Voices from the Past, Page 3

  So later, I invited Alcaeus and some friends to supper.We sat around the courtyard fountain and listened to theharpists playing under the burning lamps. Libus, Nanno,Suidas—they are good company for Alcaeus. He seemed morelike himself again, joking and talking. Again helampooned Mimnermos and mimicked “that strange-smellingcountry poet from Smyrna.” But I detected a morbid note,a self-hostility that cut him more than it did those hescorned.

  Will he ever write again?

  He left early, insisting he would find his way home byhimself. A soldier, reduced to being treated like anirresponsible infant—of course he resented it. But I knowhe did not return home. Instead, he has rambled into thehills again.

  Now the others are gone. And I wonder, looking towardsthe slope, what it is that Alcaeus hopes to find, a newlife?

  I shall not be able to sleep indoors tonight. My bedwill have to be under the trees. Perhaps the wind canbring me some special message.

  ?

  The banquet honoring the warriors was held last night.

  Alcaeus had his collection of war shields displayed onhis dining room walls. Of hide and metal, in variousshapes, they united the room and its glazing lamps andcandles. I felt myself the focal point of a painted eyeon a circular hide, as I sat by him. I could not recallsuch an assembly in years: Scythian, Etruscan, Turkish,Negro. Bowls of incense sent threads to the ceiling.Wisps floated in front of me where a man in Egyptianclothes, headband studded with rubies, sat beside hiscourtesan.

  Alcaeus made his way to the dais, when everyone wasseated, about fifty of us. Hands resting on a table, armshealed and ringed with copper bands, he leaned forward,waiting for silence. His hair had been freshly curled,and his beard trimmed and brushed with oil. I wastroubled, thinking he might be impudent or truculent.Instead he spoke gravely and it was difficult to believehe could not see us. I thought he glanced straight at me.

  “Tonight, friends, there will be no tirade, no poetry.I wish to pay my respects, and offer my thanks for ourreturn to our island. I know how beautiful it is...”

  There was a murmur of appreciation.

  “Soldiers have a way of talking out of turn,” he wenton, reminding them of the gossip that had come to hisears, shameful talk that made faces blush with guilt andanger.

  “It’s time for me, as their commander, to speak. Verywell, I will!” And his voice thundered across the room,to make sure that none would miss or mistake its message.Was this the Alcaeus who had joked and sported and sungribald songs, as the popular friend of young men who wereproud, rich, playful and naive? Here was someone speakingout of experience...

  “I assure you the truce was an honorable truce—and willbe respected.” An older, solemn Alcaeus...who reviewedthe war with wisdom.

  “And now let us forget fear and enjoy life and see thatour people prosper.” It was an impressive speech, onethey would long remember.

  Our personal servants, assisted by the usual nakedboys, waited on us, pouring the Chian wine. Gradually,people began to move about, to talk and drink together.Men long absent from such gatherings moved nervously orwaited glumly—alone or in knots of two or three, feelingseparate. How does one forget the battlefield? I heardthe burr of ancient Egyptian. Persian was spoken by menfrom Ablas. Women gathered about the newly returned; somewere excited, some were beautifully dressed, their hairpiled in curls, their shoulders bare, wearing goldsandals.

  As the evening wore on, the old familiar sense offreedom returned. Restraint dropped away. Voices andlaughter increased. Then applause broke out as a Negroentertainer entered, carrying a smoking torch.

  Under the edge of the portico, he freed a basket ofbirds and juggled several wicker balls. I had never seenthis gaunt, ribbed giant, beautifully naked; some said hehad come on a wine ship as a crewman. He spun the cageshigher and higher and as they whirled in the torch light,he tore open first one and then anther, to liberate thebirds. A magnificent performance.

  The suggestion worried Pittakos and he pushed throughthe crowd to take the floor. Pittakos, with his raspingtongue and fish eyes—was there a more dishonest ruler?How ironical that he should represent us! As he keptfolding and unfolding his robe, he spoke about our fleet,how he would have the ships repaired and converted intofishing boats for the use of the community...nevermentioning that our fleet was rotted!

  Presently, the musicians and dancers wandered among usand the party went on. After many songs and a lot ofwine, Alcaeus slipped his arm through mine and suggestedwe go upstairs. It was all very obvious, of course—thathe was drunk and I unwilling, that times had changed andeverything with it. When was it we had dashed, hand inhand, up his staircase, giggling and pushing one another?How many years ago?

  Ah, deception and illusion, do we dare recreate thepast and its former happiness? Only in memory is it donesuccessfully. Yet, here we were in his room.

  Life is for love!

  In the old days, when we had made love, we had closedour eyes, to intensify sensations. Now he would not needto shut his eyes. And his arms, hands, fingers—once youngand sure—what could they remember?

  I could not keep back tears, tears he would never know,as he stumbled, laughed, then sprawled over the fur cov-ering of his bed. While the music filtered in to us, Icushioned him in my lap and wiped the perspiration fromhis face, hating the war and the years behind us. Aftermumbling a few words, he turned over and fell intoprofound sleep.

  So, that was the resumption of our love...and, as Ileaned against a hillside olive, the salt air fresh aboutme, I accepted defeat, aware that my loneliness wouldappear again and again. There, on the hill, gazingseaward, where fishing smacks moved, I rubbed the hornybark, envying the tree’s longevity and its years ahead.Would I trade places, to brood over Mytilene, forcenturies?

  Alone?

  Then Atthis circled me in her arms, creeping up behindme and cupping my eyes. I recognized her by her laughterand perfume.

  “Atthis...”

  ?

  Alcaeus’ home is much older than mine, with patinawalls, Parian marble floors, and a collection of rareAthenian busts. His library has a Corinthian copy ofHomer and a collection of Periander’s maxims, while Ihave been contented with some papyri, of choral lyricsand dithyrambs.

  As I stretch out in a leather chair in his library andread to him, the honeysuckle makes its fragrance outside,surely a woman’s flower, so fecund. I try to keep myvoice and thoughts within the room, beyond the reach ofits fragrance. The honeysuckle does not suit us or theroom. And Alcaeus knows this, too. His impassive featuresgrow stern, as though to reprimand me. Insatiable Sappho!Yet how can I help it? I must love and be loved.

  Laying down the book, I kneel and place my cheekagainst his knee. His hands, gliding over my hair andneck, are dead. His voice, out of its black, reproachesme.

  I want to cry: but I didn’t blind you!

  The other day in the library, he said:

  “I wanted to write something great... During the war, Iconceived of a series of island poems, bucolic,legendary, praise of this life.” And he motioned towardthe ocean and our island.

  “Dictate to me,” I said, hoping to rouse his impulse.

  His silence, at first natural enough, went on, and Ibecame embarrassed by his stare at the bookshelves.

  “I want to help you, Alcaeus.”

  Again the silence. How was I to get through it?

  Taking a volume of his poems, I read aloud several ofhis favorites. Slowly, his face relaxed and he settleddeeper in his chair. After a while, he said:

  “Read some of yours, Sappho.”

  I opened a book, one of my earliest ones, and readseveral passages. But I could not continue; I felt mymind wrapped in fog; my hands became icy. I shut my eyesand said to myself: See, this is what it’s like to beblind. You’re blind, blind to love and life...

  As I kissed him good-bye, I longed for our youth, itsfreedom, its daring, its
quarrels and fun.

  Walking home, I told myself I should never return tohis house.

  ?

  In looking back over the pages of my journal, I amalarmed by the passage of time. When I was young, Ithought time was a philanthropist.

  I remember so well that day mama took me to the ocean,and the rain fell unexpectedly, lashing and soaking us.We finally discovered a shepherd’s hut, but I got colderand colder in its windowless gloom. Lying on the floor,among stiff hides, with the rain sounding loud and thehides smelling strong, I thought the storm would neverend. Toward dusk, a shepherd and his boy came, drippingwith wet and shivering, and my mother dried the boy andmade him lie down with me under the hides. Were we sevenor eight? Together, our bodies grew warm and we laystill, listening to the wind and the rain thud across thegreen roof, while the shepherd went about building a fireand preparing supper. I have forgotten the boy’s name,but not his face. Forever after, I thought of him as myfirst lover. I doubt whether we spoke a word all thatdelicious evening.

  Now I find it hard to renew ties with the past. Notonly Alcaeus...but Dioscurides...Pylades...Milo...thevery names make me unhappy. All destroyed by war. Whatspecial stupidity do men possess that they must involvethemselves in such a gamble, with loss inevitable,anyhow?

  ?

 

  The columns of the temple of Zeus, in Athens,

  stand white against the moonlit sky.

  A woman walks among columnar cypress,

  her sandals scraping sand and gravel.

  A hawk wheels above.

  T

  he masks I have on my bedroom walls seem less clever thanthey appeared years ago. Our theatre, too, has changedthrough the years, become more mediocre.

  Yesterday, at the play, I sat closer than usual and wasdelighted by the comic faces, so new and frightful thatchildren screamed and squealed. Good, I thought. Perhapsthe play may take on life.

  ...A man with a tambourine strutted about...an oldbeggar, pack on back, pulled at his beard and mimickedwords sung by the chorus. He seemed to be one of us or aChian, maybe. It was pleasant enough to soak myself incomedy for a while, for right after the play, Charaxosfound me and suggested we stroll in private. Obviously,he had something on his mind!

  He began by offering me an exquisite scarab, saying hehad purchased it for me, from a sailor who had touchedport.

  “For me?” I became suspicious! I fingered the beetle-shaped oval, unlike any I had seen. An amethyst was setin the center with characters engraved around it.

  “An Etruscan scarab should make a pretty keepsake,” hesaid.

  “Then I think you should keep it.”

  “Why? Are you afraid?” he asked.

  “Of what?”

  “That it might bring bad luck.”

  He laughed ironically, as he flipped and caught thescarab, with a flick of his wrist.

  “What is it you want?” I asked, coming directly to thepoint.

  “To be treated with respect, Rhodopis and I—notcriticized.”

  “Do I say too much?”

  “I don’t like your tongue.” He was scowling now.

  “Nor I your woman’s!”

  “Leave her out! I warn you—she’s no longer a slave!”

  “It wasn’t that she was a slave that bothered me.”

  “A courtesan, then!”

  “No, you should know better than that. Oh, no...it wasyour assumption that our family funds could be lifted,without my consent and without my knowledge. Taken to buyRhodopis. You sold three or four wine ships to pay herprice, along with the money taken from me.”

  “Can’t you forget...”

  “Not conveniently. Nobody enjoys being robbed.”

  “I have said I would repay you.”

  “But that was nearly two years ago. And you go right onselling wine and buying equipment. I have heard that youadded a ship last month. Wasn’t it convenient to pay methen?”

  His fist tightened over the scarab, and he bowed andturned away, rejoining his wife who was strolling behindus with her friends and servants.

  Theatre!

  ?

  Villa Poseidon

  Atthis, Gyrinno, Anaktoria and I went swimming in thebay by the driftwood tree. It was late, the sun misty,its eye sleepy, pelicans roosting, a dolphin or twofrolicking close to shore. I had been unable to forget mymeeting with Charaxos, until Anaktoria, who is the bestswimmer among us, grabbed me by the heels as I floatedby, and towed me to the bottom. That ended my anger andirritation. I lit after her, snatching for her long hair.Arms around her, I forced her to tow me toward shore,making myself as heavy as possible.

  As the four of us played on the beach, I thought: Whenwill this happen again? Something about the lateafternoon—its hammered out sun, its tempered air, itswindlessness, its smell of spring—seemed unreal even asit happened. We tossed our blankets on the sand, dashedback and forth to the water’s edge, splashed each other,then arranged ourselves in a circle and began combingeach other’s hair. We sang and laughed, comparing, whosewas finest, whose was thickest.

  Atthis, whose hair was shortest, bragged she could swimthe farthest. That started an argument.

  “Who swam halfway round the island last year?” demandedGyrinno.

  “Who was born at sea?” said Anaktoria.

  “You can tell the best swimmer by the shape of herbuttocks,” said Atthis. “Look at mine, how flat theyare.” She jumped up, to show us.

  “A boy’s buttocks,” laughed Gyrinno.

  “Here. Measure. Mine are smaller,” said Anaktoria.

  So we measured, laughing, fussing, pushing, our hairstreaming around us—a gull on the shore padding back andforth, scolding. Atthis won, but Anaktoria had theloveliest breasts, so round, almost transparent in thatevening light. I have rarely seen a girl of such grace,not the childish grace of some, but the accomplishedgrace of true femininity. As the others became aware ofmy admiration, they became jealous and peevish, and triedto shift the praise.

  They talked about my smallness, my violet hair... “yourdeep blue eyes”... “your melodious voice...”

  But this was Anaktoria’s hour. She had been away,visiting in Samnos, staying with her family, and I waseager to hear the news.

  “I thought I was homesick... But it is Mytilene I lovebest... My brother has a girl now. He goes to her housewhenever he is not working. I saw very little of him...Life there was very dull. Family visits from door todoor. The same cup of wine, the same paste of nuts andfruit, the same questions, answers, family anecdotes andjokes... How lonesome I was!”

  Growing quiet, all of us responded to the evening, thelingering sea-light, the arrival of the stars, thewhispering shingle, the breeze, carrying the scents andsounds from Mytilene.

  Anaktoria and I walked home together, feeling our bondcloser, stronger than before. I had missed her more thanI thought: I had missed her a dozen times a day.

  ?

  I have been sick today and to amuse myself I have madesome jottings about my girls:

  Atthis—lover of yellow ribbons, scared of the dark. Toavoid going out, will invent a headache, a toothache or astomachache. An orphan, she gets homesick for the homeshe never had. Prefers women to men. Tells amusing jokesand stories. Loves laughter. Mimics. Is made jealouseasily. Speaks slowly...ivory-skinned.

  Gyrinno—the daughter of a wine merchant, can outdrinkmost men. Worries about her figure, eats next to nothing.Uses violet perfume. Our best dancer. Otherwise, is lazy,careless of dress and makeup. Never reads. Wants to marrysomeone wealthy and entertain lavishly. Snores.

  Anaktoria—hair yellower than torchlight, soft-girl,dabbler in poetry, dreamer, lovely singer. Plays lyre andflute equally well. Adores games, trees, flowers,swimming, archery. Wants to travel, be a priestess.

  Then there are the new girls: Heptha, with copperhair... Myra, who is Turkish... Helen, a scat
terbraineddarling... Ah, but each is exquisite in her own way. Notwo are alike. I love them all.

  And yet, I am grieved, since my own daughter is jealousof them. Dear, foolish Kleis, who pretends she has neverbeen a child and is yet so far from being a woman.

  ?

  I have spent weeks over a poem, revising, revising.

  I do my best writing in the morning, when the sea lightis sparking my room. How important the harmony is to me:harmony in my house, on the island, in my heart.

  Sometimes, I call my girls to let them hear what I havewritten. Sometimes, in the evenings, I recite my poemsfor friends. Sometimes, I go days, unable to write aword. They are cold days.

  Shall I use eleven syllables?

  A poem does not grow like a leaf, but has to be shaped.I often think of a lyric as an amphora; little by littleI must mold its lines on the wheel of my mind. It is thestructure, containing the song. It must be graceful,strong, so that the words and the music can flow...

  The wings of the swans have drawn you towardthe dark ground,

  with yoke chariot bearing down from heaven...

  Come to me...free me from trouble...

  ?

  Today I received a letter from Aesop, written atAdelphi. It is a joy to hear from him. I thought he hadforgotten me. What a good companion he was, all thosedays in Corinth... Companion? He was more like a father!