“That you schemed with Pittakos, to have me exiled, with Alcaeus.”
“What?”
“After all these years I’ve found out. Stop lying. You tried to get our home, that’s why you wanted me exiled. What a brother you’ve been! What a fool I’ve been!”
For once he shut his mouth.
“During the war years you made many trips, to sell your wines...refusing to help me financially...yours is a debt you won’t pay...and you don’t care. I’ve dedicated my life to writing...I live no lie. I work to make life significant.
“And now, why have I come? To quarrel? No, to tell you the truth. I’ve nothing more to say. I want you to know that I know. It’s a satisfaction...”
I could have talked on, but I left, snapping open my parasol, clutching Ezekias’ arm, walking swiftly, curbing my pulse, hearing a seagull, the wind icy at the corners of the town, dogs sleeping in the sun, carts passing.
I tried to believe something was settled, that life was worth more for having told the truth. Yet, I wanted to return to Charaxos, demand apologies and restitution, apologies for impertinent, biased criticisms, as if apology, like a brand, could stamp out wrong, as if there were restitution for my cheated years.
Somehow, as I walked, as Ezekias chattered, Aesop commiserated: his hunchback shoulders squared my shoulders: his doll had the dignity of a scepter to prod my spirit.
A tow-headed youth greeted us and I thought: I wish I could have a son. Yes, to give birth again. That glory cancels many defeats.