Sappho's Leap by Erica Jong Read Free Book Online Page A

provided us with all the meat, cheese, and fruit we required. Trinacria was a land even more bountiful and green than Lesbos—which did not mean I was not often hideously homesick. I dreamed myself back in Lesbos almost every night. And I dreamed of Alcaeus and wondered what had become of him. I did not have to wait long. I had only been in Syracuse a few months when a letter from Alcaeus reached me.
My funny little Sappho—
    What shall I do without your laughter? What shall I do without your love songs? I am alive—just barely—though my heart is empty without you. We were caught by Pittacus, detained for months while he tried to cook up the most desperate charges against us. Several of my men were tortured brutally, their naked bodies dragged over carding combs. Thank the gods you were no longer with us. Pittacus could not decide what to do with me. He couldn’t bring himself to kill me and he couldn’t let me remain in Lesbos, so he banished me to Lydia, where I find myself most amused at court. Don’t be jealous, little one, but the slave-boys here are even more delicious than in Lesbos—boys with tawny pricks that soar like birds, boys who cannot wait to pleasure a notorious warrior like me. And yet I think always of Sappho—violet-haired, holy, honey-smiling Sappho. I wish to say something to you, but shame prevents me. I have heard you are married off to an old buffoon. If I am responsible, forgive me. I shall find a way to come to you.
    Trust in our love!
    Alcaeus
    I hid the letter, written on the finest Egyptian papyrus, among my most treasured possessions—my golden necklace of quinces, my dangling golden earrings with the trembling flowers and leaves, my scrolls of favorite poems, my kithara. In the days that followed, I was to read the papyrus so many times I smudged it with my eager fingertips. I touched it with my lips thinking my lips were touching his. In a way, they were.
    What is more personal than a letter written by a hand you love? Words, breath, kisses. Papyrus can transmit all these. Alcaeus’ scrawled letters kept me alive. Kissing the papyrus was almost like kissing him!
    This is the mystery of words. Simple things made of reed and plant fibers, and yet they reproduce our heartbeats and our breath. Mouthfuls of air trapped in timelessness. The miracle of writing!
    I had learned to make letters on clumsy wax-covered wooden tablets when I was a child. Then, when I was older, I was allowed animal skins to write on. They always betrayed the bloody odor of their origins. Papyrus was so much purer. I loved the feel of chaste papyrus sheets on which you could spill your heart’s fresh blood!
    As long as Alcaeus was teasing me about boys, I knew he still loved me. Boys were his defense against the fear he felt at giving all his love. I could play this game as well as he. And so I took a reed in hand and I began:
I am greener than grass and I seem to be a little short of dying…
    Then I began to write to him about my life in Syracuse, but whatever I wrote seemed somehow not good enough. How could I intrigue and seduce him from this distance? He was surrounded by the amusements of a splendid court and I was living with an old buffoon! I wrote, but judged myself so harshly I could send nothing. And papyrus was not cheap! I covered the sheets with my words, then threw them in the fire, cursing myself for my profligacy. I wanted to woo Alcaeus with my words, but something held me back. What was I afraid of? If I gave my whole heart to him, perhaps I would never get it back.
    And yet what use is having a heart if you do not share it? In this futile way, my thoughts went around and around like puppies chasing their tails. I wrote my shapely words, then burnt them. Such was the torment of my mind.
    My grandfather and Cercylas had bargained with Pittacus to bring me here—as far from Alcaeus and his political plotters as they could. Or so they thought. How could I