Odysseus by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

Author:Valerio Massimo Manfredi [MASSIMO MANFREDI, VALERIO]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC000000; FIC002000; FIC004000; FIC043000; FIC010000; FIC045000; FIC014000; FIC008000; IC032000; FIC051000
ISBN: 9781468310269
Publisher: ABRAMS, Inc. (Ignition)
Published: 2014-08-28T00:00:00+00:00

20

MY SHIP SEEMED TO FLY OVER THE WAVES, pushed by the east wind and even more so by my desire to get home. I had expected Menelaus to refuse to release the princes from their oath, and yet there was still something in his stubbornness that eluded me. Granted, I had never lain in Helen’s arms, never taken pleasure in the golden flower between her thighs. How could I understand what it meant to be crazed with desire and rage, out of my mind with jealousy? Oh, Menelaus of the mighty voice and coppery hair, what a privilege and what a curse!

I was reminded of my own words to the Trojans: ‘All of this … for a woman?’ Yes, exactly. In the end, didn’t all of our longings lead us to that dark, torrid, blissful place? Wasn’t Helen all the women of the world? All their beauty, all their grace, all their fragrance in a single body? All of their looks in a single look, certain to drive any mortal or any god mad?

Anyone except me.

I could think, reflect, ponder all I liked, but even I had to admit that a war for the most beautiful woman in the world was the only war that could ever make sense.

My mind drifted back to the last night spent on our ship in the port of Troy, on the eve of our return. A sad return, robbed of hope. I had been very agitated all night, and I got up again and again to go to the prow and watch the enormous red moon slowly sinking towards the sea. It was very late when I left the ship to walk through the port, breathe in the salty air, take in the silence.

‘You can’t sleep, wanax?’ sounded a voice from a dark corner. The street poet, the singer of tales that no one wanted to hear.

‘What a foolish question, old man. If I could sleep I wouldn’t be walking along the wharf at this time of night.’

‘Won’t you listen to my song, then? It will calm the anguish that burdens your heart. I’ll sing it just for you. I don’t want anything.’

‘No, leave me alone. This isn’t a good time.’

‘You’ll be at peace afterwards. I can’t make you happy but I can give you visions that will fill your spirit with a soft, gentle light, like a sunset on the sea.’

I walked on, but I could hear his song, his solitary voice, accompanying me in the dark.

There were no words: a single unending melody, aching and infinite. He was crying, that’s what it was, the poet was singing and crying, tears and drops of light in the darkness. I understood that what I had in my heart, what oppressed me so – boulder, millstone, unendurable anguish – was melting away into that invisible, immaterial song of the night.

When I turned back he was no longer there, but his song was alive with its own life. Would it echo forever? I wondered …

I lifted

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