Snakehead by Ann Halam Read Free Book Online Page A

didn’t notice. My mother sighed, and stood up.
    “Anthe, you are lowering the tone of the conversation. Achaeans are human too: I’m one, and so is Perseus. I’m going to bed. Don’t be too late, children.”
    She took the lamp, as a strong hint that we weren’t to stay up. Mémé could be heard devouring fish heads by the trash, making very strange noises. Palikari hauled himself off the ground, went to sit by Anthe and rumpled her hair.
“Honest colors?”
he remarked. “Ooh, what a mess. Were you drunk, or what?”
    She shrugged him off. “It’s not funny. The boss might never forgive me.”
    We were four young people, trapped in different ways but glad to be together, only hoping we could go on sharing our good life, troubled as it was.
“Nowhere’s
safe,” said Anthe at last. “Not Serifos, not anywhere. The world could be so beautiful, but it’s terrible instead, and cruel things happen all the time.”
    I thought of this night often, when things had fallen apart.
    Dicty wouldn’t let Anthe wash her “honest colors” off the wall. He said it was much better than a stuffed mermaid. She was crushed for a whole morning, and winced if shehad to pass the place. But secretly we all liked the daub. It meant fun, friends; a little craziness. It reminded us that life was supposed to be sweet.
    Two days later, at the full moon, the famous singer Mando came to Dicty’s taverna. The midsummer festival lasted half a moon, and brought out singers, musicians and dancers all over the island. They didn’t go to the High Place: midsummer was an old-fashioned women’s feast and not to the king’s taste. But Papa Dicty always invited the greatest artists to perform in the restaurant, and he treated them like royalty.
    Mando was a village woman from the north of Serifos. She was supposed to have been a beauty, but for all the midsummers I remembered, she’d been quite an old woman. She was short, squat and heavy, with massive shoulders, a furrowed brow, double chins and a distinct mustache. She was also grasping, quarrelsome, and didn’t have a good word to say for any of her rivals—but none of that mattered. It was her art that was revered. She turned up at noon, wrapped in a thick, dirty mantle, having walked from her last show at Koutala. She shook off the dust, dumped her bundle, took a bath, ate a huge meal and went to sleep in Dicty’s own bed, as all our guest rooms were occupied. She slept until late the next day, took another bath, ordered a very hearty breakfast and stayed in her room.
    By moonrise the waterfront terrace and the diningroom were packed, and it was standing room only in the kitchen yard. To hear Mando sing at Papa Dicty’s was one of the highlights of the year. People had come from miles around. I was at the door of the boss’s room, waiting to escort her. When she appeared, she was dressed in the same style as the faded court ladies on the wall: bands of red on her tiered skirts, a tight bodice straining around her thick waist. Her breasts and shoulders were bare, rouged and powdered. Her hair was dressed in long, glistening black ringlets (helped out by false extensions, I could see). Her face paint was a white mask, with black lines around her eyes and red lips. The grumpy old woman with the mustache had vanished, and it wasn’t just the paint. Mando had the power over her appearance that all great performers have. When she was ready to sing, she was still beautiful.
    People cleared a path as I led her to the hearth, where there was a bright fire in spite of the heat, as tradition demanded. She took her place. I joined Moumi, Papa Dicty, the matriarchs and their consorts at the high table—an honor I would have been glad to surrender.
    Children were getting underfoot. Aten and Moni the Naxian were nearby, with their household. My dear friends were perched up on the bar counter, relatively cool and with a great view of the singer. There were festive lamps hanging in a row above the