by Sonia Paige
‘Look at it this way, babe,’ says Mandy, ‘talking about it, maybe it’ll help you climb out of it this time, n’all.’
I hear the hatch slide open. ‘Anyone for writing class? Holmes, your name’s down.’
Mandy slips on her shoes and picks up some paper from her bedside. ‘See you later, girls.’
3
The Imperfect Archaeologist
Monday 17th December 1990 11 am
Anthea’s umbrella had turned inside out and her damp hair clung to her head as she struggled across Gordon Square. She heaved her wide frame and her bags up the steps into the archaeological institute, and tried to wipe the sleet off her face with the wet sleeve of her raincoat. She smiled at the young woman at Reception, who ignored her, and she turned right along the lobby on the ground floor. She shook out her umbrella and set about refolding it as she walked past a photo display showing a recent excavation, square holes in the ground in a hot place where students in shorts were busy with their trowels. When she got to the public phone booth, somebody was already on the telephone. A male voice speaking Greek filtered out through the door. She sank onto the green plastic upholstery of the bank of seats under the window, dropped her bags, raincoat and dripping umbrella on the floor, and looked round for something to read.
There was nothing on the coffee table except a glass ash tray full of cigarette butts, and some flyers. One announced a lecture: ‘Without Prejudice?’: Thucydides and the creation of history. It had passed. Another was about a seminar the next day: A Return Ticket to the Underworld? Hell and Healing in Ancient Greece, by Lefteris Chrysostomos; she folded it and put it in one of her bags.
Another advertised a Minoan Studies talk entitled To Capture the Imaginary: Symbolism of the Griffin in the Bronze Age Aegean. At the top of the page were two line illustrations. One showed a lion-like creature with large wings tethered to a column. The other showed a similar creature leaping into flight through the air, wings outstretched, with a woman transported through the air above it, her arms spread and her toes pointed. There was a fluid line from the griffin’s muscular legs to its raised beak and its soaring, gravitydefying wings. Anthea checked the date; the seminar had happened the previous week. But she studied the griffins, then folded the paper and, along the line of the fold, tore off the top section with the pictures on it. She put it into one of her bags. She dropped the rest of the flyer in the green metal wastepaper bin beside the table, rummaged inside it and pulled out some pages from the Guardian. They were a month old and smelt slightly of fish. She shook her red hair like a dog to get the wet out, and started to flick through the newspaper pages.
There was an advert for a Monet exhibition which she had missed. Half a page of Chinese horoscopes, which told her that because she was born in the year of the Tiger she was ‘brave and intelligent’, but might have an uneven fate in middle age. A ‘Sound Bite’ from Malcolm Muggeridge said: ‘Death… I rejoice in. I love it. Life would be unbearable without it.’
She tore out that part of the paper, took out a biro and wrote on the margin: ‘What does he know? Bravado, or arrogance. Death hangs like a question mark over our lives. It breathes on the back of our neck. What does anyone know about it? The people who say they know are pretending. The people who know are no longer here. How can we ask them?’
There was a murmur of politenesses and forced laughter as some middle-aged men approached; the papers they carried and their worn suits marked them as academics. When they saw her they glanced at each other pointedly and fell silent as they passed on their way to the meeting room at the end of the lobby.
The phone cubicle was still occupied.
Anthea read a satirical poem suggesting that Margaret Thatcher should give up being Prime Minister to boost the England cricket team in Australia: ‘Your country needs you/ But it needs you Down Under.’
Outside the window, sleet was dropping on a group of students who had met up on the pavement. They were not wearing coats, and their bodies were hunched against the cold. The bare limbs of the trees in Gordon Square pointed up into the thick grey air. Around them empty grass where in summer people picnicked.
Out of the Guardian pages Anthea pulled a double page spread about the burning of the Warsaw Ghetto fifty years before. She read how a particular group of Jewish resistance fighters escaped by crawling through sewers for forty-eight hours. She read about the earlier siege of the Ghetto by the Nazis: the hunger, the shootings, the removal of people in cattle trucks to the death camps. But still the people of the Ghetto did not believe what was happening. She took out a biro and underlined a sentence. It said: ‘the Nazis succeeded in “deporting” two-thirds of the ghetto population without resistance.’ Next to it she put a question mark and the words ‘How could this happen?’.
She looked up and saw the phone booth door was open. A lecturer from the Ancient History department was standing by her. He was a Greek whom she knew from seminars.
She stood up. ‘Dr. Chrysostomos, hello.’
He gave a brilliant smile which creased up the scar on his left cheek. ‘You are waiting? Sorry I was speaking so long.’ He smoothed his unruly greying hair.
‘That’s OK.’ She swiftly folded the double page spread from the newspaper.
‘You catch up with the news?’ he asked.
‘It’s an old paper.’ She folded the page again. ‘From before Thatcher went. Strange reading it in hindsight.’ She folded the page several times more until it was as small as she could make it and plunged the tiny square of paper into one of her bags. She put the brolly in after it.
‘Ah!’ he tapped his nose. ‘Who was it said that trying to understand the world from a daily paper is like trying to tell the time by the second hand of the clock? Sometimes an old newspaper tells us more.’ He shrugged, ‘But of course I say that, I’m a historian!’ The smile burst out again as if it was an effort to keep it down, and he strode off.
In the phone booth, Anthea put coins into the machine and kept her foot in the door while she waited for a reply. ‘Hello? Morton?’
‘Morton’s out. It’s Freddie.’
‘Hi. It’s me. Are any of the others in?’
‘No. And I’m just off down the dole. They want to know what I’ve been doing for the last twenty years of my life.’
‘I think I forgot to switch the oven off. The Moussaka will be ruined.’
‘I’ll check. Is that supper?’
‘Yup. Trust me to mess up again.’
‘Is there enough for a mate of mine coming over?’
‘Plenty. If you catch it in time. Just cover it and put it on the side. Somewhere the dog can’t get to it.’
‘Where are you?’
‘At the library. Freddie, do you think the past can tell us about the future?’
‘Ask me another. The present’s all I can cope with. See you later.’
Upstairs on the fifth floor, Anthea left her bags outside the classical library on a shelf full of briefcases and ruck sacks. She showed her library card, and went in clutching a pile of papers and files. She chose a desk near the window and tugged a string to switch on the individual light above it. As she did so, her hands lost their grip on her files and papers; they slid down onto the desk and off the edge, and crashed onto the floor. People at the nearby desks turned to look and one make a tutting sound. Anthea scrambled to gather the things, and sat down.
Out of the pile she pulled a ring binder labelled ‘Prophecy in Ancient Greece (1) Trophonios.’ She opened it at a blank sheet of paper and stared at the page for a few moments. Then she wrote:
‘Thatcher must have known that within days she would be ousted… surely? With hindsight, the people in the Warsaw Ghetto should have known they were being taken off to concentration camps… or should they? Even if the signs are all there, can any of us see – or believe – what the future holds for us?’
She went to the bookshelves and fetched a Loeb volume of Pausanias’ Description of Greece. Then some volumes with
J.G. Frazer’s notes on Pausanias. At the top of a fresh sheet of paper she wrote: ‘Divination with the help of Trophonios. How the ancient Greeks thought the dead could tell the future. From Pausanias Book IX Boeotia.’
She leafed through the books and jotted down some notes.
‘p. 305-7 Traditional story about dramatic results of sun shining on bones of Orpheus. (NB Xerox this)
‘Oracles of the dead. Usual way of consulting them = to offer a sacrifice & then sleep in the holy place, often the tomb. Soul of dead person then appeared to sleeper in vision and gave him his answer.’ She added: ‘(Or her answer? Were women allowed?)’
Skimming the lines of Pausanias’ Greek text, and the English translation on the facing page, she jotted down:
‘p. 349-357 Re: oracle of Trophonios.
• the Water of Forgetfulness and the Water of Memory.’
She added in the margin: ‘Can we choose our own drinking water? Which do we prefer, oblivion or being haunted by what is dead and gone?
• Viewing special image made by Daidalos – its sight allowed only to enquirers, dangerous to others
• Enquirer 1st had to go thru purifications incl/g cold baths in river, and makes sacrf/ces to Trophonios & other deities. Seer inspects entrails for omens. On night enquirer is going down into oracle, he sacrf/ces a ram into pit calling on name of Agamede.’
Anthea jotted in the margin: ‘NB Agamede = Trophonios’ brother, beheaded by him. After that, Trophonios swallowed up by the earth.’
She skipped through Pausanias again, then translated: ‘None of those who made the descent into tomb of T have been killed, except one of Demetrius’s bodyguards – but they say he did not perform any of the required rites at the sanctuary.’
She added: ‘Big price to pay if you didn’t perform the right preparations for contact with the dead!’
She looked up and noticed a Chinese man coming into the library, his legs performing neat, almost military, steps. In front of his body he held two hardback books – a history of Greek literature and a biography of T E Lawrence – like a hieratic offering to some god of study. His head was high and his neck stiff as he advanced past the tall bookcases.
‘Hi, Sang!’ Anthea mouthed, and waved a hand.
He started, came over to her desk and bent awkwardly. ‘Are you OK?’ he whispered, and blinked.
‘More or less.’ She looked around to see if anyone was being disturbed, then asked him ‘Why did they use the skull in ritual to speak with the dead?’
Sang stared down on to his books as if he could read the answer through the cover, then blinked and said, ‘These practices seem primitive, but you know they are not so unusual. In England before the time of Cromwell people believed in revenants, the returning dead. They needed prayer and help from the living to get through Purgatory.’
He gave two neat nods. His short hair, a European brown for most of its length and a Chinese black at its undyed roots, nodded with him. Then he straightened up.
‘That was Catholics?’ she asked.
‘Yes, the Protestants tried to stop it. But it is interesting that the dead were also shown in a posture of prayer. So that means they prayed for the living? The dead took care of the living? Whoever can help, can harm. The people believed that for many centuries.’
Anthea pursed her lips. ‘Why would people believe stuff like that?’
‘Could you keep your voices down?’ hissed an elderly man with a beard sitting on the next table.
Sang lowered his voice: ‘That is indeed the view from our secular and rational society. We have other superstitions.’
‘Like that what we see on the TV is true?’ she laughed.
‘Have you quite finished?’ the bearded man asked in a loud whisper.
Sang shrugged to Anthea. His eyes twinkled and he blinked twice but no other muscle in his face moved as he walked on to his seat.
Anthea went back to the Greek text and skipped some lines before carrying on making notes: ‘Enquirer goes to oracle on mount/nside beyond grove. It has circular found/tn of white stone. Inside the enclosure is man-made chasm in the earth, shaped like bread oven. Enquirer climbs down ladder then finds small hole in ground into wh he slides, feet 1st, clutching barley cakes mixed w honey. (Barley cakes = for the snakes.)’ She stopped for a moment, then added ‘SNAKES!!??’
In the margin she wrote: ‘What killed the bodyguard who had not performed the required rites? Can the dead really harm the living? Can the dead forgive being slighted? Who can one ask?’
She put a row of question marks, then continued making notes: ‘After emerging, enquirer was sat on “Chair of Memory” to tell priests what he saw & learnt inside oracle. Then his relatives carried him off, paralyzed w fear & not fully conscious. Time passed before he recovered ability to laugh. Pausanias says he visited T’s oracle h/self, but doesn’t tell us what he learnt. What price knowing the future? Can we use the knowledge even if we have it?’
She stared at the grey skies outside the window and chewed a finger nail.
Then she turned to an empty page and wrote:
‘COME TO THE ORACLE OF TROPHONIOS!
‘Learn the mysteries of the future!
‘For only the cost of a few sacrifices! Bracing cold river baths and barley cakes provided free! Never mind the snakes! All you need to do is fall down holes!
‘You too can get scared rigid!
‘NB You will regain the ability to laugh… eventually…’
Outside sleet had started to fall again. She watched it for a while then wrote:
‘Is the future that grim? Perhaps the problem is not so much knowing it as believing it… Perhaps the future is unthinkable. How could the Jews of the Warsaw Ghetto have envisaged the horror of where the cattle trucks were taking them?
‘But none of us escape the final solution to our own lives. Since the same cataclysmic and comprehensive fate awaits us all with total certainty, why do we bother about the details?
‘And why do I have this stupid foreboding about going back to Greece?’
As she finished writing the sentence, Anthea looked up as if she had just remembered something. She glanced around, put the top back on her biro, and scooped up her files. She forgot to switch off her desk light and hurried to the door. Outside, she grabbed her bags. She pushed the button but the lift did not appear, and she set off at a rush down the five flights of carpeted stairs still clutching her pile of books and files as well as her handbag and her two shopping bags. By the time she came down the last steps to the ground floor she was breathing heavily. Facing her on the wall of the stairwell was a board with notices about forthcoming lectures, grants and archaeological publications. Standing with his back to her, reading one of the notices, was Dr Lefteris Chrysostomos.
As she passed behind him, a protruding lever arch file caught on his shoulder and destabilised the pile. She stepped sideways to try to adjust the balance, missed the landing and fell down the half flight of linoleumed steps leading to the basement. She landed heavily on her hip four steps down, and then slid the last few steps to the bottom. The two shopping bags emptied their contents: brussel sprouts and tins of tomatoes, rice cakes, newspapers, flapjacks and the rolled-up umbrella mingled with the books and folders, spreading over the steps and eventually settling around her in the small area blow. Beside her an open door showed the inside of a cupboard with brooms and the long hose of a vacuum cleaner.
‘You are OK?’ Lefteris rushed down to help her.
‘I think so,’ Anthea groaned. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘What happened?’
‘I lost my footing. How embarrassing.’ She struggled to right herself, like a tortoise fallen on its back.
Lefteris started to pick up her belongings. ‘No broken bones?’
Anthea was on her knees. ‘I’m fine. I just feel an idiot.’
‘Perhaps you sit for a little while? To gather yourself.’
Anthea perched on the second to bottom step and brushe
d herself down.
‘Not an idiot, no,’ he said as he retrieved a tin of tomatoes that had rolled into the broom cupboard. ‘Accidents, they happen. I see you are a busy woman.’ He was assembling her books and papers. He picked up the file with the label ‘Prophecy in Ancient Greece (1) Trophonios’ and looked at it with interest before handing it to her. ‘I wonder, what you hoped to find down here in the bowel of the earth?’ He smiled, ‘Perhaps like the visitors to Trophonios you were hoping to find a response from the oracle?’
She took the books, folders and food from him and stuffed them back into her bags. ‘Thank you.’
‘You are sure you are not hurt?’ He reached out a hand and helped her back to her feet.
Anthea returned his smile. ‘That would be typical. Diving into a hole looking for revelation, and all I get is bruises.’ She started to grin.
‘Perhaps that is after all the real truth of life,’ his eyes shone and a chortle burst out of him. ‘And I see that you have at least recovered the ability to laugh…’ He held out a stray brussel sprout to her as they stood together at the bottom of the stairwell chuckling.
Monday 17th December 12.30 pm
‘This pizza like cardboard,’ says Beverly.
‘I’m gonna lose a tooth,’ says Mandy.
Debs is sitting on her bed toying with a few strands of over-cooked cabbage nestling beside the pizza. ‘You gonna eat something, Karina?’
I think she gets my name wrong on purpose. I don’t have the energy to protest. I turn back to the cell wall, where I’ve just started drawing another web.
Mandy brings my food and drink over to me. ‘Being artistic again, are we? I never noticed, you’re left-handed.’
I lick the end of the squashed felt tip pen and carry on.
Mandy tries again, ‘Where’s the spider?’
I shrug. The effort of reaching out through the layers of fog is too great.
‘Here’s ya food,’ says Mandy, ‘if you can call it that.’
