Snakehead (6 page)

Finally, we went back to the taverna, to start the evening’s work.

That night Kore didn’t vanish after the last chores. Papa Dicty retired to his room, after congratulating us on a job well done. The rest of us moved into the backyard, to collapse in coolness and privacy. Anthe was brooding, still scared that the boss was going to send her home in disgrace. Kore’d had a stunned, bewildered look all evening—barely concealed by a waitress’s obligatory cheerful smile. She sat on the wellhouse bench, her hands knotted in her lap.

“I thought Serifos was safe!” she cried suddenly, almost accusingly. “I thought this was a peaceful haven! Why did you help the refugees when you have such troubles of your own!”

“We have a king we don’t love,” sighed Pali. He was lying flat out on a clean patch of paving, with his eyes closed. “He keeps trying to pick a fight with the boss, who is his brother: a fight that would ruin us. But don’t worry, our
boss is cunning as a fox; he’s always found a way out. So far …”

My friend opened his eyes, and looked at me. I knew what was on his mind. But I looked away.

“It’s true, we have our troubles,” said Moumi. “Shall I tell you
my
story, Kore? Or perhaps you know it already?”

Kore shook her head. We’d finally seen her with the refugees today, and the mystery only deepened. She didn’t know them, they didn’t know her, yet they
frightened
her. She was so shaken now that she might tell us the truth at last, but a direct question would be no use; she’d just disappear off to her room. I knew what Moumi was trying to do. Trade one painful story for another …

“I was a princess. I was Danae of Argos; it’s a kingdom on the Mainland. My father had been told that his grandson, his rightful heir, would kill him. I was the only legitimate child, his only child born of a noble mother. When I was nine years old, he locked me in a tower, and swore I would spend my life there. Never see the sky, never touch the earth. I was allowed one nurse to look after me. I cried a lot at first, but she told me I was lucky to be alive, and I had the sense to know it was true. My father was a hard man. So I learned to be happy in my prison. Unfortunately, tale-tellers spread it about that the princess in the tower was astoundingly beautiful and wise.”

“Absolutely true,” I put in.

Moumi laughed. “Well, anyway. There was a night, which I remember vividly, when I had a thrilling, frightening, golden dream, and that’s all I’ve ever known of my son’s father. I’m sure the Supernatural Person involved didn’t mean any harm.”

No matter what they do to you, it’s bad luck to criticize the Supernaturals.

“But of course I was in a lot of trouble. My nurse
knew
that no mortal man had been near me. I was like a child; I didn’t understand. I thought it was lovely when she told me I was going to have a baby, because I would have somebody to play with. Well, Perseus was born, and my father found out. He had my nurse killed when she told him the truth. He didn’t kill us, just in case she was right. He had us nailed into a wooden crate, and the crate was taken out to sea, and dumped in the ocean. I was about fourteen. Perseus was three months old.”

“Great Mother,” breathed Kore. She flashed a glance at me, and resumed staring at the ground. I knew she was thinking of that time on board the
Afroditi
, when she’d seen me flinch at the sight of a wooden box bobbing on the sea.

“I
hate
my father.” The words burst out. I couldn’t possibly remember, but the fear that baby had felt was part of me, right at the heart of me, and I hated it. “My grandfather was a cowardly idiot. Doesn’t he know you
never
do yourself any good trying to fool an oracle? I don’t care
about him. But my so-called holy immortal father has no excuse. He knew exactly what he was doing to Moumi. I hate him!”

“Luckily
he
does not hate
you
,” said my mother sharply. “Not yet, at least. He has left us in peace, for which I thank him. Don’t talk like that, Perseus.”

“Sorry.”

Moumi got to the point of the story. “You see, Kore, Perseus and I were condemned to certain death, but we lived. The crate was found on the shore of this island by a fishing-boat owner called Dicty, who opened it up because he heard sounds from inside. My baby and I were alive. Papa Dicty nursed us back to health, and we’ve been with him ever since. We have lived happily, we have lived well.
That’s
why I helped the refugees, if you need a reason. I know that fate can be changed, that good can come from evil. I know that there’s always hope.”

There was a long silence. We were sure Kore was on the brink of speech. But she didn’t say a word, just went on staring at the ground.

“Well, I
do
blame your grandfather, Perseus,” growled Anthe, tugging off her cook’s head cloth and giving her hair a fierce shake. “Achaeans are all the same. They’re convinced every woman born is a messenger from the Great All, and they’re afraid of us seeing their wickedness. So they lock girls up like criminals, and invent reasons to kill them.”

Anthe had used the old name
Great All
, from before the
Disaster, which people don’t use anymore. We only speak of the Great Mother. I saw Kore give a start, as if she’d suddenly heard someone speaking her own, lost language, which nobody on Serifos knew. Anthe didn’t notice. My mother sighed, and stood up.

“Anthe, you are lowering the tone of the conversation. Achaeans are human too: I’m one, and so is Perseus. I’m going to bed. Don’t be too late, children.”

She took the lamp, as a strong hint that we weren’t to stay up. Mémé could be heard devouring fish heads by the trash, making very strange noises. Palikari hauled himself off the ground, went to sit by Anthe and rumpled her hair.
“Honest colors?”
he remarked. “Ooh, what a mess. Were you drunk, or what?”

She shrugged him off. “It’s not funny. The boss might never forgive me.”

We were four young people, trapped in different ways but glad to be together, only hoping we could go on sharing our good life, troubled as it was.
“Nowhere’s
safe,” said Anthe at last. “Not Serifos, not anywhere. The world could be so beautiful, but it’s terrible instead, and cruel things happen all the time.”

I thought of this night often, when things had fallen apart.

Dicty wouldn’t let Anthe wash her “honest colors” off the wall. He said it was much better than a stuffed mermaid. She was crushed for a whole morning, and winced if she
had to pass the place. But secretly we all liked the daub. It meant fun, friends; a little craziness. It reminded us that life was supposed to be sweet.

Two days later, at the full moon, the famous singer Mando came to Dicty’s taverna. The midsummer festival lasted half a moon, and brought out singers, musicians and dancers all over the island. They didn’t go to the High Place: midsummer was an old-fashioned women’s feast and not to the king’s taste. But Papa Dicty always invited the greatest artists to perform in the restaurant, and he treated them like royalty.

Mando was a village woman from the north of Serifos. She was supposed to have been a beauty, but for all the midsummers I remembered, she’d been quite an old woman. She was short, squat and heavy, with massive shoulders, a furrowed brow, double chins and a distinct mustache. She was also grasping, quarrelsome, and didn’t have a good word to say for any of her rivals—but none of that mattered. It was her art that was revered. She turned up at noon, wrapped in a thick, dirty mantle, having walked from her last show at Koutala. She shook off the dust, dumped her bundle, took a bath, ate a huge meal and went to sleep in Dicty’s own bed, as all our guest rooms were occupied. She slept until late the next day, took another bath, ordered a very hearty breakfast and stayed in her room.

By moonrise the waterfront terrace and the dining
room were packed, and it was standing room only in the kitchen yard. To hear Mando sing at Papa Dicty’s was one of the highlights of the year. People had come from miles around. I was at the door of the boss’s room, waiting to escort her. When she appeared, she was dressed in the same style as the faded court ladies on the wall: bands of red on her tiered skirts, a tight bodice straining around her thick waist. Her breasts and shoulders were bare, rouged and powdered. Her hair was dressed in long, glistening black ringlets (helped out by false extensions, I could see). Her face paint was a white mask, with black lines around her eyes and red lips. The grumpy old woman with the mustache had vanished, and it wasn’t just the paint. Mando had the power over her appearance that all great performers have. When she was ready to sing, she was still beautiful.

People cleared a path as I led her to the hearth, where there was a bright fire in spite of the heat, as tradition demanded. She took her place. I joined Moumi, Papa Dicty, the matriarchs and their consorts at the high table—an honor I would have been glad to surrender.

Children were getting underfoot. Aten and Moni the Naxian were nearby, with their household. My dear friends were perched up on the bar counter, relatively cool and with a great view of the singer. There were festive lamps hanging in a row above the bar. I could see Kore’s profile, and her slender hands clasping her knees. She was wearing blue, a
two-brooched dress with a border worked in silver, like starlight in the midnight sky.

Mando sang for two hours, mostly seated. Sometimes she’d get up and dance a few steps, with sweeping, ancient gestures. If it was a modern song that we all knew, she’d beckon to us, letting us know we were allowed to join in for the chorus:

This is a very naughty song, if you take the words the way we islanders take them. Everyone was laughing, nudging and winking at each other (there’d been plenty of drinks earlier). I saw Kore laughing too, her burden swept away by the power of the music. I wanted to be beside her, but I couldn’t leave my place. At last Mando
gave us “Dark Water,” the funeral song. She sat down for this: leaning forward, her hands planted on her broad knees; and seeming to look through us, through the hearth’s flame-shadows, into a vast, lonely distance.

The audience was completely silent. Partly, that was out of respect for the ritual song for the dead. Partly, it was Mando’s power over our emotions. Death will not be like that for me, I thought. Not me, because I’m immortal like my father.

I didn’t care what being immortal meant. I never thought about it, and I didn’t want to think about it now. But the sadness drew me in. I understood, as if for the first time, that Moumi, Dicty,
everyone I loved
, would cross over the dark water, and I would be left alone. I would call after them but they wouldn’t know me. I would never see them again. Pain struck me, as real as a twisting knife.

I saw that Kore had slipped down from the bar and was standing behind it, head bent. She can’t bear to listen, I thought. She has too many sad thoughts.

The singer let the last long notes drain out of her and relaxed, reaching for a hefty tot of the finest Naxos Kitron liqueur. The whole room sighed together, tears were wiped and they all shouted for “Dark Water” again. I couldn’t understand it; once had been plenty for me. Mando smiled smugly, knocked back her Kitron, scratched herself under
the arms, and then she carried us away, once more, into the heart-opening darkness of grief. But
what was Kore doing?

I watched as she finished covering one of Palikari’s scraped-wood tallyboards, her hand gripping a stylus, and grabbed another: as if she was making out some huge, impossible account for an Achaean millionaire, and it was a speed test. Pali and Anthe were peering over her shoulder, and looking at each other. I managed to catch Anthe’s eye. She lifted her hands, helpless and mystified. Kore was oblivious.

I hardly noticed when the song ended, until the applause burst out. I was caught up in the strange little drama going on by the bar. Somehow it scared me, and I didn’t know why. I quickly rearranged my face, and whooped and cheered and pounded my palms together. Everyone shouted that the singer had surpassed herself. Foreigners threw coins, which is
not
a good idea in a crowded bar. Mando stood, and bowed, sat down again, and called for another drink.

Kore was still working away. Palikari suddenly had the presence of mind to drop down from the counter and stand in front of her. Papa Dicty must have been watching too. Before the applause showed any sign of letting up, he stood, and spread his arms. “How beautiful it is that we remember the dead in our midsummer festivities. I have always thought that’s a very moving Serifiote tradition. Now, the crowd in here is unsafe, so please go out
to the terrace! We can thank and praise the incomparable Mando more pleasantly outdoors, when she’s had a chance to catch her breath!”