Journey by Moonlight

“Look. I remember you started off as a pretty decent religious historian. I’m not saying … well, you were a bit slow on the uptake but hard work can make up for a lot of things and people with far less talent than you have gone on to become excellent scholars, in fact … And then, I don’t know the facts but I can imagine what went on in your middle-class soul. You found that the academic path doesn’t guarantee a living, that you didn’t want the boring routine of school-teaching, and this and that, so really you had to go for something practical, considering all the supposed necessities of a wealthy person. This is what I call affectation. Because even you realise that these supposed necessities aren’t real. The practical career is a myth, a humbug, invented to cheer themselves up by people who aren’t capable of doing anything intellectual. But you’ve got too much sense to be taken in by them. With you it’s just an affectation. And it’s high time you gave up this pose, and got back where you belong, in the academic life.”

“And what do I live on?”

“My God, it’s not a problem. You see, even I manage.”

“Yes, on your salary as a university teacher.”

“True. But I could equally live without it. People shouldn’t throw money about. I’ll teach you how to live on tea and salami. Very healthy. You people don’t know how to economise, that’s the trouble.”

“But Rudi, there’s another problem. I’m not very sure that a life of scholarship would be as satisfying for me as it is for you … I don’t have the enthusiasm … I can’t really believe in the importance of these things … ”

“What sort of things are you talking about?”

“Well, for example, the factual basis of religious history. What I’m saying … sometimes I think … does it really matter exactly why the wolf reared Romulus and Remus? … ”

“How the hell could it not matter? You’re utterly crazy. No, it’s just affectation. But that’s enough talk for now. It’s time to go back and work.”

“Now? But it’s past midnight!”

“Yes, that’s when I’m able to work: no interruptions, and for some reason I don’t even think about women then. I’ll work now until four, and then run for an hour.”

“You’ll do what?”

“Run. Otherwise I can’t sleep. I go to the river bank and run up and down beside the Tiber. The police know me and they leave me alone. It’s just like at home. Come. On the way I’ll tell you what I’m working on at present. It’s really sensational. You remember that Sophron fragment that came to light a little while ago … ”

By the time he had finished his exposition they were standing outside the Falconieri building.

“But going back to the question of what you should do,” he said unexpectedly. “The only difficulty is starting. You know what? Tomorrow I’ll get up a bit earlier for your sake. Come for me, let’s say, at eleven-thirty. No, twelve. I’ll take you to the Villa Giulia. I bet you haven’t been to the Etruscan Museum, right? Well, if that doesn’t give you the urge to take up the old threads, then you really are a lost man. Then you better had go back to your father’s factory. So, God be with you.”

And he hurried into the darkened building.

XV

THE NEXT DAY they did indeed visit the Villa Giulia. They looked at the graves and the sarcophagi, with their lids supporting terracotta statues of the old Etruscan dead enjoying their lives — eating, drinking, embracing their spouses, and proclaiming the Etruscan philosophy. This, being wise enough not to have developed literature in the evolution of their cultural life, they never committed to writing, though of course it can be read unmistakably on the faces of their statues: only the present matters, and moments of beauty are eternal.

Waldheim pointed out some broad drinking bowls. These were for wine, as the inscription proclaimed: Foied vinom pipafo, cra carefo.

“Enjoy the wine today, tomorrow there will be none,” Waldheim translated. “Tell me, could it be expressed more succinctly or truly? That statement, in its archaic splendour, is as definitive and unshakeable as any polygonic city-walls or cyclopean buildings. Foied vinom pipafo, cra carefo.”

Whole sets of figurines were displayed in a glass case: dreamy-eyed men, being led onwards by women, and dreamy-eyed women led, or clutched at, by satyrs.

“What are these?” Mihály asked in amazement.

“That’s death,” said Waldheim, and his voice took on an edge, as it always did when some serious academic issue arose. “That’s death. Or rather, dying. They’re not the same thing. Those women luring the men on, and those satyrs clutching at the women, are death-demons. Are you with me? The male demons take the women, and the female demons the men. Those Etruscans were perfectly aware that dying is an erotic act.”