The Maidens

by Alex Michaelides

  Before she had even finished speaking, five hands were raised around the circle. All except hers.

  Fosca smiled. “You didn’t raise your hand, Mariana.”

  She shook her head. “No, I didn’t. But I am overruled.”

  Mariana felt the energy in the room change as Fosca joined them in the circle. She sensed the girls tense up, and she noticed a quick look was exchanged between Fosca and Carla as he sat down.

  Fosca smiled at Mariana. “Please go on.”

  Mariana left a slight pause, and decided to try a different approach. She smiled innocently.

  “You teach the girls Greek tragedy, Professor?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Have you studied Iphigenia in Aulis? The story of Agamemnon and Iphigenia?”

  She studied the professor closely as she said this—but there was no apparent reaction to the play being mentioned. He nodded.

  “We have indeed. As you are aware, Euripides is a favorite of mine.”

  “That’s right. Well, you know, I always found the character of Iphigenia to be rather curious … I was wondering what your students think.”

  “Curious? How so?”

  Mariana thought for a second. “Well, it bothers me, I suppose, that she’s so passive … so submissive.”

  “Submissive?”

  “She doesn’t fight for her life. She isn’t bound or restrained; she willingly lets her father put her to death.”

  Fosca smiled, and glanced at the others. “That’s an interesting point Mariana makes. Would someone like to respond…? Carla?”

  Carla looked pleased to be called on. She smiled at Mariana, as if humoring a child. “The way Iphigenia dies is the whole point.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that’s how she achieves her tragic stature—by means of a heroic death.”

  Carla glanced at Fosca for approval. He gave her a slight smile.

  Mariana shook her head. “I’m sorry. But I don’t buy that.”

  “No?” Fosca looked intrigued. “Why not?”

  Mariana glanced at the young women around the circle. “I think the best way to answer that … is to bring Iphigenia here, into the session—have her join us, on one of these empty chairs? What do you say?”

  A couple of the girls exchanged scornful looks.

  “That’s so dumb,” said Natasha.

  “Why? She was about your age, wasn’t she? A bit younger, perhaps. Sixteen, seventeen? What a brave, remarkable person she was. Imagine what she would have done with her life—if she had survived—what she could have achieved. What might we say to Iphigenia, now, if she were sitting here? What would we tell her?”

  “Nothing.” Diya looked unimpressed. “What is there to say?”

  “Nothing? You wouldn’t try to warn her—about her psychopathic father? Help save her?”

  “Save her?” Diya gave her a contemptuous look. “From what? Her fate? Tragedy doesn’t work like that.”

  “Anyway, it wasn’t Agamemnon’s fault,” said Carla. “It was Artemis who demanded Iphigenia’s death. It was the will of the gods.”

  “What if there are no gods?” said Mariana. “Just a girl and her father. What then?”

  Carla shrugged. “Then it’s not a tragedy.”

  Diya nodded. “Just a fucked-up Greek family.”

  Throughout all this Fosca had been silent, watching the debate with quiet amusement. But now his curiosity appeared to get the better of him.

  “What would you say to her, Mariana? To this girl who died to save Greece? She was younger, incidentally, than you think—closer to fourteen, or fifteen. If she were here now—what would you tell her?”

  Mariana thought for a moment. “I suppose I’d want to know about her relationship with her father … And why she felt compelled to sacrifice herself for him.”

  “And why do you think that was?”

  Mariana shrugged. “I believe that children will do anything to be loved. When they’re very young, it’s a matter of physical, then psychological survival. They’ll do whatever it takes to be cared for.” She lowered her voice, speaking not to Fosca but to the young women seated around him. “And some people take advantage of that.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?” he said.

  “Meaning, if I were her therapist, I would try to help Iphigenia see something—something that was invisible to her.”

  “And what was that?” said Carla.

  Mariana chose her words carefully. “It was that, at a very young age, Iphigenia mistook abuse for love. And that mistake colored how she saw herself … and the world around her. Agamemnon was not a hero—he was a madman, an infanticidal psychopath. Iphigenia did not need to love and honor this man. She did not need to die to please him.”

  Mariana looked into the girls’ eyes. She was desperate to reach them. She hoped it would penetrate … but did it? She couldn’t tell. She could feel Fosca’s eyes on her—and sensed he was about to interrupt. She went on quickly.

  “And if Iphigenia stopped lying to herself about her father … if she woke up to the terrible, devastating truth—that this was not love, that he didn’t love her, because he didn’t know how—in that very moment, she would cease to be a defenseless maiden with her head on the block. She’d seize the axe from the executioner’s hands. She would become the goddess.”

  Mariana turned and stared at Fosca. She tried to keep the anger out of her voice. But she couldn’t quite disguise it.

  “But that didn’t happen for Iphigenia, did it? Not Tara, nor Veronica. They never had the chance to become goddesses. They never had the chance to grow up.”

  As she stared at him, across the circle, she could see a spark of anger in his eyes. But like her, Fosca didn’t express it.

  “I take it you’re in some way casting me as the father in this current situation? As Agamemnon? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

  “It’s funny you say that. Before you arrived, we were debating your merits as a ‘father’ of the group.”

  “Oh, indeed? And what was the general consensus?”

  “We didn’t reach one. But I asked the Maidens if they felt less safe in your care—now that two of their number were dead.”

  As she said this, her eyes drifted to two empty chairs. Fosca’s eyes followed her gaze.

  “Ah. Now I see,” he said. “The empty chairs represent the missing members of the group … A chair for Tara, and a chair for Veronica?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “In which case,” he said, after a slight pause, “isn’t there a chair missing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Oh. She hasn’t told you. How very interesting.” Fosca kept smiling. He looked amused. “Perhaps you should point that powerful analytical lens back at yourself, Mariana? What kind of ‘mother’ are you?”

  “Physician, heal thyself,” said Carla, with a laugh.

  Fosca chuckled. “Yes, yes, exactly.”

  He turned and appealed to the others, with a mock-therapeutic air. “What do we make of this deception—as a group? What do we think it means?”

  “Well,” said Carla, “I think it says a lot about their relationship.”

  Natasha nodded. “Oh, yes. They’re not nearly as close as Mariana thinks.”

  “She obviously doesn’t trust her,” Lillian said.

  “Why not, I wonder?” murmured Fosca, still smiling.

  Mariana could feel her face going red, burning with annoyance at this little game they were playing—it was straight out of the schoolyard; like any bully, Fosca had manipulated the group, making them gang up against her. They were all in on the joke, grinning, mocking her. She hated them, suddenly.

  “What are you talking about?” she said.

  Fosca looked around the circle. “Well, who’s going to do the honors? Serena? How about you?”

  Serena nodded and stood up. She left the circle and wa
lked over to the dining table. She picked up another upright chair, brought it back, and wedged it into the space next to Mariana’s chair. Then she sat down again.

  “Thank you,” Fosca said. He glanced at Mariana. “There was a chair missing, you see. For the Maidens’ final member.”

  “And who is that?”

  But Mariana had already guessed what Fosca was going to say. He smiled.

  “Your niece,” he said. “Zoe.”

  15

  After the meeting, Mariana stumbled out into Main Court, feeling stunned.

  She needed to talk to Zoe—and hear her side of the story. In its cruel way, the group had made a good point: Mariana needed to look at herself, and Zoe, closely—and understand why Zoe had not confided in her about being a member of the Maidens. Mariana needed to know why.

  She found herself walking toward Zoe’s room, to find Zoe and confront her. But the moment she reached the archway leading to Eros Court, Mariana paused.

  She had to handle this carefully. Not only was Zoe fragile and vulnerable, but also, for whatever reason—and Mariana couldn’t help thinking it had to do with Edward Fosca himself—she felt unable to confide the truth to Mariana.

  And Fosca had just deliberately betrayed Zoe’s confidence—in an attempt to provoke Mariana. So it was imperative Mariana not rise to the bait. She mustn’t barge into Zoe’s room, and accuse her of lying.

  She needed to support Zoe, and think hard about how to proceed.

  She decided to sleep on it—and talk to Zoe in the morning after she had calmed down a bit. Mariana turned around; and, lost in thought, she didn’t notice Fred until he stepped out of the shadows.

  He stood on the path in front of her.

  “Hello, Mariana.”

  She caught her breath. “Fred. What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you. I wanted to check you’re okay.”

  “Yes, I am, just about.”

  “You know, you said you’d get in touch when you got back from London.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. I—I’ve been busy.”

  “You sure you’re all right? You look—like you could use a drink.”

  Mariana smiled. “I could, actually.”

  Fred smiled back. “Well, in that case—how about it?”

  Mariana hesitated, unsure. “Oh, well, I—”

  Fred went on quickly: “I happen to have a very impressive Burgundy, stolen from a formal hall. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion … What do you say? It’s in my room.”

  What the hell, Mariana thought. She nodded. “Okay. Why not?”

  “Really?” Fred’s face lit up. “Okay, great. Come on—”

  He held out his arm, but Mariana didn’t take it. She started walking—and Fred hurried to catch up with her.

  16

  Fred’s room in Trinity was larger than Zoe’s, although its furnishings were slightly more threadbare. The first thing Mariana noticed was how tidy it was: no clutter, no mess, apart from paper everywhere—pages and pages of scribbled writing and mathematical formulae. It rather looked like the work of a madman—or a genius—connected by arrows and illegible notes going up and down the sides of the pages.

  The only personal items Mariana could see were a couple of framed photographs on the shelf. One of the photos had a slightly faded look, as if it had been taken in the eighties: an attractive young man and woman, presumably Fred’s parents, standing in front of a picket fence and a meadow. The other photo was of a small boy with a dog; a little boy with a pudding-bowl haircut, and a serious look on his face.

  Mariana glanced at Fred. He still had the same expression now as he concentrated on lighting some candles. He then put on some music—a recording of Bach’s Goldberg Variations. He gathered up all the papers from the sofa, stacking them in an unsteady pile on his desk. “Sorry it’s such a mess.”

  “Is that your thesis?” she said, nodding at the piles of paper.

  “No.” Fred shook his head. “It’s—just something I’m writing. A kind of … book, I suppose.” He seemed at a loss as to how to describe it. “Won’t you sit?”

  He gestured at the sofa. Mariana sat down. She felt a broken spring underneath her, and shifted slightly.

  Fred pulled out the bottle of vintage Burgundy. He displayed it proudly. “Not bad, eh? They’d have killed me if they caught me nicking it.”

  He reached for a corkscrew, and wrestled with opening it. For a second, Mariana thought he’d drop the bottle. But he successfully uncorked it with a loud pop—and poured the dark red wine into two chipped, mismatched wineglasses. He gave Mariana the less damaged of the two.

  “Thank you.”

  He raised his glass. “Cheers.”

  Mariana sipped some wine—it was excellent, of course. Fred evidently thought so. He sighed happily, a tinge of red wine around his lips.

  “Lovely,” he said.

  They fell into silence for a moment. Mariana listened to the music, losing herself in Bach’s rising and falling scales, so elegant, so mathematical in construction; presumably why they appealed to Fred’s mathematical brain.

  She glanced at the stack of pages on the desk. “This book you’re writing … What’s it about?”

  “Honestly?” Fred shrugged. “No idea.”

  Mariana laughed. “You must have some idea.”

  “Well…” Fred averted his eyes. “In a way, I suppose … it’s about my mother.”

  He glanced at her shyly, as if afraid she might laugh.

  But Mariana didn’t find it funny. She gave him a curious look. “Your mother?”

  Fred nodded. “Yeah. She left me … when I was a boy … She—died.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mariana said. “My mother died too.”

  “Did she?” Fred’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know that. Then we’re both orphans.”

  “I wasn’t an orphan. I had my father.”

  “Yeah.” Fred nodded and spoke in a low voice. “I did too.”

  He reached out for the bottle and started refilling Mariana’s glass. “That’s enough,” she said. But he ignored her and filled it to the brim. She didn’t mind, really—she was relaxing for the first time in days, and felt grateful to him.

  “You see,” Fred said, pouring himself more wine, “my mother’s death is what drew me to theoretical mathematics—and to parallel universes. That’s what my thesis is about.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Not sure I do either, really. But if there are other universes, identical to ours, it means that somewhere, another universe exists—where my mother didn’t die.” He shrugged. “So … I went looking for her.”

  He had a sad, faraway expression in his eyes, like a lost little boy. Mariana felt sorry for him.

  “Did you find her?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “In a way … I discovered that time doesn’t exist—not really—so she hasn’t gone anywhere. She’s right here.”

  As Mariana wrestled with this, Fred put down his wineglass, took off his glasses, and faced her.

  “Mariana, listen—”

  “Please, don’t.”

  “What? You don’t know what I’m going to say.”

  “You’re going to make some kind of romantic declaration—and I don’t want to hear it.”

  “A declaration? No. Just a question. Am I allowed a question?”

  “It depends.”

  “I love you.”

  Mariana frowned. “That’s not a question.”

  “Will you marry me? That’s the question.”

  “Fred, please shut up—”

  “I love you, Mariana—I fell in love with you the first second I saw you, sitting on the train. I want to be with you. I want to take care of you. I want to look after you—”

  That was the wrong thing to say. Mariana felt her temperature rise; her cheeks burned with irritation. “Well, I don’t want to be looked after! I can’t think of anything worse. I’m not a damsel in distress, a … maiden
waiting to be rescued. I don’t need a knight in shining armor—I want—I want—”

  “What? What do you want?”

  “I want to be left alone.”

  “No.” Fred shook his head. “I don’t believe that.” And then, quickly, he said, “Remember my premonition: one day, I’ll ask you to marry me—and you’ll say yes.”

  Mariana couldn’t help laughing. “Sorry, Fred. Not in this universe.”

  “Well, you know, in some other universe, we’re married already.”

  Before she could protest, Fred leaned forward and gently pressed his lips against hers; she felt the softness of his kiss, its warmth and tenderness. She felt both alarmed and disarmed by it.

  It was over as quickly as it began. He pulled back, his eyes searching hers. “I’m sorry. I—I couldn’t help it.”

  Mariana shook her head; she didn’t speak. She felt affected in some way she couldn’t quite explain.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Fred.”

  “I don’t mind. It’s okay if you hurt me, you know. After all—‘it’s better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.’”

  Fred laughed. Then he saw Mariana’s face fall, and looked worried. “What? What did I say?”

  “It’s nothing.” She looked at her watch. “It’s late, I should go.”

  Fred looked pained. “Already? Fine. I’ll walk you downstairs.”

  “You don’t need to—”

  “I want to.”

  Fred’s manner seemed to have changed slightly; he seemed sharper. Some of his warmth had evaporated. He stood up, not looking at her.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  17

  Fred and Mariana walked down the steps in silence. They didn’t speak again until they were on the street. Mariana glanced at him. “Good night then.”

  Fred didn’t move. “I’m going for a walk.”

  “Now?”

  “I often walk at night. Is that a problem?”

  There was a prickliness, a hostility to his tone. He felt rejected—she could tell. Perhaps unfairly, she felt annoyed with him. But his hurt feelings were not her concern. She had more important things to worry about.