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- Herausgeber: Books on Demand
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Serie: The Informer - Tango Man Appears
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
Zsolt has had an interaction with his Muses from an early age, especially through the Internet, where he meets Rita, who pleads to be saved from being held prisoner. He decides to help Rita and travels to Greece. Takis, a PI, assists Zsolt with his rescue plans and follows up to neutralize Minos, the Bull-Man, who sets conditions to disclose Rita's whereabouts. The set conditions are tough and follow the Secret Rites of Eleusis, but with the help of friends, they have a chance to get through. Minos in his lair throws lavish parties that usually end in an orgy. and Rita is terrorized to eat part of the victim's heart, the Bull-Man has ripped from his next victim. Midge, the dwarf and second in command had been caught by Spiros, Takis 'brother, who operates a security unit. He'll cooperate to open the gates to Villa 'M' for the attackers and help Rita escape from her gilded cage. The date is set and the countdown begins. Zsolt and Myrto will dig through the labyrinth below to reach Rita's cage, while Takis and his brother will enter Villa 'M' above ground in a synchronized. way. Zsolt and Takis are prepared to face Minos head-on.
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“Are we to paint what’s on the face, what’s inside the face, or what’s behind it?”
Pablo Picasso
“…advanced into the labyrinth of phases in which she was her own Ariadne, equipped with the thread of her breathing, so full of intelligence, the median point indeed began to rise, perhaps beneath the secret pressure of the prison’s spiral.”
Ezra Pound, ‘Cantos’
“A mask tells us more than a face.”
Oscar Wilde.
Contents
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Glossar
About the Author
Other books by the author
Image
Copyright
Prologue
The Muse arrives unannounced, early morning, before the crack of dawn, when all is quiet and the birds haven’t yet warbled. She sails on a cloud, moving unseen and she chooses this time to pay you a visit. "It’s your time with me now, my bard,” her husky voice whispers and you feel her breath across your face. Her unfathomable presence seeps into you as you turn and wake, your body stirring in a dream, sweetness surrounding you like warm scented air and her whispers turn into touches on your body: delicate and loving, arousing you. You do not feel overpowered by a succubus, but an erotic stir moves within your body as you embrace her. In a sudden wake you sit up in your crumpled bed to witness this intimate embrace, your mind switched on like a neon light. She who loves you has entered you and as you become removed from the scene of intimacy, you can see yourself – writing away in a rush, as if life has urged you never to sit idle, let your feelings free and flicker their glow of excitement into the stillness of the dusky morning, the flame of a candle she has lit. She crouches behind you and her slender fingers embrace you, stroking your body as she adores your erection lovingly.
You are the scribe sitting up in bed, on the hovering cushions of her body that holds you close. You feel the shapes of her breasts, the softness of her thighs, as she circles your waist with her long legs. At this erotic moment of inspiration, you gaze at her image as her face reappears, as if frozen at that moment when you met her for the first time. Your feet pound the cobble stones as you are rushing downhill to her domicile, where you turn and check if anybody is around, sneaking like a thief into the dark passage that leads to her door. Unobserved, you play the game of excitement to be detected, loudmouthed by the dark spirit of ‘Fama’, the spoiler of beauty in love that’s unusual and condemned by moralists, who glee within witnessing its destruction.
You have entered the place to the other world, where love is unbridled, pure, and denuded from the cloak of lies and brazen honesty engulfs your lovemaking. But there is never too much time. The sweetness of the moment of stealthy and innocent love will not last, as it vanishes with the short breaths of great excitement, which you cannot hold between your lips that continue to suck it up, nor with your fingers that tire as you lick them like a little boy, dunking them into the honey pot of her body.
She is fleet-footed, agile, and she gives you love like sensuous woman who can peak you, make you feel lustful, and greedy for more honey. Have you realized you came close to the realm of gods, but remained a human through limitations of your physical life? But then your mind takes over as she disengages from your desires possessing her and make her yours, fuse with her as the other half of your being. She has taught you that love is one fleeting moment and if you are in good luck, one of several, perhaps even more. Maybe the third time you’ll meet her, she’ll be ready for a sequence of more days, yet it could be all just an illusion to keep you on the see-saw vibes of love. Maybe you could make her desire you for being an attentive lover and fall for your charm and intensity in lovemaking and make her belief in this hope in you for a happiness that’ll last forever.
You think of Orpheus and Eurydice and fear grabs your heart that you’ll lose her. But even if Fate will cut her life short, taking her away physically, she’ll be in you whispering words of love that cannot be ever taken away by anyone, not even by the awesome women of Fate.
You have met her at this early hour tête-à-tête in this vigil of love that’s most intensive at this moment of the young emerging day, when her spirit guides you and your first thoughts are as innocent and genuine as the rosy child of Eros. The new-born morning that plays with cumulus clouds and faces the drama of Helios burning them up with the fiery breath of his golden horses at the playful heaven of Zeus clashing with the storm of a dusky Poseidon. In this ensuing battle you feel set out on a paper boat that is tossed about on the angry pitching waves of a stirred up sea, cold and merciless it condemns you to drown and enter its underworld of suffocation. But again, your Muse will rush to your rescue and offer her heavenly body as your life buoy you’ll clasp, while drifting to the shores of your life’s next episode. Between drowning and breathing you experience the drama of love that has saved you for a purpose.
She cries out into the pitch dark night, a human being caught in the midst of the struggle of good and evil. She needs your help and you rush to free her from her imprisonment, but the winding road is steep and filled with pitfalls and traps. Summoning your courage, your wits, and your determination to succeed, you’ll give her hope. Your Muse never lets you down, she arrives in moments of despair, slipping into a multitude of personalities of sensual women who you’ll meet along the snaking road that takes you to experience a great adventure. She teaches you determination and tenacity to become a true human being through love, through her love that is an invisible shield of protection, a magnificent work of art with its cast bronze creation depicting her entire life: The child on a beautiful island visiting the bustling promenade; the young girl serenaded in the moonlit night by her admiring friend; and the young woman vowed by her first lover, seducing her in the shaded pinewoods in a cave below a waterfall. Sun tanning in the nude, you came close to her, and joined her to fine your ‘other half’. Celebrating life in the midst of the Aegean Sea has shaped her mortal being and she was reborn from the foam of the sea to meet you as your Muse.
1
The Greek muse has seduced me, from my early life. I came across her at the age of seven, when I discovered an album of postcards, addressed to my grandparents. Many post cards from Athens had been addressed to my beloved aunt Anna. I wondered why she left this beautiful postcard album here in Grandma’s room. I took the thick book along and looked upon it as a treasure, found on this abandoned island, my Mom called a shattered home, with Dad missing.
I became a lone hunter, as Mom worked and Grandma tended to the household, while I discovered treasurers all the time, checking contents of drawers and cabinets in the living room.
The postcards from the Acropolis affected me most, but I did not yet know anything about Greece. I deciphered the notes, written in German cursive style, fashionable a generation ago: Greetings from friends and a dashing young man with black hair and a moustache, who sent his photograph, taken at a salon. I wanted to have a moustache like that one day, but being blond, I had an advantage over him, I did not know yet.
I took the book the album to my bedroom, traveling the world, and looking up Greece in the world atlas that belonged to my dad. Mom asked me about my activities, beside homework and I told her about my virtual travels.
“Greece?” She exclaimed “where did you get that from Zsolty? “
“I found it in Aunt Anna’s book.” Mom frowned.
“You have to put it back where you found it, it is belongs to her.” She looked at me with big sad eyes, turning her head, gazing out through the lounge window into the east where Dad had been seen for the last time. “Yes, I will, I like the Acropolis.” Mom did not answer, but she took note. I sensed she thought about what I had said to her before.
For my birthday, Mom arranged a party. My friend Marie from next door came and Norbert, my best friend and Sue, a cousin. I remember the presents: A hare from Norbert, a Hungarian doll from Marie, with dark hair like hers. Sue gave me a kiss and a chocolate heart. I loved Sue. Mom called her Zsuzsa. Then Mom gave me her presents: a blue-striped shirt for summer, some new light fawn shoes and dark-blue socks. Most of all presents I looked with great amazement at this book, she said it’s from Aunt Anna: Heldensagen des Griechischen Altertums (The Lore of Heroes from Greek Antiquity), and I read immediately about Hercules. I had no eyes and ears for anybody any longer. I sat and devoured the stories of Greek antiquity’s greatest Hero, detecting a cast of him on every palace in Vienna, when Mom took me along for her shopping of stock for her clothing shop.
“Acropolis, what have you learned about it Zsolt?” I had to answer questions and I had not prepared myself adequately, failing the exam.
“Prof Head is a tough examiner in art history,” Eve, my friend said. I felt bad.
“I know everything about Hercules,” I told her, why would’nt he ask me about him?”
Eve laughed. “Just travel there, she said and then you’ll find all the answers about it.”
I could not afford to travel to Greece. Instead I buckled down and swatted Greek art and architecture. The next time I passed.
“You have been there,” Prof Head said.
“Yes many times Professor, I lived through the times of Pericles and watched the Parthenon grow.” His lips curled to a smile, but his eyes remained stone cold.
“This is how you should draw the Parthenon temple,” he said and held up my drawing emphasizing the main features, I knew from my colleagues, the way he wanted it depicted.
As a man I felt the warm breath of my Muse, stirring me in her tight embrace, as I walked up for the first time the winding path from Plaka. My heartbeat’s rhythm pulsing in my temples, I turned into a lover who approaches his first rendezvous with rising expectations. I wandered drunk with awe into the sanctuary, halting at the first marble steps, to catch my breath. From the column, transformed by the glow of the rising sun, she stepped forward. I caught her in my arms, young and vivacious, her lips curled half-open with a smile, and her full breasts beckoned me to share with her this joie de vivre she presented. I fell in love with a dusky muse that selected me and took my hand, my face, my heart, my eyes and my kisses. My wandering has finally come to rest here on the Acropolis, at the foot of Greece’s foremost temple.
A woman wrote to me:
Dear Zsolt,
I watched you every day coming to the Acropolis. I saw you drawing, sketching and writing at the foot of the Parthenon. I found your name and address in the book you left behind. I hope you are not feeling that I have pushed myself into your life. Greetings,
Desdemona.
I wrote back to her and she replied. This conversation in correspondence lasted for two weeks, and then I wanted to see her. She wrote to me a short note:
Dear Zsolt,
I am sorry I am not in Athens. At present I am searching for a flat in Paris, France. However I will send you your notebook. Greetings,
Desdemona.
I was afraid of losing her and my notebook and I wrote back to her immediately:
Dear Desdemona,
I can assist you maybe with finding a flat, I have friends in Paris. Tell me which arondisement you prefer to stay in. No, don’t send me my notebook, that’s too risky. I rather meet you in person, when you are due back in Athens and we could arrange a get together at your favourite café in Plaka.
Greetings,
Zsolt.
I felt as if I had followed a bad dream, ending up again in Africa and chased an opportunity to design an exceptional dwelling. I wanted to create at least one outstanding and original residence, I could feel proud about. I lost Desdemona, but then by accident I received a letter from Jennifer. I sensed that she could not be a member of Philhellenes with a name like that, but she expressed herself the way I still remembered her writing, as Desdemona. That’s not your real name. Neither is Desdemona, I messaged back to her. How did you guess? She immediately replied. I have a notion about Muses; I sent her a note back. She must have laughed as much as I did in this adventurous way of reinventing herself with a character completely unsuitable to her, I thought. From then on we continued with our letter writing:
Dear Muse,
I am refusing to give-up my freedom. I am not a fixed person, put into leg chains of social groups and conformity. My Greek Muse has taught me the freedom to choose my own words, express my feelings, let rip my emotions. She was dedicated to teach me the inner workings of becoming a writer.
That’s why I travel back to Greece. My children are my poems and my stories, but I am not CP Cavafi, I like to be zoltanzelan.
Since you have contacted me again, I have felt the breeze of my muse again on my skin, rekindling the fire, I never recover from – I do not want to recover from – I love it. Yes the Greek language is for me difficult, but it’s even difficult to learn for Greek children, especially conjugations.
I have noticed I wrote to Desdemona and I have looked up the meaning for the name. It means ‘ill-fated.’ Are you? You had a reason to choose such a name. I do not like Jennifer as your other pen-name either. Tell me what you can or will disclose in this cat and mouse game. Do you have to be stealthy with me? Are you married or do you have a boyfriend, or an affair that has flagged? Do you need me to pep you up? I think we both need pepping up. I am not the usual type of a nice, clean American wonder boy. I am an artist and I need the prickling controversies with the bubbly. Do you like bubbly? I guess, living in Paris, you do. What are you doing in Paris? I answer your questions truthfully, but you seem to skirt around the questions I do ask. To extract information from you my dear one has to be extremely artful…what could I call you? It’s difficult to give you a name, without having a photograph of you I could study. I have posted mine, together with my profile. Why would you not post yours? The way you talk and write, gives me the impression of a well-rounded woman with good looks. Why are you hiding that under false names, mysteries and incognitos?
You are certainly an interesting person, but I call you not odd, like you called me. Being married to two women at the same time is challenging, if you want to keep them both happy. The woman I loved also sexually said to me: This is my last time you’ll see me.
“Are you leaving me? Shit! What did I do?”
“You did all right, there’s nothing wrong with you,” she whispered and we kissed. Falling in love is easy, but to keep it going is difficult.”
“No, not so. Love just happened to be with us every time we met: A fire that sprung from the belly spreading throughout the body.”
She died the following month. I remember the agony I felt. Our communication had been cut off. My daughter, Mia, took her Mom’s phone. Then she remained silent.
But my son died in her belly with her, too young to be rescued, not allowed for anyone to know. A scandal, Mia told me, as I confided to her, when Anna told her the truth, being my daughter, not her elder father, as she was told originally.
Then Anne accepted Nefeli, the pretty woman in the stationery and bookshop. She came to see us, I liked her instantly. She hooked up with us and we became a love triangle without excessive or violent jealousy, enough though to keep the fires of passion burning. Nefeli wanted to marry me. It happened to be Anna’s idea.
“You are ideal together,” she said, “I want you to be married.”
“But Zsolty is already married,” Nefeli said.
“Yes, Anne replied, “once officially and once secretly, but who is counting?” Both women burst out laughing. I joined into their jolly mood. But when Anna made love to me, she struggled with new emotions. Nefeli loved her too, and she showed a mature woman’s skill in lovemaking, I wondered about her experience, unusual for a young woman. I watched her with pleasure and never had encountered such overflowing passionate lovemaking before.
Greetings and tell me your real name!!!!
Zsolt.
Dear Zsolt,
I am obliged to write back to you. You ask me what my real name is. I will not reveal my name yet, but you are right, it’s not Jennifer, a common American name. My name is ancient, not in use any longer. You would die laughing if I’d tell you. Greetings,
T.
Dear T.
Can I name you what I think suits you? I saw you signing off with T. Greetings,
Zsolt.
Dear Zsolt,
Yes, name me what you want. I am awaiting your choice of a name. Greetings,
T.
I looked up all names of antiquity, I could find on the Internet, without opening hundreds of websites. I was wasting my time. I speculated: Terpsichore? No, much too long. I checked the Classical Greek first names: Thalia, one of the muses, maybe? Thais, is a beautiful sounding name, but meaning bandage. Theis? After all, her name was related to a goddess. It depends how T. looks like and how she appears the first time. How she would appeal to me, as a healer or as a blossom in spring. The whole evening I speculated, looking up my books on mythology. But I recalled Anne telling me before that she had one book on Greek mythology, she recommended me to have, but unfortunately it had not been translated yet into English. I could not off hand recall the name of the author, but when I would come across it I would realize the name. I have looked up the big Internet stores and I could not find her choice of a famous Greek book on mythology. I have to search for it on Amazon.de, as the German stores might have a copy of it.
*
2
Iam excited traveling to Greece, as it is in my blood to drift continually toward the shores of the Mediterranean Sea, a silver salmon jumping upstream, seeking out its mate to spurn the next generation at the spot of a tributary, where it originally came from. There is a difference; the salmon does not follow a logical route, even if he repeats the journey at every spring time, the button of excitement triggered in its mind creates thus exuberant strength. On the other hand the silver salmon, carrying me as one of 300 passengers, follows the exact corridor of flight as programmed, moving me along and stirring my excitement of a pending adventure. Does this enhance the drive in my inside?
I need to let steam off and travel to the nearby gym that features a running track. In front of me I spot a familiar figure. I continue our dialogue that never seems to have an ending. I have a calling, I say to my friend Edwin, who is concerned about me, as if I would be his prodigal son. I love antiquity, as it makes my soul rise in a grand way. He paused, sipping on his macchiato, settling back in his seat. With a soft voice he intonated a report on his only son’s travels. I listened to his sermon that lauds his son like a demi-god. He is the ‘Marathon Boy’ for him, physical beauty and brilliant intelligence personified in a young man. He is more beautiful for him than any woman could be. We talk about physical realtionships and losing one’s innocence. There are two hymens he says and I have to laugh.
I listen and note, absorbing his flowery talk. I know his son Guy, who is like a cousin to me and once I desired him as a brother. His beauty stems for me from his fine mind and his scholarly ambitions. My spouse compared his profile to ‘The Charioteer’ bronze at the Museum of Delphi. He travels the globe, twice a year, knowing the ways of an unaccompanied traveler, enjoying museums and art galleries, besides all the hedonistic venues. As a young man his face reminded me of a Greek portrait of a kouros. I agree with my spouse looking at the bronze head of the charioteer that is pinned onto the board in my studio, I admired in the Delphi museum. I have not seen Guy in many years, as he is hurrying from place to place and family and friends keep him occupied. The pictures I have edited in my mind of him, with the telling from his father, have always pivoted around the poet Cavafi, a similar aesthete, and admirer of Pygmalion. But I would place a copy of the ‘Marathon Boy’ into Guy’s bedroom, if I would design his contemporary home and I would conceive its set-up through our love for Classical art.
As the days reeled off and my departure is imminent, I become afraid traveling to Greece. I am still embedded into a dream. But how could I stop this drifting mode if I just had the most wonderful dream? I wander about my routine, my conscious mind dunked into fantastic realism.
What was it about? My learned collocutor friend wants to know.
I give you my book, I’ve just written, would you care to read it? He gazes at me. I have enough books to read, he whispers. I raise my head, to see if somebody could overhear our confidential talk. There is nobody close. He changed his colours. Has he mutated from a heterosexual lover into a truly autoerotic man? I do not judge him or his loves. Love comes in many variations, I muse, as I bade him goodbye.
Once again I am keen to leave Babylon behind and rather respite in Plaka, let the polis soak into me, as I distance myself from a past mayhem of inhumanities.
I call upon friends from the past. None of them is around any longer. I pray to my past ‘Muse from Acropolis’:
I kept my vow you exerted from me, the day you saw me for a last time alive. Marked by the finite scissor cut of Atropos, you kissed me and felt my erection, sighing aloud; you slipped from your pants, telling me I should come. You bent down, your fingers guiding my hardness into your soft and decomposing life. You urged me to spend myself in you for a last time. Then you turned, crying hot tears of love on my shoulder and the flow of your last drops of love trickling down to my belly. Your foot circled my waist and your chafing cunt wetted my thighs, showering my cock and balls.
I cry, but tears are now only wetting my eyelids. I play Giannis Parios’ 35 year collection of Greek songs and my heart crunches in my angered fist, just like the letter I wrote to you.
You called up in me feelings, you nurtured, inflamed with your body’s torch and never could you douse them riding me in lust. You poured the heated oil of fornicating acts on me, burning me to ashes of remembrance, I could not rise from. I never believed I could rise as a phoenix, as I became a man, who has fallen victim to his passionate love, he came across by accident. It’s you and me, flung together by a powerful force, you called love, while I referred to it as the forecourts of eternal hell: masturbation and telephonic-sex, together building up to a narcissistic performance in front of webcams and you challenged me to unite with you in cyberspace. I feared not to become a Hermaphrodite, as I desired you, but the merging pains must have been the same for the infamous beings in mythology. During your last phase of decay, you gave up on me, listening to your girlfriend’s seducing voice. I felt the jealousy driving me into another pair of arms, toward another pair of full breasts and to pound myself silly in a vengeance with another pussy that opened up to me. As it happened it was one you also knew, watching me like an exotic animal, merging with younger flesh, less intense from the young woman that appealed to me. Sexy and earth bound, with her hands crusted in soil, she filled flower pots with.
But you had the satisfaction, of me being caught in the web of your sweet and passionate love that had placed rusted iron bars of cheating around my heart, cheating by death, cheating by depriving me from your paradisiacal fuck, cheating me with the stare of the pale, shrouded skull. I faced him in the past a few times during my life. But this was the worst view of them all. This’ll break me, I thought, closing my eyes, as you leaped off the Acropolis’ cliff, taking me along. I died with you.
My mind played a slideshow for me: Touch down at E. Venizelos airport. Buy a simcard for my Nokia N74, buy tears naturale at the pharmacy and perfume from Boucheron for my spouse. Queue for a cab and become alert to the sounds of an emerging city in an early morning, like the murmur of voices from a dream. Arrive at the ‘Nefeli’ and check into a room on the first floor. Relax and gather at the familiar spiritual home at the foot of the Acropolis. I take off to Plaka, while my spouse sleeps, she’s handicapped with a failing nervous system, but she remains my best friend.
I am lucky, a poet, friend and lover of muses. I realize my muse is dead physically and I have to put her behind me, but I still remember her as I saw her for the last time.
I walk to Athens’ First Cemetery and ask the attendant for her grave. I recalled her Greek name with a flashback: the day she took me to the registrar’s office, asking for the grave of a famous poet, she adored. She sat on the edge of the perimeter kerb made of white marble, absorbed in contemplation about death.
I walk further uphill and emerge on the cemetery’s end, finding her resting place against the boundary wall. I open my palmtop, select my poetry and read to her the elegy, I have composed for her. It’ll take me an hour or more to read aloud the 307 pages. I’ll have to read in portions, when emotions will flood me and I have to stop, taking a deep breath. I have all the time, bugger the city. To hell with all false prophets and intimidators, this is the truth for me, I say aloud. It had been the truth all the time. SHIT…I’ll cry.
I exit the cemetery at the east entrance and buy seven red roses from the flower girl I was in love with the first time I ran from the ghost of my muse. I do not know if she’s still there. I do not know if I’ll kiss her, feel love for her, want to touch her, or if I make out with her. Let the moment of reunion dictate the next step. Another woman appears, having taken over the business.
I walk back to the grave of my muse, placing the red roses at the head of her temporary resting place. This is a sad moment of goodbye, but never an ending to our love.
*
3
Looking for a friend? The website’s welcome offers introductions to new friends, if one is of Greek heritage, a chat program and communication by mail, also incognito, if so wished.
I choose the mail option and place my profile onto the Internet. Am I still in the habit of meeting Anne? My mind still replays her actions and words. She promised to send me a woman of my choice: My choice? I want someone intelligent, I said to her and she cackled, subjected to a cynical mood.
As I write back to Jennifer, I question why I chose her to be my friend. An inner voice guides me – Anne? I loved her as no other woman before and the year I wanted to run away with her to an island, her untimely death would not grant me that thrill of happiness, reducing her to sand. I wondered if she resisted that temptation by rushing to England for a tour of museums. Despite all ill timing which seemed to ignore me, I recall her happy banter: You are lucky, she said, once we are away I will never let you leave our island.
Nobody I fancied since then would write back interesting letters: silly mail, photos with nude bellies, but empty faces, seeking eligible men for potential husbands. I am sick of it. What happened to Anne’s promise? Has she forfeited her promise becoming my Guardian Angel due to her illicit love affairs, on top of other gender loves? I did not mind at all if she represented a modern day hetaerae, or an unfaithful woman, bound legally to the laws of a paternalistic society. In love all’s fair, she said, but I took a long time to select you. Why me? I replied, but she only smiled, leaving the puzzle for me to resolve.
I kick myself, as Jennifer writes back to me more often and replying to all my letters, I could not recall having picked her as a potential friend, yet with this Greek cheekiness she appeals to me, being witty and knowledgeable about mythology. A typical Greek woman she teaches me Greek words and we communicate well. All our letters are metaphoric and testing the waters. I consider her as a Muse, sent to me by Anne, Apollo or Athena; it does not matter any longer by whom. She leaves sentences incomplete: I have to…she is constantly in a hurried state of mind, reminding me of fleet-footed Anne. And I have not given up to guess her name, as she signs her letters continually with a T.
Dear Zsolt,
Re: Reply
Thank you for your letter. An epigrammatic epistle is better than the long convoluted diatribes. You are lucky you have a spiritual home in Plaka. I love the place and my favourite café is Dionysos. Do you ever go there? It is my ‘spiritual’ home and once when I was feeling very, very low I went there to dream and to expiate the ghosts of the past.
Your profile sounds very interesting. I adore mythology, but be careful that you do not end up like Pygmalion! You never know maybe charitable Athena might have mercy on you and grant you your wish! Have a great day.
Thanking you again for your message. Best regards T.
Dear T,
I am not Odysseus, but also on a lifelong odyssey. I hope you are well and life treats you in line with your wishes. If I am destined to become Pygmaion, I will structure my words to express it. If Athena is kind to me and loving, I am grateful too. If you are in Athens during autumn, let me know. I would invite you for lunch in Plaka, which is my spiritual home indeed. Greetings, Z.
Dear Zsolt,
Subject: Mythology.
Thank you again for your e-mail. I hope you are well and Aphrodite is kind to you. Athena the cerebral goddess is my beloved goddess as my age is one that Aphrodite considers for beauty to be rare. Men prefer 20 year old women, as they believe then can like Drakulas suffuse their death masks with the blood of others. If you are Odysseus, I am definitely not Penelope. I loathe the untravelled Penelope who sits at home simply playing games with her suitors. I love to be on that ship with my Odysseus so I can be a mermaid diving in the sea to get the ‘treasures’ of depth. If words are important to you, you must be a rare man. I cannot stand monosyllabic morons as they are as boring as their limiting and limited discourse. I am not sure I will be in Athens in fall. I hope to be in Paris for a little while at that time. I am a traveler and as you very well perceived I am an ill fated one. I am Greek and yes I am proud of it but I have absolutely nothing in common with the Greek women inhabiting Greece currently. I find them boring and shallow. The same goes with men. I live in my self imposed exile and I would rather be alone than being with a moron. Where do you live? Why would you be going to Greece I hope you have a wonderful day. Best regards T.
Dear T
I am a poet and I do not blame you. I also ran away from myself many times. I am trying to resolve some riddles of life, while I write. Aphrodite once tempted me deeply and Athena saved me from an equivalent Sapphic leap. Maybe you would like to read what I write about a new muse, as tempting as Venus of Knidos and as bright as Athena Parthenos. By the way I am not a misanthrope, as Pygmalion became. There is a soulmate for everybody to find, not just morons. Greetings, Z.
Dear Zsolt,
Thank you for your many messages. I need to read and I need to communicate even in this cyber and virtual world. Words are important but I assure you I am not a bird. I always feel I am Prometheus and the eagle everyday eats my liver in the toil and grind of everyday life. Where is the merciful Andromeda? Who can rescue me? Is rescue around the corner or will I be for ever bound to the cold, heartless rock and the mighty eagle swiping down on me from the mighty heavens? I like challenging the gods but alas the gods are jealously guarding their power to torture us mere mortals. Why are you a member of this site? What have your experiences been? I am a member of this site totally by accident. I got here because I pressed the wrong link and they gave me free membership for some strange reason. I think they made a mistake. Wishing you a great day and best of luck T.
Hi Thalia,
The elusive Prometheus pictured with an eagle arriving from the heavens to feast on his liver and Andromeda, chained to the rocks a feast for the sea monster, but then she has caught the eye of Perseus, as she is good looking and well worth to rescue. I am here because I wish to find Andromeda and rescue her from this contemporary sea monster. I feel like Hermes’ son, still been given wings to fly across oceans and continents and enjoy life like Hermes did. He loved Aphrodite, who loved many that served her well turning her into a full bloodied woman, skilled in love matters, to give and receive pleasure and evoke adoration in her suitors, as civilized human beings copied their mind’s projections into the assembly of gods and goddesses. We all become higher beings, demi-gods, if we strive to give as much as we take, and not turn greedy. For friendship that is a form of love, does not take too kindly to those, who abuse it. Prometheus? At times I thought about the feelings, being eaten alive. I do favour the Dionysian way of life and not purely an Apollonian. However I like the challenge of oscillating in art and philosophy, after all our forefathers lived in the best world of worlds: the cradle of the west. I am here, lucky to have met you, by this serendipity, and thank you for your responses and thoughts. I am here to meet you if you wish to be freed from your unresponsive rock and show you the world that lies beyond gorging of livers and unbearable pain. Or at least we could share some of the pain that does not preclude emerging pleasures. Hermes’ magic could turn into spots and flashes of joy. I am glad that the statue I have carved during three lonesome years, has suddenly come alive…Z.
I have not heard from T and I started to write to her another letter, trying to catch-up on questions and answers.
Dear T
Subject: Mythology.
The names I want to suit your personality are still in the brewing process. I read your letters with burning excitement of watching my ship doused by the pirates of the sea, I can fight off. I compared myself not to Odysseus seeking Penelope, but as a seafarer, adventurer and more likely to be happy with Calypso. Yes your name is closer to her than to Penelope, for sure.
Why I am going to Greece? Because I am mad, because I am related to the lands through an inner curse, someone tossed the drug into my beaker of fate, at a symposium. I go to Greece out of love. Sounds corny? Well my story is a long one [odyssey] and as I am a fan of James Joyce, I also have a Greek dictionary on my night table. Ha! The Greek fire, it’s in my blood through heritage. Shit! It’s too strong and I am getting on with life and hope that Lachesis has made the yarn long enough to enjoy life still more [greedy] and Atropos has lost her scissors for some more time, falling asllep. I am a poet and an artist, a writer, a traveler of times unpredictable. Now, as I go to Athens again, I have to pay my dues to Athena. Then I have a trip to Marathonos, not only for history, but the greatest battle I wish to read and hear more about, as it represented a miracle. I am Hungarian-Austrian, bits of other Central European cultures mixed in as well for good measure, living in the Africa of the South, seeking the horn of plenty [elusive]. If I find the one thing that’s important in life, I will tell you…Jennifer-Calypso. For now I am into my elegy and it’s grown to 230 pages. I greet you and hope meeting you. Z.
Dear Z
Subject: The Sphinx.
Thank you for the plethora of messages. I very much enjoyed them and I would like to reciprocate. However, I have decided to write you one message. No I am not Kalypso. In fact she is an anathema to me. She is scheming and a hater of freedom. I could write to you endlessly on this but I will save it for a conversation we can have when and if the winds of Aeolus bring you to my ports. I guess I am far too Greek to fall for the Calipso types and take her as a model. I am sorry but I will not disclose my name to you. Of course my name is not Jennifer. I chose it because it is the most common of American names and I was indulging into pure self mockery. Unfortunately no one realized it and they took it literally. I am glad at least you guessed that it is totally unsuitable and a parody when it comes to the real name. If you are Hermes, be very careful that you do not deliver the wrong missive to the wrong person. What are you doing in South Africa? I read your profile and it says that you are an architect? Are you? If you are a writer are you a published one or are you writing simply as a hobby? I am glad you like Joyce but one has to be mindful of the portrait of the artist. Do you fit this portrait? I have no time for neurotic, lost and utterly stupid.’writers’. An artist is an artist and as such she/he is a finely balancing act. What are your acrobatics? How many languages you speak? Do you speak Greek? What do you mean that you go to Greece out of love? Till next time Best regards T [my name is so rare and so ancient Greek that you would faint if I tell you!]
To T,
Subject: The enigmatic Sphinx.
Dear enigmatic…maybe Thais could suit you after all, as I am handicapped, not being able to see your face I could place a name alongside. My Hungarian name derives from Turkish influences and means king. After all Ulysses has been a king; but I cannot claim a proven bloodline to him. However a distant drop of Greek blood must flow in me, through my grandparents. On mother’s side their name sounded Greek, I have been told by a Greek historian. My name had been rejected as pagan, by the church I had been carried to as a baby to be baptised, and how could I choose a religion as an innocent child? Maybe I had been abandoned that day and set-out like Oedipus into the wilderness. Growing up and facing all the human deceits in a small community, I drifted far from the city of my birth. Did I sense my pathways to be guided along by my guardian goddess of love? I am falling prey to many temptations in cyberspace or otherwise, a poet’s fate, as Apollo has a hand in it. He dislikes my leaning toward Dionysos, who sailed me to these dusky, fecund shores. What do I do in Africa? I wish I could answer it, as every time I want to, it’s different, like one cannot place one’s foot into the same river twice. I enjoy a spurt of creativity here, as I had given up on opportunities here five years ago. I fell in love and a flow of poetry emerged I never thought possible. I wrote my first dialogues and scenes and all grew into a book of monologue, I have since put aside.
As spring moves in with African urgency, I tend to rather name you Thalia, related to poetry. You ask me about my seminar. It taught me design parameters for stainless steel that help to build my ship of fools with which I’ll take my leave and rise with a silver bird into the clouds, sailing toward Hellas. Do I speak Greek? Yes and no. Not like a scholar, only words and greetings, but I learn fast. I have a dictionary and three phrasebooks and inherited a mad sense of an existence, thriving on impossible tasks. I relate to Greek culture in my strange way of understanding their poetry: Seferis, Kavafis, Elytis and Ritsos. For now I will finish my ‘Elegy of an Unusual Peak’ and leave these penned words to my trusted god Hermes. I wonder if Tethis is an ancient Greek name too. Greetings to you, Z.
Dear Z,
Subject: Oso mporeis.
Should I say dear king? Then I would have to be a queen and being a Greek I believe in democracy! Hence no queens or kings just silly demagogues or ballot boxes every so often just to give the hoi polloi the feeling that they are somehow material to the workings of the modern, ravenous, complex state of affairs. Why did you end up in South Africa? Your elusive prose tells me nothing. Who are your companions on this new ship of yours you are preparing for the new discoveries? I am awaiting the lore which this Greek muse has inspired. Kavafis’ ‘Oso mporeis’ is an exquisite way to live and lead a life? Let me know. Best regards T.
PS you did not get my name but it does not matter give me anyone you would like.
Dear T,
Subject: The Sphinx.
Ah the sphinx! I know Oedipus better as the bits and pieces of mythology I have been taught at school. You on the other hand are…now I have to be careful to say it, but being through extremes of mythological characters, I am indeed not Oedipus, but might have fallen the same way, having successfully defeated the Sphinx. Mythology has been once a religion to show us lessons learned from examples. Of course you have challenged my curious side of intellect and I am fortunate enough to have more than one try to find out more about a mysterious Intellectual Greek woman. I am guessing all day, as you have given me pointers. I am glad you are not Calypso, it could have ended the game, being caught in a one-sided loop, fleeing to freedom. As you mention Aeolus, I see him on the Tower of Winds, in a blowing conversation with the Ionian temple above it: A female-male discourse? It is your first admission that you are too Greek to be easily deceived, turning into Calypso, I like best. I had to ask you for your name, as I intend to apportion names to you that I use to paint the virtual reality of a woman, called T in my lore. I always start with a name, suitable as close to the image of my heroine, who interests me. I have thought about where I would fit into a mythological boundary of characters. I am at present still composing a hybrid, out of shards left behind by my life. Dionysos features and Hercules has been my hero; he followed this kid everywhere in Vienna, standing guard at every palace entrance. Odysseus changed into Ulysses, reading Joye’s novel during my army service. Later he slipped into tights like Spiderman and I named him e-ulysses, or e-odysseus and he’d been caught with me here on the Dark Continent for far too long. As a creative architect I became disillusioned here, as a poet I have been accepted here, but more so in the USA. Europe does not like my poetry. I polished my style through private courses and in dialogue with writers. I have published poetry in anthologies and short essays in a local paper. I sent the manuscript of my novel ‘The Informer’ to my agent in London, the second one to a local agent, but although two copies are proofread with interest by two friends. My other attempt is a publisher here, who showed interest adjudicating my novel through a panel of in-house editors. Do I have to tell you more about a convoluted journey? I have to be lucky to be accepted as a writer, because that’s what Anne promised me, in order to fulfill my dream. I’ts eight in the morning and I need to rush off to a seminar nearby. The second part of this letter will follow this afternoon. I greet you T…the 30th letter of the alphabet…let me guess the remainder of your name. Z.
Dear Z,
Subject: The enigmatic Sphinx.
What an unlikely name for an Austrian. It is far to slavik to be Germanic! Oooooh for the enigmatic sphinx which stares you from her lofty abode! Alas the cyber world can induce digital hallucination and I am afraid you are falling prey to it. My dear e-Ulysses, what a calamity for the Germans to have in every palace a Hercules statue! Oooohhh he was done in by a woman and he did play a bit tooooooo much the saviour! Like all saviours he did not ask if those ‘fallen’ wanted to be ‘saved’. I am afraid you are tooooo much of the repressed Christian. Go for the mystery of the Apollonian laurel! The enigmatic sphinx does not yield her secrets easily…perhaps the T is not just a T but in combination with other letters that the west has long forgotten. My dear Z it is not easy to be Greek and Greekness is not a state of biology. That is for the monocultural lunatics. Enjoy your seminar. What was it about? I am awaiting with breathless anticipation your next missive and pray that Hermes will not fail to deliver it through the nebulous vistas of cyberspace. Best regards T.
Dear T,
Subject: Oso mporeis!
I should say: ‘Dear Delight’, I will give you a name when we meet. You do not have to say king to me, I just translated my name. You are right, we both are believers in a true democracy, as close as possible. We are after all grouped into the hoi polloi, even if our mental capacities are above average. It does not count for politicians. Why did I end up here in the south of troubled Zimbabwe and the fierce shield bearers of the dusk? It’s part adventure, part of a forward escape from Grandpa’s murderers, part escape from routine and attempting something daring that would paint a background to my life’s picture. My new ship is in the dock of Med’s harbour somewhere. As its shape will grow, I’ll grow too becoming myself, as soon as I’ll stand on Hellenic soil. Then I start looking at my companions. Terpsichore I lead to a dance. The lore will take off, as soon as expectations rise to a peak and the first moments of greetings passed, our eyes have met and painted our portraits on the surface of our minds. I have to revisit this poem of Cavafi and search for the English translation by a Greek. I am looking forward to meeting you and I will ask you Thalia for your cell number, so I can call you, when I have arrived. As I have not all Classical Greek names on my system, I have to search for it in the library dedicated to Schliemann in Athens. I am looking forward to start this journey as soon as possible. I can hardly sit still. I will read the poem and let you know if I want to lead my life like it suggests. Warm regards, Z.
Finally I found T’s profile in the Greek Friend’s register, under her pseudonym Desdemona. She is a 53 year old woman from Athens, looking for friendship with men. Under what I’m like, she writes: a discovery and as such cannot fit into prescriptive boxes! I like the emphasis on individuality, showing a strong personality.
Under what I’m looking for, she said: a surprising being who never ceases to fascinate!
Ha! All what I am, I thought, or what Anne described me to be. She says she has blond hair and blue eyes, describes herself of average height and her weight as lighter than average, her body type as slender. She has a Ph.D. in education, no wonder her career is of importance to her. She takes alcohol socially, but is a non-smoker. Somewhat adventurous, likes to listen to diverse music and reads many diverse genres and subjects. She identifies with the personality of Athena, goddess of education and honours Holy Days in her religious affiliation. Asked about romance, she mentions listening to music, loves champagne on ice. A night at the opera is her idea of romance. She values a curious mind, a sense of humour and compassion. Outdoors she fancies sailing, no wonder she originates from a country of seafarers. She is a keen photographer. Socially she enjoys theater, traveling and meeting people.
I think Anne put in a word with goddess Athena for me, or did she not?
Dear T,
Subject: Oso mporeis.
Oso mporeis – as best as you can. I found the translation in a book I bought in Athens in 2005:
Even if you cannot make your life the way you want,
Try this at last,
As best as you can:
Do not demean it in too much contact with the crowd
In too much movement and idle talk,
Do not demean it by dragging it along
By wandering all the time’and exposing it to the daily foolishness
Of social relation and company
Until it becomes like an alien life,
A nuisance.
This translation of the Greek text has been done in a book, called: C.P. Cavafy, 154 Poems,
Translated by Evangelos Sacheroglou, 2nd Edition, Athens 2003. If you need to know my source for the poem I do appreciate. The book has been a treasure to me and still is sitting on my desk.
But also I will print down the Greek text for you from the book, as I can sense that you enjoy the Greek language so much, or do I cause a stir of homesickness in you?
The Greek version comes now alive for me as you Thalia inspire me to learn to read:
The truth is innate in Cavafi’s poem. We have experienced part of it, if we have sensors. But of course the metaphors are clear – too much movement – but that was some time back in Alexandria, and in a different style of life, and as you know Cavafy had to flee to Constantinople. I flee the Dark Continent here as often as I am pushed from an inner voice, an artist’s restlessness, but crowds are always in the background for me and social talk not important than only as necessary, as not to appear rude. Yet I seek the company of a Muse, the ‘other half’, always…warm regards, Z.
Dear Z,
Subject: H synafeia tou kosmou!
Thank you for your wonderful letters and your inspiring prose. Muses are aetheral beings and I like your take on them. Perhaps the muse of Greece is seducing you with its song of silence and immobility. Ohh what a pity and also how cruel that you were not given the gift of the Greek language. You may not know that Kavafis wrote his first poems in French and unable to express the depth of feeling and though he cultivated the Greek language and sentiments. How can one translate ‘h syfneia tou kosmou’? Oh for the limitations of the novices! They dare say ‘social relations’ or even contact. How totally and utterly limiting! One is breathless with its horrible idiocy. So I have to insist that ‘h syfneia tou kosmou’ bores me to death but not sociality etc etc. You are still very elusive as to the reasons you ended up in Zimbabwe. I hate to mislead, even in cyberspace. Currently I do not live in Athens and I am getting ready to go to Paris once I find accommodation. Inhabiting the regions of cyberspace one can be everywhere and nowhere in her dematerialized existence. How it is possible for a man of 57 not have been married and to have no children? Rather odd. I am waiting with great anticipation your ode to this Greek muse, Best regards T.
*
4
Itry to wipe Anne off my mind, but I cannot. Her image will always be linked to Internet communication, which fascinated us both. Coming back to my exchange of letters with Desdemona, calling herself now Jennifer, this name-avatar does not suit her at all, reading her eloquent banter, studded with names from mythology. She writes fast and in immediate response to my letters, with an inner fever. I am working flat-out, writing poetry and composing letters to Jenn…I’ll call her Thalia, I muse, and taking up her clue for her ancient Greek first name. I do not know if she has olive tainted skin, but I’ll test her. I do not mind if she is different to what I imagine. My friend Sol sent me a curvaceous woman in a classical pose, knees pulled up close to her chin , her arms around them, holding the close, her body lines emphasized through the fall of golden curling hair around her suntanned body, a goddess of aestheticism, at least for me. I start drawing her pose with my artistic endeavor, curious about a blond woman I never met. I call her Aiis, Theiis, as in Anaiis, acknowledging the sensual French poet and diarist.
Dear Zsolt,
