The Athenian Murders (20 page)

In the darkness, a voice asked: 'Is anybody there?'
⁵²

In the darkness, a voice asked: 'Is anybody there?'

⁵²
I've stopped translating but
I'm still writing
so that, whatever happens, I'll leave a record of my plight. Briefly,
someone has got into the house
.
I'll recount the events leading up to this (I'm writing in a hurry, so it may be a bit of a mess). It's evening, and I was just about to start the final part of this chapter when I heard a slight, but unfamiliar noise somewhere in my empty house. I ignored it, and set to work. I had written only two sentences when I started hearing regular rhythmic sounds, like
footsteps
.
My first instinct was to check the hall and the kitchen, since the sounds seemed to come from there, but then I thought I ought to write down what was happening, because—

Another sound!

I'm back now after looking round. There was no one there, and nothing appeared to have been moved. I don't think I've been burgled. The lock on the front door hasn't been forced. True, the kitchen door, it leads to a little yard, was open, but I may have
left it open myself, I don't remember. I had a good look round. I could make out the familiar shapes of my furniture in the dark (I didn't want my visitor to know where I was, so I didn't turn on any lights). I checked the hall and the kitchen, the library and the bedroom, calling out, 'Is anybody there?' several times.

Reassured, I switched on a few lights. It seems to have been a false alarm. Now, back at my desk, my heart is gradually settling down. I must have imagined it. But then I think back to last night:
someone
was spying on me from behind the trees in the garden, and now ... I don't think it was a burglar, though anything's possible. Surely a burglar would concentrate on
burgling
,
not watching his victims? Maybe he's preparing his masterstroke. He's in for a shock (I laugh at the thought): apart from a few ancient manuscripts, there's nothing of any value in my house. I'm rather like Montalo in that respect... Well, actually, in lots of other respects, too.

My mind now turns to Montalo. I've found out a little more about him in the last few days. There are many similarities between us: both choosing to live alone in the country, in a large house with an internal and external courtyard, like the mansions of rich ancient Greeks in Olynthus or Troezen. And both of us passionate about translating ancient Greek texts. Neither of us has enjoyed (or suffered) the love of a woman, or had children, and our friends (Aristides, for instance, in his case; Helena - with a few
obvious
differences - in mine) are above all work colleagues. A few queries spring to mind: what
happened
to Montalo during the last years of his life? Aristides said he was obsessed with using an eidetic text to prove Plato's Theory of Ideas ...
Perhaps he found the proof he was looking for in
The Athenian Murders,
and it made him lose his mind. But why, if he was an expert on eidetic texts, does he not seem to have noticed that
The Athenian Murders
was one?

I'm not sure why, but I'm more and more convinced that the answer to these questions is
hidden
in
the text.
I must carry on translating.

I apologise to the reader for the lengthy interruption. I'll start again from the sentence: 'In the darkness, a voice asked'.
(T.'s N.)

It was dark and dusty. The floor was strewn with rubble and possibly rubbish - things that sounded and felt like stones when trodden on, and things that sounded and felt soft, crumbly. The darkness was total, and it was impossible to see where they were going. The place might have been huge or very small. There might have been an exit other than the portico through which they had entered, or there might not.

'Heracles, wait,' whispered another voice. 'I can't see you.' In the darkness, the slightest sound made them jump uncontrollably. 'Heracles?' 'I'm over here.' 'Where?' 'Here.'

In the darkness, finding that
there really was somebody there
almost made them scream. 'What's the matter, Diagoras?'

'Oh, gods ... for a moment I thought... It's just a statue.'

Heracles groped his way closer, stretched out a hand and touched something: had it been a real face, his fingers would have gone straight into the eyes. He felt the sockets, recognised the geometric slope of a nose, the undulating outline of lips, the cleft promontory of a chin. He smiled and said: 'You're right, it is a statue. There must be quite a few around. We're in his workshop.'

'Indeed,' said Diagoras. 'I can almost see them now - my eyes are growing used to the dark.'

And so they were: sight, like a paintbrush, had begun to render white figures in the blackness, sketches, rough drafts. Choked by dust, Heracles coughed and poked the dirt at his feet with the tip of his sandal - a sound like a box of beads being shaken. 'Where can he be?' he asked.

'Why don't we wait for him in the hallway?' suggested Diagoras, made uneasy by the inexhaustible darkness and the slowly looming statues. 'I'm sure he won't be long.'

'He's
here
,'
said Heracles. 'If not, why was the door open?'

This is a very strange place.'

'It's simply an artist's workshop. But it's odd that the shutters are closed. Come on.'

They moved forward. It was easier now: gradually they discerned islands of marble, busts on high wooden shelves, bodies that had yet to emerge from the stone, slabs to be carved for friezes. The space that contai
ned them, too, was becoming vis
ible. The room was large, with a door at one end opening on to a hallway, and what appeared to be heavy hangings or curtains at the other. One wall was scarred by gold filaments, faint gleaming marks spreading over huge, closed, wooden shutters. Sculptures, or the blocks of stone in which they gestated, stood everywhere, rising out of the remains of artistic endeavour - fragments, splinters, pebbles, sand, tools, rubble, rags. A large wooden podium, with a couple of shallow steps on either side, stood in front of the curtains. On it, a row of white sheets was being besieged by a large container of rubble. The air in the workshop was cold and actually
smelt
of stone - a strangely dense, dirty smell, as if one had sniffed the ground and inhaled the light, prickly specks of dust.

'Menaechmus?' Heracles Pontor called out.

A sound shattered the silence - immense, jarring with the mineral gloom. Someone had removed the plank barring one of the vast windows - the one nearest the podium - and let it fall to the floor. As fierce as a god's curse, the resplendent midday sun cut across the room unhindered, clouds of chalky dust swirling around it.

'My workshop is closed in the afternoons,' said the man.

There must have been a door hidden behind the hangings, for neither Heracles nor Diagoras had seen him enter. He was thin, with an unhealthy, slovenly appearance. Dirty tufts of grey sprouted unevenly in his untidy hair. His pale face was stained with dark circles under the eyes. There was not one detail of his appearance that an artist would not have been tempted to alter: the sparse, uneven beard, the irregular cuts in the cloak, the worn-out sandals. His brown, sinewy hands displayed a motley collection of stains, as did his feet. In fact, his entire body was a worn tool. He coughed, and tried to smooth down his hair; he blinked, his eyes bloodshot. He turned his back on his visitors, ignoring them, and went to a tool-strewn table by the podium, where he began, it seemed - though there was no way of knowing for sure - selecting the ones he needed. They made a variety of ringing sounds, like out-of-tune cymbals.

'We are aware of it, good Menaechmus,' said Heracles, with studied gentleness. 'We haven't come to purchase a statue.'

Menaechmus turned, directing the remnants of his gaze at Heracles. 'What are you doing here, Decipherer of Enigmas?'

'Simply conversing with a colleague,' answered Heracles. 'We are both artists - your skill lies in carving the truth, mine in discovering it.'

The sculptor turned back to the table and rummaged clumsily among the tools. 'Who have you brought with you?' he asked.

'My name—' began Diagoras, with dignity.

'He's a friend,' interrupted Heracles. 'You can believe me when I say that I am here, in great part, due to him. But let us waste no more time.'

'Good,' said Menaechmus, 'for I must work. I have a commission from a noble family from the Escambonidai, which must be completed within a month. And many other things ...' He coughed again. The cough, like his words, was dusty, damaged. He suddenly stopped what he was doing - his movements always abrupt, ungainly - and climbed the stairs to the podium.

Heracles said, in a friendly tone: 'I simply wish to ask you a few questions, my dear Menaechmus, and if you help me, we'll finish more quickly. Does the name Tramachus, son of Meragrus, mean anything to you? Or Antisus, son of Praxinoe, or Euneos, son of Trisipus?'

Up on the podium, Menaechmus stopped removing sheets from the statue. 'Why do you wish to know?'

'Oh, Menaechmus, if you answer my questions with questions, how will we ever finish? Let us proceed in an orderly fashion: you answer my questions, then I will answer yours.'

'I know them.'

'Through your work?'

'I know many ephebes in the City—' He broke off to tug at a sheet that was caught. He was impatient. His movements had an agonistic quality. Objects seemed to defy him. He granted the cloth the opportunity of two more brief attempts, almost warnings. Then he clenched his teeth, braced himself and, with a dirty grunt, pulled with both hands. The sheet came away from the statue making a sound that was like a pile of rubbish being knocked over, disturbing ephemeral deposits of dust.

The sculpture, uncovered at last, was elaborate: a man sitting at a table covered with papyrus scrolls. The unfinished base writhed formlessly, the pure marble undefiled by the chisel. Apparently intent on some task, the figure had its back to Heracles and Diagoras and, of the head, only the crown was visible.

'Did any of them pose for you?' asked Heracles.

'Occasionally,' came the terse reply.

'But not all your models perform in your plays.'

Menaechmus was back at the tool table, setting out a row of chisels of different
sizes. They are free to choose’
he said, not looking at Heracles. 'Sometimes they do both.'

'Like Euneos?'

The sculptor turned his head abruptly. Diagoras reflected that Menaechmus seemed to ill-treat his own muscles, like a drunken father battering his children.

'I have just heard about Euneos, if that's what you mean,' said Menaechmus. His eyes were two shadows fixed on Heracles. 'I had nothing to do with his fit of madness.'

'Nobody is claiming you did.' Heracles raised his hands, palms outwards, as if Menaechmus were threatening him.

The sculptor returned to his tools, and Heracles said: 'Incidentally, did you know that Tramachus, Antisus and Euneos had to perform in your plays in secret? Their tutors at the Academy forbade it.'

Menaechmus shrugged his bony shoulders. 'I've heard something to that effect. It's nonsense!' And with that, he bounded up the steps to the podium. 'Nobody has the right to prohibit art!' he cried, striking a corner of the marble table impulsively, dangerously, with his chisel. It left the vestige of a musical note in the air.

Diagoras was about to retort, but seemed to think better of it. Heracles said: 'Were they afraid of being discovered?'

Menaechmus circled the statue eagerly, as if seeking another disobedient corner to punish. He said: 'I suppose so. But I took no interest in their lives. I simply gave them the opportunity to be in the chorus. They accepted without hesitation, and the gods know I was grateful: my tragedies, unlike my statues, bring me neither fame nor fortune, only pleasure, and it's difficult finding actors to play in them.'

'When did you meet them?'

After a pause, Menaechmus replied: 'During visits to Eleusis. I worship the Mysteries.'

'But your relationship with them went beyond the sharing of religious beliefs, didn't it?' Heracles was strolling around the workshop, pausing to examine several sculptures with the casual interest of a Maecenas.

'What do you mean?'

'I mean, O Menaechmus, that you loved them.' The Decipherer stood before an unfinished statue of Hermes complete with caduceus, petasus and winged sandals. He said: 'Particularly Antisus, from what I see.' He pointed to the god's face, with its beautiful, slightly malevolent smile. 'And that head of Bacchus, crowned with grapes?' continued Heracles. 'And this bust of Athena?' He
went from figure to figure, ges
ticulating like a trader trying to raise his price. 'A great many of the gods and goddesses of sacred Olympus seem to bear Antisus' beautiful countenance!'