Heracles' slim body tensed; his forehead, with its sharply receding hairline, was damp with sweat; his black eyes blinked; his mouth, surrounded by a neat black beard, issued a moan; his entire face was flushed; even the small scar on his prominent right cheekbone (a memento from a childhood fight) looked darker.112
112It's me. This is a description of my body, not Heracles'. It's me lying with Yasintra!
Trapped by the metal link belt, the peplos ceased its ecstatic descent. Yasintra used her hands for the first time, and the belt yielded with a gentle click. Full of resolve, her body made its way towards nudity. Free at last, the flesh appeared, to Heracles' eyes, beautifully muscular; the memory of movement was apparent in every area of skin.
Grunting, Heracles sat up. Acquiescing to his initiative, she allowed him to push her down on to the bed. He couldn't look at her face. Turning, he flung himself on top of her. He felt capable of causing pain - he parted her legs and, gently, roughly, thrust inside her. He wanted to believe that he made her moan. He felt Yasintra's face with his hand, and she cried out as he nicked her with the ring on his middle finger. Their movements were now questions and answers, orders and acts of obedience, an instinctive ritual.113 Yasintra stroked his wide back with nails as sharp as knives, and he closed his watchful eyes.114
113 It's appalling to see myself here, described during the sexual act. Perhaps all readers picture themselves when they read scenes such as these: he thinks he is him, and she, her, I'm aroused, despite myself. As I read and write, I sense the arrival of a strange and overwhelming pleasure . .. (T.'s N.)
114The three eidetic words of warning: hack', 'knife', and 'watch! It's a trap! I must... I mean, Heracles must. .. (T.'s N.)
He kissed the gentle curves of her neck and her shoulder, biting her gently, placing modest cries here and there, until he sensed the arrival of a strange and overwhelming pleasure.115
115 My own words! The ones I've written in a previous note! (I've underlined them in the text and in my note so that the reader can check.) Of course I wrote them before I translated the sentence. Isn't this almost a fusion, an act of love? What is making love if not the merging of fantasy and reality? Oh, the pleasure of the text -stroking it, enjoying it, rubbing my pen against it! I don't care if it is a coincidence - there can no longer be any doubt, I am him, I am there, with her ... (T.'s N.)
He cried out for the last time, his voice echoing - thick, torrential - inside her.
As this was happening, belying her apparent ecstasy, the hetaera slowly raised the object she had picked up earlier -Heracles saw it, but he couldn't move, not just then - and plunged it into his back.116
116 Heracles doesn't react. Nor do I. He continues. I continue. And so on, to the end. We've both chosen to continue. (T.'s N.)
He felt a sting in his spine.
A moment later, he jerked away from her, raising his hand and bringing it down on her jaw as if it were a sword handle. She tried to move aside, but she was pinned to the bed by the weight of his body. He sat up further and pushed her. She rolled, like a flayed animal, and fell to the floor with a strangely gentle thud. But she let go of the long, sharp knife and it bounced with a clink that seemed quite absurd amid so many smooth sounds. Clumsily, wearily, Heracles got off the bed. He pulled Yasintra up by the hair and dragged her to the nearest wall, slamming her head against it.
He started thinking again, and his first thought was: She didn't hurt me. She could have stabbed me, but she didn't. His rage was unabated, however. Still gripping her hair, he banged her head against the adobe wall. 'What else were you to do, other than kill me?' he asked hoarsely.
As she spoke, two red trails ran from her nose, avoiding her thick lips. 'I wasn't ordered to kill you. I could have done so if
I'd wanted to. They just said that when you reached the peak of pleasure, and only then, not before or after, I was to place the point of the dagger against your flesh, without harming you.'
Heracles still held her by the hair. They were both panting, and her naked breasts were pressing against his tunic. Shaking with fury, the Decipherer changed hands, now gripping her hair in his left. With the right, he hit her twice, extremely hard. Afterwards, the girl simply ran her tongue over her split lip, staring at him, showing neither pain nor fear. Heracles said: 'There never were any "tall men with Athenian accents", were there?'
Yasintra replied: 'Yes, there were. But they wore masks. The first time they threatened me was just after Tramachus' death. And they came back after you and your friend spoke to me. Their threats were terrifying. They told me what to do. I was to tell you that it was Menaechmus who threatened me. I was to go to your house and ask for protection. And tempt you and let you enjoy me.' He raised his hand again. She said: 'Kill me. I'm not afraid of death, Decipherer.'
'But you are afraid of them,' murmured Heracles. He didn't strike her this time.
'They're very powerful.' Yasintra smiled, despite the split lip. 'You can't imagine what they said they'd do if I didn't obey. Sometimes death comes as a relief. They promise infinite pain, not death. They soon convince anyone they wish. Neither you nor your friend stands the slightest chance against them.'
'Did they tell you to say that, too?'
'No. I just know it.'
'How do you contact them? Where can I find them?' 'They find you.' 'Have they been here?'
'Yes,' she said, and Heracles noticed that she hesitated. He pressed her back more firmly against the wall, digging his elbow into her shoulder as if it were a knife and watching out for any move she might make.117
117Why have the three eidetic words (I've underlined them) reappeared, when Heracles would no longer seem in danger? What’s going on?
Yasintra added: 'They're here now.'
'Here? What do you mean?'
Yasintra paused. She glanced around the room. Strangely slowly, she said: 'They also said that. . . after lying with you, I should talk .. . and distract you
Heracles saw her eyes dart from side to side. 118
118 Now I understand! Heracles, watch your back! (T.'s N.)
Suddenly he seemed to hear a voice inside him, shouting: 'Turn round!' He did so just in time.
The figure wore a mask and a heavy black cloak. Its right arm had just described a silent, deadly arc when the unexpected obstacle of Heracles' forearm knocked it off course and the blade stabbed the air harmlessly. The Decipherer turned round and caught his attacker by the wrist. There was a struggle. Heracles looked into the masked face and felt his strength fail - he recognised the blank features, the artificial countenance, the dark unease seeping from the eye holes, now flashing with hatred. Making the most of Heracles' momentary confusion, Ponsica forced the point of the dagger closer to his soft, fleshy neck. Heracles stumbled backwards against the wall. He reflected - a fleeting thought, like a glimpse out of the corner of one's eye - that at least Yasintra wasn't attacking him, though he couldn't imagine what else she was doing. So he was facing a single opponent, a woman (if extremely strong, as he had just discovered). He decided to risk allowing the blade a little closer, while he summoned the strength to raise his right fist and strike the mask. He heard a moan so low it might have come from the depths of a well. He struck another blow. Again, a moan, then nothing. But in concentrating on his fist, he had forgotten the dagger, which was moving ever closer to his throbbing neck, to the fragile branching veins and trembling, docile muscles. He stopped and did something that must have taken his frenzied opponent by surprise: he unclenched his fist and began tenderly stroking the outline of the mask, the ridge of the nose, the side of the cheeks, like a blind man trying to recognise an old friend by touch.
Too late, Ponsica realised what he was going to do.
Two thick battering rams, two huge pistons were thrust suddenly through the eye holes, sinking easily into a strange viscous substance protected by a slender membrane. The dagger immediately fell away from Heracles' neck, and moans, roars came from behind the mask. The Decipherer withdr
ew his fingers - moist to the second joint - and moved away from her. Ponsica howled. The mask remained patient, neutral. She stepped back, stumbling.
As she fell to the floor, Heracles flung himself on top of her.
He managed with difficulty to restrain the almost irresistible urge to use his own dagger. Instead, after removing her weapon, he kicked her with his bare feet in several places left vulnerable by her blindness. He dug his heel in, as if squashing an enormous insect.
When it was over, panting, confused, he saw that Yasintra was still standing, motionless and naked, against the wall, just as he had left her; she seemed only to have wiped a little of the blood from her face. Heracles felt almost disappointed that she hadn't attacked him, too: he could have vented his rage at both of them, in a single fight, one long storm of blows. Now, there was nothing but the air and the objects around him for him to tear up, destroy, annihilate. When he had recovered his voice, he said: 'When did they recruit her?'
'I don't know. When they sent me here, they told me to obey her instructions. She can't speak, but her hand movements are easy to understand. And I already knew what the orders were.'
'The Sacred Mysteries!' Heracles said contemptuously. Yasintra stared at him blankly. 'Ponsica, like Menaechmus, told me she worshipped the Sacred Mysteries. They were both lying.'
'Maybe not,' smiled the dancer. 'They didn't say what kind of Sacred Mystery they worshipped.'
Heracles looked at her, one eyebrow raised. He said: 'Go. Get out.'
She gathered up her peplos and belt, and obediently crossed the room. She turned at the door. 'Your slave woman was meant to kill you, not I. They do things their own way, Decipherer, and neither you nor anyone can understand them. That's why they're so dangerous.'
'Get out,' he said again, panting, gasping for breath.
But she added: 'Flee the City, Heracles. You won't live beyond daybreak.'
When Yasintra had gone, Heracles leaned against the wall and rubbed his eyes, no longer concealing his weariness. He needed to recover the peace of his thoughts, to clean the intellectual tools of his trade and start all over again, calmly ...
A noise startled him. Ponsica was trying to get up. As she turned, two thick lines of blood ran from the eye openings of the mask. The white, artificial face striped with red was terrifying. It can't be, thought Heracles. I broke several of her ribs. She must be dying. She shouldn't be moving. He recalled the fable of the merciless automatons created by the inventor Daedalus. Ponsica's movements reminded him of a broken mechanical device - she would rest on one hand, sit up, fall over again, lean on her hand again, in a jerking pantomime. At last, perhaps realising the futility of her attempts, she grabbed the dagger and began dragging herself with relentless determination towards Heracles. Parallel trails of humours spewed from her eyes.
'Why do you hate me so much, Ponsica?' asked Heracles.
She stopped at his feet, her breath seething in her chest, and raised the dagger, trembling, in one last hopeless attempt. Her strength failed and the knife fell to the floor with a clatter. She gave a deep sigh that ended in a furious grunt, and lay there, even her breathing seeming to express rage, still refusing to admit defeat. Heracles gazed at her in wonder. Cautiously, he moved closer, like a hunter uncertain that his prey is dead. Before ending her life, he wanted to understand. He bent down and removed the mask. He examined the face, marbled with scars, and the conspicuously ravaged eyes. She was opening and closing her mouth like a fish.
'When did you start hating me?'
It was like asking when she had decided to become a human being, a free woman, because it struck him suddenly that her hatred had, like the will of a powerful king, released her from slavery. He remembered the day he saw her in the market, alone, ignored by buyers; and the years of efficient service, the silent gestures, the docile behaviour, her compliance when he requested - ordered - that she wear a mask. He could find no hint, no moment in all that time that might explain it, or have led him to suspect.
'Ponsica,' he whispered in her ear, 'tell me why. You can still move your hands.'
She was struggling for breath. The devastated face, in profile - eyes like embryo birds or snakes crushed in their shells -was horrifying. But Heracles was watching only for a reply. He worried that she might die without answering. He saw that her left hand was scratching at the floor, but there were no words. He looked at the other hand, now no longer holding the dagger. There were no words.
During the terrible silence, he thought: When was it? When were you granted your freedom, or when did you find it yourself? Perhaps you really went to Eleusis, like so many others, and came across them there . . . He leaned over a little further and noticed the same smell he had found on the breath of Eumarchus' and Antisus' corpses, though not on Euneos'. Of course, he remembered, Euneos stank of wine.
Suddenly he heard the beating of a heart. His own? Hers? Perhaps hers, as she was dying. Her suffering must be atrocious, but she doesn't seem to care. He moved away from the heartbeats. The memory of his recurring nightmare overcame him once more, but this time it gripped his troubled mind as if a waking state were the light needed to end the deep gloom. He saw the torn-out heart, the hand gripping it; he could make out the soldier and he understood his words at last.
And he remembered what he had forgotten, the small detail that the dream had been screaming at him fiercely, incomprehensibly, from the start.
Throughout Ponsica's long agony, Heracles stood motionlessbeside her, staring into space. By the time she died, the new day had dawned and rays of sun crossed the dimly lit bedroom. But still Heracles did not move.120
120 I’ve saved your life
Heracles Pontor, my old friend! I can't quite believe it, but I think I've saved your life, and I weep at the thought. As I translated, I wrote down my own cry of alarm, and you heard it. Of course, one might think that I read the text beforehand and then, when I came to translate it, wrote the word a line before it appeared, but I swear that's not what happened; at least, not consciously . . . And now, what have you remembered? Why don't I remember it, too? I should have realised, like you, but...
Important things have happened. My jailer has just left. I was translating Chapter Ten when he made his usual abrupt entrance, wearing the smiling mask and black cloak, as always. He paced one way then the other, before asking: 'How is it going?'
'I've finished Chapter Ten. The eidesis refers to Hippolyta's Girdle, and the women warriors, the Amazons. But,' I added, 'I'm in it, too.'
'Really?'
'You know it better than anyone,' I said.
The mask, with its permanent smile, stared at me. 'I've already told you, I haven't added any text to the novel,' he insisted.
I breathed deeply, and looked over my notes. 'When Heracles is lying with the dancer Yasintra, his body is described as 'slim'. But, as the reader knows, Heracles is very fat.'
'So?'
'I'm slim.'
His laughter, through the mask, sounded forced. When he stopped laughing, he said: 'Leptos in Greek means "slim" but also "subtle", as you know. And any reader would understand that what is referred to here is Heracles Pontor's subtle intelligence, not his girth ... The sentence is, as I recall, literally: "Subtle Heracles tensed his body." He's called "subtle Heracles" in the same way Homer describes Ulysses as "cunning" .. .' He laughed again. 'Of course it suits you, to translate leptos as "slim", and I can imagine why! But don't worry, you're not the only one: each person reads what he wants to read. Words are just a set of symbols that adapt to suit us.'
He similarly demolished the rest of my supposed evidence - Heracles, too, could have had a 'receding hairline', and mention of a 'black' beard (like mine), instead of a 'silver' one, could have been due to an error on the copyist's part. The scar on the left cheek, memento of a 'childhood fight', so like one I have, was probably a 'coincidence', and the same went for the ring on the middle finger of the left hand.
'Thousands of people have scars and we
ar rings,' he said. 'The thing is, you admire the protagonist and want to be like him, no matter what. . . particularly at the most interesting times. All readers have the same arrogance; you all assume the text was written with you in mind, and when you read it, you imagine the scene in your own way!' His voice suddenly matched the mask's expression. 'I'm sure you had a good time while you were reading those paragraphs, didn't you? Don't look at me like that, it's not unusual!'
Making the most of my uncomfortable silence, he leaned over and read the note that I was writing when he arrived. 'What's this? You "saved his life"?' he said incredulously, standing behind me. 'These eidetic novels are really powerful! Strange, a work written so long ago . . . and it still arouses such strong feelings!'
But his laughter ceased abruptly when I said: 'Perhaps it wasn't written so long ago.'
The Athenian Murders Page 25
