CHAPTER ONE
The otherworldly gallop
The one thousand year old house
waited for him
IT WAS still raining when Phoebus Dalezios reached Aides, the small town near the river with the narcissi.
He quickly puts on his raincoat and stands on the stone pavement outside the station, suitcase in hand. A cloud of mist, a fog, envelops him; he sees nothing. The trees, wrapped in a flowing wetness, seem to pulsate with the rhythm of his heart. He is eager to reach that solitary stone house which he saw three years ago, which attracted him in a strange way – a house that looked more like a pile of ruins. Yet the landscape had intrigued him. Narcissi and asphodels and giant cypresses and murmuring streams that shuddered as they flowed from three rivers into a huge lake. A landscape wet and soft, friable, enveloped dream-like by swirling patches of fog. There, solitary and abandoned, stood the house. He bought it immediately. That is what I want, he thought, I will come here one day, when I am desperate or in love.
He panics. I am both.
Or perhaps only tired?
His body still aches from the nights of love.
Aches with anger and desire.
Here I will recover my lost soul, he murmurs, and tries to banish the thought. Drenched from the rain, standing in a rural train station at the ends of the earth, now is not the time he wants to remember Moira and his last night with her on the banks of the Seine. Nor does he want to think about his beloved Hector, his bosom friend and collaborator, who betrayed him.
His mind aches. Oh, yes, it was betrayal to choose another composer for his new film.
Suddenly an undefined fear comes over him. Am I starting to grow old?
“Does the gentleman want a taxi? A cart? Where are you going?”
The voice is suspended.
“You are English? French?”
He turns and sees a tall man with clear eyes and a face that is both rugged and gentle. He quickly shakes off the rainwater and tries to appear less absent-minded.
“To the house near the river with the narcissi…”, he says, in fluent Greek.
His parents were Greek, and his childhood was spent in a poor neighborhood in the foothills of Kolonos.
He felt Greek to the bone, even though he had grown to manhood in the revolutions of Parisian Mays. Today he would say that his homeland is music.
“But…but…no one lives in that house…”
His eyes were incredulous.
«Το επιδιόρθωσαν… φαντάζομαι πως οι εργασίες έχουν τελειώσει».
Τους ήξερε τους ανθρώπους εκεί με τη δυσπιστία στα μάτια. Θυμάται και τότε, όταν το αγόρασε, την ίδια δυσπιστία αντιμετώπισε, «όχι αυτό το ερείπιο… μην αγοράζετε αυτό το σπίτι…» και παρόμοια. Έλεγαν πως ήταν ένα σπίτι χίλιων χρόνων και πως έκρυβε μια ιστορία που κανείς δεν ήξερε.
Ήταν μαζί με τον Έκτορα, όταν έψαχναν χώρους για την τελευταία ταινία τους, «Oι εραστές της κόκκινης κοιλάδας», που τους έκανε διάσημους και τους δυο – εκείνον για τη μουσική του και τον Έκτορα για τη σκηνοθεσία. Τα θέματα τα έψαχναν πάντα μαζί. Έβρισκαν μαζί το «υλικό», ύστερα ο
Έκτωρ το ανέλυε, το έστηνε σε σκηνές και εικόνες, το επεξεργαζόταν. Όταν έφτασαν στις Αιδές και στα ποτάμια που κλείνουν την κοιλάδα και σχηματίζουν τη λίμνη, μαγεύτηκαν. «Εδώ μια μέρα θα γυρίσουμε την καλύτερη ταινία μας…» Γέλασε.
Όμως ο Φοίβος βαθιά μέσα του πίστευε πως εδώ θα έγραφε κάποτε την πιο αστραφτερή μουσική του.
Τότε, σ’ εκείνο το ταξίδι, αγόρασε το σπίτι. Ήταν πάντα έτσι γρήγορος στις αποφάσεις του. Ένιωθε πως αυτοσχεδίαζε, πως η ζωή ήταν στα χέρια του το υλικό μιας απροσδόκητης ταινίας, όπου έπρεπε να παίξει τον πιο σημαντικό ρόλο, τον πιο ριψοκίνδυνο.
Τα προβλήματα ήρθαν όταν αναζήτησε μηχανικό να το επιδιορθώσει. Όλοι κρατούσαν μια μυστικότητα που τον παραξένευε. Τελικά, βρήκε κάποιον νέο αρχιτέκτονα, που του υποσχέθηκε να κάνει ό,τι μπορεί. Ο Φοίβος του έδωσε μια πλούσια επιταγή και του είπε ότι δεν θέλει ν’ αλλάξει τίποτε από το σπίτι, να μείνουν όλα όπως είναι, οι παλιές πόρτες και τα παράθυρα –όσα είχαν σωθεί–, οι σκουριασμένοι μεντεσέδες, τα τρύπια πατώματα, οι πέτρινοι τοίχοι, όλα, όλα, να επισκευαστούν μόνο με μεγάλη προσοχή.
Από το παράθυρο του μικρού τζιπ βλέπει το τοπίο σε μιαν ατέλειωτη φυγή και προσπαθεί να συγκρατήσει τις εικόνες στο μωβ και στο γκρίζο, να βρει τα σημεία που είχαν αγγίξει τότε την ψυχή του. Τα μάτια της Μόιρας παντού, χωνεμένα μέσα στα εύθρυπτα σχήματα. Τα μάτια της Μόιρας πίσω από τις νερένιες δέσμες που σέρνονται στη γη, σχηματίζοντας άτσαλα αυλάκια και παράξενες βαθιές ρωγμές. Και πίσω από τα μάτια της Μόιρας, το χαμόγελο της Άλμας. Πρώτη φορά, ύστερα από τόσα χρόνια, ξυπνά μέσα του το χαμόγελο της Άλμας, και σκιρτά. Πώς νόμισε ότι την είχε ξεχάσει… Όσες γνώρισε, από τότε, μόνο στον πόθο του κορμιού μιλούσαν. Την ψυχή του την άφηναν ανέγγιχτη.
Προπαντός η Μόιρα Μουρ. Το είδωλο της παραφροσύνης, που ενσάρκωνε τη γερασμένη αντίληψη…
Το δωμάτιο έβλεπε στον Σηκουάνα, εκεί που διασταυρώνεται η Αλμπέν Μισέλ με τη Σαιν Ζερμαίν ντε Πρε, μια πολυτελής σουίτα, κι εκείνη μισόγυμνη στα μεταξωτά σεντόνια, ένα σώμα που ήξερε καλά να κρύβει τα ραγίσματα της σάρκας. Ήταν η διάσημη πρωταγωνίστρια στους «Εραστές της κόκκινης κοιλάδας», που έκανε τα πλήθη να παραληρούν. Κι ήταν το κύκνειο άσμα της δόξας της, το ήξερε. Τις έβλεπε τις ρυτίδες που κατέβαιναν ως τον λαιμό, κι αυτό την έκανε να διψά τον έρωτα περισσότερο από τη δόξα, να τον ζητά όλο και πιο παθιασμένα. Εκεί, στα μεταξωτά σεντόνια τον περίμενε κάθε βράδυ, ύστερα από τις φωταψίες της μέρας. Κι εκείνος ζούσε μαζί της το πάθος, ζούσε πρωτόγονα την έμπνευση της μουσικής του. Κι ούτε που έβλεπε τις χαρακιές του χρόνου πάνω της και τον τρόμο της φθοράς. Μόνο το λευκό της διψασμένης σάρκας έβλεπε, κι αυτό του έφτανε για να τρέφει τη μουσική του. Μπορεί και ν’ αγαπούσε στο σώμα της την ηρωίδα της ταινίας, το πάθος που ζούσε στα πλατό. «Απόψε πρέπει να φύγεις νωρίς», του είπε την τελευταία νύχτα, «έχω μια συνεργασία». Απόρησε. «Συνεργασία τέτοια ώρα;»
Ήταν από σύμπτωση που τους είδε. Είχε ξεχάσει το τετράδιο με τις σημειώσεις της μουσικής του και, καθώς είχε δικό του κλειδί, άνοιξε την πόρτα και μπήκε. Τη βρήκε μισόγυμνη, γαντζωμένη πάνω σ’ έναν νεαρό ανερχόμενο ηθοποιό.
The rain has almost stopped; it is drizzling, and the autumnal landscape is clean and bright.
“We’re here…”, the voice of the driver.
He looks up at the imposing house. Fortunately, they had finished the repairs, and his heart leaped, like a child’s. Here is where I will stay, then, here I will think, dream, and above all, I will forget.
I want to forget.
"What is your name?”
“Nikolas.”
He gives him a generous tip and Nikola takes the suitcase and guides him through the creeks and the sand lilies.
An inaccessible, forbidding path.
When they reached the door, Phoebus asked him to go to Aides to shop for food and various necessities. “And if you can, come occasionally to look after the house…” He accepted. Nikola had already taken a liking to this strange visitor who appeared kindly and a bit strange.
Near the lake
with the narcissi
To forget...
Phoebus Dalezios needed to forget. To forget Moira, Hector, the bloodbath, the throngs of refugees, dioxins, television, menacing genes, revived prophecies, and the new millennium that was approaching, unbridled, dragging a huge tail of cosmogonies.
To forget, yes.
He would welcome the new millennium here, alone. He would make a cup of coffee and look out the window at the narcissi by the edge of the lake. Then, he would play a piece of his own music. He shuddered at the mere thought that he might participate – even as a television viewer – in the rituals that were being prepared to welcome the new world. What new world? This world was only old, aging and weary. Rotten with sickness and conceit. From the arrogance of a threatening technology.
A world full of raving false prophets who envisioned a spectacular world-end.
Neither television, he thought, nor news. Here, alone at the edge of the world, I will proclaim my own No.
He has not yet opened his suitcase. First, he wants to see the house, to touch it, to smell it. Will it reconcile itself to him? Will it accept him? He feels a strange charge in the air, an imperceptible trembling as if the life that passed through the place had left its mark.
He fills two glasses with wine, one for himself and one for Nikola, to propitiate the spirits. Then he takes the bottle and empties it onto the floor, as if pouring a libation to the dead.
The rooms are large and austere, with stone divans and arches of cut stone, an authentic old mansion with balconies and interior courtyards.
Happily, there were beds and coverings; his lawyer and architect had seen to everything.
“To your health… and good fortune!”
Nikola’s voice was friendly, and he liked the “good fortune”. It seemed to him that he was starting a new life – in the end that is what he was seeking.
He wandered from room to room with a child’s eagerness. Everything was in its place, the piano, just as he had ordered, the faucets with the clear local water; there were even flowers planted in the flower-beds, violets and marigolds.
Nikola was in the kitchen preparing a light meal for him, and he went out on the stone balcony to take in the view.
Despite the dampness, the weather was pleasant, a mild climate, with autumnal shades of gold.
His body missed her. He was used to her smell, her outbursts. When he saw her inspecting herself in the mirror, after a prodigal night, he expected her tears and hysteria. She could not abide the wrinkles around her eyes, her facial hair, her tired dull skin, which, at those times, she felt particularly threatened her. Then she would become insecure and carried away.
His body. His body remembered her, and ached.
Each time he embraced her he could feel on her skin a myriad looks of desire, the unfulfilled longing of a throng that never knew about the hours of insecurity that bared the wrinkles on her face. What would he not give to be with her one more time, to lose himself in the dark pathways of her flesh, to panic. Perhaps his desire for her was an existential need, a deep awakening of the fear hidden in the thirst for life.
Or, perhaps, it was only another attempt to erase the image of Alma inside him, the image that so tormented the deprived years of his youth. From the moment he set foot in this place, Alma’ s eyes look at him from every corner, an image that rises up, ivory-like, out of death. All his later loves were only a desperate attempt to forget her.
“Phoebus, your meal is ready…” Nikola’s voice from the kitchen; he wonders at the familiar tone. Deep inside it pleases him.
He watches him as he comes out on the balcony, satisfied.
“Lasagna Epirus-style, with fresh gruyere from Aides….”
He looks at him with interest. The odors rouse his hunger.
He must be around thirty, much younger than himself, and he seemed intelligent, his eyes quick and friendly.
“You know how to cook…”
“I studied for two years to be a cook, but never worked as one; now is my chance…”
The autumn breeze that enters from the open balcony carries the scents of the place, and he takes deep breaths, as if he seeks to rinse off the smells of the city.
He looks out at the landscape wrapped in a white moving fog that makes it seem transparent and dreamlike. Asphodels and willow trees everywhere, and strange whitish cypresses, and huge flowering narcissi that cover the shores of the lake. New smells, a new sight. New sounds. Birds with a strange voice and sounds of water and whispers of giant trees and murmuring hisses in the air. He had not yet defined – Hector would have said “analyzed” – each smell separately, each sound, each tree and flower of the superb sight before his eyes.
Three rivers embrace, there in the distance, their boundless sandy banks full of water lilies and willows overgrown with wild pomegranates and narcissi. They embrace with a restless stream of waters drawn from the depths of time, which flow into the huge Acherousian Lake. The Lake of the Dead. Phoebus knows that. He knows, too, a few things about how the souls were ferried by boat to Hades. But those were myths.
“In ancient times, this entire region was called The Gates of Hades…”
His glance is swift. As if he is reading his thoughts.
He had brought the food out on the balcony of the upper story and Phoebus invited him to share the meal on his first day, to keep him company.
“These three rivers that you see have been here since ancient times. Today they are called Black, Dumb and Acheron.”
A new interest. He likes it.
“There must be various local legends…”
“There are many, strange stories from older times…
there are even some about this house…”
His smile is hurried.
“What do they say?”
“Leave it for another time…”
Another time. He takes his pullover. He cannot wait now to wander about the place, to touch it, to smell it up close, to see his reflection in the waters, like Narcissus. It is afternoon and he wants to see it before the day is gone.
“I will expect you tomorrow…”
The rain has finally stopped.
A grayish red mist envelops the place.
And the sky is brilliant now with red bands on the horizon.