Читать книгу The Colour of power - Marié Heese - Страница 12

After a month Anastasia was desperately battling to keep her promise. She had tried to increase her income by extra performances, but Asterius was not keen to have one actress appear too often. Variety was essential, he told her, she would grow stale. Also, she had to depend on Fat Rosa to keep an eye on the children and she didn’t like to do that all the time. She received free bread, as did all the citizens of Constantinople, but they could not survive on bread alone. The Patriarchate of the local Christian church of which she was a member dispensed charity: a daily bowl of thin soup that stank of onions and poverty. It pained her to accept it, yet she often had nothing else to feed her children. And even that could not go on for ever. Sooner or later, she would be pressured into a convent, or the almshouse, and her children would be taken from her. She knew that.

She stood at her window and looked down at the street where a group of little girls played with a skipping rope, chanting an old skipping song. Their voices chirped like birds. As she watched, Comito darted forward and jumped under the swinging arc, with a determined little frown because she wanted to judge the moment perfectly; then a smile because she had succeeded. She continued to skip energetically without missing a beat, chanting all the while. Her chestnut curls flew as she skipped. She was already a beauty, her mother thought, she would be good on the stage, she had presence, she could already dance a few steps and sing several songs. But at just over six she was too young. Asterius would never allow it.

Not too young to be sold, though. Many a girl child of impoverished farming parents was bartered for some old clothes, or perhaps some oil, and not merely to work in their owner’s kitchen. The thought of her daughters having to service some horny old lecher made the bile rise in her throat. Oh, God, Acasius, she thought, as her eyes smarted with terrified tears. What can I do? You should be here. You should be alive, and strong. A deep sob shook her.

There was a hesitant knock. “Come in,” she called, and wiped her eyes.

The door opened to admit Peter, bearing a small parcel and a large cabbage. As he ambled in, he stumbled over a doll that Stasie had left on the floor. He peered at Anastasia with a worried frown.

“You’ve been c-crying,” he said, accusingly. “You sh-shouldn’t c-cry.”

“Well, what do you expect,” shouted Anastasia. “I’ve lost my husband, I’m dog-tired doing extra shows, and they’ll probably take my children away!” She wept furiously, her mouth drawn square like that of a distressed child, her chest heaving. She dug her fists into her eyes as if she could stem the torrent of tears, but to no avail. The heartache that had dammed up over the past weeks overflowed in a surge of anguish.

“Oh, d-dear,” said Peter. “Oh, d-dear.” He stood by helplessly as she wept.

At last her grief abated to some degree. She walked to a pail of cold water and cupped some to splash onto her face. He set down the parcel and the cabbage, pulled her over towards him and mopped her eyes with his cloak. “This is n-no good, you know,” he said. “Anast-tasia. What can I do?”

She looked at him, her face swollen and blotched. Considered. He has kind eyes, she thought. Kind eyes. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Marry me,” she said.

“Oh, m-my,” said Peter. His round cheeks flushed. “I’d like t-to m-m-m-m … b-but I d-don’t have a p-proper job. I c-couldn’t …”

“You could get his job,” said Anastasia. “Bearkeeper to the Greens. Nobody has been appointed in his place. Ragu can’t do a show, not with his peg leg. In any case, he’s gone off with a band of Gypsies. If I’d had a son that his father had trained, he’d have taken over. If you marry me, you could do that. You know how.”

“Y-yes, I d-do.”

“And you like the children. Don’t you?”

“Y-yes, I d-do.”

“And I’m only a little older than you,” said Anastasia, untruthfully. There was a difference of almost ten years.

“It d-doesn’t m-matter,” he assured her. “You’re so b-beautiful. D-do you really m-mean it?”

“If you want to,” she said.

“Oh, I d-do. Of course I d-do. I’ve always l-loved you. All the t-time … but I never thought … I’m just an apprentice. But I’m good with the b-bears. I’m really g-good with the bears.”

“I know you are.”

They stood and stared at each other. There did not seem to be any suitable words. Lord forgive me, she thought, what have I just done?

He gestured helplessly, too humble and overcome to kiss her.

“What did you bring me?” she asked gently. “Besides the cabbage?”

“P-pork chops,” he said, eagerly. “You could c-cook them. For – for us.”

“I could do that,” she said. “It won’t take long. You should sit there. At the table.”

“Yes,” he agreed. He stood up straighter. Already there was something different in his attitude. He would be the man of the house. Master of the domus. Yes.

“Thank you,” she said.

Theodora did not welcome the addition to their household. Comito said, practically, that now they’d have better food, and oil for the lamps so that they needn’t go to bed the instant the sun set. Stasie swiftly established herself on Peter’s lap, thumb in her mouth, and allowed him to croon to her. This pleased him immensely and he spent hours singing a repetitive, tuneless song, that lulled her to sleep and even succeeded in drawing her out of the attacks of misery that frustrated everybody else.

“Works with the b-bears,” he said to Anastasia. “Works with her t-too.”

“Yes, dear,” said Anastasia, who was not sure whether the song was easier to stand than the tantrums. But at least the two of them were happy.

Theodora, however, who had liked Peter when he was merely a humble admirer, resented him intensely as a replacement for Acasius. The first time he had taken up his place at the head of the table, small and wobbly though it was, she had fixed him with a furious glare.

“You should not sit there,” she said, each word heavy with anger. “It is not your place.”

“Don’t be rude, darling,” her mother admonished her. “Peter–”

“Peter is not our father,” stated Theodora. “He should not sit there. Not. There.” Small though she was, she radiated such intensity of disapproval that Peter sheepishly stumbled to his feet, knocking over the milk jug.

“S-sorry. I’ll s-sit in the m-middle,” said Peter. “Then I c-can help S-Stasie.”

For a couple of weeks, Peter did the job at the Hippodrome that Acasius had done, and despite Theodora’s unflagging animosity, they survived. Then one day he clumped up the several flights of stairs in a rare state of anger. He flung the door open and stomped into the room that served as kitchen, sitting room and bedroom for the girls.

“Anas-t-tasia!” he bellowed.

“I’m right here,” she said. “Don’t shout.” He was so large that the room could not easily accommodate him in a turmoil. “Whatever is the matter?”

“Ast-st-sterius,” he stuttered. “He’s s-s-s-s … He’s d-d-dis …” He waved his arms in an attempt to articulate what his knotted tongue could not utter.

“Yes? What about Asterius? Peter, take a deep breath. Tell me.”

“D-d-dis. M-missed me,” managed Peter.

“He what? But that’s not … Why? What did you do?”

“N-n-n-nothing. I d-did n-nothing wrong. T-t-truly. The b-bears obey me, I’m t-teaching the young one n-new t-tricks. B-but–”

“Did you argue with him? You know he doesn’t like to be contradicted. Maybe if you apologise …”

“I d-did nothing, woman,” roared Peter. “He’s appointed a m-man p-put forward by the P-Prefect. M-must have g-given him … g-given …”

“Oh. Yes. Of course,” said Anastasia, mindful of the gold coins that had helped Acasius secure his post. Now, however, she had no such resources. She stared at the wrathful Peter, aghast. “But – but he will keep you on as an apprentice, won’t he? He will do that?”

Peter suddenly collapsed onto the narrow cot that served as a sofa as well as a bed. It creaked alarmingly. He put his head in his hands. “N-no,” he muttered. “No. I’m s-s-s-s …” He gulped. “Sacked,” he managed.

“Oh, God,” said Anastasia. Stasie, upset by the general distress, began to wail. “Stasie, please. Please don’t cry. You can have a date.” Anastasia picked up her small daughter and began to walk the floor with her. Well, soon there would be no more dates. Might as well have them all.

Anastasia lay awake and stared into the darkness. Most of the bed was taken up by Peter, whose breath fanned her neck as he snored. She had not married him for love, although she did feel grateful affection for him. Nor had she married him for lust. He was too much like an overgrown child, too much like a dog that slobbered adoringly and swept vases off tables with its wagging tail. But he had represented security. Now he could no longer offer that. Yet here he was, a large, warm, sweaty presence, exhaling wafts of beer. An intruder in her bed, she often felt, a stranger from whom she sometimes flinched. Her body still yearned for the caresses she had known, for the shape and smell and touch that were familiar and dear. She had to hold her arms tightly across her chest, where her heartache seemed to have created a real wound liable to ooze. She had to hold back her sobs. She had no place to weep.

Her new husband lay curled around her with one heavy arm around her waist. Even in his sleep he was possessive, she thought. She found his adoration oppressive, especially as he expressed it through constant sexual activity. Young and vigorous, he plumbed her body inexpertly but relentlessly. Despite the snores, if she moved at all she could feel a slight swelling against her hip. She shifted away. Not again. She couldn’t. She had to think.

When the pale morning sunlight slanted through the shutters, Anastasia had a plan. It was an audacious one. It would take courage. But courage was all she had. She would not tell Peter, because she was sure he would not like it. No, it was for her to do, and when it succeeded – she was sure it would succeed – he would accept it. Yes. She had a plan.

“I think you should go and see if you can find a few hours’ work at the market gardens,” she suggested to Peter when he awoke. “Sometimes the farmers can do with a hand from a strong young man. It would be good if you could bring some vegetables.”

“All right,” he said, listlessly. It would be a hard slog, in the sun. It was not what he liked to do. He liked to work with the animals. But it was something.

When he had departed, she called the girls together to tell them of his dismissal. They knew that it meant disaster. “But,” she said, “we won’t accept it. I have a plan. You mustn’t tell Peter. But you’ll have to help, all three of you. Together, we can do it.”

“Do what, Mother?” asked Theodora.

“Plead our case in the Kynêgion,” said Anastasia. “After the next wrestling match.”

“Not at the Hippodrome?” asked Theodora.

“It’s too big,” said Anastasia. “We’d not be heard, and we have no mandator to speak for us. The Kynêgion seats only thirty thousand men. They’ll hear me.”

“Plead with the Greens?” asked Comito doubtfully. “What use would that be?”

“They could force the Dancing Master to take Peter back. They have power, those factions. Even the Emperor pays attention to what they say and do.”

“Will we plead with the Emperor?” asked Theodora, her dark eyes huge. “Will he listen? To us?”

“No, dear, that won’t be necessary. We must make the men sorry for us. Make Asterius seem heartless. We’ll look beautiful, and pathetic. It’ll work, you’ll see.”

“I don’t want people to be sorry for us,” objected Comito.

“Nor do you want to starve,” said her mother, “nor go to a convent, nor be adopted. Do you? Do you?”

“No,” said Comito sullenly.

“Then, this is what we’re going to do. We’ll have to practise. Think of it as a performance. We are actresses. We must portray loss, and grief. Fear. Suffering. Make the Greens feel guilty. Make them insist that Asterius must take Peter back. Peter’s good with the bears. There’s no good reason to sack him.” She stared intently at the little girls. Comito, brown-eyed, beautiful, with chestnut tresses like herself. Theodora, pale and delicate, with her father’s black hair and big dark eyes. Small, sturdy Stasie, her round face framed by a halo of dark brown ringlets. “Are you going to help me, girls?”

Theodora squared her narrow shoulders. “Yes,” she said. “It’s up to us.”

They practised in secret for several days. They learned to walk as if in a procession, gravely, with dignity, with small steps, placing their feet just so. They learned the eloquent gestures that would communicate in the huge arena where they hoped to plead. They held out their arms in supplication to an invisible audience. They learned to kneel and bow their heads, to rise again without over-balancing, with composure, with grace.

Fat Rosa washed their white dresses and helped their mother fashion small white cloaks from old sheets. Despite the size of her hamlike arms, she had remarkably deft hands.

“You think this is going to work?” she asked.

“It’s all I have,” said Anastasia. “Acting skills. So that’s what we’ll try. The men are used to mimes.”

“More bawdy, usually,” said Fat Rosa. “But it’ll look pathetic. Lucky the girls are so pretty. Well, you never know, it might wring their horny hearts.”

At last Anastasia decided that they were ready. “I think we can do it,” she said. “Even Stasie’s getting it right.”

“But Mother,” said Comito, “how can we be sure they will let us in? What if we go there and they don’t … they won’t …”

“We have a right,” her mother said, “to be heard. Appeals are heard, it’s the custom. Besides, I will make sure. I know the chief usher. I’ll … I’ll speak to him.”

The next afternoon, there was another performance of the Pantomime of Pasiphae. When it was over, Anastasia wrapped herself in her cloak and ran to the office of the chief usher. She smoothed her hair and walked in with as much dignity as she could muster. She intensely disliked the man, who was fat and unctuous and smelled of onions and garlic. But she was very polite as she requested a hearing the following afternoon. Before the scheduled wrestling match.

“A hearing?” he raised bushy eyebrows and leaned back, picking at a fibre stuck in one of his long, yellow teeth.

“A hearing,” said Anastasia firmly. “We have the right.”

“For what purpose?” He tried a thumbnail.

“For a … for a petition. We have a petition.”

“To put to?”

“The Greens. My husband has been unfairly dismissed. We have a case.”

He grinned and spat out the bothersome scrap. “My dear lady. No doubt you do, no doubt you do. But really, we can’t allow every little person who thinks they have a case …”

“I am not,” said Anastasia, “some little person. I am employed here. I have admirers. I am known.”

“Ah, yes. An actress.” He eyed her up and down. “Well, now. Perhaps we might make an exception. In this instance. For a small consideration, of course. You do understand how things are. A man must live.”

Anastasia wanted to grind her teeth, but she nodded instead. “I cannot offer you any money. I have nothing. Our income has been taken away. But please …”

He rose from his chair and walked towards her.

She knew what he would say, and he did. “Perhaps we can come to an … agreement. Perhaps you can offer something I might want?”

She had known before she came, although she had hoped it might not come to this. But she would have to pay. She was always going to have to pay. In the only coinage she possessed, on her knees, in a miasma of onions and garlic and unwashed male loins. A hard hand grasped her hair so tightly that her eyes watered, hard fingers forced her head down, forward, and down, and down. She couldn’t breathe, she would choke, she would throw up, she thought desperately. But she closed her eyes and disengaged her spirit, rolled it up tightly in a small bundle to smother its whimpers, to stifle its howls. And she paid him.

It would suffice. They would be allowed in.

Theodora rather looked forward to their appearance in the Kynêgion. Her father had smuggled her in there too once or twice, to see some acrobats, so it was not entirely strange. She knew that her mother performed there. Now, she thought, they would perform together, all four of them. Her mother had washed their hair in rainwater and rinsed it with lemon juice. Comito’s long, wavy hair gleamed golden-brown in the sunlight and Stasie’s brown curls had red glints. Her own hair was black and silky and hung almost down to her hips. And their mother was as beautiful as an angel, all in white. Her white cloak looked like wings. Anastasia’s hair seemed to hold the sunlight in its thick waves and she wore it loose as she had on the day of the funeral.

Trading with a farmer’s wife, Anastasia had exchanged her delicious honey-cakes for fresh wild flowers that Fat Rosa made into white flower garlands and scarlet posies.

“Are you ready?” Anastasia’s hands shook as she positioned their garlands.

“We’re ready, Mother,” said Comito. “Should we sing?”

“No,” said Anastasia. “No, we’re sorrowful. No singing. Now put on your old cloaks to cover yourselves up and we’ll walk. Hold up your hems, your dresses must be spotless. Comito, hold Stasie’s hand.”

“Where’s Peter?” asked Stasie. “Will he come too, Mama?”

“No,” said Anastasia. “He’s taken vegetables to his parents.” They had never seen his family, who were not pleased with his sudden marriage to an older woman, an actress at that, who already had children.

The little band of females set off and soon reached the Kynêgion, since they lived nearby. It was a holiday and there were flowers everywhere, decorating window-sills, looped into garlands, strewn on the ground, pounded to a scented mush by the feet of sedan chair carriers. Mixed with the heady floral scent were enticing wafts of the hot pies being touted by hawkers and the sour smell of beer. Brilliantly coloured balls spun in high arcs as jugglers entertained the gawping crowds dressed in their best, out to enjoy the sunshine and the shows. A legless beggar scooted across the pavement, rattled a bowl at them and whined. Supporters of the Greens and the Blues yelled insults at each other.

They passed the Hippodrome, where chariot races took place, only not today. Theodora remembered how she had watched with her father and her heart, momentarily merry, grew heavy and sad and she remembered why they were there.

“Are you sure they will let us in, Mother?” she asked.

“They’d better,” said Anastasia.

They approached the gates of the big amphitheatre and a roar from the crowd inside rolled over them. Theodora wondered whether they too would be cheered. It must feel wonderful, she thought, to be cheered like that.

The guard at the gate seemed to have instructions, for he let them through. Their footsteps echoed as they walked along vaulted corridors. Smoking torches lit the way. Another roar from the crowd thundered all around them. They seemed to be right in the middle of the noise, a wave of sound that could push them back if they let it. Then they reached the end of the corridor, where there was a tall portal with a heavy green curtain across it.

They stopped. “Take off your outer cloaks, and your sandals,” hissed Anastasia. “We will go in barefoot.”

Comito helped Stasie, whose round brown eyes were huge with wonder. “Why are there only Greens and Blues, why aren’t there other colours too?” she asked. “Why not Reds?”

“There used to be Reds and Whites as well,” her mother said. “Now there are just the Greens and Blues, and they don’t just support their racing teams, they have power. Money, and power. We don’t, they do. So we have to make them listen. Make them sorry for us. Look sad, all right? Cry if you want to.”

A guard in a green cloak nodded to their mother. “Wait,” he grunted. “There’s a wrestling match on. It’s not over yet.”

The four of them held hands. Theodora felt her mother’s hand tremble in hers. Suddenly she realised that their mother was afraid. This made her feel terrified. They stood silently and clung to each other as they waited. A huge roar announced that someone had triumphed. The crowd shouted, whistled and stamped. The applause seemed to go on and on.

At last the guard gave a signal for them to move forward. He drew the curtain aside with a rattle of rings. They walked forward into the blinding sunlight, into a vast arena smelling of dust and surrounded by row upon row of curious men. Into a surge of sound that was not a roar but a buzz they walked, a buzz that swelled as all eyes were drawn to them. Theodora suddenly felt extremely small. It seemed to be very far to the other side, and the tiers of seats appeared to her to stretch right up to the sky. Her knees shook. Please, Lord Jesus, she entreated wordlessly, please, be with us, protect us, help us today.

“Follow me,” her mother whispered. “Towards the Greens, over there. Slowly. Remember what we practised.”

Forward they went with their heads bowed, taking small steps in the baked and trampled dust. Comito walked behind their mother, Stasie’s hand in hers. Theodora was last. It would have been easier, she thought, if there had been singing, as there was on the day of the funeral procession. They should have brought Fat Rosa, to help them sing. She imagined the washerwoman’s pure voice soaring and silencing this jabber-jabber-jabber. She was being pointed at, like a performing bear. She wanted to scream, and turn and run. But she walked forward, her red posy held tightly to her white chest. Please, Jesus. Please.

At last they reached the front ranks of the Greens. Their mother turned and nodded. The three little girls flung their posies, to fall just short of the row in which Asterius sat. Anastasia stretched out her right hand. The girls lifted their arms to the banked spectators in the pleading gesture that they had practised. Then they fell to their knees and bowed their heads. The sand was gritty and it hurt. The buzz died down and silence fell.

Anastasia spoke. Her voice shook just a little when she began, but it was a trained voice, trained to sing and to speak out in front of multitudes, for not all her performances were mimes, and soon it steadied and gained in clarity. She clasped her hands and her plea rang out:

Greetings to you, most Christian and most glorious Greens!

May your victories be many, may they be long in memory!

We thank you for this hearing, in this Kynêgion of Constantinople.

We are assured of justice and mercy.

You all did know Acasius, my late husband,

Who was a master of the bears.

He worked faithfully and tirelessly

For your entertainment.

Now he is dead, and we who have been left

Are bereft. A good man has taken pity on us.

But he has lost his work. He has been dismissed.

We beg, we plead …

Here the little girls raised their arms again, imploringly, then bowed low once more. The sand felt like sharp bits of glass. Theodora thought her knees would bleed.

… we plead that he may have his post again.

He works well with the bears.

He will entertain you, glorious Greens.

We beg for mercy.

Anastasia too bowed her head.

Silence reigned. Please, Jesus. Please, Jesus.

Theodora raised her head slightly. She saw that Asterius had risen to his feet. His arms were folded across his chest, so that his cloak fell in straight folds like that of a tall statue. His head was thrown back contemptuously and he glared down his hooked nose at the trio of little girls. Then he turned his gaze on their mother, who stood barefoot and submissive in the dust. His mouth sneered. Nothing better than a slave, he seemed to say. Not worthy of attention. Not worthy. He swivelled and his arrogant stare raked the rows of silent men. Can you believe this, he seemed to ask, can you believe this insolence? He turned back to Anastasia and made a gesture of dismissal, such as one might make to a servant, one who was not worthy of a single word.

The three little girls stood up, clutching each other’s hands. Oh, no, thought Theodora in disbelief and horror, we have failed. No mercy, Lord Jesus, no mercy. Where are you? Where were you today? A sharp odour rose from the gritty dust. She looked down. Stasie had wet herself. They stood in a puddle of pee.