Memoirs of a Bitch by Francesca Petrizzo, Silvester Mazzarella
Authors: Francesca Petrizzo, Silvester Mazzarella
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feel the water of the Eurotas cool my skin or know it as a backdrop for sad evenings. The river was my boundary and tomorrow it would be my escape route. Its angry current dragged pebbles through the valley to a piteous death in the sea. Water, earth and stone. Yes, that was my spirit. A spirit of stone. Like the Eurotas.
23
Hermioneâs eyes were shining with fever when I went to her. She stammered something I could not hear, and I held a cup of water to her mouth. She spread her tender lips to drink, then leaned her head against my supporting hand. I looked into her face: the soft, round face of a little girl with fine fair hair; but under her light brows the implacable eyes of Achilles, and the line of her nose hinted at his power. She had nothing of Menelaus in her; I was astonished no one had ever guessed her origin, but these days no one ever looks at little girls. Men only ever believe what they want to believe, and they only want to believe what they can accept. So Hermione had to be the daughter of Menelaus and Helen, born under the evil star of our misbegotten union. Niece of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, marked with the blood of an ill-omened line;niece of Castor and Pollux and their incestuous and forgotten love. The destiny of Achilles was still suspended in the future, but no destiny would ever be able to change the divine eyes above those rounded cheeks and that tender chubby body.
That evening as I watched Hermione I realized it would probably be the last time I would see her. Paris didnât want her; he only wanted children of his own with his own gentle nose. And I told myself that with her fish-like memory Hermione would soon forget the woman she had never called mother. They would tell her I was dead and that I had been a bad woman.
But goodbye in any case, and patience, little girl with your eyes bright with fever, eyes I had thought could be the key to a new happiness.
I left you when it was still too soon for me to decide to defy Paris and carry you away wrapped in my cloak.
I touched her cheeks and kissed her sweaty brow, letting my lips linger a long time on her damp skin. It would be my last memory of my daughter. She murmured something more as I was leaving the room, but nothing I could understand. I did not turn before closing the door.
Then I slept a long dreamless sleep, and in the faint light of dawn Callira woke me ready dressed, her eyes fresh,her hair piled artlessly up and her cloak already around her shoulders. A cold morning; autumn was not far off. I wasted no time on make-up, wrapped my shawl again today around my head and held it to my throat, and with Etra following like a shadow passed down silent corridors to the courtyard. From the top of the steps I briefly greeted the Trojans with a few tired ritual formalities, leaving to the head of the council and Menippus the task of the major part of the farewell ceremonies. Benedictions were exchanged, and unwatered wine was poured on the stones to ensure a calm voyage to Troy. A heavy mist had swallowed the Peloponnese beyond the edge of the courtyard, and when the Trojans disappeared into it without looking back, I put on a hoarse voice and told Menippus I was feeling no better and that again today I would not leave my rooms, so that he and the others must see to everything. In the tired light of early morning he must have mistaken my swollen eyes and pale drawn skin for signs of illness, because he answered respectfully, âYes, my lady.â
I should have taken thought then, understanding at that moment the significance of what I was doing, I should have read it in the gray eyes of Menippus, but I kept my eyes to the ground and with long silent steps and my shadow behind me I returned without hurrying down the corridors to my room, where Callira closed theshutters and told the guard the queen was tired and wanted to sleep, and was not well enough to want lunch or dinner. Thus we bought ourselves at least a day; long
23
Hermioneâs eyes were shining with fever when I went to her. She stammered something I could not hear, and I held a cup of water to her mouth. She spread her tender lips to drink, then leaned her head against my supporting hand. I looked into her face: the soft, round face of a little girl with fine fair hair; but under her light brows the implacable eyes of Achilles, and the line of her nose hinted at his power. She had nothing of Menelaus in her; I was astonished no one had ever guessed her origin, but these days no one ever looks at little girls. Men only ever believe what they want to believe, and they only want to believe what they can accept. So Hermione had to be the daughter of Menelaus and Helen, born under the evil star of our misbegotten union. Niece of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, marked with the blood of an ill-omened line;niece of Castor and Pollux and their incestuous and forgotten love. The destiny of Achilles was still suspended in the future, but no destiny would ever be able to change the divine eyes above those rounded cheeks and that tender chubby body.
That evening as I watched Hermione I realized it would probably be the last time I would see her. Paris didnât want her; he only wanted children of his own with his own gentle nose. And I told myself that with her fish-like memory Hermione would soon forget the woman she had never called mother. They would tell her I was dead and that I had been a bad woman.
But goodbye in any case, and patience, little girl with your eyes bright with fever, eyes I had thought could be the key to a new happiness.
I left you when it was still too soon for me to decide to defy Paris and carry you away wrapped in my cloak.
I touched her cheeks and kissed her sweaty brow, letting my lips linger a long time on her damp skin. It would be my last memory of my daughter. She murmured something more as I was leaving the room, but nothing I could understand. I did not turn before closing the door.
Then I slept a long dreamless sleep, and in the faint light of dawn Callira woke me ready dressed, her eyes fresh,her hair piled artlessly up and her cloak already around her shoulders. A cold morning; autumn was not far off. I wasted no time on make-up, wrapped my shawl again today around my head and held it to my throat, and with Etra following like a shadow passed down silent corridors to the courtyard. From the top of the steps I briefly greeted the Trojans with a few tired ritual formalities, leaving to the head of the council and Menippus the task of the major part of the farewell ceremonies. Benedictions were exchanged, and unwatered wine was poured on the stones to ensure a calm voyage to Troy. A heavy mist had swallowed the Peloponnese beyond the edge of the courtyard, and when the Trojans disappeared into it without looking back, I put on a hoarse voice and told Menippus I was feeling no better and that again today I would not leave my rooms, so that he and the others must see to everything. In the tired light of early morning he must have mistaken my swollen eyes and pale drawn skin for signs of illness, because he answered respectfully, âYes, my lady.â
I should have taken thought then, understanding at that moment the significance of what I was doing, I should have read it in the gray eyes of Menippus, but I kept my eyes to the ground and with long silent steps and my shadow behind me I returned without hurrying down the corridors to my room, where Callira closed theshutters and told the guard the queen was tired and wanted to sleep, and was not well enough to want lunch or dinner. Thus we bought ourselves at least a day; long
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