said a not-terribly-welcoming voice. A body eclipsed the lamp at the end of the corridor: a stout man with sloped shoulders and oily grey hair. He dug his thumbs into his belt, rocked back a little and considered us, like a bale of goods landed unexpectedly outside a warehouse.
‘Do we have business?’
‘Don’t you recognise your own brother?’
Sort of
. There’s no blood shared between us. His father married my mother, a second marriage for both of them. Dimos was fifteen years my senior and out of the house before I could remember. His father named him in a fit of enthusiasm for the Democracy, which gave the wags of Athens plenty of material when the rest of the family threw in their lot with the dictators. Dimos, who has nothing in common with the common man, found it so unbearable he emigrated.
‘And this is Euphemus, the famous sophist and rhetorician.’
If Euphemus had any use at all, I’d hoped he could at least impress my stepbrother. But Dimos barely registered him. ‘My house isn’t an inn for you and your idle friends,’ he muttered as he led us down the corridor. ‘I’m still recovering from the last one you sent here.’
The cold was forgotten. ‘Agathon?’
‘Some would say you’re taking advantage.’
‘Is he here?’
‘Not any more.’
‘When did he leave?’
‘A month ago.’
I stopped on the threshold of the
andron
. ‘But that’s impossible. He was in Taras two weeks ago.’
‘Then that’s where he must have gone.’ He dropped heavily onto a bench and leaned back. ‘Wine! I was glad to get him out of the house.’
‘His host in Taras said he’d come back here.’
‘He could have gone to the moon for all I care. He’s not welcome here.’
His face had gone a vivid red; his shoulders twitched with anger. It seemed an excessive reaction. I put it down to the shock of finding me on his doorstep.
I tried to be nice. ‘It’s good to see you, brother. You look well.’
That wasn’t entirely true. In Athens, when he was young and I was younger, Dimos lived a gilded life: handsome, rich, desirable. Thirty years later, some of the gold has definitely worn off. Scratched and dented, you can see the lead underneath.
‘No one warned me you were coming,’ he grumbled. A slave brought cups of warmed wine. ‘What are you doing in Italy?’
I didn’t dare mention Agathon again. ‘I wanted to study.’
‘You’ll find no philosophy here.’ Dimos is one of those Athenians who emigrated chiefly so he could tell the colonists how much better things are at home. ‘And your friend?’
‘He’s going to work for the tyrant of Syracuse.’
Euphemus made an awkward bow from his couch, like a starfish curling up. ‘Allow me to thank you for your generous hospitality …’
I was sick of the sound of Euphemus’ voice. I drank the wine and listened to the storm, and thought of a hole in the ground that was the last place anyone had seen Agathon.
Ten
Jonah – London
At Wandsworth police station, a heavy-set constable took him to an interview room and gave him a cup of coffee. She said her name was Ruth. The fluorescent lights flickered and burned as she took his details.
‘Profession?’
‘Musician. I play in a band.’
She looked up. ‘Should I have heard of you?’
He guessed not. Their first album had kindled a small blaze of hype: a profile in the
NME
, a fawning write-up in
Uncut
and a sniffier notice from
The Face
. A couple of singles had lingered around the lower echelons of the charts: they might have broken the Top 20 if they’d sold their song for a mobile phone ad, but Jonah had refused. At the time, he thought it meant they had integrity. But the label had lost interest, and suddenly they weren’t a hot new band but just another group trying to be heard above the noise. The songs got better, the fans were as loyal as ever – but, year by year, it became clear they were never going to make the leap.
‘We once toured with LCD Soundsystem,’ he
‘Do we have business?’
‘Don’t you recognise your own brother?’
Sort of
. There’s no blood shared between us. His father married my mother, a second marriage for both of them. Dimos was fifteen years my senior and out of the house before I could remember. His father named him in a fit of enthusiasm for the Democracy, which gave the wags of Athens plenty of material when the rest of the family threw in their lot with the dictators. Dimos, who has nothing in common with the common man, found it so unbearable he emigrated.
‘And this is Euphemus, the famous sophist and rhetorician.’
If Euphemus had any use at all, I’d hoped he could at least impress my stepbrother. But Dimos barely registered him. ‘My house isn’t an inn for you and your idle friends,’ he muttered as he led us down the corridor. ‘I’m still recovering from the last one you sent here.’
The cold was forgotten. ‘Agathon?’
‘Some would say you’re taking advantage.’
‘Is he here?’
‘Not any more.’
‘When did he leave?’
‘A month ago.’
I stopped on the threshold of the
andron
. ‘But that’s impossible. He was in Taras two weeks ago.’
‘Then that’s where he must have gone.’ He dropped heavily onto a bench and leaned back. ‘Wine! I was glad to get him out of the house.’
‘His host in Taras said he’d come back here.’
‘He could have gone to the moon for all I care. He’s not welcome here.’
His face had gone a vivid red; his shoulders twitched with anger. It seemed an excessive reaction. I put it down to the shock of finding me on his doorstep.
I tried to be nice. ‘It’s good to see you, brother. You look well.’
That wasn’t entirely true. In Athens, when he was young and I was younger, Dimos lived a gilded life: handsome, rich, desirable. Thirty years later, some of the gold has definitely worn off. Scratched and dented, you can see the lead underneath.
‘No one warned me you were coming,’ he grumbled. A slave brought cups of warmed wine. ‘What are you doing in Italy?’
I didn’t dare mention Agathon again. ‘I wanted to study.’
‘You’ll find no philosophy here.’ Dimos is one of those Athenians who emigrated chiefly so he could tell the colonists how much better things are at home. ‘And your friend?’
‘He’s going to work for the tyrant of Syracuse.’
Euphemus made an awkward bow from his couch, like a starfish curling up. ‘Allow me to thank you for your generous hospitality …’
I was sick of the sound of Euphemus’ voice. I drank the wine and listened to the storm, and thought of a hole in the ground that was the last place anyone had seen Agathon.
Ten
Jonah – London
At Wandsworth police station, a heavy-set constable took him to an interview room and gave him a cup of coffee. She said her name was Ruth. The fluorescent lights flickered and burned as she took his details.
‘Profession?’
‘Musician. I play in a band.’
She looked up. ‘Should I have heard of you?’
He guessed not. Their first album had kindled a small blaze of hype: a profile in the
NME
, a fawning write-up in
Uncut
and a sniffier notice from
The Face
. A couple of singles had lingered around the lower echelons of the charts: they might have broken the Top 20 if they’d sold their song for a mobile phone ad, but Jonah had refused. At the time, he thought it meant they had integrity. But the label had lost interest, and suddenly they weren’t a hot new band but just another group trying to be heard above the noise. The songs got better, the fans were as loyal as ever – but, year by year, it became clear they were never going to make the leap.
‘We once toured with LCD Soundsystem,’ he
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