at dinner, I was determined to resume the retracement of my ancient route. If Andromeda would not retrace it with me…
Her eyes flashed. “Joppa, period.”
“At least consult Athene,” old Dictys implored me.
“I will,” said I. “Where I did before, in her shrine in Samos.”
“Where he learned about life from art,” Andromeda mocked me; “for represented in her temple murals there were all three Gorgons — snakehaired, swinetoothed, blah blah blah. I know it by heart. I’m staying here.”
Young Danaus fiddled smiling with his flatware. “I’ve heard it said,” he said, “that when you were done with Medusa last time, Athene put her back together again, with a difference: nowadays she turns stone to flesh instead of vice-versa: makes old folks spry again. You and Dad should look her up.”
At this impertinence there was a general pause, and general relief when I merely thanked him, level-voiced, for the report. If she declined to go with me, I told Andromeda next day, she must abide in Seriphos under Dictys’s chaperonage until my return: I would not have her travel unescorted. She replied she was her own woman, would as she would. Very well, I countered, reminding her however that independence had its limits; that, given our particular tempers and past, the more she became her own woman, the less mine.
“Amen,” Andromeda said, a Joppan expression.
“So I went it alone,” I said to Calyxa, “and my guess is that tomorrow’s mural shows us there in the haE of statues: Danaus grinning, Andromeda and I glaring at each other, Dictys shaking his head, and Polydectes still lisping N αῷ ’A θἠνηϛ .”
I was mistaken, my artist informed me—not only about next day’s scene (which pillared all I’d just rehearsed) but about the nature of parity between the sexes as well.
“I know,” I sighed, mistaking her. “Andromeda was right.”
“That’s not what I mean!” Calyxa sprang to her nimble knees. “Look at me, for instance: would you call me dependent? I go my own way, lonely or not; that’s why I’ve never married. But don’t you get the point?”
“No.”
She flipped my flunked phallus; “I swear, I’ll have to draw you a picture.”
Instead, she showed me one, next day: myself in conference already with the hooded woman in Athene’s temple, beneath the familiar frieze of Gorgons, winged Pegasus grazing just outside.
“Remarkable!” I scrutinized my companion-in-relief. “The resemblance…”
“With the cowl it’s hard to tell,” Calyxa said; “but if that’s Athene, then Athene’s the one who’s brought me the instructions for all these scenes over the years, and finally brought you here in person from the desert. She’s always been very polite to me, but she never explains the pictures.”
“I’ll be glad to: at first I thought her a fellow-suppliant—”
But Calyxa reminded me of our little rule, explication only after forn. We went to bed early, I did better, fairly entered her, though for less than heroical time and space; I was chided for sighing; she held me between her pretty legs and said: “Aphrodite’s a woman and so am I. Does that make me her equal?” Andromeda’s fallacy, in her view, was an equivocation on the term equality: she Calyxa frankly regarded herself as superior in numerous ways to numerous men and women—
“I think you are too.”
“Do don’t flatter now; I’m serious.” Her dark eyes were, past doubt; I’d have moved off-top, to beside her, better to manifest our parity, but she had extraordinary grip.
“I mean, they’re mortals, and you’re a nymph,” I said limply.
“Never mind that.” The point was, she asserted, it went without saying, in her opinion, that to say men and women were equal was to say nothing. She herself admired excellence wherever she found it; she was far from servile by nature, knew herself to be uncommonly intelligent, witty, healthy, athletical, articulate, brave, and a few
Her eyes flashed. “Joppa, period.”
“At least consult Athene,” old Dictys implored me.
“I will,” said I. “Where I did before, in her shrine in Samos.”
“Where he learned about life from art,” Andromeda mocked me; “for represented in her temple murals there were all three Gorgons — snakehaired, swinetoothed, blah blah blah. I know it by heart. I’m staying here.”
Young Danaus fiddled smiling with his flatware. “I’ve heard it said,” he said, “that when you were done with Medusa last time, Athene put her back together again, with a difference: nowadays she turns stone to flesh instead of vice-versa: makes old folks spry again. You and Dad should look her up.”
At this impertinence there was a general pause, and general relief when I merely thanked him, level-voiced, for the report. If she declined to go with me, I told Andromeda next day, she must abide in Seriphos under Dictys’s chaperonage until my return: I would not have her travel unescorted. She replied she was her own woman, would as she would. Very well, I countered, reminding her however that independence had its limits; that, given our particular tempers and past, the more she became her own woman, the less mine.
“Amen,” Andromeda said, a Joppan expression.
“So I went it alone,” I said to Calyxa, “and my guess is that tomorrow’s mural shows us there in the haE of statues: Danaus grinning, Andromeda and I glaring at each other, Dictys shaking his head, and Polydectes still lisping N αῷ ’A θἠνηϛ .”
I was mistaken, my artist informed me—not only about next day’s scene (which pillared all I’d just rehearsed) but about the nature of parity between the sexes as well.
“I know,” I sighed, mistaking her. “Andromeda was right.”
“That’s not what I mean!” Calyxa sprang to her nimble knees. “Look at me, for instance: would you call me dependent? I go my own way, lonely or not; that’s why I’ve never married. But don’t you get the point?”
“No.”
She flipped my flunked phallus; “I swear, I’ll have to draw you a picture.”
Instead, she showed me one, next day: myself in conference already with the hooded woman in Athene’s temple, beneath the familiar frieze of Gorgons, winged Pegasus grazing just outside.
“Remarkable!” I scrutinized my companion-in-relief. “The resemblance…”
“With the cowl it’s hard to tell,” Calyxa said; “but if that’s Athene, then Athene’s the one who’s brought me the instructions for all these scenes over the years, and finally brought you here in person from the desert. She’s always been very polite to me, but she never explains the pictures.”
“I’ll be glad to: at first I thought her a fellow-suppliant—”
But Calyxa reminded me of our little rule, explication only after forn. We went to bed early, I did better, fairly entered her, though for less than heroical time and space; I was chided for sighing; she held me between her pretty legs and said: “Aphrodite’s a woman and so am I. Does that make me her equal?” Andromeda’s fallacy, in her view, was an equivocation on the term equality: she Calyxa frankly regarded herself as superior in numerous ways to numerous men and women—
“I think you are too.”
“Do don’t flatter now; I’m serious.” Her dark eyes were, past doubt; I’d have moved off-top, to beside her, better to manifest our parity, but she had extraordinary grip.
“I mean, they’re mortals, and you’re a nymph,” I said limply.
“Never mind that.” The point was, she asserted, it went without saying, in her opinion, that to say men and women were equal was to say nothing. She herself admired excellence wherever she found it; she was far from servile by nature, knew herself to be uncommonly intelligent, witty, healthy, athletical, articulate, brave, and a few
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