After he had finished his recital, some of the villagers stood up and sang in his honour; it was the “song of heroes,” known everywhere on the plain of the Troad, and he held out his arms crying, “Good boys! Good boys!” to the singers. Sophia could see that he was exalted. Yet she did not feel that she could share his sense of triumph. He was still apart from her, a person to be studied and observed. “You must allow me to embrace my wife,” he said in English. “Come, Sophia. They will see how beautiful you are. Another Helen. You see? Helena.”
She came into the circle of light reluctantly, but her entry seemed to be the occasion for music. Three of the villagers came forward with violin, viola and double bass, and at once struck up a vigorous local tune; the violin had four strings, the viola three and the double bass only two, but the battered instruments made a powerful and melodious sound.
Obermann swept up Sophia and began to dance with her in the light of the lantern. As they danced, the players adopted the more formal measures of a waltz, and Obermann stepped more ceremoniously.
“I have not danced a waltz since my wedding,” he whispered to her. Then he realised what he had said. There had been no waltz after the marriage ceremony in Athens.
“Wedding? What wedding?”
“It is nothing. It is over.”
“What wedding, Heinrich?” She was still waltzing with him, circling in the light. “I was very young.”
She walked abruptly out of the light. He ran after her, as the villagers took over the celebration and the music changed.
“I was about to tell you, Sophia. I am a widower. It is long past. Long forgotten.”
“Who was she?”
“A Russian. I met her when I was working in St. Petersburg. I soon discovered she was a coarse, vindictive woman.”
“And children?”
“None whatever.”
Leonid came up then, believing that Sophia had suddenly become ill, but Obermann waved him violently away.
“I give you my word.”
“What was her name?”
“Elena Lyshkin. I had almost forgotten it.”
“And, one day, will you forget mine?”
Sophia was not surprised that he had once been involved with another woman. But she was horrified that he had told her nothing about it before their wedding. No, not horrified. She felt shame for him. She had inadvertently discovered a weakness, where before she had seen only firmness and strength of purpose. So she became angry with him.
“Was it not your duty, Heinrich, to tell me? To tell my parents? In my country a once married man is very different from a bachelor. Oh, is that the reason? You would have been obliged to pay more.”
“That has nothing to do with it, Sophia. I feared that it might disturb you.”
“But you were willing to disturb me after our marriage. Is that it?”
“It is easier, certainly.”
“And what else have you still to tell me, Herr Obermann? Was it you who poisoned your mother?” She was very fierce. “Are you a child murderer? A wife murderer? Or perhaps this Elena is still alive?”
“Hush, Sophia. Leonid will hear.”
“So the famous Obermann is nervous of gossip. I could laugh.” She turned and, under the anxious gaze of her husband, walked over to Leonid. Then she came back. She did not look at him. “He is taking us back,” she said. “I told him I have the migraine.”
On their journey through the soft night they said nothing to each other. But as soon as they had returned to their quarters, she faced him. “Is she still alive?”
“No. I have told you. I am a widower. And now the next question. No. I repeat. I have no children. No. I have no connection with her family. Does that satisfy you, Sophia?” He gave a great yell, and seized her. He enveloped her in his arms, and began to blow upon her neck. She struggled to free herself but then, a few moments later, she was laughing.
SEVEN
On the following morning Obermann woke Sophia with a kiss. “You will ride with me to the Hellespont today,” he said. “I have had a dream in which we swam together in the waters of a great river. It is a sign.”
“I cannot swim, Heinrich.”
“Then I will swim on your behalf. I will be your champion.”
So they breakfasted together, then rode north towards the shore. From this distance, in the early morning, the Hellespont was an iridescent blue; to Sophia it seemed like some serene band of light between the two shrouded lands of Asia and Europe. Obermann leaned forward and whispered to his horse. “I have told him,” he said, “to behave properly in the company of my wife. He understands me perfectly. I called him Pegasus as soon as I purchased him from a horse-dealer in Doumbrek. He is proud of his name.” He caressed the horse, and whispered to it again. “I have explained to him that Pegasus was born from the mist of the seas, and that fountains sprang up wherever his hooves touched the ground.” He pointed towards the Hellespont. “Onward!” he cried. “Onward to the meeting-place of great seas!”
When they came close to the shore he led the way down a little track that approached a promontory. The waters of the Hellespont had become dark, coloured with green and amber. “The coast of Europe is very close,” she said.
“It was once the coast of Greece. Of Thrace.”
“One day it may return. Not in my lifetime—”
“Do not talk of lifetimes. We are immortal here! We will conquer the land now. I will swim across the Hellespont and proclaim it to be ours!”
“No, Heinrich. You cannot swim so far.”
“Never say ‘cannot,’ Sophia. Lord Byron declared that he was the first to swim from shore to shore, the first since the time of Leander. But he was a liar. Many have performed that feat.”
“Please do not attempt it now, Heinrich, I beg you.”
“The story of Hero and Leander will inspire me. The two lovers separated by these waters! The beacon upon the sea-girt tower to light his way across the deep! It is tremendous.”
“But Leander drowned, did he not? And Hero flung herself from the rocks.”
“That is a later addition, Sophia. It was a fable to explain the division of Europe and Asia. Nothing more.”
“It was a charming story, Heinrich.”
“Two lovers doomed to early death in the waves? I grant you it has beauty. Yet we will make it more beautiful. Sophia and Heinrich will challenge the Hellespont. Two new lovers will conquer the waters.”
Sophia noticed that, to her husband, the comparison did not seem at all fanciful. Now he walked to the shore and, facing the waves, spoke in a loud voice.
“That tale is old, but love anew
May nerve young hearts to prove as true.
“I do not like ‘nerve’ there,” he said. “It is the wrong verb.” He came back and stood beside her. “We are the young hearts, Sophia.”
“I am not so young any more. And neither are you.” The sound of the water was gentle in the early morning.
“Nonsense. We are all young when we come to this place. This is the gateway of the world.” He shielded his eyes from the brightness, and looked north. “The Greeks believed that this was the passage into the unknown lands. They gazed northward into the land of the Hyperboreans, who enjoyed an eternal spring. Those people were so near to the stars that they could hear their distant harmonies. They could number the hills upon the moon.”
Sophia went down to the edge of the shore, where the water seemed cool and enticing. “What is that island?” she asked him. She pointed to a small patch of land rising above the surface.
“It has no name.”
“Why do you not swim there? I cannot bear to see you go further, Heinrich.”
“Very well. So be it.” He stripped off his shirt and trousers, revealing a bathing suit of somewhat ancient design.
She laughed out loud. “It is what my father wears!” she said. Her father had taken up the new fashion of sea-bathing when he was a young man, and prided himself on the fact that he was st
ill slim enough to wear the same costume.
“Your father is fit. So am I.” He walked into the water, calling out to Poseidon as he did so, then launched himself upon the waves with a shout. The water splashed around him as he made his way in the direction of the island: Sophia had never seen anyone make such a commotion. A fishing boat was bobbing on the water nearby; the men were mending their nets, but Sophia could see them laughing and pointing to Obermann. He resembled some small sea-monster, snorting and gurgling in the deep. Within a few minutes he had reached the patch of rock. He hauled himself upon it and began jumping up and down, waving and shouting to her, like a child, eager and excited.
Then he plunged back into the sea, and swam in the direction of the shore. Two or three minutes later she saw him waving again, from the water, but there was something odd—and frantic—about the movement. Then he disappeared beneath the surface. He was in some kind of difficulty. He came up again, but he was not swimming. He was shouting something to her, but in the prevailing wind she could not hear it. In turn she began shouting and waving to the fishermen still mending their nets. She called in Turkish, “Imdat! Imdat!” and pointed at Obermann. One of the men was alerted by her calls for help, and signalled to the others towards the swimmer. Quickly they took their oars and made their way in his direction. To Sophia they seemed to make slow progress, as Obermann went under the waves once more. Then she saw them drag Obermann on board.
She ran down to the shore as the boat made its way back. He was lying in the bottom, upon his side, with his hands clenched into fists. She realised then that he was alive.
They took him from the boat and carried him up the shore, then lowered him carefully on to the dry land of sand and pebbles. She knew only one word of thanks in their language—“tesekkurler”—but she repeated it over and over again. She knelt down beside him, but then one of the fishermen grabbed him by the waist, hauled him to his feet, and bent him over. Obermann vomited water for a few seconds, then looked around wearily. “On the ground,” he said.
They laid him down, and he seemed to sleep. But then he opened his eyes again, and sprang up as readily and as quickly as if he had been galvanised. She was astonished by his sudden revival. “I had a cramp,” he said. “I could not move my leg.”
“You were fortunate that these gentlemen were close to you, Heinrich. You must thank them.”
He seemed to notice them for the first time. “Thank you, thank you,” he said to them in Turkish. “You have saved Heinrich Obermann! The gods will bless you a thousand times! Wait. I will give you something.”
He went over to his jacket, lying with his other clothes where he had deposited them before his swim, and took out his wallet. He gave them notes. “Thank you, thank you! You are the sons of Poseidon. You are the warriors of the sea!”
They took the money gladly and, after embracing him, they returned to their boat. “The Greeks would not have taken the money,” he said. “They consider life to be the gift of the gods.”
“They are poor people, Heinrich. They have families who also deserve to live.”
“You are right, of course. I am not complaining. I am merely stating the fact.”
“You are fortunate to be alive.”
“I know. It was a miracle.” He looked back at the waters of the Hellespont. “If they had not been there, I would have been lost in the deep.” It seemed to Sophia that he derived a certain gloomy satisfaction from this. “Athene was watching over me. She saved me from the sea-god, just as she saved the heroes of Greece. I am under her protection!”
“You must dry yourself, Heinrich. You will catch cold in the wind.”
They rode back soon after; Obermann had become more subdued. “When did you meet the Russian woman?” Sophia suddenly asked him.
“Many years ago. She was fierce and arrogant. I knew nothing.”
“Where did you find her?”
“In a small mining town in the east of the country. I had been speculating in Russian gold. Why these questions, Sophia? It is long gone.”
“I am interested in the first Mrs. Obermann.”
“You have nothing in common with her but the name.”
“She was childless?”
“Have I not said so?” He glanced at her. “But you will not remain childless for long. When we have left this place, we will raise a fat and healthy family!”
For some reason the prospect appalled her. “How did she die?”
“She took her own life. She walked into the river.”
“I’m sorry.”
“There is nothing whatever to mourn. I was glad that she was dead. I felt such relief that I was drunk for three days. Can you imagine Obermann drunk? Well, I was young then.”
Sophia did not wish to question him about the suicide. She did not want to entertain the possibility that Obermann had made this woman unhappy. She did not wish to know why she had chosen to kill herself: as she put it to herself, that was not her business. That was not going to be her concern. The past life of a human being was very different from the past of a city such as Troy: it could not be understood. She could no more imagine Obermann and his first wife, twenty years before, than she could imagine meeting him when he was a young man. His previous life was a mystery and, really, she wanted no part in it. It was enough to deal with him in the present moment. But then another question came, unbidden and almost unpronounced. “And your mother? You told me that your father had poisoned her.”
“Did I? That was an exaggeration, I’m afraid. She lay sick, and he insisted on making up his own cordial for her. From the berries of the mountains around us. He believed in all the remedies of nature. She died soon after. But I still venerated my father. It was he who first read Homer to me. I have told you this, I know. But it is still as close to me as if I were listening to his voice in the parlour. Do you know what I am hearing? I hear that Athene has shed sweet nectar and ambrosia into the limbs of Achilles so that he will not feel hunger in the battle!” They rode on, Obermann occasionally whispering into the ear of Pegasus. “There is the pillar of Nestor.” He pointed to an outcrop of stone that was used as a boundary mark for adjacent fields. “We will soon be home.”
EIGHT
We are expecting a visitor, Sophia,” Obermann informed her one morning, some days after their ride to the Hellespont. “He has sent me a telegraph from Constantinople to warn me that he is arriving next week.”
“Why did you not tell me before? How can I welcome a guest, Heinrich? Look at me.” She had adopted the blouse of the Turkish male worker which suited her perfectly. Her hair was tied in a bun, but it betrayed streaks of dust from her recent work in the excavations. Her long skirt was tucked into calico socks, and she was wearing rough leather gloves in order to protect her hands from the stony soil. She insisted that her clothes be washed every evening in the stream a few hundred yards from the mound, but the dust and the mud of each day’s digging clung to her. “I am a perfect monster, Heinrich. I cannot be seen.”
“Nonsense, Sophia. You are a goddess clothed in the shape of a mortal.”
“A dirty mortal.”
“This is not dirt. This is the stuff of the ancient city.”
“Who is this visitor? We have much work to do, Heinrich.”
THEY HAD FOUND the unmistakeable outline of a large chamber that Obermann immediately called “Priam’s Throne Room.” Many artefacts had been uncovered in the debris that filled the site, among them rings and knives, goblets and pitchers, as well as fragments of figures and shards of pottery. “Do you know what we are missing?” Obermann asked his wife, after a day’s labour. “There is one thing we have not yet found. There are no swords.”
“That is chance, Heinrich. There will be weapons here.”
“Perhaps so. But it is remarkable, is it not, that not one sword has yet been found?”
“And no shields.”
He looked at her in astonishment. “You are quite correct. No shields. No swords and no shields. What do
es that suggest to you, Sophia?”
“I would not like to—”
“I will tell you what it means. If we find nothing of that kind then, as the English say, we are in a pickle. If there are no weapons, then we cannot assume that they were a warlike people. Now do you see?”
“If they were not warlike, then no war,” she said. Obermann put his hands up to his ears. “If there was no war,” she continued, “then Homer was mistaken.”
Obermann had, of course, heard her. “That is a good way of putting it. That is very delicate. Yes.” Obermann took off his wide-brimmed hat, and gazed at the sky. “Homer made a mistake. Homer nodded. Do you know that expression, Sophia?” Suddenly he uttered a single, piercing yell that frightened the birds upon the plain beneath. She looked at him in astonishment. “Forgive me, my dear. I am just contemplating the end of my life. If Homer is wrong, then I am wrong.” He stamped his foot upon the earth. “This is wrong. Troy is wrong. Everything is wrong. Everything is desolate and gone.”
The more perturbed and excited he became, the steadier she held herself. She was very calm. “You are too passionate, Heinrich. Consider. You have found an ancient city where Homer has described Troy. You have found walls. You have found jewellery. What more is needed?”
“Weapons.”
“They may have been taken by the Greeks as booty. That is possible, is it not?”
“Possible.”
“Or perhaps the Trojans were defeated because they were defenceless.”
“In Homer they fought upon the plain and by the river. Hector and Achilles were in combat.”
“That is poetry, Heinrich.”
The Fall of Troy Page 6