Amber and Clay

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  She’s getting better.

  She used to tremble when she came to this part of the path.

  Now she just stops, her head up,

  her breath coming in short puffs.

  I explained to Sokrates: “Phoibe always balks here,

  There’s something about this place she doesn’t like.

  The slave before me used to beat her,

  which made things worse. I don’t beat her,

  but I don’t let her back up, either. We have to wait here

  until she goes by herself.”

  “And will she?”

  “Yes, but it takes time. We have to wait her out.

  It’s boring, but it’s worth it.”

  Phoibe twisted her head inside her halter

  and screwed her donkey lips sideways

  to nibble my hand. She wanted to play.

  I wouldn’t play. She had two choices:

  stand still or go forward.

  She knew what her choices were.

  At last she took a step forward,

  and I praised her,

  “Good girl, Phoibe, good girl!”

  coaxed her. Another step.

  Once we got past the bad place

  I stroked her and scratched her

  and let her crop the grass.

  “You may not know all things, Rhaskos,

  but it’s clear that you know donkeys.”

  Once again, I felt the sheer joy

  of being with Sokrates; of not being stupid.

  I pulled up Phoibe’s head

  and we headed back to Athens.

  I kept looking to make sure Sokrates was still beside me.

  I couldn’t stop smiling.

  “You know, Rhaskos,

  I think we’re donkeys ourselves.

  Here we are, as happy as swallows,

  because we’ve each made a new friend,

  yet neither of us can say what a friend is.”

  EXHIBIT 13

  Black-figure bowl with Akhilleus killing Penthesilea, circa 400 BCE.

  This naive drawing shows a battle scene: single combat between a male warrior and an Amazon. Inscriptions inform us that the warrior is Akhilleus, and the woman is the Amazon queen Penthesilea.

  Penthesilea was the daughter of Ares, and a powerful warrior. As the greatest of the Amazons who fought for the Trojans, she was the female counterpart to Akhilleus, the greatest of the Greeks. When Akhilleus dealt the death blow to the queen, their eyes met, and he fell hopelessly in love.

  The treatment of this dramatic scene is so primitive that it is a matter of wonder that the bowl was ever fired. Akhilleus’s arms are different lengths, and his buttocks are improbably round. Penthesilea’s pose is even more awkward; she seems to be attempting a split. At the same time, the artist was able to convey some of the pathos of the battle: the invisible line that connects their eyes runs parallel to the warrior’s spear.

  The summer after I came to Athens

  Zosima broke her sandal strap,

  and my secret was brought to light.

  It was a bright afternoon.

  Phaistus set up shop outside the courtyard.

  Kranaos was napping in the sunlight. I was in the workroom,

  wedging clay on a plaster slab.

  I rolled it out with a rolling pin

  and picked up a bone tool. I took a deep breath

  and started on a horse.

  When I draw a horse,

  I’m in another world. There’s only the two of us,

  and I can almost hear the horse whinnying, Make me, make me!

  Show the arch of my neck,

  and the spring in my haunches!

  Loose the wind in my mane

  and set me free!

  And I’m gentling him, saying, “Hold still, my beautiful,

  let me double-check those slender legs.

  I want to capture every angle.”

  I was hunched over,

  the smell of the clay in my nostrils,

  when something made me raise my eyes

  and there she was, so close I could have touched her.

  She stood between me and the door.

  She ought to have blocked the light,

  but the light streamed through her.

  Loose hair, sunburned cheeks,

  her lips parted as if to speak —

  The hair on my arms stood erect

  a prickle ran down my spine —

  I saw you, Melisto!

  Then a voice behind me: “Phaistus!”

  Zosima, barefoot, come from the house —

  there had been no flap-slap,

  slap-flap

  to warn me she was coming.

  She was peering over my shoulder. My horse — !

  I wedged one hand under the clay

  smacked it, flipped it over

  squished it

  pounded it —

  “Phaistus! Come here,

  come and see what Pyrrhos did!”

  Then there he was — Phaistus — (and the girl was gone).

  “What’s all this?”

  “Pyrrhos! Why did you have to ruin it? He was drawing, Phaistus!

  The most beautiful horse! Pyrrhos, show him!”

  The master was annoyed;

  he’d been called in for nothing.

  Already he was looking over his shoulder,

  afraid of missing a customer.

  “Is that all?”

  “No. Stay a little, Phaistus. He can draw. You have to see.

  I’m sure I never saw a boy draw as well.”

  She took the tool from the slab.

  “With this. He carved into the clay.”

  “He was supposed to be working.”

  I saw a way out. I would play the slave,

  humble myself, distract him.

  “I was wasting time, despotes.” I called him Master.

  I seldom called him that; I found a way around it.

  “I won’t do it again.”

  “You will if I tell you to.”

  He took the lump of clay,

  picked up the roller I’d used. Flattened it.

  “Show me what you can do.

  Draw the horse.”

  My heart jumped in my chest. My mouth was dry.

  I stared at the tool in my hand.

  Like the wing of an insect in flight

  it juddered. Like one of those white butterflies

  that never flies in a straight line.

  “I don’t have all day, boy.

  Draw me a horse.”

  I cut into the clay. Too deep —

  the clay rose up in ridges, both sides of the blade.

  I lifted my hand. Nip-slash for the horse’s ear.

  The curving descent down the neck.

  The back. The rump. The complicated legs.

  The taut belly. Back up to the head —

  a straight line down the muzzle,

  the sharp angle of the jaw, the beautiful cheek;

  I’ve groomed so many horses,

  passed my hands over their bodies,

  I know the shape of a horse under my hand.

  “There, Phaistus! What did I tell you?”

  “Who taught you to draw, boy?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Nobody did a good job.”

  What did that mean? Was it a joke?

  Clunk. He set a wine jar before me,

  peeled the clay off the plaster slab,

  and flipped it upside down.

  “Copy that. Line for line.

  Not the jar. Just the picture in the middle.”

  It was a hard picture,

  with no horses in it. There was my old friend Akhilleus —

  the greatest of warriors,

  the one with no luck.

  On the jar, he was fighting the Amazon Queen —

  a she-wolf, a warrior in her own right —

  but she was no match for Akhilleus.

  He pierced he
r heart with his spear;

  she gazed at him in her death throes,

  eye to eye,

  and at that moment, as her life ebbed away

  he was shot by Eros, god of love,

  and he loved her.

  She loved him. But by then it was too late;

  she was bound for the House of Hades,

  and he couldn’t undo what was done.

  I told you he had no luck.

  That was what I had to draw. I remembered Menon’s javelin,

  the weight and threat of a spear.

  I slashed the spear into the clay.

  Then fierce Akhilleus, masked by his helmet,

  his broad shoulders, his narrow waist,

  meaty thighs and half-moon buttocks.

  That part wasn’t too bad. I started to enjoy myself.

  but the Amazon Queen —

  collapsing

  with her knees coming forward

  — I couldn’t figure out those knees,

  or the love and grief in her face.

  “I can’t, despotes.”

  “No, you can’t, yet. But it’s not too bad.”

  He opened a jar of slip,

  found me a pot that had cracked in the kiln,

  and handed me a brush. “Try it again.”

  This time was the worst of all. I’d never used a brush.

  The hairs bent,

  and the slip oozed in falling beads.

  The pot was curved,

  and my hand wouldn’t obey me.

  “I can’t, despotes.”

  “You will.” Zosima set her hand on my shoulder;

  my flesh twitched, like a horse

  shuddering off a fly. “You just need practice.

  Phaistus, don’t you agree? Some god has taught this boy,

  or given him a gift — ?

  Won’t he be a help to you?

  Aren’t you glad you chose him?”

  Phaistus went to the doorway,

  checking for customers. His back was to me.

  “Someday, perhaps.

  Right now, I don’t need another painter.

  There’s not much call for fancy work.

  What I need is a second donkey:

  a boy who hauls clay,

  and gathers brushwood,

  and does what he’s told.

  Still, you were right to tell me.

  Now that I’ve seen what he can do, I’ll have to teach him.”

  He turned back to me, his brow knotted.

  “You keep working. Copy that drawing.

  Once you’ve got the hang of using the brush,

  I’ll give you a bowl to paint. What’s more, I’ll fire it.

  It won’t look like much,

  but later on,

  you’ll be able to look back

  at the first thing you did

  and see how far you’ve come.”

  Zosima went and stood behind him.

  She slipped her hand into his. He squeezed her fingers,

  and went back outside. Zosima turned toward me,

  her face glowing. It was as if she were proud of me,

  though what right she had to be proud, I don’t know.

  I scooped up another lump of clay

  and began to knead it.

  Zosima stood by, watching.

  I pretended she wasn’t there until she wasn’t.

  Though I haunt him, I cannot make him see me.

  What do I know of slaves? Not how to free them.

  I would help if I could

  but I am helpless.

  I’m a ghost. If our eyes meet for a moment —

  He’s afraid; he forgets me,

  like a nightmare.

  I am mute,

  so there’s no communication,

  and I have no idea of what to tell him.

  I was young when I died. Forgive me, Thratta —

  I can’t do this. Your son is like a fortress.

  Neither magic nor mother-love can reach him —

  I can set free a bear, but not a boy.

  After that day, I practiced.

  Each day, Phaistus gave me a piece of broken pot

  and a jar to copy.

  I worked to make my brushstrokes strong,

  decisive as a cast spear.

  I never liked Phaistus better than when he taught me.

  He didn’t praise me,

  but he gave me his full attention.

  If we skipped a day, I missed it.

  Kranaos hung over us with a glint in his eye.

  He didn’t like me painting. I ignored him,

  which was stupid,

  because I know how it feels to be ignored.

  There came a day —

  Kranaos and I were out in the courtyard —

  there was a pot the master had covered

  with a damp cloth.

  Kranaos said, “Hand me that cloth.” I reached for it —

  and stopped. The cloth twitched.

  Something warned me. I lifted the edge:

  a scorpion

  bigger than the palm of my hand,

  the jointed tail clear yellow —

  ugly, deadly, and symmetrical.

  That was what Kranaos wanted —

  for me to grab the cloth

  and the scorpion to sting!

  Rage rose in me.

  I seized the cloth

  and flicked the scorpion at Kranaos —

  at his bare feet.

  He gave a yell

  and tottered to one side —

  even as he stumbled, I saw from his face

  I’d made a mistake. He hadn’t known.

  The scorpion skittered under a bush.

  Neither of us were stung.

  I had time to feel relief —

  but not to explain. Through the air

  whistling

  the old man’s stick! I yelped —

  he aimed;

  I leapt back,

  banged into two pots, shattering them both —

  he fisted my tunic,

  yanked me to my feet;

  I kicked —

  knocked over a jar of slip —

  Slip. I have to tell you: slip

  is only clay and water,

  but skimmed and sieved

  and rinsed and strengthened;

  it takes hours

  and buckets and buckets of water

  to make one little jar of slip. So —

  overturning a whole bowl —

  I was in trouble.

  Kranaos lost his mind. He pulled my hair,

  smacked my back with his horny old hands,

  scratched and beat;

  I put up my arms to shield my head.

  I hadn’t been beaten since Menon.

  Phaistus came from the shop. He bellowed at us both,

  and I tore myself away.

  The rush of the wind

  — the streets — people who stared —

  a goose honked and flapped aloft —

  the dogs barked.

  I leapt like Zeus’s lightning. Like a stream that zigzags

  and dodges the rocks

  I fled through the town. I didn’t know where I was going,

  but I was as swift as the god of thieves.

  Away. That’s where I went

  and up. A spasm in my side —

  and I slowed

  — to catch my breath —

  I’d come to that grove of trees

  where I once saw Sokrates dancing.

  Green blurred around me. I dropped on the grass,

  panting,

  my shoulder throbbing,

  an oozing scrape on one cheek.

  I wished he were there: Sokrates.

  I stayed there

  fuming. Kranaos: that old man,

  that dried-up, rotten-tooth, vile old man.

  I wished I’d hit him back.

  “There you are.” Phaistus —

  breathing ha
rd.

  “That red hair makes you easy to track.

  So now you’re a runaway.

  I should beat you black and blue.”

  “I’m not a runaway! Kranaos went after me!

  Maybe I was the one who broke the pots

  and knocked over the slip —

  but it wasn’t my fault! Kranaos, he schemes against me!

  There was this scorpion — ”

  I bit back my words, because what I’d almost said

  wasn’t true. Kranaos never threw the scorpion at me.

  I threw it at him.

  I wanted to say Kranaos started it,

  except it wasn’t true.

  “Stand up.”

  I stood so he could beat me.

  Between my teeth, I muttered,

  “Go ahead. I don’t care!”

  He circled me, taking stock of my wounds.

  “You’ll mend. A few scrapes and bruises, that’s all.

  He’s an old man. I’m surprised he could hit so hard.”

  “He used his stick.”

  Phaistus lowered himself to the grass.

  He wasn’t going to beat me after all.

  He set his feet side by side,

  knees bent,

  arms resting on them.

  “Kranaos is old, and his hands are shaky.

  He can’t paint anymore.

  He was never as skilled as I am —

  or as skilled as you’ll be, one day.

  He’s jealous of you, Pyrrhos.”

  “He had no right to hit me!

  He’s not my master!”

  “You show him no respect.

  When he shows you how to load the kiln,

  you roll your eyes.

  He’s an old man. You should remember that.

  If I, who am his master,

  pay homage to his skill,

  who are you?”

  I started to speak. He wouldn’t let me.

  “I’ve been wanting to ask you that for some time, Pyrrhos.

  Who do you think you are?

  I’ve treated you well.

  I teach you, and I’m patient.

  You have enough to eat, and my wife treats you like a son,

  but there’s no gratitude in you.

  No loyalty. Kindness is wasted on you.

  Every time I send you to dig clay,

  you linger a little longer

  and come back a little later.

  You sulk. You don’t speak,

  and your silence is pregnant

  with disrespect.

  That day you came home with Sokrates,

  you seemed like a different boy.

  I thought, Maybe Zosima’s right.

  Maybe there’s something in him.

  If there is, you keep it hidden.

  It’s been six months since I bought you.

  You’re quick to learn, I give you that, but for the rest —

  Every day you draw a little better,

  but every day you disappoint me.”