he washed down the secret stash of liquid he had hidden and on which he had been existing for the week he had spent alone on Naxos. The doctor estimated that at around one o’clock, Dion’s abused and battered body would have finally given up and gone into shock, culminating in his heart failing.

  Dion’s body lay, undisturbed, for three days. Nyx, on her return, observed little signs that the house was not as it had been when she left it. On entering, she went from room to room calling each of our names, until she came upon Dion lying on Oinopion’s bed. The letters, he had finally finished writing, were in his hand. The remnants of his concoction had seeped into the carpet. Her first reaction was to contact Silenus, then a doctor and finally Crete.

  It was my mother who took me to Aster’s room and who, gently, sat me down and told me the contents of the message, she had received. Years before, I had to deliver the news of the death of a loved one in the same room. My mother gave me the chance to grieve in private, before I faced the public, in a way Dion’s fans would find acceptable.

  Silenus arranged for us to get to Naxos under cover of darkness. Nyx had called a doctor she knew would be discreet, which meant that I was able to spend a couple of hours alone with Dion’s body and dash any hopes I had that all of this was a horrible, horrible nightmare.

  Five days after his death, Dion’s body was removed from our house. Word had leaked out and by midnight, the quiet beach, where Dion and I were married, was filled with fans who had come from near and far to be together. Young men, wearing Libertia t-shirts, held candles in one hand and their hysterical girlfriends in the other. Members of Thiasus, none of whom looked like they had slept in months, clung to each other and wailed.

  It was Silenus who suggested I address the crowd. Give the man his due, he knew good publicity, but he also knew it would be the only way to get rid of them. They were needy, hurting and wanted acknowledgement of their grief. They wanted to feel a part of it, a part of him and as he was no longer here, a part of me. My mother stepped in, telling Silenus that my grief was private and not a public spectacle. Silenus left the unspoken words, “oh, but it is” hanging in the air. Instead he turned to me and said gently, “Ariadne, they paid for this house and they will keep paying for it. You should give them something for their money.”

  Much has been reported of my address to Dion’s fans. I am surprised by how detailed some of the accounts are; for me, it went in a flash and I barely remember anything. What I do recall is Silenus supporting me by the arm, as millions of candles flickered and blinded me, as I read, aloud, Dion’s final song. I shan’t bother to repeat it here; it has been well-documented and you can easily find copies on the Internet. The silence, which had fallen as I had made my descent on to the beach, was broken, the second I finished the last word. Wailing, screaming and crying echoed in my ears as Silenus led me, gently, back to the house and I left the people to their grief. I wish I could say that they had all shown me the same consideration.

  I received many letters of support after Dion’s death. The writers of these seemed to want me to help them through their grief, to understand what they were going through as they understood me. I couldn’t, I was numb. Nyx responded to each and every one with the utmost diplomacy. Others were less supportive and accused me of causing Dion’s death, not being there in his hour of need, not spending enough time with him on tour or interfering too much in his music. They were angry and wanted me to give them answers. I couldn’t, I was numb. Nyx ripped these up with the utmost disgust.

  Then, someone wrote ‘Murdering Bitch’ on our front door, in red paint and I started receiving death threats. Silenus insisted that I left Naxos until the dust settled and the paint was cleaned off. He arranged for me to go to Olympia. I didn’t stay long. As Dion said, Olympia had been Libertia’s home, not mine and without Dion I had no reason to be part of the music scene. I took the boys to the Mas. We were able to grieve quietly together, sharing happy stories of Dion and laughing at his antics, laughing until we cried. I stayed there longer than at Olympia but, as Dion had said, the mountain was the Mas’ home, not mine. I now knew where mine was and decided to take up my mother’s offer and move back to Crete, permanently. In time, I managed to block out the world and concentrate on my sons and my project. Ma Four had been right; having a mission of my own enabled me to banish the world beyond Crete. Watching it develop and grow, knowing I had played a part in its new beginnings, helped me find one of my own.

  I left Silenus in charge of Dion’s estate. He turned our family home into a museum, dedicated to Dion. Ten years ago, it was named a ‘National Historic Landmark’ and I’m told fifty thousand fans visit each year. In exchange, Silenus set up a
fund for Oinopion and Staphylus and bought me an apartment in a secluded part of the island. I use it when I visit Nyx.

  On Crete, I slept with my eyes open, ate when my mother told me to, took long walks along the cliff, hiked up Mount Ida, held on to my two stunned sons and read and re-read the last words Dion wrote to me. Compared to the long letter he wrote to the boys and the song he dedicated to his fans, it was a post-it note:

  It’s time to be reunited with my parents.

  I’ll come for you when it’s your time.

  Go back to your home; I’m going to mine.

  Epilogue

  More than twenty years after dreaming of being its queen, I found myself welcomed as a guest in Athens. The city had decided to honour Dion by naming their new theatre after him, in which it would host an annual five day festival, aptly named ‘The Dionysia’. I had been asked to open the theatre and attend the first festival, which included a music competition with prizes for the best song and musician. As guest of honour, I was also required to judge; it seemed being married to a musician was qualification enough. Still, I appreciated that Dion was being honoured for his artistic achievements and not for the infamy attached to his death.

  Athens was not how I had imagined and not how Theo had described it, but that is progress. Theo was welcoming and I was grateful. Curiously, we were able to meet as old friends without animosity; time apart had given us more in common. We were both parents of young men and both bereft of loved ones. Theo’s wife had died before Dion, leaving Theo to bring up their son, Hippolytus, alone. But not alone for long: five years before my visit he was reunited with my sister, Phaedra, who finally fulfilled her childhood desire and became his wife. So Theo was now, officially, my brother and I found I was able to love him as one, as I had always done.

  Relations between my sister and I had improved over the years, mainly because we barely ever saw each other. She hadn’t set foot on Crete since our father had died. She sent her dutiful condolences when Dion died and I sent her the appropriate card for the appropriate occasion when it arose. Sometimes, mother would visit her in whichever place Phaedra had settled, but never lamented her absence on Crete. It was a subject we never discussed.

  Time, tragedy and responsibility had taken their toll on Theo. He was greying before his years, but he was still a handsome man and had kept his physique intact. We talked of old times on Crete, with Aster and Daedalus, his wife and my husband. After I had been there a couple of days, and he had begun to feel closer to me, Theo broached the subject of Naxos. “I’m so sorry about leaving you there. I just don’t know what came over me. I’d been having these strange headaches on Crete and moments of time just seemed to fall out of my head. It wasn’t until we were sailing away that I realised I hadn’t seen you for a while. I guessed you were asleep below deck, but you weren’t. By the time we searched the whole ship and realised what must have happened, we were almost at Athens and then...”

  “And then it was too late to turn back because you wanted your father to know you were safe as soon as possible.”

  “I planned to turn the ship round and come and get you as soon as I’d given the old man a hug, but...”

  “I know, I know, you found you had more pressing matters at home,” I said touching his arm lightly.

  “What you must have thought of me!”

  “You don’t want to know and it would be very unladylike of me to tell you.” Theo laughed at me, relieved. “But in a strange way you did us both a favour. We were never meant to be lovers. If you hadn’t left me I wouldn’t have met or married Dion and you wouldn’t have married Antiope. It’s obvious that she made you happier than I ever could.”

  “And what about you, was your marriage happy?”

  “Not always,” I answered truthfully. “But I wouldn’t have swapped it for any other.” At that point, Phaedra entered the room. She welcomed me with a curt embrace. Her hospitality had been comfortable and efficient, but not what you might call warm. I had tried to bring up the night we left Crete, and apologise for not telling her about the plan, but she had brushed these attempts aside by saying ‘the past is the past’. I wasn’t sure I believed this forgive-and-forget façade.

  “What are you two talking about?” She kept her coolness hidden behind a breezy tone and a painted smile.

  “Our marriages and how fortunate we have been to have them,” I told her diplomatically.

  “Oh?” said Phaedra.

  “But I’m afraid I win, Ariadne. I’ve been lucky enough to find a second spouse to match my first.” He embraced Phaedra and winked at me. So did the familiar engagement ring, which sparkled on Phaedra’s finger, as it had on our mother’s hand. Phaedra’s wedding ring held it firmly in place. There was no chance of either of them being misplaced.

  “And your bouts of memory loss? Do you still get them?”

  “They come and go in phases. After we buried father and I married Antiope they stopped for a while, but then a couple of years ago they started again.”

  “Maybe I can help find a herb?”

  “Of course, I’d forgotten that you were interested in herbs too. But there’s no need, my clever wife takes care of me in that department,” he said, squeezing her hand. She beamed and I was silent. It seemed that I was also suffering from memory loss, or, maybe, I just hadn’t ever known about Phaedra’s passion for plants.

  Theo, certainly, still had a memory problem. Maybe, not as severe as leaving his girlfriend alone on an island, but little things, like forgetting meal times, mislaying objects, repeating things he had already said, and forgetting servants’ names. I tried to broach the subject of herbs with Phaedra, hoping we could connect with something that wasn’t our past or our family.

  “Have you tried giving Theo a herb to help with his memory?” I asked her, after we’d had to placate a diplomat from Sparta, whose visit Theo had forgotten.

  “He has herbs.”

  “With all due respect they don’t seem to be working very well.”

  “They work perfectly well.” Phaedra rounded on me, “all he needs is a little reminding. I didn’t know about the Spartan visit, so I wasn’t able to remind him. It’s not a big problem. Once the diplomat had had some honey cake, he decided he must have mixed up the date. I know how to take care of my husband.” I understood the inference: I had evidently not known how to take care of my husband and look what had happened to him.

  At first I put Phaedra’s attitude down to over-protection. It was possible she still felt envious of what little Theo and I had shared in the past. I backed down. She was his wife and I was their guest. But I was also his friend and something didn’t seem to add up.

  On my fifth day, Hippolytus returned from visiting his father’s relatives in Troezen. Theo had already told me how guilty he felt over the years he had lost with his son, grieving for his wife. “After Antiope died, it was too painful to look at him, he reminded me so much of his mother.” He must have changed in his adolescence. When I entered the drawing room where he was animatedly telling his father the news from Troezen, I was transported back to Crete where his doppelganger had patted the family dog and made small talk with my mother. Hippolytus even stood up as I entered, just as his father had done and, just like his father, he was welcoming.

  He was, of course, a Libertia fan. The festival, his father told me proudly, had been his idea as he wanted to make Athens a centre for culture. Hippolytus had come back from his trip to meet me and accompany me to the festival. He particularly seemed to like “Persephone” which he played over and over again, until Theo told him, tactfully, to stop in case it upset their guest. Not that anything this young man did could offend anyone. He was particularly interested in hearing about my experiences of travelling with the band. I had just got the three of us into a fit of giggles, retelling an incident at Utopia in Olympia, when Phaedra entered the room and our amusement left it.

  “Hippolytus, you’re back!” Hippolytus stood up to greet his stepmother.
r />   “Oh silly, where’s my kiss?”

  Hippolytus blushed.

  “My sons are just the same, too embarrassed to kiss their mother, especially in public!”

  “Yes well, I’m not Hippolytus’s mother, am I darling?” Phaedra said pleasantly. Hippolytus shook his head and asked his father if he could be excused to unpack. Phaedra insisted on helping him, although Hippolytus said there was no need, and Theo and I were left on our own.

  “Phaedra has a very healthy approach to being a stepmother. She married me when Hippolytus was twelve and much too mature to be mothered. She told him that she wasn’t replacing his mother and never could. Instead, they would be friends and he should call her Phaedra. It was a very sensible approach and it’s worked well.”

  “It certainly seems that way. They seem close. I’m not sure if my sons would let me help them unpack.”

  “Yes, in some ways they’re closer than a normal mother and son would be. It’s such a relief to me. I couldn’t have imagined many other women with Antiope’s son.” I thought of Oinopion and Staphylos. They had male role models. Cal and Likertes were always good to them and Daedalus doted on them, but there wasn’t anyone who could live up to Dion in my eyes. Well maybe one, but he was married. Theo must have been thinking the same thing because he said,

  “But then Phaedra turned up and well, she was your sister and ...”

  “You were reunited after all these years and have a happy marriage.” I diplomatically finished for him.

  “Yes,” he said gratefully, “that’s it exactly.”