Memoirs of a Bitch by Francesca Petrizzo, Silvester Mazzarella Read Free Book Online

three days to reach us, but he did it in a day and a half, arriving on a horse flecked with foam which he forced up the steps to the palace entrance. Galloping through the corridors, he found my father administering justice in the throne room. Tyndareus said nothing but signed to us all to leave, including me. Diomedes never looked at me at all. As if he had already said goodbye. A clean break. And I wept for Achilles and the long road to Phthia that would have taken me so far, too far from Sparta.
    â€œI have to go now, Helen.”
    â€œI know, Diomedes.”
    That evening I had the chests containing my trousseau dragged into the garden and burned them.

11
    Menelaus was a good man. Watching him come across the throne room toward me, I was sure of that. Good. And in love with me from the moment his eyes first caressed my skin. Menelaus, Menelaus. Agamemnon’s voice carried a note of derisory compassion. Good in a pathetic sense, yes. The big brown eyes of an abandoned dog. Lifeless ginger hair. Commonplace features unworthy of a prince of the blood. He must be given Sparta because he could not have Mycenae. He timidly offered me his hand. Tyndareus gave me an icy look; I was in no position to ignore that hand. Pain was the first feeling my husband inspired in me, and I hated both him and myself that it must be like that. Menelaus, with his narrow shoulders and short legs. My hand closed on a sweaty palm.
    Clytemnestra was pregnant for the second time. Sitting at her husband’s side, her smile as wolfish as ever. But I had enough fire in me now to cope with that. I’m made of stone. I stepped forward and kissed Menelaus on the right cheek.
    The banquet was an exact replica of the one held so many years ago for my sister’s wedding. The garden lit by torches, the palace empty. And this time I was the one sitting in the middle, dressed for the last time in white. But not shackled by a neckband. Menelaus’s present was a long gold-and-pearl necklace. Imperfect, irregular pearls. My fingers fiddled with them as the banquet dragged on, course after course. While outside the tent of torchlight, my silent ghosts began to walk again.
    Leda was determined to prepare me for my wedding night. Clytemnestra and Agamemnon were to sleep in the next room. From the flat tone of Leda’s voice I understood this to mean they intended to spend the whole night with their ears glued to the wall.
    â€œMenelaus is such a fool he won’t know the difference between menstrual blood and a ruptured hymen. Just be careful to keep yourself to yourself tonight. Modesty must be your excuse.”
    I nodded in silence. My throat was dry. I had been experiencing a sort of vomitless nausea since I saw Diomedes gallop away.
    â€œListen, Helen.” Leda’s voice was harsh with pain. She was holding my chin with three fingers, forcing me to look her in the eye. “I never wanted this for you. I’d have spared you from it if I’d been able to.”
    I believed her. My voice came from far away. “I know.”
    But she made no attempt to hug me. She knew I was beyond her help. Lost. She unhooked my necklace and laid it on the table: “Shall I brush your hair for you?”
    Yes. Anything to delay the moment of calling in my husband. I sat down in front of the bronze mirror. A wooden comb for untangling knots. The hands of a mother now elderly enough to allow herself to be gentle. The face of a stranger who would never be Helen again. Sold for a pile of gold. No more dreams. Have a good look, learn what to remember. Tomorrow will be different. It’s not the sex, Helen. It’s this crown that’s so heavy. It’s this absence that gnaws at you. It’s this man you have to share your bed with, that you feel such pity for that you’ll end up hating him. That’s obvious, Helen. And you’ll never sniff laurel again, you’ve promised that.
    But I can’t bear another moment of