Voices from the Past Part 24

He is G.o.d in my eyes...

my tongue is broken;

a thin flame runs under

my skin; seeing nothing,

hearing only my own ears

drumming, I drip with sweat;

trembling shakes my body

and I turn paler than

dry gra.s.s. At such times

death isn't far off.

Anaktoria's flesh seems almost transparent-a sensuous softness coming from inside. When my girls are dancing on the terrace or in the garden, I wonder who is most beautiful.

Kleis spins. Atthis bends, arms upflung. I see a grape- tinted breast, fragile ankles. Yellow hair flies over shoulders. Gyrinno's throat is perfect. Malva's thighs.

Look, Atthis and Anaktoria are dancing together. For an instant, their lips meet.

Tiles are blue underfoot.

Our wonderful harpist, an old woman, watches with burning, lidless eyes, remembering her naked days, playing them back again.

Cypress are drenched with sun.

Winter has come and Alcaeus has changed.

Winter-Libus and Alcaeus sit in my cold room, waiting.

They have been waiting a long time for me; they were here when I returned from my birthday trip.

Alcaeus' face is deeper lined: it has been lined for years but something has happened abruptly, pain has pinched the flesh into new, tiny, angry wrinkles.

Friends have reported that he is drinking again and yet this is more than drink because I realize it is inner debauchery: the eyes cannot confess: instead, the voice tells.

We huddle in our warm robes, the wind howling, and he says, in this new voice:

"What has kept you? We've been waiting a long time."

Libus says:

"We haven't forgotten."

"Or isn't this the day?" Alcaeus asks peevishly.

"Of course it's her day," Libus says.

Alcaeus chuckles.

When was it, I kissed that face, admiring its masculinity? His hands never trembled.

Wind shakes the house.

Mind travels to other days when we struggled in exile, when Alcaeus, badly dressed, kept us in food, stealing, conniving. Often there seemed no way to get by. I sat, waiting, blind to life. That sort of blindness was weakness on my part, or acceptance or hope. Listening, while we drank, I asked what hope he had? He was deriving some satisfaction from his relationship with Libus. There seemed nothing else. Little by little, he forgot why he had come to see me: happy birthday became grimaces, guffawing, vituperations over battles. He and Libus grew excited, enacting scenes with their hands, shuffling their feet.

"This is how I beat off his genitals..."

Alcaeus roared, hand on his beard.

"I beat open his helmet..."

Yes, the war...

And in my room, I found relief listening to the wind, remembering the boat's pa.s.sage to Limnos, my friends there, the festival in the vineyard, flute and drum, carom of bodies, laughter: Was it Felerian who laughed that low pitched melodious laugh? Was it Marcus who hurled his spear through the target? I erased Alcaeus: so much of life demands voluntary forgetfulness!

My girls had clambered about me at the dock, detaining me. Why does their love soften me? So often there are petty squabbles but, at reunions, they dissolve: the moment becomes a moment of accord, making life worthier: Gyrinno insists on carrying my basket, another smooths my scarf, another offers flowers. Kisses. They buzz into a flurry of plans.

"Tomorrow, we'll go up the mountain..."

"Tomorrow, we'll..."

Ah-hah-who, ah hah-who, the quails cry, as night comes.

I light mama's lamp, so smooth to the fingers after all these years, like alabaster. The wick struggles into flame, as if reluctant to leave the past.

My Etruscan wall girl comes alive.

"Ah-hah-who."

I take off my chain and pearl cl.u.s.ter and lay them in their scented box, pausing, sensing, dreaming.

Perhaps Phaon will be back soon-unexpectedly. I could not remain longer in Limnos, thinking he might return- tonight. I long for his mouth, the jerk of his legs, his obelisko's tyranny.

Hunger-let me sleep tonight, tired after the voyage.

No sooner have I returned than I am upset. Life is constricted... I stand among Charaxos' Egyptian treasures, confronting him: a twisted, gilded serpent G.o.d sneers at me: fragments of gold leaf blink: mellow gold is underfoot: I sway, as I talk, my parasol clenched across my belly.