Wildalone by Krassi Zourkova Read Free Book Online Page A

wished I had come earlier, with the others. There was too much silence. It rose from the gray carpets and crawled up the walls, leaving its invisible imprint on everything.
    The first two display cabinets held mostly fragments. Clustered at random, the pieces peeked through the glass with the shy stare of creatures locked for centuries inside a tomb. I stopped in front of the third cabinet: its vessels were intact. There were warriors, gods, heroes, kings, each trapped in a pose of irreversible defeat or triumph. But the image I was trying to find had nothing to do with heroic battles. It had to do with music.
    Finally I saw it—at the end of a shelf, strikingly odd with its inverted shape that the Greeks had called a psykter (round belly, no handles, neck much shorter than the foot, as if the potter had sat at the wheel in the blur of a hangover). I leaned closer and the two figures played out their story. The musician’s head fell back in sadness. He dropped the lyre. Emptied, the air ached for sound. Still under the music’s spell, his companion bowed, while high above them a full moon—the glass reflection of a track light—pierced the black-clay night.
    â€œThe time is now nine forty-five and the museum will be closing in fifteen minutes.”
    Everything startled me at once: the flash of a shadow across the glass, a rustle at the back of the room, the echo of speakers asking all visitors to proceed to the nearest exit. I looked around but there was no one. The security guard had probably decided to let me have those last remaining minutes to myself.
    I had brought a book—Ovid’s Metamorphoses —and opened it to the parton Orpheus and Eurydice. Giles had wanted a subtle unrest, but the story of the musician from Thrace, of how he led his wife away from death, had more unrest than anyone could have asked for. A living man, lost in the Underworld. Walking in darkness, among deaf rocks and dead shadows, knowing that even a single mistake will cost him the life of the woman he loves. Then the gods raise the stakes and the sound of Eurydice’s steps begins to fade, even though she is following closely, still within reach. Will he or will he not turn?
    Slowly, the words crept across the page, guiding my eyes in long-forgotten rhythms:
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  They made their way in silence up a steep
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  and gloomy path. With only steps
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  to climb before their feet would touch
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  earth’s surface, he panicked that he might again
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  lose her and, anxious for another look ,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  he turned. Instantly, she slipped away.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  He stretched his arms to her, despaired ,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  eager to rescue her, to feel her body ,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  but they held only air. Dying
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  a second time, she didn’t blame him ,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  didn’t complain—of what? of his great love?—
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  just spoke a single word: farewell.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  He couldn’t hear. And with no other sound