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ATHENS
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Myrto rises from a light slumber in early hours before sunrise to the sound of gentle and rhythmic knocking at her door. She lights the candle by her bedside and drapes herself haphazardly in the prior day’s robes in hopes of returning to sleep shortly after investigating the noise. The knocking persists even as she leaves her bedroom and walks across the portico to the front door, her head shaking at the thought of her neighbors being roused from their rests just as she had been. When Myrto arrives at the door she calmly lights the lanterns bolted to the walls of the foyer, pauses for a moment to collect herself and then opens the door.
“Evening, my dear,” Socrates says, leaning against the door frame.
“Oh, look at you!” Myrto coos at the sight of the jaundiced bruises littering his face. She reaches out and gently lays the tips of her fingers on the larger contusions, as if the touch of her skin alone possesses healing properties still foreign to medicine. “My poor dear’s been hurt!” she says sympathetically.
“I have!” Socrates replies, “and as you can see my wounds require attention.”
“Oh, and you knew right where to come for that attention, didn’t you?” Myrto observes with a giggle. She leans in closer to Socrates and kisses him softly on the lips before turning around and taking a single step back into the house. Socrates interprets this as a sign to follow her, but as soon as he sets foot over the threshold Myrto turns around and slaps him across the face with all the force she can muster.
“Ouch!” Socrates yells, falling backward into the street. “What was that for?”
“Those bruises are five days old!” she hisses, her finger wagging dismissively at each visible injury. “How many whores have you sought sympathy from before you came to me?”
“None, my dear!” Socrates insists as he tries to rub away the sting from the slap. “My physician gave me a strict regimen of wine and rest to dull the pain.”
“And after five days of drinking you finally realized your cock required as much attention as your bludgeoned face?” Myrto snaps back. Without waiting for an answer, she spins around, her robes sailing into the air like petals in a stiff wind, and storms back into the house only to stop her furious march in a huff after a few steps.
Socrates gingerly enters the house and approaches Myrto, weary of any sudden movements. He gently lays his hand on her shoulders and slowly moves them down her sides to her waist and embraces her from behind. He begins kissing her shoulder, his lips moving patiently up her neck to her earlobes before he quietly whispers, “Actually, it’s been seven days, but who’s counting? I was just—”
But before he can continue, Myrto spins around in his arms and silences him by placing a single finger on his lips. “I’m counting, Socrates!” she begins. “You haven’t been stumbling drunk through the streets of Athens for seven days; you’ve been doing it for fifteen years!”
“Myrto—” Socrates tries to interject.
“Stop,” she orders with a frustrated sigh. “You broke my heart when you married another woman and I died three more painful deaths for each child she bore you. I’ve suffered through the women and the wine and watched the beautiful man and indomitable spirit I fell in love with disappear into a waif of his former self, a man who lives only to haunt the streets at night in search of new poisons and perils with which to kill himself and I will not abide it any longer!”
“Myrto, please—” Socrates tries once more.
Myrto’s angry finger presses firmly against his chest and pushes him back out the front door. “What?” she asks tauntingly. “Go on! Say something clever! Astonish me with a romantic story or an ingenious argument—I know you’ll never run out of those! There’s nothing you could possibly say that will make my bed available to you tonight!”
Then, with one final poke from her finger, Socrates trips over backwards through the doorway and into the quiet Athenian night, catching himself just before he losses his balance and falls to the ground. Socrates stammers and holds out his hand defensively, desperate to get Myrto to listen to him, but she simply stands in the doorway, her hands on her hips staring at him with a cold glare that renders him incapable of forming a coherent thought.
“What’s the matter, Socrates? Speechless for the first time in your life? Say something!” she demands.
Socrates continues to sputter for a moment before finally laying one hand across his chest and reaching out plaintively to Myrto with other. He takes a deep breath before finally letting the words spill from his mouth: “I love you?”
Myrto unfolds her arms and walks out into the street, reaching out once more for his head with both of her hands. Socrates bows and lets her fingers run through the back of his hair. She smiles and kisses him tenderly on the forehead. “Oh, and I love you too, my dear!” Myrto says, “But come back only when your words have meaning!” She slaps him across the face once more and retires back into the house, slamming the door behind her.
Socrates stands silently in the street as the candles inside Myrto’s home are snuffed out one by one. The neighborhood is completely empty, even of the stray animals that scour the streets in search of scraps of food and reliably provide an audience for the occasional lovers’ quarrel. Once he’s certain that he’s seen the last of Myrto for the night, Socrates finally allows his shoulders to slump down and hands to fall below his waist. He slowly shuffles his feet down the dimly lit street, uncertain of where to go next.
There are dozens of women scattered across Athens Socrates can count on to accept him into their beds, but he no longer pines for any of them. He can always return home to his wife Xanthippe, but the emotional toll she will extract from him in the morning would far exceed the value of just a few hours of rest. A soft breeze rushes down the corridor of the street. Socrates continues down the bleak road just as he has on so many nights before: completely alone.
Or so he thinks. Socrates passes an amorphous shadow he dismisses as refuse just as someone rises from the street and smothers Socrates’ mouth with a cloth soaked in ether. After a brief struggle, the mason finally surrenders to the fumes. The specter drapes a hood over Socrates’ head and drags his body into the adjacent alley.
School of Athens Page 15
