Dion: His Life and Mine (12 page)

“Then, four months ago, he left for yet another tour. As always, Phaedra had helped him arrange it. He went as far as Sicily when, as the official story goes, ‘his heart, which had suffered from so much loss, finally failed him’.”

“And the unofficial story?”

“The unofficial story, or rather the truth, isn’t too dissimilar. That was a useful lesson I learnt from your father and it has served me well, although I hope with less nefarious outcomes. Well, the truth is that your father arrived in Sicily, where Daedalus had received asylum and was proving his worth. In his special diplomatic way, your father demanded that Daedalus be returned to him. King Cocalus refused. In fairness, your father had a case, but like I said, Daedalus was proving his worth. Your father was so outraged that it brought on a heart attack. We were sent word the next day and Phaedra travelled to Sicily to retrieve the body. I stayed here to make the funeral arrangements.
Phaedra said she sent word to you at Thebes, the last address we had for you. We were sent a brief, somewhat curt, reply from Kadmus to the effect that you were no longer there and weren’t likely to be there, in the near future. As Thebes had recently lost a member of its Royal Family, the people could sympathise with Crete’s loss. We had to go ahead with the funeral without you. You didn’t miss much. The press reported what a dutiful and loyal widow I made and pictures of me crying were published all over Greece. They were right, I was emotional, but I buried more than your father that day.”

We talked long into the night. My mother made me promise to ask Dion and Libertia to play the opening gig at the summer festival of games she was planning, to honour Andro; “It’s going to be nothing like that self-indulgent charade your father used to put on. I want to use it to encourage young athletes and start putting Crete back on the map for positive reasons.” I told her it sounded amazing.

“And what about you, Ariadne? What has my eldest daughter been doing?”

I told her about my correspondence course.

“It sounds fascinating.” My mother said encouragingly.

“Well I enjoy it,” I told her “I’ve been doing well, getting good marks in my assignments but due to ‘unforeseen circumstances’ I’ve deferred my placement.”

My mother asked what I’d like to specialize in.

“Agricultural and Sustainable Economy,” I told her. She looked blank, so I began to explain. “Take Crete as an example” I said and began to explain how the climate was suited to different fruits which could be exported. As I explained I saw my mother’s eyes widen.

“Are you saying you believe Crete could increase its economy by planting a few more olive and orange trees?” She asked, incredulous.

“Well yes,” I said, “given time and the right expertise, I believe it could support itself sufficiently by increasing its output and turning the excess into exports.” I paraphrased from one of my textbooks. It impressed my mother.

“And your placement could help you to get started?” She asked.

“That’s the idea, if I had the right placement.” I said.

“So what do you need for that?” She asked.

“Support and sanction from the authorities in my chosen place.”

“Consider it granted.” My mother said gleefully. “Don’t you see it makes perfect sense. You know Crete and its land better than anyone. You stay here at the palace, I can put anything you need at your disposal and I can help by looking after my grandsons while you work.”

As she expanded on the idea I felt a weight lift from me. A project, I was passionate about, was just what I needed to absorb me. We spent the next few hours thrashing out some basic ideas, by the time I looked at my watch it was seven o’clock in the morning.

I was exhausted and ready for bed, but my mother had other ideas, checking the clock, she surprised me by saying:

“You’ve got an hour to get ready. You’ll find some black robes laid out on your bed.”

“Get ready for what?”

“When I heard you were on your way, I arranged a mourning ceremony for you to attend in your father’s honour.”

“But I look dreadful! There are large bags under my eyes and I’m shaking from lack of sleep!”

“And that’s exactly what the world wants to see: a distraught daughter paying respect to her father.” My mother was deadpan, but I caught the wink.

The Royal Family Mausoleum was only four miles from the palace, but it took an hour for us to drive there. The streets were lined with people wanting to see the royal car drive by. Outside, the gates were covered with flowers. I followed my mother’s lead and spent some time reading the inscriptions, under the watchful eye of the Cretan populace. Outwardly, each bouquet looked like a homage to a beloved king, but when I read the messages, they were all addressed either to my mother, giving support for her loss, or to Andro and even Aster. Crete hadn’t been allowed to express her sorrow when the two princes died, but now the king had passed away, so had their inhibitions. My mother hadn’t needed to falsify my mourning; at the sight of this outpouring of love for Aster, I broke down and wept. My mother held me.

“Am I forgiven?” she whispered.

“He wouldn’t have expected you to seek it from him.”

“I know, that’s why I’m not seeking it from Aster.” It was the first time I had heard her say his name for almost twenty years. “I’m seeking it from you instead.”

I told her she had my forgiveness.

Next day, the papers would carry photographs of mother and daughter supporting each other in their joint mourning. It was one of the few truths they ever printed about me, and the Cretans who watched and applauded us, knew for whom we were mourning.

             
My duties fulfilled, I was able to spend the day eating and sleeping. When I had sufficiently recovered, my mother, to my surprise, handed me a pile of condolence letters. Most of them were from people I didn’t know; others were from the spouses of band members, Dion and I had met on tours. One was from the Royal Court of Sicily. This surprised me, as diplomatic courtesies had been communicated when Phaedra went to retrieve our father’s body. When I opened it, I discovered that it wasn’t a condolence card, but an invitation to the Sicilian Museum of Lifelike Sculptures of the Rich and Famous. There was only one sentence:
Come when you can and you will be welcomed, D
. Caught up in the moment, I had forgotten that my father had tracked Daedalus down in Sicily, where my old friend was finally being celebrated for the artist he was. Libertia still had three months left on tour. I arranged to leave Oinopion on Crete with my mother, so that I could travel back to the mountain via Sicily, to see Daedalus. I would retrieve Staphylos from the Mas and bring him back to Crete for a month. I would then return to the mountain to meet up with Dion when he had finished the tour. So, instead of leaving Crete under cover of darkness with no intention of returning, this time I left on a sunny day, waving goodbye to my mother and baby and intending to return within the month.

Arriving on Sicily, I was first required to be welcomed at the palace. It was my diplomatic duty and since my mother was now the Queen of Crete, I was proud to represent her. I received the warmest of welcomes. Phaedra had been a hit in Sicily, pouring oil onto the waves our father had created.  Although, even if she hadn’t done this, I believe that I would still have received such a welcome. King Cocalus was a reasonable man which was why he wouldn’t release Daedalus to an unreasonable one. He very much took the stance of, ‘any friend of Daedalus.’ When I was finally taken to my friend, our reunion was emotional. He was thinner and the loss of Icarus had turned his hair white, but rather than being a fugitive or a social outcast, he was very much part of the art scene on Sicily and dressed accordingly, in baggy white shirts with rolled up sleeves and colourful waistcoats. His hair was cropped short and he sported a goatee and an earring. I was overwhelmed and exclaimed: “I can’t believe it’s you! Prove it!” He did, by trapping me in a bear hug and laughing. He took me to his new baby; The Sicilian Museum of Lifelike Sculptures of the Rich and Famous. It had been open for a month and was proving to be a major tourist attraction. As it was crowded daily, I was allowed to go out of hours. It was a novel idea. The museum was four storeys high, each level split into sections with scenes in which Daedalus’s sculptures were the stars. There was a scene depicting Pan and Capricious playing a gig in Thrace.

“I am particularly proud of this one,” Daedalus said, gesturing towards a scene that was so familiar to me, my first reaction was to duck. There, as if he had come back from the dead, was Andro doing what Andro liked doing best. He was standing on his right foot, with his left knee bent, as I had heard him instruct Aster to do. His left hand was almost touching his right knee and his right hand was stretched as far as it would possibly go, as he held the discus with his fingertips. Daedalus had ingeniously captured the instant of stillness, between Andro swinging back and hurling his discus. I could see why the Sicilian art critic had praised Daedalus and hailed him as ‘the first to show the living, open-eyed quality of human beings in motion and extension.’ In stone, Daedalus had captured the very life-force of my dead brother.

“It’s beautiful,” I sighed.

“Phew, it’s passed the acid test! That stuffy sod Pausanias wrote, ‘his works, though rather vulgar, paradoxically have a touch of the divine about them.’ (I think he was referring to Andro’s nudity).” We laughed.

At one point, I turned a corner and came face to face with my husband. Of course it wasn’t, but Daedalus had caught Dion’s intensity as he strummed his guitar and sang into the microphone. He was flanked by Cal on drums and Likertes on bass. It was as if someone had clicked their fingers and frozen them in time.

“How?” I exclaimed. Daedalus held up a copy of
The Persian Post.
The front cover showed the same scene.

“I also had to get permission, so I wrote to their manager – Silenus, isn’t it?” I nodded. I couldn’t believe that Daedalus had been able to sculpt Libertia so accurately, without seeing any of them in the flesh. I was transfixed by Dion’s image and longed for it to take me in its arms. I realised how much I was missing him.

             
When I was finally ready to move on, Daedalus took me to the museum bar. It was here that he told me about Icarus. I told him how sorry I was. He waved it away, although his eyes were moist.

“I have suffered so much tragedy: Icarus, Aster, Andro, Talon, and the only thing I can say I’ve learnt is never to look back, keep looking forward. We owe it to the dead to carry on living, otherwise their deaths were for nothing.”

I nodded, remembering saying goodbye to Aster; I hoped I had appreciated the sky for him.

“It must be hard for you, being married to such a man as Dion.” Daedalus said, carefully, in the gallery’s restaurant. I could tell from the look on his face that he wasn’t talking about Dion being a famous musician.

“It’s okay. I’ve already been forewarned that Dion’s father will want him back earlier than I am ready to give him up.”

“I’m sure you’ve been warned, but are you prepared for the event?”

“No.” I admitted. “How can I be? But I wasn’t even prepared for Aster and Andro’s deaths but I survived them. My grief is nothing, it is a companion of old. It is Dion’s mission which worries me. What if he does not have time to complete it?”

Daedalus was silent for a moment. “Or maybe,” he considered, “Dion needs to pass, in order for his mission to be completed. Often, it is when we no longer have the entity, that we realize the truth of its meaning and its full worth. Dion’s true mission may only be commencement.” He patted my hand as I contemplated this. “I hear your mother is doing wonders on Crete.”

I confirmed that she was and told him of our plans. “I suppose it’s stupid to ask if you would ever consider going back to Crete?” I asked him.

“Not to live, too many memories. This is my home now. But yes, I would go back to Crete. In fact, your mother has invited me to visit next month. She’s asked me to do some sculptures for her. It was never Crete; I always loved Crete.”

I nodded; I was beginning to realise I felt the same. We talked about old times and new ones. I promised to bring Dion to see his sculpture and assured Daedalus he would love it. Daedalus hugged me goodbye.

“Take good care of yourself and remember that those who are loved are immortal; they live on in people’s memories and their stories get passed from generation to generation. Those that aren’t loved, whatever they do in this life, fade into obscurity. Keep talking about Aster and Andro, tell your boys about them and they will tell their children. And when the time comes, do your part for Dion.”

I returned to the Mas on the mountain, feeling refreshed and ready to reconnect with my baby son, who had flourished in my absence. Although they were sorry that this was a flying visit, the Mas were happy that I was reunited with my mother and Mas Four and Six were particularly pleased I had made plans to do my placement on Crete. “It’ll be good for you to get back into studying and being productive.” Ma Four told me, squeezing my hand. I promised to be back in a month. They had received further positive reports from Dion’s tour and that evening, before I left for Crete, I was able to speak to him. He did sound better. In fact, he sounded as happy as he had been before we went to Thebes. I told him all about my mother, her plans for Crete, the possibility of me doing my placement there. When I told him that my mother wanted to ‘book’ him for her festival, he was flattered.

“So I finally have the chance to play the dutiful son-in-law?” Dion asked mischievously.

“Will you?”

“Sure, it’ll make a pleasant change from some of the other roles I’ve been accused of playing.” I was relieved that he could joke about things and didn’t press him on how he really felt. When I came to the part about visiting Daedalus, Dion was really excited.

“He sent us a picture. It freaked me out when Silenus showed it to us. I thought it was just another photo of the gig until he explained - but you actually saw it! What’s it like?”

“Amazing! I actually thought it was you playing a trick!” Dion laughed. “He’s also done an amazing one of Andro. I told him I hoped you might visit and maybe promote his work by standing next to yourself.”

“Sure, as long as you introduce me to your brother.” This time I laughed. By the time we hung up, we were delirious with our plans for the future. With hugs all round, I left the mountain with Staphylos and travelled back to Crete.

I returned to find that, in my absence, Oinopion had settled himself in as Prince of the Palace and, even though he was barely three, was striding in his uncle’s footsteps. It was obvious that he loved Crete and it was even more apparent when we had to leave. I thought he was going to scream his precious palace down. The idea of seeing the Mas on the mountain didn’t placate him; the mountain had become ‘boring’ compared to Crete, with its beaches. Even the prospect, of seeing Daddy, did nothing to calm his tantrums. What need did he have for a Daddy who was absent for months on end, when on Crete there were so many people willing to play with him? At last, my mother pacified him by giving him a bag full of small stones.

“Every night, before you go to bed, put one of these stones onto Ma Three’s rockery,” she instructed him. I was impressed that she remembered which Ma had a rockery. “When you put the last stone on the rockery, you must pack up all your toys like a good little boy, because the next day you will return to Crete.” Oinopion nodded, seriously promising that he would undertake her instructions, to the letter.

“And, every night, I will dream sweet dreams of Crete,” he told her, as he hugged her goodbye. I was astounded that a child of mine could have sweet dreams of Crete. Still, if I was superstitious, I might have wondered whether Oinopion’s mood was an omen and whether his tears were a warning - not about leaving Crete, but about the news I would soon receive on the Mountain.

Despite Oinopion’s mood, our return was a happy one. Discovering that he had seven pairs of ears, who were only too willing to hear him prattle on about Crete, cheered him up. Ma Three helped him with his rockery.

“Now, not only will you have a piece of Crete here when you visit us, when you aren’t here we will have a piece of Crete to remind us of you!”

Dion hadn’t called for a few days and I began to worry. The Mas brushed away my concerns and tried to keep my mind occupied, but soon stories began to reach us on the mountain. We knew that, after a promising start, the tour was taking a turn for the worse. Not everyone was quick to forget Pentheus’s death.

Edonia bordered the Mas’ land, next to the mountain. This land had been a cause of dispute, as the Mas had refused to sell it to the King of Edonia. He saw his chance to get his own back, by refusing to allow Libertia’s end-of-tour gigs to take place in Edonia. He threatened taverna owners that they would be shut down if they allowed Libertia to perform on their premises and banned their music from the city. Loyal fans protested in the streets and by nightfall, Edonia’s gaols were filled with young men and women singing Libertia songs and passing around flasks filled with liquid. Twenty were cramped in cells big enough for ten, with only one bucket provided between them. When they were finally released, the merry followers relieved themselves in the reservoir, along with the contents of the buckets, thus rendering the water of Edonia undrinkable for months. This may have been seen as a cheeky anti-establishment antic, but in Halimos, the bar owner, Ikarius was killed trying to calm a brawl. One young man had bumped into another, causing his precious liquid to spill onto the floor. Heated words were exchanged and as tempers rose, these words were replaced with fists. Fists were soon replaced with any weapon that came to hand - chairs, table legs, bottles. In Indus, a young lady called Nikaia became synonymous with other young ladies who met similar fates while walking home, alone, intoxicated by liquid. Young men, lying in wait, serenaded Nikaia with “Persephone” while they forced her to re-enact the role of the eponymous heroine. Dion was incensed and feared what it had done to the reputation of Persephone House and all the hard work Pallene had put into it. Now, when Libertia arrived at a new city, not only were they greeted by loyal fans, whose numbers began to diminish, but also by adversaries holding placards imploring people to remember Pentheus, Ikarios and
Nikaia, and accusing Dion of being an imposter.

If he was really a son of a god, then why was he allowing all this suffering?

Dion ’phoned me, in tears. His mission had been to bring people happiness, relieve their suffering, bring them release and hope with his music and liquid. He had not bargained for the destructive, depressive, deplorable side effects it seemed to cause in some people. He was distraught to think that he was accused of being the cause of so much pain, by some and acclaimed as an icon of destruction, by others. He begged me to believe him. I told him I did and begged him to come home. But where was that?

Silenus worked overtime trying to keep things afloat and answered the accusations against Libertia:

The members of Libertia are devastated and aggrieved by the recent crimes which have caused so much hurt, and wish to send their condolences to the victims and their families. As to the claims that Libertia should be held accountable, it should be pointed out that these are the actions of a few who are unknown to Libertia and their friends. Liquid cannot commit crimes; Libertia has not committed these crimes. They are the fault of people who have too little sense to know when they have had too much to drink and these people should be punished accordingly.

It was a good response and held back the tide for a while. It may even have helped to fade these incidents in people’s memory, along with the other controversies that shrouded Dion’s life. But then another unhappy event occurred. Orpheus had finally returned to music and was touring in Eurydike’s memory. As a number of his gigs coincided with Libertia’s, they teamed up. Orpheus even performed a few songs with them and Dion joined in during his set. It seemed that performing music and being with old friends was the tonic he had needed. Some old friends were more supportive than others, particularly Mae. The flame I had suspected in Mae had not burnt out. If anything, it burnt stronger. Mae patiently listened to Orpheus, as he talked about Eurydike during the day, when he was conscious, and at night, when he slept. She even sang a few of Eurydike’s songs for Orpheus, during his set. Perhaps, she believed that her patience would be rewarded. Her friends in Thiasus warned her off. The shadow of Eurydike hung over Orpheus and there would always be three in any future couple. Mae was not deterred, however, until she read an interview Orpheus did for
Plectr
u
m
.

Orpheus’s sweet proclamation that there was no woman to match Eurydike endeared him to everyone, except Mae and her army of outraged friends. It’s a pity Orpheus had been a little less attentive to Mae and more supportive of Dion. Mae, finding courage in several bottles, confronted Orpheus about the interview. Orpheus was surprised that Mae had thought what they’d been doing was more than just ‘a bit of fun’. As he’d had his fun with her, Mae, justifiably, felt that it was her turn to have some fun with him. Unfortunately, her fun wasn’t as much fun as his and she attacked him, hitting him over the head with the bottle she was carrying, before jamming it in his heart as he lay on the ground. Orpheus was taken to hospital, but was proclaimed dead on arrival. The press had a field day, but, then, who doesn’t love a
Crime Passionel
? Especially when the victim was as gorgeous as Orpheus and the attacker, as stunning as Mae. Especially when that attacker happens to be part of the entourage of the disreputable Libertia, whose lead singer had, by now, moved from being famous to infamous.

Orpheus and Mae’s many wild tumbles and their last violent rumble removed all the excellent PR paint Silenus had used to brush over the cracks that had formed in his protégé’s portrait. Whilst Daedalus was an exceptional craftsman, even he wouldn’t have been able to restore it. Another death was linked to Dion, and whilst in rock-and-roll terms, Pentheus was small fry and could be overlooked, Orpheus was venerated and could not. Despite the fact that Orpheus was a grown man and could decide for himself, Dion was blamed for urging Orpheus into returning to music, when he was still dutifully mourning his beloved wife. It was hinted that Dion was even using his friend’s untarnished reputation to hide his own tarnished one. Apparently, Orpheus wouldn’t have looked twice at another woman, and would have stayed loyal to his dead wife’s memory, if Dion hadn’t ‘pushed’ him into a relationship with Mae. In other papers, Mae had seduced an unwilling and unwitting Orpheus. In both versions, liquid and the bottle were the cause of it all as, after all, wasn’t the bottle Mae’s weapon of choice?

Newspapers ran features contrasting Orpheus and Dion. While one wrote quaint country songs with lyrical melodies, the other wrote about abused women. While one had been married to a nice country girl whose death the world had mourned, the other was married to a runaway daughter who hadn’t shown her father the respect he deserved and, frequently, abandoned her children to the care of others. In fact, hadn’t Orpheus’s wife received her fatal bite while holidaying with Dion and his wife? And hadn’t Dion’s wife forced drugs on Eurydike? And so the list went on.
Tria
crashed out of the album charts. Dion and Libertia had outstayed their welcome. The party, fun while it lasted, was over. Cal and Likertes headed for their homes in Olympia, where they were welcomed them back with open arms. Neither of them ever told me their version of the tour, or the effect it had on them. If they were only affected half as much as Dion, then quite honestly, I don’t want to know. They’ve worked hard to move on and forge careers,
post-Libertia.

Silenus accompanied Dion back to the mountain. Dion looked shell-shocked. Disbelief was written all over his face and he shook. He shook uncontrollably. It took what little strength he had to compose himself long enough to meet his baby son for the first time and to be reunited with Oinopion. Oblivious to the situation, Oinopion prattled on about Crete and explained to his Daddy that he shouldn’t bother to unpack as he only had five rocks left. Dion smiled and nodded until the Mas took the babies away and then he
collapsed. He slept and slept, with his eyes wide open. Silenus tried to pour liquid down him, trying to revive him. Dion fought and struggled and shouted that he didn’t want any of that evil stuff near him. He kept away from the boys, saying he wasn’t fit to be around them until he had been purged of that vile stuff and become pure again. I was relieved and I could tell the Mas were too – well, at least three of them: one, five and seven. I had begun to question Silenus’s control over Dion through this ‘medicine’ of his. Then the panic attacks and hallucinations started, at least that’s what I thought they were at the time.

“She’s waiting for me. I’ve left her at Troezen and she’s waiting for me,” he would say, over and over.

“Who’s waiting?” I asked, trying to cool his brow.

“My mother. My father sent for me, told me to go the underworld and take her to him. She’s waiting for me in Troezen.”
Sometimes he would explain, in broken sentences, how he had paid Charon to get him across the river Styx.” Sometimes I would find him sleepwalking and asking,

“Is this the way? I’ve been walking for miles, is this the way to Hades?” I would guide him back to bed gently so as not to wake him. Other times he would scream out in the middle of the night, calling for his mother:

“Semele, which one of you is Semele?” Then he would cry uncontrollably and beg to be left in peace. When pressed for the reason for his outburst, he would describe the souls of the dead, who gathered around him: young brides, unmarried youths, sad old men, lonely women who begged him to take them with him. After a while he just whispered over and over, “I will return to you, we will all be reunited, I will return to you.”

The last of Oinopion’s rocks had gone, but he didn’t ask about going back to Crete. After seeing the state his Daddy was in, he didn’t question the simple response that “his Daddy was too ill to travel at the moment.” Instead, every day he collected a rock from the mountain to take back to Crete with him. As his collection grew, Dion seemed to get better and better. He stopped sleepwalking and talking to people, the rest of us could not see. I began to believe that we had turned a corner, until I walked in on Silenus giving Dion a bottle. Dion’s eyes pleaded with me to understand, but I couldn’t cope with the self-hatred I saw behind them. I didn’t enlighten the Mas as to how Dion’s remarkable recovery had happened, but took the boys out for the day to avoid being at home. When we returned, it was late and Dion was already in bed.