"The quake came and came and then came again," an injured woman said, accepting dates and cheese.
By now, I saw others from Mytilene and their hearty faces cheered me. But how the gulls screamed. Flocks wheeled and screamed.
On the beach we lit fires and cooked our suppers, wind and dust still bothering us: Phaon and I ate with people from home, our fire put together from the prow of an old boat, the talk about Chios and the injured, their lack of food and care. We slept in beached boats, the surf snarling, stars breaking through fast clouds: I remembered the big dipper and frightened people... Libus woke us early and we did our best to help, using splints, caring for a head wound, bandaging a boy's chest... Libus scarcely allowed himself time to eat.
The wind had subsided, and I felt less fear and went about with my basket of food and wine. In the afternoon, we welcomed other boats from Lesbos and after a second night on the beach-this one calm, all the stars awake-we sailed for home, three of us leaving at the same time, our boats so many grey corks on a line.
As I stared back at the stricken town, I heard the gulls. "Phaon, it was bad," I said.
"Yes, very bad, though I've seen worse."
"I hope I never do."
"These people had help...sometimes there is nobody to help."
"We're in the lead," Libus cried. "We'll be the first ones home. Now for some sleep."
Today, I had a letter from Solon: he discussed politics and his immediate in- tentions and then went on to consider my poetry, praising it for its lyrical quality, refreshing themes, compassion and sense of beauty.
I respect his judgment and his quotations sent me to my books, to reconsider and evaluate. For a while, I sat at my desk, thinking over passages, contemplating the ocean, serenely blue as usual. Life, for the moment, was balanced: it had acquired profundity and calm: here was my reward since I believed his assess- ments just: for once, I needed no one to share: I needed nothing.
But I picked up Aesop's clay fox and recognized my need: the bite of yester- day cornered me.
Kleis has fallen in love-this time with a cousin of Pittakos. I am amused, and have done all I dare to make the pair happy, picnicking and boating.
I have seen him at play on the field, built well, long of leg, with a homely, genial face and grin that consistently makes up for mediocrity. Like his cousin, I could add. But that's unfair. When I see him screw up his mouth in front of Kleis, I sag. The next moment he brightens and seems about to say something intelligent. Then, the cycle resumes. Love, I remind myself, with inward nod, can be curious.
Well, I am playing the game-if it is a game-circumspectly, knowing winds can be fickle. I gather news from my girls who too often babble.
"See, how she conducts herself! She's grown up!"
"My, they're serious!"
I am aware of her airs.
Am I to forget her clandestine meetings of a few months ago and expect her golden head to settle down?
She confides in me and I conceal my smiles.
However, doubts from deep inside prompt me to accept and not go in for ridicule: where is another daughter, where is the boy suited to your taste? Is she to fall in love your way? Deeper, I discern the sacredness of life, elements of faith and love.
Thinking these things, I go where the hills plunge to the bay: I listen, under my parasol: there is much more than sound or silence: I am confronted by yes- terday, in the gulls: I squint, and there, on milky horizon, I glimpse the spirit of man, blundering, a plant in his hand, a rope dragging behind him, a dog by his side: what is the rope for?
I think of my school and how taxing it is to teach kindness, moderation and beauty: yet, I am confident, teaching is worth while and living worth while: good meals, laughter, music, dancing, love: they are there with him and his dog and the rope, in sound or silence.
Kleis, may you find a good way, all the way.
For my part, my relationship with Phaon affords discovery, Sumerian lassi- tude, great rivers and forests, prowling sand, the bay and its currents, the hull dipping, the rower heaving his arms, groaning.
Illusion, deceit, whatever it is, this is the happiest period of my life.
As I walked by the columns of my garden, I recognized that never have I ac- complished so much. I have unlocked doors. I see my esthetic way: my personal recollections have pulled out of ruts. I have uncovered uniqueness, sensibility... I have seen what it has cost man to survive: dunes against dunes, lack of water, perilous heat: I have weighed his potential, his grace, his beauty. I have sensed that appalling black that existed before the coming of books. I have heard torn sail and smashed rudder. I have felt the foundering.
That darkness must not come again!
We must see to that!
I walked among my statuary and benches, absorbing the difference in roses: home and happiness were secure in me: my writing must be a part of this place: marble benches, a face augustly seaward, lichened with green: another face turned toward the sun, his enigma personal, his serpent's head prowling through a disc.
I found this in my journal, written more than fifteen years ago:
Yesterday, Cercolas and I spent the day in an olive grove where men were knocking olives off the trees...we walked far.
That is all I wrote and yet that was one of the most joyous days. What kept me from describing our happiness? Was I too close to it? Or was the next day one of those hurried days and I thought I would write about our day later on?
Later?
A year later Cercolas was dead at war.
And what made those hours precious? It was our accord, the day itself and everything we saw and did. I realize this now. His arms were around me, or mine curled about his waist. His mouth went to mine, many times. Mine to his. I wish I could remember what we said but I remember his smiles and I remember his coarse brown Andrian robe and I remember how we looked at this and that, making each thing ours.
Cercolas...your name is euphonious...your fingers reach out of death...I glimpse your smile.
But is this all that remains when we are gone?
Is this the answer?
I have often relived the experience of giving birth.
Had Cercolas lived, there would have been other children.
Kleis was born on a summer's day, the ocean lapping after a windy night, a dragonfly in my room, clicking its wings over my bed. Mama saw it and murmured:
"There...see it above you. Now, I know you'll have a girl!"
Shortly afterward, Kleis was born, the dragonfly still there: how blurred, it seemed, and how the ocean faded and reappeared as I fought. I felt I would drown in sweat, drops pouring down my neck. Mama wiped my face and hands, her voice soothing, as she cooled me. I wasn't afraid: no, a new happiness surged through me, even while my wrists were breaking and my knees afire. Even while the pain tore me, I was aware of this happiness: I was bringing life, defeating death, adding to our world. My heart sang, though sweat drenched me, and the dragonfly, clicking its green wings, seemed a ragged dot or great bird.