Alasdair Gray - Old Men in Love

The seated soldier sighs impatiently. The Ionian stares. The farmer ties the flask to his belt saying, “You’re a farmer like me so you have dogs at home, right?”

The Ionian nods.

“Think of one. One that’s had puppies but isn’t a bitch, right? Is that dog a father?”

The Ionian nods.

“Is that dog yours?”

“I said so.”

“Then that dog…must be your father!”

The farmer chuckles but the Ionian is not cheered up.

“Quackery,” says the seated soldier, throwing a branch on the fire. The farmer glares at him, growls, “What did you say, grocer-boy?”

“Quack-quack-quackery.”

“You are wrong. It is a dialectical demonstration of a misconstrued syllogism. I’ve learned from experts,” says the farmer with dignity, then asks the Ionian, “Know what an expert is?”

After a pause the Ionian says, “Someone who advizes a government?”

“Correct! But all the free citizens are the government of Athens so we have hundreds of experts! Hundreds and hundreds attracted by our wealth from all over Greece — experts in rhetoric, semantics, politics, history, physics, land measurement, sword fighting, wrestling and interpretation of dreams. They teach the rich for so much a lecture, but on warm evenings poor men like me…well, I’m quite prosperous really…on warm evenings clever men like me go to the marketplace where a lot of experts stand on the pavement lecturing each other! Wise men with a good new idea usually keep it to themselves and rent it out carefully a bit at a time, but their ideas seem to breed by being argued over, so if you stand nearby you can pick up all kinds of useful tips.”

“That bit about my dog wasn’t useful.”

“Not to you! Your state is either a tyranny or a plutocracy or a phony democracy where a ruling boss and his gang are elected every year or two, but in Athens even law courts are democratic. Anybody can prosecute anybody they want or defend themselves before a jury. When you’re doing that it’s very handy knowing how to twist words and do you see something moving and glittering between the first two watchfires there?”

He points downhill. The Ionian peers.

“That,” says the farmer, “is an officer on a tour of inspection and he’d better not find you this side of the hill.”

“O,” says the Ionian and pointing to the flask at the farmer’s belt asks, “Can I have back my…?”

The farmer says firmly but kindly, “I’m sorry lad. No.”

The Ionian leaves. After a moment the seated soldiers says, “You stole that wine.”

“Can I help it that I am a Greek?” cries the farmer, slapping his chest with his fist, “The blood of the great Odysseus flows in these veins and we know what a scoundrel he was. Like a drink?”

“No. Who’s the officer?”

“The Darling. Yes, The Darling,” says the farmer, looking.

The young man who joins them is so strikingly beautiful that the farmer stares frankly at him and the seated soldier turns away to avoid doing so. Though officers of the Athenian democracy mostly belong to the richer class not many dress to show it. This officer’s brilliant tunic and armour show it without inciting mockery because fine clothing suits him and he is popular. A slight lisp and hesitation in speech indicate a conquered stammer which most folk find charming in so masterful a man.

“Cheers,” he says, warming his hands over the fire. “Fourth Alopeky Distwict are you?”

“That’s right,” says the farmer boldly,

“How are you off for wations? Their quantity I mean, not quality.”

“Quantity’s all right. Any news?”

“Weports say they’ll soon be eating each other in that little city. Their Spartan fweinds seem to have abandoned them.”

“Like a drink?” says the farmer, offering the goatskin.

“Thanks.”

The Darling drinks, brushes his lips with a finger, then points and asks, “Why doesn’t that man move?”

“He often goes like that when on guard. He is — ”

“The stonemason, yes. I know about him. He visits parties given by my uncle’s whore.”

They watch the figure on the ridge for a while. The Darling says, “That mason is a fweind of Heavenly Weason.”

“Is any Athenian NOT a friend of heavenly reason?”

“I’m talking about Anaxagoras, the physics expert. We call him Heavenly Weason because he says the world was formed by heavenly…” (with an effort he manages to say) “…reason. And that’s why it’s weasonable.”

“Too abstract,” says the farmer shaking his head. “If the world is a solid ball like some people say then it must have been punched into shape by something tough. A physics expert! Is he one of those who say the sun and stars are made of the same stuff as the ground?”

“Yes,” says The Darling, drinking again.

“That’s idiotic! The ground doesn’t shine. The stars do.”

“What about meteorites?” asks the seated soldier.

“Well, what about them, grocer-boy?”

“My mother gave up the shop years ago,” says the other, standing and stretching his arms, “and how do you explain meteorites? Little lumps of white-hot iron that sometimes fall out of the sky, usually at night. The country folk call them falling stars.”

The farmer frowns. The Darling and other soldier grin at each other. The farmer suddenly snaps his fingers and says, “Criminal little beetles occasionally say something blasphemous about Almighty God so the Eternal Father uses a little tiny thunderbolt to squash them flat. So be very careful, you comedian!”

The comedian laughs, hugs him and reaches for the flask saying, “Give me a swig of that.”

The Darling hands it over, smiling and saying, “No wonder Athens is named after the goddess of wisdom.”

“Yes,” says the farmer cheerfully. “Not every nation has common citizens as wise as the head of state and his nephew!” The Darling stops smiling and a moment later says dryly, “I’ll leave you now. The sun’s coming up.”

All three look eastward. Under the brightening sky a tiny line of piercing golden light is widening along the sea-sill. As if talking to a friend the mason says, “Welcome great Apollo, God of Day, Light of Life, Giver of Harvest and Harmony.” These are the first words of the Greek hymn to the sun. The others recite along with him saying “Thank you for overcoming chaos, the dark and cold in your bright chariot. Give truth to your oracles, peace to your shrines, wealth and grandeur, wisdom and victory to Athens, her people and allies for ever. Amen.”

The mason stretches his arms, skips to exercize his legs, jumps down from the ridge. Taking the last onion from the rock he removes the withered outer skin, sits down and chews it with appetite. The Darling, having paused to watch this, says jauntily, “I thought you experts believed the sun was a ball of white-hot iwon bigger than Peloponnesia.”

The mason looks steadily at the beautiful young man, clears his mouth and says quietly, “When a body gives me warmth and beauty I want to thank him, whatever he’s made of.”

His shyly teasing tone is flirtatious. The Darling sees the farmer and comedian watching with amused interest. He gestures farewell and strides away.

“Hard luck old chap!” says the farmer, chuckling. “You’re too ugly for him.”

He reclaims the flask and rummages again in the satchels.

The stonemason finishes eating the onion. The comedian asks, “What did your demon say this time?”

“I’m to sell the stoneyard.”

“Give up your business? Why?”

“I don’t know. He gives orders, not explanations. He seems to have grown tired of questions that recently fascinated me. What is the essential substance of the universe? Water, as Thales thinks? The fire of Heraclitus? The single solid unchanging globe of Parmenides or the eternal indivisible atoms of our friend Anaxagoras?”