Memoirs of a Bitch (5 page)

It was a day that passed too quickly. No one came into the woods, no one came to look for us. Our bodies dried in the sun, the river washed the bloodstains off the rocks. The court of Sparta forgot about the king of Argos; my mother never sent anyone to look for me. Under the relaxed supervision of our needy kingdom, I was free. Diomedes chased me like a child and took me, pressing me against the grass. The whole of my being was in his kisses and in his hands. I laughed, that day. I had forgotten the music of my laughter, which bounced like stones off a wall. He said he loved me, which made me laugh even more because I knew it was a lie. He took me by the waist and lifted me high in the air. Then let himself fall with me on the harsh grass of the meadow. He was breathing as easily as lifting a piece of cloth.

He turned toward me with his eyes shining. “Marry me, Helen.”

I laughed again; but in his black irises lit by the sun with gilded gleams there was an anxiety I had not expected. I thought of my burned love, but he was not there under that gentle sun. I did not answer Diomedes but laughed again, and he understood. On that meadow he pushed up my blue tunic again. I did not stop him. My breath merged with the buzzing of the bees settling among the wild flowers.

We walked hand in hand back to the palace. The sun had struggled up the sky until midday, then slowly slipped down till it vanished with its halo behind the blue and black mountains. We watched the sunset lying on thick grass surrounded by sheep. Some shepherds who did not know who we were offered us black bread and hard cheese. It was lovely to watch Diomedes talking with those old men gnarled like olive trees, and biting with hesitant teeth into the impenetrable crust of their humble bread. I crowned a lamb with a brushwood garland. It stumbled over its own thin legs trying to reach the dangling twigs with its toothless mouth. And when the long shadow of the Peloponnese tinted the sheep's woolen coats with violet and dogs ran about rounding up the animals with wolfish barks, Diomedes
pressed his lips against my neck and offered me his hand to lead me away.

“Wait,” I said. A last hazy crown of red fire was still for a moment framing the jagged silhouette of the mountains before it vanished completely. The sheep were gone. Slender wisps of smoke from the cooking of humble suppers climbed from distant hovels in the valley. All was silent and deserted. Only that sparse, hesitant smoke told us we were not the last survivors on the face of the earth. I began to get up.

He was so much taller than me. To help me to my feet he needed to bend like a willow in a storm.

We decided to walk hand in hand to the palace, and ask my father for a consent I did not think we would need.

The sentries at the gate came to attention in a formal salute, ignoring our tousled hair and disordered clothes. There were fragments of hay in Diomedes' black locks like precocious strands of gray. I smiled and gently brushed them away.

The king's chief counselor came to meet us: “King of Argos, we have been waiting for you.” Diomedes sighed. He had kept his white fillet around his wrist all day. Now he abruptly unwrapped it.

I stood on tiptoe to arrange it on his dark curls while he bowed his head as if I were crowning him. The smile
never left his lips. He squeezed my hand: “I will see you later.”

Then for a brief instant, before all hopes were dashed, I felt certain he and I would grow old together, and die together, in a palace not much different from this one. The thread of my life would be woven and cut together with his. I did not realize Leda was behind me until I heard her gracious tones. I turned. She was old, and wrinkles seemed to have appeared at the corners of her eyes in a single evening.

“I'm happy for you,” she murmured in a tired voice.

I considered her, looking into her lovely blue eyes; she had denied me that refuge as a child, but now I dived in, on this evening when the air consisted of glass too thick to allow the passage of any lies. I said nothing, but took a step forward and embraced her. At first she stood as rigid as wood, but gradually let herself go. I could feel her soft skin against my body, the folds of her dress, the great gold brooches that held her clothes together. Her skin was fragrant with rose. Then she let go of me, stroked my face for a brief moment, and went away. I did not wait to watch her disappear at the far end of the corridor.

Diomedes started back for Argos the following morning, with a promise from my father and his consent to our marriage. He left on horseback, his regal fillet wrapped as always around his strong dark wrist. My parents stood stiffly at the top of the steps. My mother had already stooped smiling. I shuddered as I remembered how Castor and Pollux had seen Theseus off from the same place when he left with me wrapped in his cloak. I ran down the steps. The horses were pawing the ground, held back with difficulty by their riders. The men of the escort smiled when Diomedes, already in his saddle, grabbed me by the waist, pulled me up and placed me in front of himself on his horse's back. He gave me a long passionate kiss as if no one else were there. As always he gazed into my eyes while he stroked my hair; his eyes
laughing: “What's wrong, Helen? I'll be back in no time, then you'll have all the time in the world to get tired of me.”

“That can never be too soon,” I answered, but so quietly he didn't hear. He put me down on the ground. Then at a signal from Diomedes his escort set off at a gallop. He raised his arm in farewell. His horse reared up and back down, and without stopping passed through the courtyard gate. Soon the group were just clouds of dust on the road among the hills. When I turned back, the king and queen of Sparta had already gone. I went back into the house alone.

So began a time of perfect happiness for me. Merchants were called in to help with my trousseau; Egyptian and Cretan goldsmiths for the jewelry. I was sure Diomedes would raise no objections. Chests full of costly brilliance, with my father seeming calmer now as he realized that Sparta would have a young king. A warrior king. Leda had stopped entertaining officers in her rooms. She was already beginning to say farewell. It was then and only then, with vagabonds and merchants carrying the length and breadth of Greece the news that Diomedes the Brave, Diomedes son of Tydeus and King of Argos, had asked for and been granted the hand of the mad Helen; it was only then that others began to take an interest. The dust
of Sparta whitened the boots of one after another as they came to ask for my hand in marriage from my father. I never met these suitors who came and went. No banquet was ever given in their honor; they were sent on their way with cold courtesy. Tyndareus had no feeling for any of them except Peleus. Peleus and his son Achilles.

I did not know they had come, and never had any reason to expect them to come, that they would travel the long road all the way from Phthia. But one day I was in my garden when a man I did not know walked through the trees: Achilles, who was as young as myself, perhaps too young. They said of him as they said of me, that he was mad.

He walked calmly through the olive trees and sat down at my side. “They want us to get married,” he said, as though it was obvious, as though we had already been discussing the subject a few moments before.

I shrugged. “I'm marrying someone else.”

He didn't stop smiling. “I know. But my father's an obstinate man.”

I did not look up at once, but when I did I saw he had been looking at me.

“You're beautiful, Helen.”

I could not lower my eyes again. Achilles's skin was
honey-gold and his hair just a little darker; his eyes between green and blue. We spent the rest of the afternoon talking together, and did not notice the sun going down. Late that evening, after everyone else had gone to sleep, he came to my window; making sure the lights were out, I opened the shutters and let him in. We made love slowly and silently on my bed, then he lay awake in my arms. It was only with the coming of the rosy morning light of Eos that he slipped away from my side. I watched him dress beside my bed.

“Goodbye, Helen,” he said, smiling with no sadness in his voice, closure achieved. They left at midday and I did not go out to watch them leave.

Now even more men were coming from all over Greece in hopes of the throne of Sparta. Horse after horse came into the courtyard. I no longer even bothered to look. But one day Leda came to my rooms, the anguish of catastrophe in her eyes.

“Who is it this time?” I asked in alarm.

“A messenger.”

I put down my distaff and thread, and looked askance at her.

“From Mycenae,” added my mother.

A command from the great king. A command that allowed no refusal. My sister sent greetings and all her love, which stung me like a whiplash. They informed us they would come to Sparta in time for the wedding, but
not before. That would give us plenty of time to dispose of Diomedes, King of Argos. Another messenger would already have reached him by now, reported Agamemnon's messenger in a neutral voice between one cup of wine and the next. I expected Diomedes to take three days to reach us, but he did it in a day and a half, arriving on a horse flecked with foam which he forced up the steps to the palace entrance. Galloping through the corridors, he found my father administering justice in the throne room. Tyndareus said nothing but signed to us all to leave, including me. Diomedes never looked at me at all. As if he had already said goodbye. A clean break. And I wept for Achilles and the long road to Phthia that would have taken me so far, too far from Sparta.

“I have to go now, Helen.”

“I know, Diomedes.”

That evening I had the chests containing my trousseau dragged into the garden and burned them.

Menelaus was a good man. Watching him come across the throne room toward me, I was sure of that. Good. And in love with me from the moment his eyes first caressed my skin. Menelaus, Menelaus. Agamemnon's voice carried a note of derisory compassion. Good in a pathetic sense, yes. The big brown eyes of an abandoned dog. Lifeless ginger hair. Commonplace features unworthy of a prince of the blood. He must be given Sparta because he could not have Mycenae. He timidly offered me his hand. Tyndareus gave me an icy look; I was in no position to ignore that hand. Pain was the first feeling my husband inspired in me, and I hated both him and myself that it must be like that. Menelaus, with his narrow shoulders and short legs. My hand closed on a sweaty palm.

Clytemnestra was pregnant for the second time. Sitting at her husband's side, her smile as wolfish as ever. But I had enough fire in me now to cope with that. I'm made of stone. I stepped forward and kissed Menelaus on the right cheek.

The banquet was an exact replica of the one held so many years ago for my sister's wedding. The garden lit by torches, the palace empty. And this time I was the one sitting in the middle, dressed for the last time in white. But not shackled by a neckband. Menelaus's present was a long gold-and-pearl necklace. Imperfect, irregular pearls. My fingers fiddled with them as the banquet dragged on, course after course. While outside the tent of torchlight, my silent ghosts began to walk again.

Leda was determined to prepare me for my wedding night. Clytemnestra and Agamemnon were to sleep in the next room. From the flat tone of Leda's voice I understood this to mean they intended to spend the whole night with their ears glued to the wall.

“Menelaus is such a fool he won't know the difference between menstrual blood and a ruptured hymen. Just be careful to keep yourself to yourself tonight. Modesty must be your excuse.”

I nodded in silence. My throat was dry. I had been experiencing a sort of vomitless nausea since I saw Diomedes gallop away.

“Listen, Helen.” Leda's voice was harsh with pain. She was holding my chin with three fingers, forcing me to look her in the eye. “I never wanted this for you. I'd have spared you from it if I'd been able to.”

I believed her. My voice came from far away. “I know.”

But she made no attempt to hug me. She knew I was beyond her help. Lost. She unhooked my necklace and laid it on the table: “Shall I brush your hair for you?”

Yes. Anything to delay the moment of calling in my husband. I sat down in front of the bronze mirror. A wooden comb for untangling knots. The hands of a mother now elderly enough to allow herself to be gentle. The face of a stranger who would never be Helen again. Sold for a pile of gold. No more dreams. Have a good look, learn what to remember. Tomorrow will be different. It's not the sex, Helen. It's this crown that's so heavy. It's this absence that gnaws at you. It's this man you have to share your bed with, that you feel such pity for that you'll end up hating him. That's obvious, Helen. And you'll never sniff laurel again, you've promised that.

But I can't bear another moment of this brutal reality.

Leda put down the comb and tied up my hair with a
ribbon. Then she went away in silence. I went on looking at the bronze reflection in the mirror. Well combed hair and a white tunic. I didn't want to weep, just to cry out, but there would have been no point. Tyndareus and Leda were leaving the next morning. Before it was too late and without looking, I pulled the absorbent bandage away from my thighs. An instant later Menelaus opened the door. A timid squeaking of hinges and silent steps on the floor. I blew out the lamp.

There was a cruel light next morning; it violently forced open my eyes. Turning, I was relieved to find the bed empty. Menelaus had done his duty. When he reached out to take me in his arms I did not move. Not that I could have done anything to stop my blood flowing and giving me away. I'm made of stone. Yes, he pulled me to him and I didn't react, but he must have sensed rejection in my tense muscles. I just didn't want him. I might have been sorry about it. Kind but with silent hatred boiling in my veins. But I couldn't pretend, not about something like that.