Copyright
4th Estate
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This eBook first published in Great Britain by 4th Estate in 2019
Copyright © Lucy Hughes-Hallett 2019
Lucy Hughes-Hallett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
These stories are entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008334857
Ebook Edition © June 2019 ISBN: 9780008334864
Version: 2019-05-10
Dedication
For Dan, with love
Author’s Note
Each of these modern stories is a variation (a very free one) on a much older tale.
The original fables are summarised at the end of the book.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Note
ORPHEUS
ACTAEON
PSYCHE
PASIPHAE
JOSEPH
MARY MAGDALEN
TRISTAN
PIPER
The Fables
By the Same Author
About the Author
About the Publisher
ORPHEUS
There was no forewarning.
She was in the park with her friend.
Every Wednesday they went, with their dogs. ‘What do you say to each other?’ he asked. She couldn’t answer. But he knew that they talked all the way round.
Once he went looking for them. There was something he was worried about. Something that couldn’t wait until she got back, at least that’s what he thought. He saw them coming towards him between the silver birches and she was talking, hands in the pockets of her old velvet coat, head down watching her feet, talking non-stop. When she looked up and saw him she waved, and after that it was her friend who was talking, looking at him, as she did so, in a way he thought rude. When they came up to him he explained about the thing. Was it the heating? He wanted her to hurry home with him, but she didn’t seem to care about it. She wasn’t a worrier the way he was. Sometimes he found her insouciance maddening.
Anyway, that was a while ago. But then she was out with her friend again and the earth cracked open and an arm reached up from the chasm and dragged her down.
The friend, she was called Milla, came and rang the doorbell. He could hear her over the intercom but he couldn’t understand what she was saying. He could have just pressed the little button, but he didn’t want her coming in for some reason – he’d get annoyed with Milla, the way she was always wanting his wife to go out with her and leave him on his own – so he took his keys like he always did, in case, and went down the stairs quite slowly. Through the stained glass he could see Milla jerking around, and he could hear the bell ringing and ringing upstairs in the flat. He opened the front door. He’d probably been asleep. That would be why he hadn’t noticed she was late back, and why he wasn’t sensible enough to let Milla in with the little knob.
Milla said, ‘Oz, I’m so sorry. Oz, Eurydice’s … She’s in St Mary’s. I’ll take you. Let’s go and get your coat.’
The terrible arm dragged Eurydice out of the light. She, who had always slept with a lamp left on in the corridor because darkness pressed against her eyes and smothered her sight. She, who would fuss about restaurant tables, who always wanted the one by the window. She, who would shift her chair around the room throughout the day, dragging it six inches at a time to be always in the patch of sunlight. She sank into blackness. She was obliterated.
Milla didn’t see it happen. Oz saw it as they drove to the hospital. He saw it over and over again. He saw the hand slipping itself around Eurydice’s knees as a snake might wrap itself around its prey. He saw it descend on her from above and lift her by her hair so that the skin of her gentle face was pulled tight over sharp bones. He saw it grasp her around the hips and heave her up, head and feet flopping down undignified. Fee Fi Fo Fum and down she goes. Into the crevasse she went, into the valley of death, into the foul mouth.
Where is she? He kept asking and asking. Milla was patient with him. Milla said, ‘She’s in St Mary’s. We’re on our way there. We’ll see her very soon.’ ‘I know, Oz, I do too, but the doctors are with her. We just have to sit and wait.’ ‘I don’t know how long, but the nurse will tell us as soon as she can.’ ‘I’ll get you a cup of tea, shall I?’ ‘Don’t drink it yet, it’ll be hot.’ ‘I’ll wait outside. Here. This gentleman will help you.’ ‘She’s in the Greenaway Ward. We’ll see her in a minute or two.’ ‘In here.’ ‘She’s here, Oz. Look. Here she is.’ But Eurydice was gone.
What had been left lying among the pliable blades of coming daffodils was something as frail and pretty and futile as the feathers from a plucked bird. He was grateful to Milla for caring so much about it. He knew she was right – the conventions governing human civilisation required them to pick the remnant up, and rush to find help for it, and keep watch by it – but it was no longer Eurydice, no longer his wife. He saw the hands, dry and pale, with the tiny wart at the base of the third finger on the right, and her grandmother’s pearl ring on the middle finger on the left, and the broken nail she had complained about as she was putting on her scarf to go out that morning and the nail caught in the woolly stuff. They were her hands, but she had left them, along with her thinning hair and scaly elbows (I’m like an old tortoise, she said, when she felt them) and the ankles which still, when she wore black tights or even more when she was bare legged in summer, were worth showing off. These things had been hers, but they failed to contain her, to keep her safe.
Gluck has him singing at the moment of loss. A lament, generalising from the particular, meditating upon lovelessness and how it annuls life’s meaning. Stuff like that. Monteverdi was wiser. Monteverdi asks him only to sing a word that is barely a word even. ‘Ahimè’. A sigh. A sigh which brings the lips together, which says mmmm’s the word from now on for evermore, and then relents into that plangently accented vowel.
He had a remarkable counter-tenor voice. The critics said Suave Silvery Ethereal Limpid. When he was young he was afraid women would think he was gay, or weird, because his voice was as ungendered as an angel’s, but he needn’t have worried.
All that afternoon he sang. He felt too shaky to stand but his powerful lungs drew in air and converted it into music. He was a clarion. Milla tried to hush him but he didn’t even know that he was singing, so how was he to know that he should stop? They gave him a chair and placed him by the bed where they said Eurydice was lying, but she wasn’t there.
He could see her neck, and the softly puckered skin where it met her shoulders. He knew that part of her so well – so well – but this afternoon it was no longer hers. She’d left it behind, as she left clean hankies i
n the pocket of his coat when she borrowed it. Her favourite mug, the colour of violets, upturned by the sink. Clues as to her presence. He tried to tell one of the nurses how touched he was to see that piece of her neck, how much it reminded him of her, but the nurse thought he was worried that she might be cold, and pulled up the blue blanket so that even that memento of her was hidden from him.
The face was a perfect replica of her face. He touched it very lightly from time to time and felt the warm dryness of it, and he ran his fingers over her eyelids, and felt the fluttering movement beneath, just as though she was still there.
Milla left and other people came. A young couple, Eurydice’s nephew and his wife. They said to each other, ‘Shouldn’t we take him home?’ When he heard that he sang louder and for a while they let him be. When it was night, though, they led him down the long luminous corridors and out into the spangled dark.
They fed him and stayed the night in the spare room, her workroom, and when he sat up in bed and sang again the young woman came, wrapped in Eurydice’s cashmere shawl, and lay down on his bed beside him and held his hand and said, ‘You need to sleep. Sleep now. In the morning we’ll see if we can bring her back.’ He couldn’t remember how to sleep but he lay down when the niece made the pillows right for it, and then the singing moved from his chest to his mind, and all night his head rang with sounds as clear and dazzling as sunlit seawater seen by one swimming an inch or two under.
For most of his life he had been a middle-aged person’s kind of artiste. He sang, with his friend Marcia accompanying him, at the Maltings, the Wigmore Hall, places like that. He used to wear formal dark clothes, or sometimes, for Handel, silk frock-coats and breeches. He liked the costumes. He took a luxurious pleasure in the heaviness of lined and interlined satin. He enjoyed being someone other than himself. Then he accepted an invitation to sing with a group of clever young people who told him how much they admired him. He hadn’t much liked the music but he let his voice glide like quicksilver over the rough ground of the drums and sharp peaks of the electric guitars. Less than a week from first approach to recording studio, but afterwards strangers began to talk to him in shops. They were amazed, they said, by what he could do with his voice. As though they had no idea how often he’d done far better things, as though they had never heard of coloratura. ‘Enjoy it,’ said Eurydice. ‘Don’t grouch.’
There was a concert in Hyde Park. He wore ear-plugs – his hearing was precious. He stood at the back of the stage harmonising softly until it was time for his aria (they didn’t call it that). His voice, amplified, offended him with its coarseness. With the lights changing colour in his eyes, he couldn’t see. But he could sense the shuffle and sway of thousands of people on their feet. This is dangerous, he thought. He detested demagoguery. Afterwards he shut himself away to work on Purcell.
The next morning he woke early and slipped out of the flat without waking the young couple, even though the niece was still stretched out on his bed. When your life’s work is making exactly calibrated sounds and fitting them together in sequences whose tempi and tones you modify and adjust and rehearse and rehearse and rehearse, when you do that, day after day, your ear constantly straining to detect and eliminate the subtlest infelicities, you learn not to clatter about.
People were always taking his arm, but they did so to steer him, not because he needed to be propped up. He had piano-player’s shoulders and the leg muscles of one who could stand stock still throughout a recital. He let himself be steered. He’d learnt long ago that it was wise to abdicate power over tedious matters to another. To Eurydice. But that didn’t mean he was feeble.
There were a lot of elderly men around the hospital. They hovered near it. They stretched out on benches under the concrete overhangs. They leant against its walls to smoke. They went tentatively into the halls and waiting areas. As they ventured indoors they were wary but this late on in the night shift no one had the will to shoo them away. Or the heart. There were chairs in the hospital, and there was light. Hard plastic chairs and harsh shadeless light, but beggars can’t be … Once inside they could attend to their feet. Their feet were of great concern to them. They cosseted them. They swaddled them in cloth. They went into the washrooms and anointed them with warm water and disinfectant gel. Some of them had big trainers, shiny white shoes made for athletes, but here nobody sprang, nobody leapt.
He went among them, another suppliant. He passed softly through the dim entrance hall. The floor was hard, so that to walk on it was to make noise. The low ceiling was insulated with white stuff that swallowed the noise up. Sound. Smother. A closed system. He nodded to the gatekeeper, a woman who glanced at him briefly and saw that he was admissible, and let him go by. He was, as he always was, neat, and he stepped carefully over the slick grey ground.
He went upstairs to where they had said she was, to the bed where her abandoned body had lain, but there was nothing there. Not an empty bed even. Nothing. On other beds women slept, pale, their hipbones and feet making ridges and peaks in the thin cellular blankets. They snored or muttered and tiny sharp lights blinked.
‘You’re looking for your wife.’ A nurse. Male. African. Very large.
‘She was here.’ He no longer felt certain he had come to the right place.
Amidst the dimness the nurse sat in a cone of light.
‘There were concerns. She’s under observation. She’ll be going to imaging shortly.’
‘Can I see her?’
‘Best to wait here, sir. She’ll come back here.’
All that day he sat in the ward, by the window. The nurse gave him his chair again and brought him a plastic pot of yoghurt. The sun rose showily, unfurling streamers of lurid orange cloud while the sky faded. No sound from the outer world passed through the sealed glass. Visitors arrived. A Frenchman, with clever eyes and pendulous doggy jowls, came and sat beside his thin wife, and the two of them worked together on a crossword. A woman whose soft arms and shoulders billowed around her apologised and apologised. Sorry for the trouble. Sorry for the moans she couldn’t help but make. Sorry for the retching that from time to time possessed her. The nurses tended to her, unshaken alike by her pain and the pointlessness of her sorry sorry sorry.
Milla found him. ‘We were frantic. We didn’t know where you’d got to.’ As though he might have been anywhere else but here. Here, waiting for Eurydice. Here, watching by the crack down which she had been dragged into the underworld. Milla bustled about and asked questions, and went on a long excursion into another part of the hospital and returned to tell him what he already knew. Concerns. Imaging. Wait here.
Milla was really very good. He’d always liked being taken charge of by bossy people. When Eurydice seized his hand long ago and said, ‘You. You’ll dance with me, won’t you?’ and looked in his face so that he knew at once that she could see him, all of him, and found parts of what she saw absurd and other parts precious, he had said ‘Yes’, said it with every fibre of his being, every droplet of his being, every inter-molecular current and electro-magnetic charge and neural pulse of his being, with all the ardour that was in him, with his whole heart.
Milla was walking towards him, with two people he didn’t know, both in uniform. She squatted down beside his chair, rocking awkwardly on her high heels. Why on earth did women wear those things? Eurydice never did.
Milla said something. Her mascara had smeared all around her eyes. What she said was incomprehensible.
The floor gaped open and down he flew.
God almighty, what a racket.
He’d had a scan once. He’d taken off his proper clothes and, dressed in a penitent’s thin smock, had been borne away into the white enamelled throat of a machine. The noises it made were rhythmic and various. It roared and chugged and emitted long dragging sounds that had no trace of voice in them, because a voice can belong only to a being, and this thing was devoid of intention, devoid of life. He hadn’t been afraid t
hen, just very lonely because Eurydice hadn’t come with him, and he’d been collected enough to think, You could do something with this. This is interesting. Why hasn’t a composer picked up on this? Perhaps someone has. This is imaging. This is the sound of a thing which looks at you without passion or compassion or even dispassion and – oddly enough – it’s musical.
Now, as he descended into the rocky innards of the earth in search of his Eurydice, he heard that music amplified a thousandfold. He heard matter grinding itself as it shifted. Ancient masses cooling, heating, expanding, collapsing. The fearsome noise of the inanimate on the move. He sang into it. His eyes were open on absolute darkness. He felt speed but could measure it only by the pressure of air against his chest, and by the void he sensed opening behind him like unfurled wings. Into the darkness he fired his voice. The uproar of rock and magma gave him his baseline. His song arced over it, flashing.
From morn to noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, and all that time he saw no one, and breathed air that smelt of coal, and there was no dew, only clamminess, and then he was in a room, or a cavern – a finite space at least with black walls, and shaded lights that set the blackness glittering – and there was Eurydice, not the limp and pitiful residue that had lain in the hospital bed, but Eurydice herself, smiling at him with her slightly crooked mouth.
‘This is a bit drastic,’ she said. She disliked theatrical gestures.
‘I had to come,’ he said. ‘I’m no good without you.’
‘Hey ho,’ she said, and he could see her bracing herself to resume the business of being loved.
There were other people there, two of them. Doctors presumably. When Orpheus stepped forward to take Eurydice’s hands something prevented him, an obstruction in the air. The man said, ‘This isn’t really possible you know.’
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