edition of the original and so far yours is the only translation, it seems that finding the final key to The Athenian Murders is entirely down to you.'
'What a responsibility,' joked Helena.
I didn't know what to say. And I'm still going over it in my mind. (T.'sN.)
III 11
I t seems appropriate to interrupt the swift progress of the story for a moment and say a few quick words about the central characters, Heracles, son of Phrynichus, from the deme of Pontor, and Diagoras, son of Iampsachus, from the deme of Mardontes. Who were they? Who did they think they were? Who did others think they were?
11 'Haste, carelessness. The handwriting here is uneven and, at
times, illegible, as if the scribe was in a hurry to get to the end of the
chapter,' Montalo says of the original text. I, for my part, am looking
out to see if I can 'capture' my wild boar in these sentences. I'm now
beginning to translate Chapter Three. (T .'s N.)
12 'There follow five indecipherable lines,' assures Montalo.
Apparently, the handwriting in this section was dreadful. Montalo
can only make out five words in the entire paragraph: 'enigmas',
'reason', 'wife', and 'fat man'. The editor of the original text adds,
not without irony: 'The reader must try to reconstruct Heracles'
biography from these five words, a task that seems both very easy
and enormously difficult.' (T .'s N .)
With regard to Heracles, let us say that 12
As for Diagoras 13
Now that the reader is fully acquainted with the details of the lives of our protagonists, let us swiftly resume our story with an account of what occurred in the port of Piraeus, where Heracles and Diagoras went in search of the hetaera named Yasintra.
13 The three lines the anonymous author devotes to the character of Diagoras are also illegible. Montalo can make out only the following words: 'did he live?' (including the question mar k), 'spirit', and 'passion'. (T .'s N.)
They sought her down narrow streets along which the smell of the sea travelled swiftly; in dark spaces left by open doors; here and there, among small clusters of silent women who smiled as the two men approached but grew abruptly serious on being questioned; up and down rises and hillsides that sank to the sea's edge; on corners where a shadow - man or woman - waited silently. They asked old women with painted faces, whose hard blank countenances, daubed with white lead, seemed as ancient as the houses; they placed obols in trembling palms as cracked as papyrus; they heard the jangle of golden bracelets as arms were waved in the direction of a place or person: ask Kopsias, Melitta knows, maybe at Thalia's, Amphitrite is looking for her, too, Eos has lived longer in this neighbourhood, Clito knows her better, I'm not Thalia, I'm Merope. And all the while, their eyes, beneath lids thick with pigments, always half-closed, swiftly moving, surrounded by black lashes and patterns of saffron or ivory or red gold; as if the women were free only in their gazes, as if they reigned only behind the black of their pupils. The still features and brief answers concealed their thoughts; only the eyes were sincere and fleeting, quick, eager.
The afternoon steadily drained away. Rubbing his arms beneath his cloak with swift movements, Diagoras said: 'The day has passed quickly and soon it will be night. . .'
Heracles said nothing.
They walked up a narrow, sloping street. Beyond the rooftops, the sea's end was revealed by a purple sunset. The crowds and frenetic rhythms of the port, and the places frequented by those seeking pleasure and amusement, were all left behind. They were now in the neighbourhood where they lived, a forest with stone paths and adobe trees through which darkness ran swiftly and Night rose up prematurely; a place of peopled desolation, hidden, full of quick glances.
'Your conversation is entertaining at least,' said Diagoras, not even attempting to hide his irritation - he felt as if he'd been talking to
'What a responsibility,' joked Helena.
I didn't know what to say. And I'm still going over it in my mind. (T.'sN.)
III 11
I t seems appropriate to interrupt the swift progress of the story for a moment and say a few quick words about the central characters, Heracles, son of Phrynichus, from the deme of Pontor, and Diagoras, son of Iampsachus, from the deme of Mardontes. Who were they? Who did they think they were? Who did others think they were?
11 'Haste, carelessness. The handwriting here is uneven and, at
times, illegible, as if the scribe was in a hurry to get to the end of the
chapter,' Montalo says of the original text. I, for my part, am looking
out to see if I can 'capture' my wild boar in these sentences. I'm now
beginning to translate Chapter Three. (T .'s N.)
12 'There follow five indecipherable lines,' assures Montalo.
Apparently, the handwriting in this section was dreadful. Montalo
can only make out five words in the entire paragraph: 'enigmas',
'reason', 'wife', and 'fat man'. The editor of the original text adds,
not without irony: 'The reader must try to reconstruct Heracles'
biography from these five words, a task that seems both very easy
and enormously difficult.' (T .'s N .)
With regard to Heracles, let us say that 12
As for Diagoras 13
Now that the reader is fully acquainted with the details of the lives of our protagonists, let us swiftly resume our story with an account of what occurred in the port of Piraeus, where Heracles and Diagoras went in search of the hetaera named Yasintra.
13 The three lines the anonymous author devotes to the character of Diagoras are also illegible. Montalo can make out only the following words: 'did he live?' (including the question mar k), 'spirit', and 'passion'. (T .'s N.)
They sought her down narrow streets along which the smell of the sea travelled swiftly; in dark spaces left by open doors; here and there, among small clusters of silent women who smiled as the two men approached but grew abruptly serious on being questioned; up and down rises and hillsides that sank to the sea's edge; on corners where a shadow - man or woman - waited silently. They asked old women with painted faces, whose hard blank countenances, daubed with white lead, seemed as ancient as the houses; they placed obols in trembling palms as cracked as papyrus; they heard the jangle of golden bracelets as arms were waved in the direction of a place or person: ask Kopsias, Melitta knows, maybe at Thalia's, Amphitrite is looking for her, too, Eos has lived longer in this neighbourhood, Clito knows her better, I'm not Thalia, I'm Merope. And all the while, their eyes, beneath lids thick with pigments, always half-closed, swiftly moving, surrounded by black lashes and patterns of saffron or ivory or red gold; as if the women were free only in their gazes, as if they reigned only behind the black of their pupils. The still features and brief answers concealed their thoughts; only the eyes were sincere and fleeting, quick, eager.
The afternoon steadily drained away. Rubbing his arms beneath his cloak with swift movements, Diagoras said: 'The day has passed quickly and soon it will be night. . .'
Heracles said nothing.
They walked up a narrow, sloping street. Beyond the rooftops, the sea's end was revealed by a purple sunset. The crowds and frenetic rhythms of the port, and the places frequented by those seeking pleasure and amusement, were all left behind. They were now in the neighbourhood where they lived, a forest with stone paths and adobe trees through which darkness ran swiftly and Night rose up prematurely; a place of peopled desolation, hidden, full of quick glances.
'Your conversation is entertaining at least,' said Diagoras, not even attempting to hide his irritation - he felt as if he'd been talking to
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