by Tobias Hill
–Do you think people grow into their looks?
The radio was still blaring music. For a moment he thought Jason hadn’t heard. Then, –Not in the way you’re thinking.
–What am I thinking of?
–You’re thinking of Eleschen, you dirty boy. Aren’t you?
–If I was it wouldn’t be in that way.
–Liar. You’re as bad as me. With Eleschen it’s always that way. What did your wife grow into, then?
–We just grew apart.
–My heart bleeds for you. Got a picture?
–No.
–Eb said you’d say that.
–What? What else did he say?
–That you play your cards close to your chest. Which is a compliment coming from him, trust me, he likes quiet types. And that you wear your learning lightly but your troubles like chains. Whatever that means. I can see where you might get in trouble, mind you.
–Why’s that?
–You’re gullible. You know you are. And you’re a classic nympholept.
–What’s that?
–From nympholepsy. A passionate longing for the unattainable.
–Sounds like you.
–Me? No, I’m realistic in my passions. Oy!
–What? What?
–Don’t go back to sleep. Talk to me.
–Only if it’ll make you stop.
–No chance. So where are you from, then? Hampstead, I bet. Primrose Hill.
–Cricklewood, he said, and Jason clicked off the razor and laughed like a drain. –What’s funny about that?
–Nothing. I had you pegged wrong, though. You knowing Eberhard at Oxford, I thought you’d be…
–No, not really. He pulled himself up again and began winnowing the blankets for his shirt. –I told you about my family.
–Doesn’t mean anything. Nothing hard-up about the markets these days. You could be some nob selling yoghurt. Doesn’t even mean it’s true. People say all kinds of things when they’re in strange places. With strangers they can be whatever they want. Not that we’re strangers any more. Still, Eberhard mixing with the hoi polloi, well well. And there was I thinking you were one of those public schoolboys with the perennially fashionable Cockney accents.
He walked boots-in-hand to the window and unlatched it, filling his lungs with pine and woodsmoke. On the windowsill was a flowerpot, four marijuana seedlings praying to the sun. The sky over the mountains was clear, the last stars still undiminished. The day was starting fine.
On Thermopylae Street a police car had pulled over onto the pavement. The driver was leaning out towards an old gypsy woman in a sheepskin coat. She huddled away from him, trying to edge round the car. Her face was thrawn with fear or anger.
–Gorgeous out there, isn’t it? I love this country. Don’t you?
–I do.
–Best place on earth. Cradle of civilisation.
–Come and look at this.
–I am. Who would you shoot first?
He craned round. Jason had one eye shut, his hand curled into a gun, the two fingers of the barrel resting lightly on Ben’s shoulder.
–Get off me.
–No, really. If you had the chance? The gypsy or the policeman?
He looked back at the scene. –Or you.
Jason patted him. His voice moved away. –I like your lateral thinking. Won’t solve any problems though.
–It might, if it stops you talking. What problems?
–The troubles of Greece. It’s a shambles out there.
–I don’t see anyone asking for your help.
–That’s because they’re proud, that’s all. The whole place is going to the dogs. Someone needs to sort it out.
–By shooting gypsies.
–Nah, they’re alright, I’m just having a lark. They wouldn’t be top of my list, anyway.
–Lucky them.
–I’d sort it all out if I had the time and the brains, though. You should think about it too. Takes work to keep things working. It’s a dirty job but someone’s got to do it. You should talk to Max about it, he’s the ideas man. I’m coming back here when I’m old, you know. I’ll get a little place, a house and a few olive trees. Maybe some goats. Goats can’t be hard.
–That wasn’t what you used to say. You called Sparta a shithole.
–I can lie, can’t I? That was ages ago. I didn’t know if I liked you then. Sparta’s not for everyone. You and me: not her and him. Come on, get your boots on.
–I am.
–Good boy. Here, Jason said, and there was the coffee, hot and black and impossibly good. –Drink up, you look like you could do with it. Hope you’re going to be up for tonight.
–What’s tonight? he asked, and the weatherman smiled and vanished into an ether of advertisements as Jason leaned at the window beside him.
–Tonight, he said, We hunt.
The goats came down to the dig that morning. They were pretty creatures, mild-mannered as sheep, inquisitive as tourists, their familiar bells ringing as they strayed here and there among the pits, their voices rising in complaint when Chrystos shooed them away from the huts and shepherded them back towards the hills.
He remembered the one time he had seen wild goats. It had been on Ithaca when he was a child. They had been driving through the mountains when the trees above them had burst open. Two Minotaurs had come crashing down the steep embankment into the road. His dad had sworn and thrown on the brakes, but the goats had been oblivious. The car and its pale occupants were like so many ghosts to them. Nothing had mattered to the animals except themselves.
The way Ben remembered them they were massive, big as horses or bulls. Their coats fell down in thick foul skirts of piss-stained white, tramp-black, and rust. One had shouldered back up the slope while the other struggled to its feet; and then the pair of them had charged, their horns clashing with a sound like trees splitting. Ten or a dozen times they had come together, locking and wrestling, and as the Mercers had sat watching, the windows all rolled up in fear, the smell of the creatures had filled the car like gas, their musk inescapable, the power of it unmistakable, and its double-meaning, too, clear as a voice raised in anger. The rank ripe stink of their sex. The unassailable eminence of their violence.
Four of them worked at East Midden, where Eberhard had hit upon a hoard of oyster shells and the smithereened, blackened remains of a multitude of storage jars. When lunchtime came they ate in silence, looking up now and then to the higher hills and the mountains beyond, then cat-napped together in the shelter of the cars–Eleschen’s head on his shoulder, Max’s breathing thunderous in his ear–and woke to Missy’s voice, their hands tender, their shoulders aching.
At sunset they drove down. The evening was still clear and cold, the day’s warmth fading with the light. They had agreed to meet at ten and he went back to the hotel for clothes and showered while he had the chance, scrubbing soap through his beard and hair. He rang down for a wake-up call at nine, set his travelling clock for the same, then found himself too wired to sleep and–luxury!–ordered supper up, eating cutlet and rice and spring greens at his desk, his books and papers sprawled around him.
He left late despite all his precautions. The moon was clearing the mountains as he went half-running under the orange trees and through the long shadows of the colonnades. The others were at the girls’ before him.
–You’re late, Eleschen said at the door, more tersely than he felt he deserved. He felt the tension as she led him upstairs even as he realised how rare it was, to see them ill at ease together, their nerves rubbing raw on one another. Only Eberhard was calm, sharing out on the floor six miscellanies of tools–torches and binoculars, reflector-bands and whistles, hunting knives and shotgun shells–while Max paced up and down between the fireplace and the long windows and Natsuko cradled Sylvia, the dog’s face woeful and alert, a masticated Converse just out of reach.
–She wants to come.
–She always does.
–She can smell
. She could help hunt.
–She is not trained.
–People hunt here. Maybe she was raised–
–She is too small. She could get hurt. Jackals are fierce, like wolves. A wolf would break her up like chicken bones–
–But you don’t know. Please? Eleschen?
–Hmm?
–Is Sylvia a hunting dog?
–You know she is, but that doesn’t mean–
–She is not coming.
–Max, it is not fair that you always decide everything! she said, abruptly fierce herself, rebellious with anger, and Jason laughed where he sat barefoot, cutting his toenails on the ratty sofa, cupping the small-change in one hand.
–Who said we had to be fair? It’s always Max or Eb who decides, in the end.
–Nevertheless, Eberhard said, We should be in agreement.
–How about acclamation, then? That’s how the Spartans did it. Cheers for and boos against?
–No need to encourage the hound, Eberhard said, still without looking up from his division. –Normal discussion ought to suffice. Eleschen?
–Oh, I don’t care. Let her come. Jason, God, you are so foul, will you please not do that here?
–Jason?
–I got to, they hurt when I run–
–Jason.
–Not on your life. She can’t even catch her tail, let alone–
–Yes, alright. I also feel as Max does, which brings us to two for and three against–
–What about Ben? Natsuko said sulkily, and Jason sniggered.
–Oh yes. What about Ben?
He felt his stomach lurch. It felt as if he had walked in to hear them laughing over him. Eberhard looked up from his work, his expression not surprised, only a shade too courteous.
–Yes, of course, I’m sorry. Ben. Do you have an opinion on Sylvia that you would like to share with us?
–Bring her, he said, and Max groaned and strode away while Eberhard took off his spectacles and began polishing them, as if to delay or avoid the need to take the conversation further.
–Why? Max said, turning back. Why do you say bring her? I tell you why. Because it is Natsuko wants it. Because it is you who wants Natsuko. Excuse me, no. You think because you shoot two little birds you know suddenly all about hunting?
–No, no, I know I don’t, he began to say hurriedly, but Natsuko was answering for him, Jason was butting in again, Max was yelling, and his own voice was feeble with awkwardness, as if he found himself caught up in a domestic argument between friends.
–He does not need to say why! No one else has to–
–Ben and Nat? Fat chance. Ben and Sylvia, if he sits up and begs–
–Like little dogs, both of you!
–Look, sorry, I know I don’t know anything, I just think there’s nothing to lose. I mean why not bring her along? Just to see what she can do? If she’s at home with the guns, try her. You know how to hunt, Max, you decide when we get there. Maybe she can follow a scent. If she’s no good, leave her in the car. Bring some water and a blanket. She’s used to being by herself. She won’t be any trouble there. I don’t see that it’s such a problem.
Max scowled, his scarred face vicious. –You are the problem! There were no disagreements until you came–
–No, Eberhard said abruptly, and looking back at him Ben saw that, for the first time since Metamorphosis, Sauer was smiling at him, without irony or rancour. –He’s being quite sensible. When he puts it so well it doesn’t seem a problem at all. Don’t you think so, Max?
They were all watching the Georgian, he realised. There was a difficult silence before he unfolded his arms, threw them up and let them fall with a slap against his thighs.
–Alright. Too much talk. We’re wasting time. Bring her, then. If she gets in the way I will shoot her myself.
–She is a good dog, Natsuko said, and stood with Sylvia grinning in the cradle of her arms. –You’ll see.
–Well, there we are. Now, if there’s nothing else, Max is right, it’s getting late. We can’t afford to miss the moon. Are we all ready for the off?
Their nerves took them in different ways. At first Jason was all chat, egging on Sylvia in the back (Who’s the big hunter? Who’s the big hound?), nagging them to put the radio on; but he fell into a sulk when Natsuko shook her head no, and after that there was no sound except the panting of the dog until they reached the excavation, following in the dim red wake of the Volvo’s tail-lights.
They parked just as they always did, side by side under the cypresses, as if it were a working day. They all three jumped, and the dog gave a half-bark, when Max came tapping at the window to tell them to switch off the headlights. Jason got out, still muttering, Sylvia scrambling after him, investigating the car tyres, sniffing after shadows. Ben watched the pair of them go, hardly aware of them, attuned to the intensity of the girl beside him.
Therapne came clear as their eyes adjusted. The full moon riding high. The trees a noctilucent silver. The huts and hills and stepped ruins rendered in silent monochrome.
–Ben? she said, as if he might not be there, might have faded away into shadows, and he reached for her hand in the dark and found it.
–Here.
–It looks strange. Like an old film.
–It’s just the moon.
–Are you sure?
–What else could it be? he said, and seeing her smile he understood for the first time that she was not nervous with fear at all, but with excitement.
–Maybe we have gone back in time.
–You’d like that, wouldn’t you?
–Yes.
–Why?
–Because the world is bad.
–The world was always bad.
–No. It was better at first. Then it got old and it went rotten.
–Natsuko?
He leaned in as she turned her head, felt her meet his kiss. Felt her begin to melt. Her lips opening, softening. She touched her mouth as she pulled away, as if he had crushed her there.
–Not yet.
–When?
She shrugged. –Not yet.
–When I’m one of you?
–One of me?
–Not you. You know. You do.
–No, she said, Shh. Silly.
–Why? Why am I silly?
–Because you’ll never be one of us.
She kissed him again before opening the door. They stepped out into the night. The others had moved on from the cars. He couldn’t see where they had gone and was about to call for them when Natsuko started away, walking up towards the North Hill, and following her, looking past her, he saw them waiting there. The four of them as colourless and motionless as standing stones.
He caught the whiff of cigarettes before they reached the ridge. The wind was blowing from the east and he wondered if that was a good thing. Both Max and Jason had lit up, toting shotguns and smokes. The other guns lay by Eleschen’s feet with Sylvia stretched out beside them. Max and Jason were staring north, Eleschen and Eberhard east. No one was saying anything.
A minute passed. Eberhard sat down. The dog glanced at him and yawned carnivorously.
–What are we looking for? Ben said finally, and Max rounded on him, his face a lunar grey, light flashing off his reflectors as if he had put on armour. Eleschen answered him, her voice faint and strained.
–We’re not looking, Ben. We’re listening. The jackals howl at the moon. That’s why we came tonight. And it’ll help us hunt. Us and them. If they make a kill they’ll howl again. Better for us. It helps us both, the moon. Max came up at the weekend. He says they won’t be far away. All we have to do is wait.
–And listen, Max said, under his breath.
Silence. The glow of an ember. Jason dropped a cigarette, mashed it underfoot.
–Nice clear night, he whispered, and when no one answered, Quiet though.
–Not with you here, no, not at all.
–It’s a Tuesday. Eberhard, murmuring. –Some have considered it an unluc
ky day ever since Byzantium fell to the Ottomans. Most are not so superstitious, but hunters do not like to take chances. No one wants–
–Quiet! Please!
Midnight approached. The moon was still ascending, sailing through mottlings and spumes of cloud. He squatted down and stood by turns, the cold creeping into his joints.
–How long do we wait?
–Tired so soon, Jason?
–I’m just asking.
–You talk too much.
–Because he’s nervous.
–No, I’m just bored. I think I’m coming down with something.
Eleschen’s laughter, off in the gloom. –You’re such a hypochondriac.
–Better hypo than klepto!
Eberhard turned his owlish face. –At least you know you’ll be proved right. Hypochondriacs always are, in the end.
–Funny. And you could’ve brought some tea instead of all this poxy kit. I’m going for a slash.
His eyes were still acclimatising. He could see the excavations now, ranged around them like pitfalls, as if the hill had been fortified against some nocturnal attack. His hearing, too, was heightened. He could make out the traffic in town, a truck changing gears by the northern bridge, dogs barking towards Afisou; and then, with uncanny clarity, the patter of urination, the small, pathetic sound of Jason breaking wind, and Natsuko’s glove-muffled mirth.
Max had wandered off eastwards, disgruntled with the lot of them. Eberhard was entirely still, arms on knees, chin perched on hands. The wind came up, catching at the last frail filaments of his hair.
He looked at Natsuko. Her dark hair was patinated white. He edged crabwise towards her. She ignored him as he came but buried her face in his coat as he reached her, stole her arm through his, guided his hand into her pocket.
–How can you be hot?
–Not me. Hand warmers. Here: magic.
He closed his eyes as she led his fingers to the alchemical heat. He was so cold that he could feel the warmth creeping up his knuckle joints, into the dense heel of his hand, up the bones of his arm. Like the poison that killed Socrates, he thought, the hemlock that began at his toes and ended at his heart.
