A Journey to Mount Athos

by FranCois Augieras

  As I had stopped to look at this extravagant fellow, my host put down my bag in a corner of the drawing room, and approached.

  “Lord Byron,” he cried, “Lord Byron, liberator of the Greeks!”

  This meant nothing to me. He was most disappointed:

  “Missolonghi, Missolonghi,” he thought it a good idea to add.

  I went up to the lithograph and managed to read: Byron, 1788-1824. I tried to remember the world of men. My almost total lack of memory did not weigh heavily on me, far from it. But I was distressed at aggravating my host: my supper was at stake.

  “Lord Byron,” he shouted in my ear, pointing at the handsome young man. Weary of my stubborn silence, he turned and looked me up and down: I had no dagger at my waist! I was dressed in a blue shirt torn by brambles and cotton trousers; on my feet were espadrilles, and I was holding an old straw hat. Did something in my face suddenly remind him of something he liked about Lord Byron? He softened again and asked me who I was. I replied that I had no idea. I was dead, which was why I begged him to forgive me for forgetting the history of the world, as well as my name.

  My frankness and my agreeable manner finally won his respect. He was tall, very old, very thin; kindly, he asked me to sit down, to wait a moment. He soon came back with coffee and raki; we sat down at the table. He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, offered me one, and we chatted. According to him, dead folk ... they were often seen on Athos; but a dead man as dead as I was ... rarely! He congratulated me on being so very deceased! The first time you hear this compliment you find it rather embarrassing. Dead people, he went on, we get fifty or so every year! They stay a few days, miss the world, haven’t forgotten anything, want to go away again, and indeed do so with the excuse that people on this side of life suffer too much from hunger. I belonged to a different sort of dead person! The real dead: those who have even forgotten their own name during that century, those who are visibly happy on Athos, who stay there for a long time, months, years ... He made a sweeping gesture. We drank a second glass of raki; he lit a cigarette.

  “I would like to see the parchment you were given at Kariés.”

  I took it out of my pocket; he examined it and handed it back.

  I admitted that I had not managed to decipher a single line of this famous parchment.

  “No doubt it is better that way”, he said, getting up and putting the glasses on a tray. “It is not useful to know the length of time one will remain on the Holy Mountain.”

  “That is written on the parchment?”

  “It is written.”

  “How many days, months, years, am I going to stay on Athos?”

  Without answering, he picked up my bag, led me to my room and threw the bag onto a bed.

  I persisted: “Years, centuries? ...”

  “Or more!”

  And he closed the door.

  I sat down on the window sill and pressed my young face against the metal bars. It was nearly evening. The birds were calling in the woods. Was I happy or sad? The state of being dead was a very strange one. I thought I had got used to it, but I had not, or at least not much. For the first few days it was as if I was enjoying the surprise of still being alive, as well as my great delight, my joy at seeing the beauty of Athos. The knowledge that nothing here was unknown to me added to my cheerful amazement. The pleasure of seeing the Most Holy Mountain again, so many lovely things, the water, the mystery of the forests, my freedom, my wanderings, had, as it were, distracted me. To hear myself now say that I was dead, very dead, perhaps for ever dead, increased my alarm at having passed into the Land of the Spirits. I was a real dead person! Not one of those who, having walked on Athos for a little while, quickly sail away again after having only glimpsed the Divine. It had not exactly been concealed from me that I was called never to return to the world. I had an impression of great departure, this time with no return. Without sadness. I had even forgotten my name: so who, I thought, as I stood at the window pressing my lips against the iron bars, watching the first stars light up in the bright sky of early night, who—faced with the idea of being dead—would have mourned the death of whom?

  Someone knocked at my door. I opened it. It was my host, a white cook’s apron tied round him, which made the old man appear even taller, even thinner in the darkness of the corridor. He asked me to kindly follow him. We went into the drawing room; he opened a double door and stepped back to let me enter the dining room, where a place had been set out for me at the far end of a long oval table covered with a spotless cloth. A paraffin lamp, of the same style as the one in the drawing room, gently lit up an earthenware soup tureen, a carafe of wine, a wine glass, a basket of bread, fresh fruit and, on a large silver salver, several vegetable and fish dishes that looked most appetizing. A napkin lay on my plate, folded in the shape of a heart. He asked me to sit down and turned up the wick of the lamp, making the flame give me proper light. Once the brightness made it easier for me to see these marvels and my perfectly-arranged place setting, he opened the soup tureen, delicately picked up a ladle, and served me.

  Having got out of the habit of eating I hardly touched this exquisite broth. The old man stood behind my chair, eager to anticipate my wishes; he poured me wine and broke my bread for me. Dreamy at the sight of this hearty supper which I had so little expected, my stomach completely unreceptive, I studied my surroundings. Despite the efforts of the lamp the room was still full of shadows. I could just make out heavy drapes, green plants in copper pots. On the wall, a large lithograph of Moses saved from the Nile by the friendly slaves of Pharaoh’s daughter slipped back into darkness as soon as the wick became black. The good monk trimmed it almost constantly, leaning over the food to do so. Nothing was right! That evening, for the first time since my arrival on Athos, I knew I would never return from the Land of the Spirits! I had to get used to being just a soul. I was devoid of memories; and that made me feel lightened. Without regrets, for I remained what I was before: intact and powerful within me, I rediscovered tastes, inclinations, abilities, virtues and vices that I knew were mine. I had lost nothing of my deepest being, I was young beyond the gates of death! Nothing really clouded my delight at the thought of living eternally in the Land of the Spirits, where I felt very much alive, very determined to take advantage of my new state and give free rein to my true nature, which had been slowly, assembled through thousands of existences. It mattered little to me that I had forgotten a recent identity. What was my true self, ancient, as old as the world? What was I in the eyes of the Lord? What would to happen to me in this Land of Souls?

  My appetite was coming back; so, putting off the process of knowing myself better until later, I tackled my supper. It was high time; the lamp was growing dim. Fried fish, lentils, beans, courgettes, green beans livened up with raisins, lemon, sweet peppers and black olives, everything was hurried. Having finished the wine, I left the table a little drunk, thanking the old man for his unhoped-for good supper. But on Athos, did each new moment not bring a new surprise! He took me back to my room. In the doorway, did he guess that my slight intoxication hid feelings of great confusion? He took me in his arms, held me to him very tightly. He seized my face in his bony hands, kissed me on the eyes tenderly, as one kisses a child. He opened my door and then left, wishing me goodnight.

  I stretched out fully dressed on the bed, where almost immediately I fell into a wonderful sleep. In its depths I quickly recovered my strength, lying flat on my stomach, moving no more than a tree stump, my head buried in my little bolster. Strange night: how long had I been awake? The moon was hidden by the hills, and so my room remained in peaceful shadows. What had dragged me from my exquisite sleep at about two in the morning? For, listening to the delightful silence, it must have been the middle of the night. Suddenly I heard hammer-blows on the piece of wood called Simandron, summoning the monks to the divine office. Had I heard them before they echoed in the darkness? Or was it simply that a distant atavism, as well as my becoming so quickly accusto
med to the ways of Athos, made me wake of my own accord in time for matins? After several short blows, the monk producing them moved along the galleries; the bang of the hammer was repeated here and there in Chilandari, then stopped. Again the heavenly silence of night returned, as tranquil as calm water, like a motionless lake of peace within the walls of the monastery. Should I go down to the church? I had an incredible desire to go back to sleep as soon as possible. So I stayed in bed; I heard footsteps on the stairs, then, ringing clearly on the paving of the courtyard, a door opening, liturgical chants. Where were the toilets? My good monk, all too readily convinced of my spiritual progress, had forgotten to tell me. If I groped my way through the corridors and the dark staircases in search of distant latrines, I might break my neck! I waited until the service was actually under way. Once I was certain that all the monks were praying in church, I got up; and, standing on my window sill, holding on to the metal bars with one hand, I pissed into the courtyard from the fourth floor. It made a marvellous waterfall sound, plashing on the paving stones. Then I went back to bed and fell asleep again. Later on I was jolted from my sweet sleep by the thump of the church door banging shut, by the sound of a lock turning, and the footsteps of people in a hurry to get back to their sheets.

  A faint glow shone on to the roof and the great square tower that loomed over everything. The moon was rising, the night was moving on. Suddenly, howling groans, sobs which soon became appalling moans made my hair stand on end! Lamentations of immense sadness. Seized by indescribable panic, I did not move from my bed. Cries of rage; tears that never seemed to end. A concert of howling, yapping, barking seemed to be coming from the forest. Persistent howling, very close, just outside the walls; moans and sobs that made my blood run cold. Appalling, desperate cries; inhuman laments! Several packs of jackals were running and howling in the undergrowth, unwilling to move away from our battlemented walls.

  I went to the window. In the moon’s cold gleam I could make out old roofs of flat stones, covered in moss, half-green, covering ancient buildings topped by small octagonal domes, strange little chimneys and tiny, triangular skylights. The monastery of Chilandari backed up against the first foothills of the Holy Mountain—steep, impassable slopes. The jungle began just beyond the roofs, the jungle with its thousands of leaves glowing under the clear night sky, the jungle with its dense thickets where these cries came from. The jackals were squabbling over the filth at the foot of our walls. They were fighting under the latrines, carrying away excrement into the woods, devouring it savagely with howls and sobs. The screams fell silent, then began again even louder. The abominable beasts of the night continued their din: one band, pursued by another, climbed very high into the undergrowth. A fearsome dispute made the pitch of the barking get higher. Furious galloping in the copses; crying, yapping! The two packs met in a ravine for a final settling of scores, which outdid all the rest in its unspeakable horror. Then the abominable beasts of the night dispersed, and there was silence.

  A nightingale sang. Invisible in the deepest part of the greenery, it called delightfully in the now peaceful forest. It alone was awake beneath the branches, and sang an exquisitely measured song into the clear space. The round moon shone above the hills; its brilliance lit up each leaf in the jungle, I caught the scent of resin and sap. Now peace had returned to the woods, I was about to go back to bed in my little room, which was no more than an attic cubby-hole under the stone roof, when my door slowly opened, then more and more until a shadow appeared.

  It approached me. A strong smell of grime came with it. When the shadow was two feet from the window where I was still on watch, I saw it was one of the monks I had barely noticed in the church. Hairy and dirty, he did not look like the good monk who had done his best to welcome me. This one came from the tribe of the filthy and the simple who lived on the other side of Chilandari. Through what maze of unknown passages, by what detours in this enormous monastery had he discreetly arrived at my room? I could not quite see his face, which bristled with grey hair; two gleaming eyes stared at me intensely. Without a word he grabbed me by the waist, tore me away from the window sill and threw me on the bed. Dispensing with my clothes, I promptly gave him every hope for the pleasure he wanted to have with me. He had only glimpsed me in church. Had he guessed from the mere sight of my pleasant, open face that I would not offer any resistance to rustic behaviour? Had I, in the chancel, with my straw hat in my hand, looked like a young goatherd who could not be frightened by old ways? He had watched me all through vespers. Convinced he would not be disappointed, he had come soundlessly to my room and expected from me the sweet, hot submission that gives an attacker the illusion of uncommon virility. Yet in the presence of such alacrity he was speechless. My haste to unbutton my clothes, to offer no obstacle to any effrontery! His senses, worn out by age, did not respond so quickly. Weapon in hand, he hesitated to come and join me; a rusty old weapon, still held so low that it scarcely menaced the naked young flesh offered up to his desires. Kneeling on the sheets, I waited for him in the shadows, away from the moonlight that came into the room. His brutality in throwing a boy onto a bed, without a word, without a caress, came from the days of his youth. His hesitation now came from the weight of years. He sat down at the bed-head; with the tips of his fingers he touched my face. Betrayed by his great age, brushing young eyes, fresh lips, could he hope for other joys? A strong odour of filth came from his person. But the sophistication of the Byzantine liturgy, which had become second nature to him, as well as a long habit of gestures that please boys, and girls, for perhaps he had been married in this same century, gave a strange delicacy to this old gardener’s advances. His hand wandered over my face. He sometimes showed extraordinary skill in the innocent pleasure he took in following the curve of my forehead with his finger. When he entered my room he thought he was going to have me immediately, as one rapes a girl. Still well-built, but having overestimated his own strength, he had to make do with kissing my eyes. As for me, completely open as I was to great outrages, I had to be satisfied with the delicious contact of his tongue on my closed eyelids. Time passed. We were at the same point. At last he dared caress my back! Not that he really enjoyed it. But in the hope that his former strength might return, he let one hand drift towards my backside, just in case. With various movements of the other he helped nature regain its lost vitality. The night was cold; the nightingale was singing in the forest; I heard the distant sound of the sea. I was half-naked; my skin, made highly sensitive by the cool air, shivered with pleasure at the first bold caresses. Now he was touching my hips, more and more tenderly, in an exquisitely skilful way. He had already stopped polishing weapons that were no longer unresponsive. With a sudden movement he slid the unbuttoned clothes that still covered my thighs down to my ankles and climbed onto the bed. My long wait, my great impatience, a rather rough assault, soon led to pleasures which, although crude, were no less delicious for that. A night-bird cried; a magic spell came out of the trees: seduced, possessed, taken by violence, inhabited by another, I was no longer alone within myself. In a perfect frenzy, the feminine side of my nature was sharing the eternity of life. I felt myself violently distracted from a solitude that often weighed on me. A shadow draped in black, like an enormous bat that had come down from the dark trees, covered me and seized my body right down to its depths. He had hoped for gentle submission from me. He had come to my little room in the hope that my pleasant face was a sign of artless instincts in love. He was not disappointed! By grunts and furtive kisses he showed me all his contentment. He whispered a thousand thanks in my ear for having granted him more than an hour of my time without the slightest impatience, whispered that his great age did not make him the liveliest of lovers. I was an angel of sweetness and kindness to him! A little pearl! In fact I had that taste for submission, that hint of the slave, which, once all obstacles were overcome, brought his pleasure to heights of pride; and mine to a pure, absolute and simple delight in abandoning myself without hesitation to a st
rong embrace. He got off the bed, adjusted his black robes, buckled his leather belt, rearranged a few folds. He opened a cupboard, took out a blanket, threw it over my legs, tucked me in gently, placed a last kiss on my forehead like a blessing, and went away, leaving me crushed with pleasure, drunk with joy, delirious. The shadow went soundlessly away down the corridors, back to the mystery of the night whence it came.

  Intoxicated with sensual pleasure, moved to my very eternal soul, I was again certain that I had already lived! Were not ancient customs for me just a trial of magic powers, a call to lost memories? Fragments of previous lives were coming back to me. How could I be in any doubt? I was as old as the world! Swift glimmers of light crossed the shadowy depths of my happy drunkenness. I had been a novice in Russia and the friend of an old monk. I saw a wilderness, an old man and an Arab boy. Had I been the old man or the boy? Or both at once? And in what period? I was a soul in the Land of the Spirits, still able to remember a few images, but had lost contact with the worldly circumstances of how I acquired them. Other recollections that emerged from the darkness of time undoubtedly belonged to me as well. Trembling with emotion and curiosity, in my little bed under the stone roof I seemed to hold the golden key to ancient memories. I saw myself, a half-naked girl prostitute, at the entrance to a cave; as a woman I was gathering herbs on a moonlit night in a wild forest. A sorceress, I had seduced men. Before Sumer, before history! And what was Sumer? Again I saw my depths and my share of shadows. The spell faded. A certainty was still rising up from my depths: I had been a wise man. The illuminated part of my nature was still unknown to me, just as all I knew of the Holy Mountain were its beaches and its lower slopes. I must travel to the snowy regions, to the peace of the summits, to find my true master.