Author Archives: atomou

Helen’s First Trojan Dmas

22 Thursday Dec 2011

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Drinking Bacchus by Guido Reni (1575-1642)

Drinking Bacchus by Guido Reni (1575-1642)

The cold was foreign to her. Foreign and unpleasant. It penetrated deep, into the marrow her bones. The weather of barbarian lands, she had heard, could be cruel, unbearable for the likes of the noble Greeks, particularly so, of Greeks whose blood consisted, in equal measure, of a mortal and of a god.
“Why all this snow, father?” she asked, looking at the white shroud that had covered everything outside her window. “Why so much snow? Why such bitter cold?”
She shivered. Not only because of the cold outside but because of the cold in her heart, a cold that came with the thought that the white shroud she saw outside would one day be also her own shroud, covering her own grave.

Her husband, her new husband, rolled languidly on their bed behind her. He grunted a sigh of replete satisfaction, of contentment, happy with the night that had preceded and happier still with the day that he knew would proceed.
The fire was blazing in the hearth, radiating warmth and comfort throughout the enormous royal bedroom. It radiated certainty, safety, protection.

“Paris,” Helen called as soon as she heard his sigh.
“Yes, my sweet golden gift?”
Helen had to accept this label. Gift. After all, she was exactly that. A gift that the goddess Aphrodite had handed to Paris in exchange for him declaring her the one worthy of the title “most beautiful of all” and handing her the golden apple. Helen would have preferred the label ‘bribe.’
“Paris, how many brothers and sisters do you have?”
“Brothers and sisters? Why do you want to know that, Helen, my sweet golden gift? There are many of us.”
“Yes but how many exactly?”
Paris thought for a few seconds. “At the last setting of the dinner table, the chief of slaves shouted that there should be one hundred chairs set up for the king’s children. Yes, I do believe, that there are fifty men and fifty women of us. One hundred in total. Not all out of Hekabe’s womb, mind, but we are all of Priam’s seed.”
He jumped out of bed like a leopard at the scent of game and rushed over to her. He stood behind her, wrapped his arms around her slender waist and brought his smooth, shaven face close to hers. So smooth, it made Helen’s body tingle with desire.
“Why do you want to know?”
“It is Dmas today and I want to send gifts to all of them. What sort would they like, do you think? What would your parents like?”
Paris laughed
“Gifts? What more gifts would they want than the one they already have? Troy had never had a gift so precious as the one she has now! You, my darling are the gift that has satisfied them all. There is no other gift in the universe that they could wish now.”
“That’s not what your sister Cassandra thinks! She thinks of me as a curse!”
“Forget Cassandra. She is delusional. Thinks she’s a prophet! Now what is this Dmas you are talking about?”
“You don’t hold the mysteries of Dmas in Troy? But which of the gods is your protector then? Or don’t you have one?” In her heart of hearts she wished the answer was no. That no god protected this city.

“Apollo,” he answered.
“Apollo? Why him?”
Paris brought his face even closer to her and with his he turned hers towards the huge battlements. Enormous walls built of huge stones which no man could lift. Then he raised his hand and pointed at one of the towers.
“See those tall towers, those huge walls, darling?”
She nodded.
“They were built by Apollo. Apollo and Poseidon. They had angered Zeus for some reason or other and he, Zeus, sent them, shamed, here to served grandpa, Laomedon. They had to do whatever grandpa wanted. So he told them to build these walls. Huge, aren’t they? Impenetrable. Troy is unconquerable, my little gift! It is the safest land on land!”

The word, “unconquerable” tugged bitterly at Helen’s heart. Nine months in this land and with this man and she still could not erase the guilt of treachery, nor the love for her first and true husband, Menelaos, King of Sparta. Her love for her baby daughter would torment her for ever. She had still not managed to understand what had actually happened to her mind, to her heart, that day when Paris had snatched her hand and pulled her running to his ship. She remembered well, though, the feeling of exhilaration, of joy that had coursed madly through her veins. The feeling of anticipation for a new, more exciting life, somewhere else, with someone so young, so handsome, with one so much in love with her. Nothing else had mattered at that moment. She had allowed herself to be the captive.
Still, there’s no escaping the will of the gods, she kept telling herself. She must endure it. The words were like a nursery rhyme sung to send a child to the sweet world of oblivion.

“One hundred of you,” she said. “Goodness. This will need a great deal of thought!”
“And what do you Hellenes, do during this Dmas,” Paris asked, as he dragged her back into the warm bed. “Tell me!”
But it was a good hour before the Prince’s arms and legs, his every muscle, stopped their frenzied work so that Helen could begin talking again.
“Dmas is the day when we celebrate the birth of Dionysos.”
“You mean, Bacchus?”
“He is known by many names. Bromios, Lyaeus, Oeneus… lots of names. He is even called Enorches!”
They both burst into loud laughter at that.
“God with balls! What a name for a god, ey? So what happens on that day? Do you all give gifts to one another, balls and cocks?”
“His mother is –was- a mortal, Semele,” Helen continued, trying to keep some semblance of modesty in the conversation. “His father is also my own father, Zeus.”
“You are related?”
“In a way, yes. Semele was an unmarried virgin when Zeus went to her; my mother was not. I also have a mortal father-”
“Yes, I know, Tyndareus.”
“Anyhow, Zeus’ wife–”
“Hera-”
“Yes, Hera-”
“Your mother is Leda, right?”
How like a child this man was! Always interrupting, his mind constantly wandering, butterflying from one thought to another.

“Yes, Leda. Now Hera became very jealous–”
“Women! Mortals or gods, they’re all the same! Jealous harpies!”
She smiled.
“And men, mortals or gods, they too are all the same. Rapists!” But she didn’t allow Paris to continue with the contest. “Hera came down to Semele when Semele was pregnant with Dionysos and pretended to be a nurse. They talked and then Semele told Hera that the baby in her belly was fathered by a splendid god. By Zeus himself. ‘Zeus, a god?’ asked Hera spitting out a devious chuckle. ‘No, dearie, Zeus is no god, dearie. Why, ask him, right now, if you like, ask him to show you what he’s really like! Shout at the heavens! Call on him to come down now and show himself in all his godly splendour, if you like. Let’s see what he’s really like!”

It was just like telling stories to a baby, Helen, thought. Like the times when she was telling stories to her own daughter, Hermione. Her heart shed a tear.
“Go on,” said Paris, snuggling up to her, like a wide-eyed baby. She was certain he was about to put her nipple into his mouth and start suckling.
“Well,” she continued, “Semele did call out to Zeus. She asked him to prove to her that he was, indeed the glorious god that he said he was. And Zeus obeyed. Unfortunately, there was a problem and that was that when Zeus wants to show himself in all his splendour, he dresses himself up with all his thunderbolts and lightning rods and fire dashing everywhere–”
“Oh, no!” said Paris. “I know what will happen next!”
“Yes, Zeus came crashing down in all his flaming glory and Semele–”
“Was turned into a pile of smoking ashes. What about the baby?”
“Yes, poor Semele perished in the fire. Zeus quickly extinguished all the fires, got rid of his bolts and rods, ripped out the baby from Semele’s belly and flew off into the sky. Then, secretly, he sewed the baby, baby Dionysos, into his thigh and let him grow in there until he was ready to be born. That’s why Dionysos is known also by the name of ‘dimetor’ which means, ‘born of two mothers.’ Zeus was his second mother.”
“Hmmm! So what do you do during his festival?”
“Well, Dionysus in the god of wine, of the free spirit, of the deep desire, so…”
“You all get drunk and free?”
“We are always free but on that day we also get drunk and… even more free!”
“Huh?”
“So free that nine months later all the women give birth! Children of Dionysus, we call them. They are born in honour of a god.”
He rolled his soft body over hers.
“Merry Dmas,” he said.

Mary’s Mum

24 Tuesday Nov 2009

Posted by in The Public Bar

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The moment I began writing about the Iranian lady the other day, the very moment I had put down the first word, another lady’s face also came to my mind and, with it, the need to write about her also. I brushed that need away until Mrs At read the story. When she finished reading it, she looked up at me and asked, “what about Mary’s mum? You said she also shocked you like that, remember?” Then that need to talk about her as well, became a must and so, here I am, writing about another woman whose face had also trashed my brain but for an altogether different reason. Mrs At. knows about Mary’s mum not because they had met but because her daughter used to come to our house often, after school, particularly during the breaks when I held rehearsals with my young theatre group. “Theatre Tricks.”

During those days, our house –quarter acre plus, if you don’t mind!- was jam full with students and the barbie would be going full bore, rain, hail or sunshine. Mary was also in my English class. Year 11. Beautiful, very beautiful kid but an unbearable prima donna, in class and out. She certainly was a great actress and had taken the role of Blanche in Streetcar, with everyone’s happy approval. I used to always run two casts who’d play on alternate nights, plus a few understudies and a whole bunch of directors and assistant directors, make up artists, hair dressers, floor managers, you name it –we had it. I wanted to occupy as many kids as possible –but that’s another story.

Mary was certainly intelligent. Stunning memory, learnt her lines within a couple of days and she was as sharp as a tack. But she was an absolute bugger of a kid to keep attentive in class. She was a thespian through and through. Exasperating. Couldn’t sit still. She’d walk around the class, taking over the lesson –a teacher’s nightmare. Midway through term one I caught up with her in the yard one day and asked her to tell her father to make an appointment to see me. “Nah. He won’t see you sir.” “Why not, Mary?” “Coz he’s a bastard and he’s left us.” “Oh, sorry to hear that, Mary. Well, tell mum then please, mate because we need to do something here…” “I know, sir, I told you I’m trying.” “Still, it won’t do any harm if we all sat together and had a little chat.” “She won’t come either, sir.” “Why not?” “Coz…” “Mary?” “She won’t come, I’m telling you. She…” “What?” “Nothing, Mr T. She just won’t come.” She looked into the distance, into her mind’s eye, for a moment and then said, “bastard left us three years ago.” “I’m sorry to hear that, Mary. Is mum still very upset about it?” “I guess so but that’s not why she won’t come, Mr T. You could call her though. She’ll talk on the phone with you. She’s always on the phone.” “Mary I need us to sit together and talk.” “She won’t come, sir. Have you worked out who’s playing Stan, yet?” “Mary… OK, let me have your phone number.” “Helen (my daughter) has it.”

So, the parent-teacher night came and I was looking forward to meeting Mary’s mum. Mary had told me during the day that she had convinced her mum to come. But parent followed parent until the last parent came and went and the room was empty of parents. The other two teachers got up and left. Mary’s mum was nowhere to be seen. Eventually I, too gave up and began to gather my books. That’s when I heard the footsteps. Mary came in first, stepping quietly, lest anyone would hear her. “Mr T, mum’s here. Are we too late?” “No, no, Mary. Where is she?” Mary walked out of the room and a minute later she walked back in with her mother. At first I thought the woman was mad. She was wearing sunglasses for goodness’ sake! In the middle of the night, in a dark classroom. Tall, slender, long shiny black hair like Mary’s. Another actress, I thought. That’s where Mary got her diva complex from. They both walked gingerly to my desk and sat opposite me. Mum leaned as far back as the chair and protocol would allow her; but I could sense it was a fearful gesture. She was hiding something and it was obvious that what she was hiding was behind those large dark sun glasses. I had to see what it was and I must have made this need obvious to her; and to Mary, so Mary explained nonchalantly. “Mum had a stroke three years ago, Mister T and her face is gone a bit funny. That’s why she’s wearing the goggles.” That was when the bolt hit me. Stunned. Couldn’t utter anything coherent. I could see the distortion now quite clearly. I understood her dread. The whole right side of her face had become a grotesque mass of shrivelled flesh. I could barely distinguish her eye from her cheek. I mumbled. Suddenly, my little problem with Mary had become a shocking reminder of the pettiness of it.

I didn’t want to bother this woman with my petty whines about her daughter. But I had to tell her something –after all I had insisted on her making this enormous sacrifice for me- but what? What was so important that I couldn’t have sort it out by myself, or with just a phone call? But whatever went on in my blurred brain it wasn’t utterable. I left it to Mary. She took over the conversation. She was great at it. A born actress. I had no idea what went on during that conversation. I remember little of it. None of it really. Only that I was still shocked well after they had left the room. During the school break we had the usual rehearsals and the usual Op Shop hunting, looking for costumes and props. During one of those days Mary told me quietly, “she’ll be right, Mr T. the docs reckon her face will get back to usual in a couple of years.” Streetcar was a brilliant success, thanks to Mary –as well as my daughter and a whole lot of other kids and parents. I haven’t seen Mary or her mum ever again but I’d love to know how they’re both going.

The thing that circles around my mind is the idea that one can be stunned with beauty without the “falling in love” bit just as one can be stunned by ugliness without the “falling in hatred” bit. I hadn’t “fallen in love” with the Iranian woman just as I hadn’t hated Mary’s mum. Is this “stunned” bit then, an emotional or an intellectual experience?

Hell Hospital: Episode 4

18 Wednesday Nov 2009

Posted by in Hell Hospital

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Hell Hospital Morgue - this way out .......

By theseustoo

(Disclaimer: this series of stories is completely fictional and none of the persons, places or institutions in these stories are real, but figments of my own imagination. Any similarity to any real person, place or institution is entirely coincidental.)

Dentistry must be the Devil’s favourite profession, Dave thought as he waited silently and with what he hoped looked like eternal patience for the dental wing’s receptionist to finally acknowledge him. She had noticed him, he knew, for she had actually made eye-contact with him as he had hopped, with his now-moon-booted crushed foot, on his unfamiliar crutches towards the reception desk… Yes, he reassured himself, she had seen him; indeed, for a moment he’d actually allowed himself to think that she was even going to speak to him, but her attention was suddenly diverted by what was apparently an urgent telephone call… it was certainly a long telephone call.

After the first few minutes, Dave looked around him to take his mind off his leg, which was beginning to ache a little now, and noticed a portrait of the dental wing’s patron and founder, one Dr Vladimir Von Draco; a famous, if imported Australian, who had earned himself the nickname ‘Vlad the Sucker’ for inventing the little metal vacuum-sucker-hose that dentists use to suck dribble out of their patients mouths so they don’t drown on their own spit, thus not only killing the patient – the goose that lays the golden egg – but also putting an end to the dentists’ own sadistic pleasure at his patient’s discomfort.

Returning his gaze to the receptionist he saw she was still deeply involved in her telephone conversation. “Now I know why they call us ‘patients’…” he thought to himself “…we have no choice but to be patient…” as he silently sought aloft for divine inspiration and the strength to endure what he knew was going be an ordeal.

Finally the receptionist’s voice became audible as she brought the telephone conversation to a close, “… no… don’t worry, he’ll like it I tell you… yes, I think the blonde highlights really suit you; look, gotta go; see you Saturday!”

Turning at last to Dave she barked, “Name?” with all the natural charm of a Howitzer, to let him know, in case he hadn’t guessed, that she resented being torn away from her beloved telephone. Dave gave his full name; the breadth of the reception desk forcing him to speak in a loud, firm voice in order to make himself heard. The receptionist checked it against that on her computer and then demanded, “Address?” again Dave gave his address, though it made him slightly nervous to voice such personal details in such a public place as this in this glorious twenty-first century. Next, the receptionist demanded, “Date of birth…” Dave glanced around and behind him, nervously casting his suspiscious gaze over the current occupants of the waiting area. “Crikey!” he thought, as he also gave the receptionist his date of birth, “I hope none of those people sitting there in the waiting room are cyber-criminals; there’s enough information there for anyone with a bit of knowledge and a larcenous inclination to steal my identity!” He couldn’t help wondering why the receptionist didn’t just ask to see his driving license along with his Medicare card, which she did ask to see. That, Dave thought, would have been much quicker, much more discreet and much more secure.

Eventually, after checking several more computer screens, the receptionist said, “Oh yes, I see you have an appointment. Please take a seat in the waiting area…” Thankfully Dave hopped over to the waiting area and gracelessly plonked himself down on one of the chairs; arranging his crutches underneath his moon-booted leg to raise it as much as possible off the floor, grateful to be finally able to do so; it was beginning to feel quite sore from its unaccustomed and protracted perpendicularity. After a few minutes’ wait, the dentist and his assistant emerged from among a vast maze of corridors and cubicles and introduced themselves. The dentist, who introduced himself simply as ‘Andrew’, was a tall, freckled youth, complete with curly red hair, n his early twenties. His assistant, Katarina, was a raven-haired beauty with the palest of skin and emerald green eyes.

Dave had often wondered why dentists always had such gorgeous assistants; he finally realized that it was all part of the system; male clients, at least, were much less likely to complain and much more likely to put on a show of macho bravado in front of a perfectly made-up and coiffured, very pretty assistant, as the dentist poked and prodded his teeth with what seemed like an increasingly numerous array of implements, both hi- and lo-tech…

Once upon a time, he remembered, there had just been the dreaded ‘hook of pain’; but now there was also an ‘air-test’, an ‘electricity test’, and what Dave could only describe as a ‘blunt-instrument test’, in which the teeth were tapped with a blunt metal instrument; indeed each of these new tests proved equally capable of producing dental pain in a new and different manner. Instead of one painful test to discover which teeth were rotten, now there were four… and the dentist, of course; a fourth-year dentistry student; insisted on a thorough analysis, using all four tests. “Now that’s progress!” Dave thought.

Always a great believer in the prophetic power of Murphy’s Law, Dave had already predicted that before the torture-session they would ask him to accompany him to their own little cubicle, which would, and indeed, actually did turn out to be right at the other end of what also turned out to be a very large dental wing. St Helvi’s was, after all, a teaching hospital.

Indeed, Dave was learning all the time… right now he was learning that in using his crutches, he was obliged to lift his full bodyweight of about 90 kilos, with every ‘step’; using crutches was thus, essentially, walking on his hands. Even at home, just going to the loo was a workout. Getting himself up and down the stairs to his first-floor flat was an extreme sport… He would certainly sleep well tonight, he thought.

Of course, after all those tests, the dentist finally told Dave exactly what Dave had told the dentist on his arrival, that his upper right rear bicuspid, which the dentist, he noticed, referred to only with a number, was split vertically in two and would probably require extraction. Notes were taken and entered onto a computer and another appointment was made for a date mercifully a few weeks into the future.

This would give Dave a few weeks to screw up his courage to actually keep the appointment; he knew he would have to do it; this tooth had already caused an infection which, though it had abated now somewhat, had been extremely painful; and which Dave knew would return unless the tooth was removed. Oh yes! He’d have to do it, even if it meant facing needles and having the extraction done while he was still conscious…

He hadn’t minded being operated on five times already as the orthopedic surgeon rebuilt his foot; he had been unconscious for those and felt no pain; but this was different! The dentist had already squashed his pitiful plea for a general anesthetic just as, with effortless grace and perfect timing, his assistant had flashed him one of her most gorgeous smiles; and he was irrevocably doomed to an extraction under a local anesthetic. He knew from personal experience that as long as one was conscious, there was always the potential to feel pain, in spite of local anaesthetics, which he never entirely trusted; and Dave had never been fond of needles…

When his foot had been crushed and dislocated in his recent motorcycle accident, he had actually laughed and joked with some of the witnesses to help him to ignore the agony of his severely crushed and dislocated foot, until the ambulance man came to relieve him with his merciful nitrous-oxide lollipop; but when it came to facing dentists, Dave’s courage failed him and he confessed himself a coward.

***** ******* ***** ******* *****

No, the reason Loose-Lipped Loreen had earned her nickname had nothing to do with her gossiping or her inability to keep a secret; it had to do with other uses to which that particular pair of organs might be put; if one were lucky enough; or unlucky enough; depending on one’s viewpoint and life-circumstances; for Loreen was, to put it kindly, a terrible flirt. She most especially could not help competing with other women whenever it seemed as if one of them was about to ‘get off’ with a new boyfriend… or occasionally even, so it was rumored, a new girlfriend.

As it was her mystic duty to protect Paula from herself, Loreen had noticed, with alarm, her blossoming friendship with Swannee in the staff cafeteria (although Swannee himself remained blissfully unaware of it!) and had immediately realized how much harder her job would be if Paula were actually to fall in love. Even now she was hard to keep up with; and even now she required constant surveillance; Loreen now knew not only the location of every closet, but also every other possible hiding-place in the hospital. But, she asked herself, with mounting horror, if Paula were ‘absent-minded’ now, what would she be like if her mind were as distracted as it inevitably would be if she were to fall in love. Something serious had to be done, she realized; and done soon!

Underneath her nylon work-coat, Loreen wore her sexiest black lacy underwear; she undid the top couple of buttons so it showed an ample portion of her not inconsiderable cleavage. Paula would hate Swannee if she caught him looking at other women, she realized; so she would make sure he had something to look at. She had deliberately chosen her shortest work-coat; one which she had deliberately bought a couple of sizes too small for just such circumstances as these… and, although she realized that, were she to be reported to the union, she could lose her membership for violation of the Occupational Health and Safety code, over her black fishnet stockings and suspender-belt, she wore a pair of very sexy six-inch stiletto heels.

“The man,” she said to herself, as she checked her reflection in the mirror as she left for work, “…doesn’t stand a chance!”

***** ******* ***** ******* *****