He interrupted, with mock-seriousness: 'Perhaps the eidetic images are only part of the key. What's the novel about?' 'A murder investigation,' I stammered. 'The central character thought he'd found the murderer, but now . . . now, new problems have emerged. I don't know what they are yet.'
My kidnapper seemed to give a little laugh. I say 'seemed' because the mask made it difficult to tell. He said: 'Isn't it possible that there might not be a final key?'
'I don't think so’ I answered immediately.
'Why not?'
'Because if there was no key, I wouldn't be locked up in here.'
'Oh, that's very good.' He seemed amused. 'So, to you, I'm proof that there is a key! Or, should I say, I'm the most important proof.'
I thumped the table. I shouted. 'That's enough! You know the novel! You've even changed it, mixing bogus pages in with the originals! You're perfectly familiar with the language and the style! Why do you need me?'
He seemed thoughtful for a moment, although the mask was still smiling, then he said: 'I haven't made any changes. There are no bogus pages. The thing is, you've swallowed the eidetic bait.'
'What do you mean?'
'When there's a very strong element of eidesis in a text, as here, the reader becomes so obsessed with the images that he feels as if he's in the novel. You can't become obsessed with something without feeling you're part of it. In your beloved's eyes you think you see her love for you, and in the pages of an eidetic book you think you see yourself
Annoyed, I rummaged through my papers. 'What about this?' I showed him a page. 'Is that the case here, in the bogus Chapter Eight when Heracles Pontor talks to a translator who's supposedly been kidnapped? Have I swallowed the 'eidetic bait' here, too?'
'Yes,' he replied calmly. 'Throughout the novel, there is mention of a Translator whom Crantor sometimes addresses in the second person, and with whom Heracles talks in your 'bogus chapter'. . . But that doesn't mean he's you!’
I didn't know what to say; his logic was devastating. Suddenly I heard him tittering behind the mask. 'Ah, literature!' he said. 'Reading isn't thinking by oneself, my friend - it's a dialogue! But the dialogue in question is a Platonic dialogue: your interlocutor is an idea. Though not an immutable idea. As you converse with it, you alter it, you make it yours, you come to believe it exists independently ... Eidetic novels make the most of this, setting cunning traps .. . that can .. . drive you insane.' And he added, after a silence: 'Which is what happened to Montalo, your predecessor
'Montalo?' I felt cold inside. 'Montalo was here?'
There was a pause. Then the mask burst out laughing and said: 'For a long time! In fact, like you, I came across The Athenian Murders thanks to Montalo's edition. But I knew that there was a hidden key to it, so I locked him up and made him find it. He failed.'
He said it as if 'failing' was exactly what he expected his victims to do. He paused and the mask's smile seemed to widen. He went on: 'But I lost patience, and let my dogs feast on him. Then I dumped his body in the forest. The police thought he'd been attacked by wolves.'
After another pause, he added: 'But don't worry, I won't get fed up with you for some time.'
My fear turned to rage. 'You're ... a vile, ruthless ...' I stopped, searching for the appropriate word. Murderer? Criminal? Executioner? In the end, in desperation, realising that my disgust could not be translated into words, I spat out: '. . . twaddle!' And I went on, defiantly: 'You think you frighten me? You're the one who's scared, hiding your face like that!'
'Would you like me to remove my mask?' he said.
There was a deep silence. I said: 'No.'
'Why not?'
'Because I know that if I see your face, I'll never get out of here alive.'
I heard his odious little laugh again. 'So, my mask ensures your safety, and your presence ensures mine! That means we have to stay together!' He went out, slamming the door before I could reach it. His voice came through the cracks in the door: 'Carry on with the translation. And remember, if there is a key, and you find it, you'll get out of here. If there isn't, you'll never get out. So it's in your interest to see that there is one, isn't it?' ('T.'s N.)
X98
‘Would you like me to remove my mask?'
'No, for I would never get out of here alive.’99
A dark mouth was dug into the rock. Together, the gently curving frieze and threshold formed a huge pair of woman's lips. But above the frieze, the unknown sculptor had carved an androgynous moustache, decorated with aggressive, naked male figures. It was the entrance to a small temple dedicated to Aphrodite on the northern slope of the Pnyx but, inside, one had the feeling of descending into a deep chasm, a cavern in Hephaestus' kingdom.
98'The penetrating scent of a woman. And the feel - oh, firm and velvety! - has something of the toughness of an athlete's arm and the smoothness of a young girl's breast.' This is Montalo's absurd description of the texture of the papyrus for Chapter Ten. (T.'s N.)
99This password (we'll find out it's a password in a moment) is a strangely exact repetition of part of the conversation I had with my kidnapper only a few hours ago. Another piece of 'eidetic bait'?
(T.'sN.)
'On specific nights every moon,' Heracles explained to Diagoras on the way there, 'secret doors are opened leading to a honeycomb of galleries on this side of the hill. At the entrance there is a guard in a mask and dark cloak, who could be a man or a woman. It's important to give the right answer to the question, or we won't be allowed in. Luckily, I know the password for tonight...'
The steps were wide, and Heracles' and Diagoras' descent was further aided by torches placed at irregular intervals. The smell of smoke and spices grew stronger with every step. The mellifluous, inquiring tones of an oboe and the virile response of a cymbal reached their ears, disguised by echoes, together with the voice of a rhapsode of indeterminate sex. Rounding a bend at the bottom of the stairs, they came to a small room. There appeared to be two exits: a dark, narrow tunnel to the left, and another on the right, through a pair of curtains nailed to the rock. The air was almost unbreathable. A figure stood by the curtains, in a mask frozen in an expression of terror. It wore a small, almost indecent chiton but, since much of its nudity was clothed in shadows, it was impossible to tell whether it was a particularly slim young man or a small-breasted girl. On seeing the new arrivals, it took something from a shelf on the wall and held it out to them like an offering. It said, the voice young, ambiguous: 'Your masks. Sacred Dionysus Bromios. Sacred Dionysus Bromios.'
Diagoras glanced at his mask. It was very much like those worn by the chorus in tragedies, with a handle made of the same clay as the rest, and a happy or insane expression. He couldn't tell if it was a male or female face. It felt very heavy. Gripping it by the handle, he held it up and observed everything through the mysterious eye slits. As he breathed, his view misted over.
It (the creature that had handed them the masks and whose identity, Diagoras found, wavered disturbingly with each word and gesture between one gender and the other) parted the curtains and let them through.
'Careful. There's another step,' said Heracles.
They were in an underground room as closed as the chamber where life itself begins. The walls exuded red droplets, and the penetrating smell of smoke and spices filled one's nose. The rhapsode and musicians stood on a smallish wooden stage erected at the far end. The audience was crowded into a small area - it was indistinct shadows, heads swaying, one hand resting on a neighbour's shoulder, the other holding up a mask. A golden bowl on a tripod stood in the middle of the room. Heracles and Diagoras went to stand in the back row, and waited. The philosopher guessed that the incense burners hanging from the ceiling and the rags tied round the torches must contain colouring herbs, for they produced strange, blue-red tongues of flame. 'What is this place?' he asked. 'Another clandestine theatre?'
'No. These are rituals,' replied Heracles through his mask. 'Not the Sacred Mysteries, something else. A
thens is full of them.'
Suddenly, a hand appeared in the field of vision allowed by Diagoras' eye slits. It held out a small krater filled with dark liquid. Diagoras swivelled his mask and found another mask facing him. In the red light he could not tell its colour, but he could see that it was hideous, with a long nose like an old witch's; hair spilled abundantly around the edges. The figure -man or woman - was dressed in a diaphanous tunic, like those worn by courtesans to arouse guests at licentious banquets, but, once again, its sex was skilfully concealed.
Diagoras felt Heracles nudge his elbow. 'Take what you're offered.'
Diagoras took the krater. The figure vanished through the doorway, affording a lightning glimpse of its true nature, for the tunic was open at the sides. But in the blood-red light the questions remained unanswered: what was that hanging there? A high belly? Low breasts?
The Decipherer in turn accepted a krater. 'When the time comes,' he whispered to Diagoras, 'pretend to drink. But don't even think of actually doing so.'
The music stopped abruptly and the audience divided into two groups, standing against the side walls and clearing a central aisle. There was coughing, hoarse laughter and whispered shreds of words. The musicians had withdrawn and only the rhapsode's red figure remained on the stage. A fetid smell rose like a corpse revived by sorcery, and Diagoras had to suppress a sudden urge to flee from the room in search of fresh air. He sensed confusedly that the stench came from the bowl, and the lumpy matter it contained. As the crowd around it had parted, the putrid odour had spread unhindered.
A crowd of improbable figures now came through the curtains.
One was conscious first of their complete nakedness. Then, the bulging forms were suggestive of women. They crawled in, outlandish masks hiding their faces. On some, breasts swung more freely than on others. Some bodies complied with the canon for ephebes more closely than others. Some were slender, lively, agile, others were fat and clumsy. Their backs and buttocks, the most visible parts of their bodies, displayed varying nuances of beauty, age, health. But they were all naked, rootling around on all fours, grunting like sows in heat. The audience urged them on loudly. Diagoras wondered where they had come from, but then remembered the tunnel leading off the small room at the entrance.
They advanced in rows of increasing size: one at the head, two behind, then three, then four - this the largest number that the central aisle could accommodate - so that the front of the strange herd resembled a living spear tip. As it came level with the tripod, the naked torrent broke up and engulfed it.
The ones at the front mounted the stage, flinging themselves at the rhapsode. More kept arriving, the ones at the back having to stop. While they waited, they teased one another, pressing their masks into the backsides and thighs of the ones in front. As they reached the stage, they collapsed, panting frenziedly, in a soft, disordered heap of writhing bodies, a jumble of pubescent flesh.
Astounded, gripped by dismay and revulsion, Diagoras again felt Heracles nudge his arm: 'Pretend to drink!'
Diagoras looked around at the crowd - heads were thrown back, tunics stained with dark fluids. He moved his mask aside and raised the krater to his lips. The liquid smelt like nothing he had encountered before - a dense mixture of ink and spices.
The aisle was almost empty, while the stage creaked beneath the weight of bodies. What was happening? What were they doing? The noisy, naked, shifting mass blocked his view.
Suddenly, an object flew off the stage, landing by the tripod. It was the rhapsode's right arm, easily identifiable by the piece of black cloth from his tunic attached to the shoulder. Its appearance was greeted with joyful cries. The same fate befell the left arm. It hit the floor with a thud, like a dead branch, and came to a stop at Diagoras' feet, the hand open like a white, five-petalled flower. The philosopher screamed but, luckily, nobody heard. As if the act of dismemberment were an agreed signal, the audience rushed towards the bowl in the centre like joyful young girls frolicking in the sun.100
100 'Young girls' and 'white petals' remind me of the image of my girl with the lily. I can picture her running under the strong Greek sun, holding a lily, happy, trusting . . . And all of it in this horrible paragraph! Damn this eidetic novel! (T.'s N.)
'It's a dummy,' said Heracles, to his horrified companion.
A leg struck one of the spectators before falling to the ground; the other leg, flung too hard, crashed against the opposite wall. The women were now vying with each other to see who could rip the head from the mutilated dummy. Some pulled one way, others pulled the other way, some tearing at it with their teeth, others with their hands. The winner crawled to the middle of the stage and raised her trophy in the air with a howl, spreading her legs shamelessly, displaying athletic muscles unbecoming in an Athenian maiden, and flaunting her breasts. The torchlight branded her ribs with red. She began stamping a bare foot on the wooden stage, raising ghosts of dust. Panting but more subdued, her companions watched with reverence.
Chaos reigned over the audience. What was happening? They were crowding around the bowl. Stunned, jostled, Diagoras moved closer. An old man in front of him was shaking his thick grey hair, as if in a private, ecstatic dance. There was something hanging from his mouth. He looked as if he had been slapped in the face until his lips split, but the shreds of flesh dangling from the corners of his mouth were not his.
'I have to get out,' moaned Diagoras.
The women had begun chanting, shrieking: 'Ia, Ia, Bromios, evohe, evohe!’
'By the gods of friendship, Heracles, what was that? Definitely not Athens!'
They were in the cool peace of an empty street, sitting on the ground with their backs against a wall, breathless. Diagoras' insides felt much improved after the violent purge they had just undergone.
Heracles replied, frowning: 'I fear that it was Athens much more than your Academy, Diagoras. It was a Dionysian ritual. Dozens of them are celebrated in and around the City every moon, all differing in small details yet similar overall. I knew of these rituals, of course, but until now I'd never seen one, although I wanted to.'
'Why?'
The Decipherer scratched his short silver beard for a moment. 'According to legend, Dionysus' body was destroyed by the Titans, just as Orpheus' was by the women of Thrace. Zeus brought him back to life from his heart. Tearing out the heart and devouring it is one of the most important parts of Dionysian rites.'
'The bowl.. .' murmured Diagoras.
Heracles nodded. 'It probably contained chunks of rotting hearts torn from animals.' 'And those women
'Women and men, slaves and free men, Athenians and metics . . . The rites acknowledge no difference. Madness and frenzy unite people. One of those naked women you saw on all fours could have been the daughter of an archon, and that may have been a slave girl from Corinth or a hetaera from Argos crawling beside her. It's madness, Diagoras. We can't explain it.'
Diagoras shook his head, stunned. 'But what does it all have to do with . . .' Suddenly he opened his eyes wide and exclaimed: 'The torn-out heart! Tramachus!'
Heracles nodded again. 'The sect we saw tonight is more or less legal, known and accepted by the archons, but there are others that operate clandestinely, due to the nature of their rites. You set out the problem clearly at my house, do you remember? We wouldn't reach the Truth by applying reason. I didn't believe you, but now I have to admit that you were right. What I felt in the Agora today as I listened to Attican peasants mourning the death of their friends attacked by wolves was not the logical consequence of a . . . reasoned argument, shall we say? . . . but. . . something I can't define . . . Perhaps it was a flash of inspiration from my Socratic daemon, or the intuition women are said to possess. It happened when one of them mentioned that his friend's heart had been devoured. Suddenly, it came to me: 'It was a ritual, and we didn't suspect.' The victims are mainly peasants whose deaths have gone unnoticed until now. But I'm sure they've been active in Attica for years.'
The Decipher
er got to his feet wearily. Diagoras did likewise, murmuring anxiously: 'Wait. That's not how Euneos and Antisus died! Their - their hearts were not torn out!'
'Don't you see? Euneos and Antisus were murdered in order to mislead us. It was Tramachus' death they were concerned to cover up. When they found out you had engaged a Decipherer of Enigmas to investigate Tramachus' death, they were so scared they devised this horrific comedy.'
Diagoras ran his hand over his face, as if trying to erase his look of disbelief. 'It's not possible . . . They devoured . . . Tramachus' heart? When? Before or after the wolves ...'
He stopped when he saw the Decipherer staring back at him.
'There never were any wolves, Diagoras. That was what they tried to hide from us by all possible means. The tears, the bites .. .it wasn't a wolf attack ... Some sects ...'
The Athenian Murders Page 23
