The Orpheus Descent

by Tom Harper

  ‘Every day.’

  ‘Then perhaps you think this choice will be too painful? That you cannot choose a life of endless sorrow? I can release you.’ He slid the glass of brandy across the table. ‘If you cannot have Lily, forget her. There will be others. Forget your pain, your past: become a new man, whoever you want to be. Every shameful thing you have done, every memory that makes you cringe, every guilty secret – gone.’

  ‘I don’t want to forget her.’

  ‘Why did you come to look for your wife?’

  ‘Because I love her.’

  ‘Because you could not stand to be without her. Wondering every moment of your life – every knock at the door, every face in the crowd. You would go mad.’

  Jonah didn’t deny it. He remembered sitting alone in the flat, the silence, waiting for the phone to ring. Willing his life away, because every second spent was one less second to wait.

  He picked up the glass. The brandy caught the light and flashed amber at him.

  ‘Will it hurt?’

  ‘It is as easy as swallowing.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  A long plume of smoke exhaled into the night. ‘There is no alternative. Those are your choices. Remember her or forget. Live or die.’

  Jonah sniffed the brandy. He turned the glass, making a vortex in the liquid that spiralled down into … what?

  And where the liquid funnelled down into a single bead of light, he found the answer. He raised the glass to his lips. Over the rim, he saw Maroussis nodding encouragement.

  ‘No.’

  He let go. The glass slipped through his hands and shattered on the terrace. Without the light, the golden brandy became nothing more than a dark stain spreading across the stone.

  Maroussis was half out of his chair. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘It’s a false choice. Either way, Lily dies.’

  ‘She is already dead.’

  ‘Then I’ll go with her.’

  ‘It will be worse than you can possibly imagine,’ Maroussis warned.

  ‘I’ve got as long as it takes.’

  ‘And if you do find her – what? You will have defined yourself by this one thing, this quest to find your wife. Your whole being will be contingent on her absence. If she exists, then you can not.’

  ‘I’ll take that bargain. Even if it takes forever.’

  ‘Forever,’ Maroussis scoffed. ‘It’s longer than you think.’

  ‘I love her.’

  Maroussis sighed and stubbed out his cigar. A wisp of smoke rose off the ash.

  ‘It’s your choice.’

  Sharp, scaly hands grabbed him from behind and dragged him to the edge of the balcony. The rail, the garden and the sea had all gone: instead, he was teetering high above another river. Foul, black water, clogged with debris and sewage, rushing towards a dark hole yawning in the cliff.

  He hung for a moment on the edge of the precipice, between the light above and the darkness below. Then he went over.

  We’ve started into the mountains. They’re barren, apart from a few thorn bushes that scatter the ground like sea urchins. A few of them flourish bright red flowers, much more vivid than the red stone around them. The going’s hard, shards of loose shale that cut my feet and pull me back with every step. Without shade, I’m soon wet through with sweat. I remember the spring; I wish Socrates had let me drink.

  ‘Why did you come here?’ Socrates asks, in the tone that suggests he already knows.

  ‘I was looking for Agathon.’

  Socrates nods. ‘I saw him – I’d forgotten what a beautiful boy he was. If I’d been thirty years younger …’ He laughed. ‘Never as tenacious as you, dear Agathon, but very quick.’

  ‘Is he here now?’

  He shakes his head. ‘There are various … procedures … to go through.’

  ‘But he’ll come back.’

  ‘Oh, everyone comes back. The real question is how you come back.’

  ‘How do you come back?’

  He blows air through his lips. ‘It all depends. It could be as a bird or an animal, or a beggar or a tyrant, or even a bean tree.’

  I can’t tell if he’s teasing me. ‘Is that true?’

  ‘I wouldn’t insist on it. But if I were you, I’d go along with believing that I’ve got it more or less right.’

  A happy thought occurs to me. ‘And how will you come back?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather discuss the soul a bit more.’

  He says it gently but firmly, a correction to steer us off a dangerous course. I don’t answer – but Socrates has always taken silence for consent.

  ‘Earlier, we agreed that the soul is life. Life cannot be death, and therefore the soul must be immortal.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘And this gets you out of a spot of bother you’ve had with the sophists – the sort of riddle they love to flummox people with. They say it’s impossible to learn about anything, because if you know what it is you’re trying to learn about, then you already know it, but …’

  ‘ … if you don’t know what you’re trying to learn about, you don’t even know what to look for,’ I finished. ‘I’m familiar with the argument.’

  A sad silence as I think about Euphemus. Socrates lets the moment pass, before he continues.

  ‘It’s a false dilemma. Because the soul’s immortal, it’s already learned and understood everything there is in the world. So the things we think we’re learning in our lifetime, really, we’re just recalling them. What is knowledge, after all, but the memory of something we once understood to be true?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it that way.’

  ‘The soul is immortal and comes into the world already knowing everything it needs. So what sort of knowledge must that be?’

  ‘I don’t understand your question.’

  ‘Is the soul going to know about the weather? Or what’s for supper?’

  ‘You’re being ridiculous.’

  ‘Because those are fleeting things that affect the body. What are the things that concern the soul?’

  ‘Virtue. Truth.’ I think of Diotima. ‘Beauty.’

  ‘So these are the things that the soul must have knowledge of.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And since the soul is immortal, what quality must these things have – beauty and truth and so on?’

  ‘I suppose they’d have to be immortal, too.’

  ‘And if they were immortal, would they ever change?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And could they ever diminish?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, logically …’

  I have the feeling he’s handed me the key to a door I’ve been trying to force for a very long time.

  ‘These things our souls understand – Beauty, Goodness, Truth – must exist in some form which is infinite and unchanging.’ I can almost see them in my mind: pure existence, shining above the chaos and paradox of our world. Absolute standards which our souls can achieve, even if our bodies are riddled with compromise.

  Socrates is smiling at me. ‘I hope I’ve given you something to think about.’

  ‘But we forget it all when we die.’

  ‘But we can remember. What we call reason is simply a tool for navigating these deep memories – a way to remember things we’ve forgotten we ever forgot. All we need is one memory to start from and reason can do the rest, chipping away at the darkness. That’s why the sophists’ question is false. You can learn about anything because you already know about everything. Providing you’re active and inquisitive, and don’t lose faith in the search.’

  ‘Everything you need is within you.’

  Socrates beams. ‘Exactly.’

  We’ve reached the top of the slope. We’re in a high place, looking out over a dry, red plateau surrounded by more mountains. A river flows through it towards a gaping hole in the centre, and from out of the hole a column of white light erupts into the air. It reaches all the way to the dom
e of the sky, which bends it back across the earth like a vast rainbow whose colours have fused into a single, perfect brilliance. It binds heaven and earth like the cables girding a trireme. It’s the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen.

  Socrates lies down and scoops up a mound of earth for a pillow. ‘We’ll make our camp here tonight.’

  I stare out at the pillar of light. ‘Am I dreaming, Socrates?’

  He turns onto his side and closes his eyes.

  ‘Do you know what makes dreams so convincing? It’s the fact that they look just like reality.’

  The river whipped him down, corkscrewing round. ‘Things’ in the water bumped and scraped him: some were soft and clammy, others hard and sharp; some clung on to his skin and tried to drag him down, so that he had to fight to wrestle free; others knocked him into midstream, where the current was worst.

  In the brief moments where he could look up, he glimpsed an endless tunnel lit by a sulphur-orange glow. Yellow-brick vaults curved overhead; sometimes, where they met, iron ladders like portcullises hung down to just above the water.

  Would he be spat out? Or was he trapped in an infinite labyrinth, no centre and no exit?

  He kicked until he was facing forwards. At least now he could see what was coming. One of the ladders rushed towards him: he grabbed for it, missed, tried the next one and touched it, but the current pulled his slimy hand away before he could get a grip.

  What if that was it? What if that was the one way to Lily, and he’d missed it? Panic made him lose momentum. He sank, gasped, and took a mouthful of sewage. He spat it out, heaving and gagging to get the taste out.

  Another ladder was coming up. He spread his arms to slow himself, waited, then lunged. His fingers closed around the rung. The water sucked on his legs, trying to drag him off, but he held on.

  His left hand joined his right and he hauled himself up. It got easier as he climbed further out of the water. At the top of the ladder he could see an iron manhole cover. He put his shoulder to it and – miracle – it lifted free. A circle of light opened over him.

  He crawled through the manhole to see where he’d arrived.

  Next morning, we scramble down a long, broken slope onto the desolate plain. The earth is dry and cracked, even near the river. The heat is terrible. Red sand scalds my feet, but Socrates doesn’t seem to notice. He hurries ahead, gliding over the desert, while I trudge along behind him as always.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Was Euphemus right? Am I a coward?’

  ‘Not at all.’ The answer comes straight back, like a song you’ve been hoping to hear. ‘You wouldn’t have come here if you were a coward. You’d never have left Athens.’

  ‘You never left Athens.’

  He ignores my teasing.

  ‘But Euphemus’ broader point was correct. Philosophy is about life. You shouldn’t have tried to abandon one to pursue the other.’

  ‘You said that anyone who really cares about justice, and wants to stay alive for any length of time, needs to keep out of public life.’

  ‘I think you said that, actually. In your pamphlet about the trial. I’m sure I wasn’t nearly so eloquent at the time. And be that as it may, you’re forgetting something else I said. To fear death is to think oneself wise when one is not.’

  ‘I wasn’t frightened of dying. I just didn’t see a way through.’

  ‘Earlier we agreed that the soul is life. Philosophy is the study of things which are good for the soul, so we should also study things that are good for life. Even public life.’

  ‘Now you’re playing with words.’

  ‘It’s true. Cities, states and nations can be good and well ordered, just as much as individuals. One proceeds from the other. If we can establish what makes good people, then good societies will follow.’

  Red dust kicks up around my feet. ‘Are you saying I should have killed the boy Dionysius?’

  ‘Do you think you should?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You probably did more good reading him Aesop’s fables. So much wisdom in those little stories.’

  I don’t care about fables. ‘How am I supposed to win? You’re saying I shouldn’t remove myself from the arguments of daily life – but when I do try to get involved, you say I shouldn’t do the bad things that they require.’ This is Socrates at his sanctimonious worst: offering you choices and then demolishing each one in turn. I’d forgotten how infuriating he can be.

  ‘You’re assuming that if you enter the stage, you have to play the script they’ve written. Why not give them something better?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What was the basis of the method I taught you?’

  ‘Eliminating hypotheses to reach the first principle.’ I scowl at him: it’s not helpful just now. ‘I feel as if I’ve destroyed all my assumptions, but not found anything to replace them. I’m stumbling around blind.’

  ‘You’re nearly there,’ he encourages me. ‘There are two ways of being blinded. Either coming out of light into darkness, or coming out of darkness into light.’

  ‘Which way am I going?’

  ‘The right way.’

  ‘I hope I get there soon.’

  He sweeps out an arm at our surroundings. ‘We spend our lives in the hollows of the earth, clustered around its puddles like frogs around a swamp. It’s a dark, misty place: no one can see clearly. And because it’s all we know, we assume it’s all there is.’

  ‘Is there a point to this?’

  ‘There’s another world above – a true heaven and a true earth, beyond our drab perceptions. The philosopher’s job is to get to the upper limit of our cave – and then pop his head through to the world above.’

  An objection’s lurking at the back of my mind, but with Socrates in full spate I can’t put my finger on it. He makes everything sound so straightforward.

  ‘Now this true world up on the surface is a wonderful place. Out in the sunlight, everything is dazzlingly bright. The plants, the trees, the fruits, even the rocks are infinitely clearer than what we see normally.’

  I see the image, but I don’t understand the metaphor.

  ‘The philosopher can’t stay out in the paradise he’s found. He has to go back down.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because having seen what’s above, once your eyes adjust to the cave again, you’ll see ten thousand times better than the people who live there. You’ll be able to help your fellow men distinguish between good and bad, right and wrong.’

  ‘Do they want the help? Athens didn’t appreciate yours.’

  ‘If you leave public affairs to men who are only in it for themselves, who think that politics can somehow redeem their moral failings, it’ll be a disaster. They’ll spend all their time fighting for office, and the ensuing conflicts will bring down the government and the state to boot.’

  ‘That sounds familiar.’

  I’ve noticed the change of person – from he to you. With anyone else, it would just be a different turn of phrase. But Socrates has always been obsessively precise about saying what he means.

  ‘You have to go.’ He says it gently, and suddenly I realise that the metaphor is about me.

  A pang of heartache, an echo of the beach at Sounion. ‘I’ve already lost you once. Can’t I stay?’

  He shakes his head. There’s a certain amount of regret, but I think it’s on my behalf rather than his. ‘You have to go back.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’ Kicking like a child. ‘Go back to Athens, set myself up as an authority on … what? What am I supposed to tell them, when I don’t even know myself? Where do I begin?’

  ‘Everything you need is within you.’ He chuckles. ‘The trick – and, if I may say so, the pleasure – is finding it.’

  We’ve reached the column of light. It emerges from a vast chasm in the ground, a mile wide at least. The river we’ve been following pours in over the edge and disappears from sight; on the opposit
e side, I can see the blue-grey river cascade over in a waterfall that goes on for ever. Lower down, other rivers spout out from holes in the cliff-face. The light makes rainbows in the spray.

  A wind blows the spray onto my face. I lick my lips: it’s warm. Looking down into the chasm, I can see the cliffs are riddled with holes. They make windows into the caves behind, layer upon layer, like the galleries of a mine. I can see Sisyphus pushing his boulder up a slope to the rim of the chasm, only to have it roll back past him: if only he could get it over the edge, into the void, he’d be free of it forever. Through another window there’s Tantalus, up to his chin in water but unable to bend his neck to drink because it’s strapped tight to a post. I see murderers and tyrants being whipped with thorns by savage, fiery-looking men; a woman trampled face down in mud; another trying to fill a leaky bucket with water from a sieve. And in the background, on every level, there’s tousle-headed Orpheus, searching frantically for his wife but finding only images and ghosts.

  I look up. Oscillating bands appear in the column of light, brighter and darker, so that the whole pillar looks like a rising staircase. Seen from the bottom, it makes a perfect triangle tapering towards a point in the impossibly distant heavens.

  Socrates embraces me. Even here, his head only comes up to my chin. I cradle him like a child, though it seems the wrong way round.

  ‘Remember what you’ve learned.’

  I step into the light.

  Thirty-nine

  He was back in Syntagma Square, but not as he’d left it. The battle that Ren had rescued him from, days or lifetimes ago, had continued in his absence. The wounded and dying lay everywhere, naked and blood-soaked. Every stone in the square had been torn up and thrown somewhere else; the surrounding buildings had been ripped open like envelopes. A canvas sky stretched blood red across the heavens, bulging in the middle where the smoke pressed against it.

  He looked down, wondering if there was a way back. But the manhole cover had vanished.

  Probably, you will not even find her.

  There was no way back; there never had been. Searching for Lily was all he was.