A Dream of Kings Read online

  Regretfully he shook off the quivering nostalgia. Twelve years ago, anxious for new experience, and determined to subdue the New World, he had emigrated to the United States. He had married, bred children, opened his business, and here he was.

  He sat down at his desk carefully balancing himself in the broken chair to keep from toppling backwards. He opened the drawer and drew out a long slim dagger with a handle of glistening bone carved in the shape of a woman's bosom, two small breasts with a pair of tiny jewels imbedded as the nipples. Holding the hilt thoughtfully between his fingers, he bent finally to his mail.

  Aside from the usual promotional material, there was a letter with the return address of an attorney. He slit the flap neatly with the dagger. The attorney, representing a butcher Matsoukas owed a long overdue bill, threatened immediate suit if a check in the amount of $63.00 were not received by return mail.

  Matsoukas scowled at the letter and resisted an impulse to rush down to the butcher's shop a few blocks away and punch the scoundrel's fat head. Instead he brusquely drew out a sheet of his stationery with the letterhead of the Pindar Master Counseling Service and in a large showy script wrote:

  Sir:

  Your client is a rascal and a thief. His abominable meat nearly poisoned members of my family on three separate occasions and one time personally caused me a debilitating diarrhea for more than twenty hours.

  I have long been considering a lawsuit of my own against him and your impertinent letter has made up my mind. Prepare to hear from my legal representative very soon.

  He signed this with a flourish, Leonidas Matsoukas, and folded the letter into the stamped return envelope the butcher's attorney had provided.

  A ripple of reflected movement in the alley made him drop the envelope. He swiveled in the chair to rise quickly, lost his balance when the broken bearing slipped, and grabbed for the corner of the desk. For half a minute he struggled furiously to keep from being flipped. He finally got his feet back on the floor, leaped up, and from the window caught a last shimmering flash of Anthoula's white shift as the door closed.

  "God curse the bloody chair!" he cried and lashed out a vigorous kick that spun the seat like a revolving door and loosened several additional screws. He was so engrossed in his outrage that for a moment he did not hear the timorous knock on the door, until the knock was sounded again.

  Matsoukas bent quickly to straighten the chair and sat down to bend over his mail. "Come in," he called gravely.

  The old man who entered was slight of build, well-dressed in a shirt, tie, and neat brown suit. He had a pinched and dolorous face.

  "Mr. Matsoukas?"

  "At your service, sir," Matsoukas held firmly to the desk with both hands and rose. He extended his big fist to enfold the bony appendage of fingers the man offered.

  "Telecles," the man said. "Antonio Telecles."

  "Please be seated, Mr. Telecles," Matsoukas said, and motioning to one of the armchairs he walked around the desk and sat down in the other chair which he pulled around to face his visitor.

  Telecles shifted in evident discomfort.

  "I was told at the gambling room of Falconis that you might be able to help me," he began hesitantly. "The stud poker dealer, Cicero, spoke of you as a truly remarkable man."

  Matsoukas made a gesture of seemly modesty. "A jewel of a man and my dear friend."

  Telecles nodded and lapsed into silence again. Matsoukas waited discreetly.

  "Mr. Matsoukas," Telecles began again and for the first time noticed the statuette of Aphrodite. He pursed his lips and blew a thin whistle of appreciation through his teeth. By concentrating on her effulgent decorations, his voice gained a measure of strength. "In the past year there has been a certain falling away of my ..." his voice drooped sadly, "... power to love."

  Matsoukas nodded gravely. For a moment he considered the matter thoughtfully. "How old are you, Mr. Telecles?" he asked finally.

  "Seventy-one last November."

  "Incredible!" Matsoukas cried. "You don't look a day over fifty. But even seventy-one for an obviously virile man like yourself should raise no question of failing powers." He raised his eyebrows. "Are you married?"

  "For the third time two years ago," Telecles spoke with a generous pride in his voice.

  "Bravo!" Matsoukas said. "You are living the abundant life that mighty Pindar praises in his songs."

  "My present wife is just thirty-three," Telecles made an awkward fumble with his bony hand in the air to suggest a body of nubile proportions.

  "Go on, my friend," Matsoukas felt himself warming to the man's plight. "Speak to me as you would confide to your physician and your priest."

  Telecles leaned forward with a slight flush darkening his cheeks. "She is from Tripoli," he said. "You know the women from Tripoli are very passionate. She had a pet name for me when we first married. She used to call me ..." he paused ruefully, "... Sultan."

  "Normally a term of derogation," Matsoukas said sternly, "but the context in which she used it was obviously one of approbation and respect."

  "Exactly!" Telecles said in fervent gratitude for Matsoukas' understanding. He wiped a vagrant tear from his eye. "Haven't heard a whisper of that name lately. Can't say I blame her either."

  Matsoukas nodded in sympathy. He heard the rattle of a garbage can cover in the alley and leaped from his chair to the window in two great strides. "Getting stuffy in here!" he said loudly to Telecles as he gripped the handles of the window.

  Anthoula was below in her full glory, and even as he watched she bent in graceful innocence to retrieve several scraps of paper fallen from the container. Her back was to him and her hips arched and strained against the thin white shift which spread as tight as the skin of a drum across her magnificent buttocks. Only a single fold low in the glorious crevice artfully divided one saintly twin from the other.

  "Holy Zeus!" Matsoukas said fervently. Even after she had gone back into the bakery he gripped the handles of the window so rigidly that the blood left his knuckles.

  "Pardon me?" Telecles said.

  Matsoukas jerked the window up a few inches and turned excitedly around. "Mr. Testicles!" he cried, "I have the solution to your problem!"

  "Telecles," the old man said. "Antonio Telecles."

  "Right!" Matsoukas said. He closed his eyes for a moment and recalled the vision of Anthoula. "The difference between a clod and a conqueror in love," he said ardently. "Do you know, my friend, what that difference is?"

  Telecles waited in a perplexed silence.

  "Imagination!" Matsoukas cried. "Think of yourself as a God swept by wild desire and the woman not just a mortal drab with rubbery bubs and a patch of lank hair between her legs but a Goddess, a lovely Diana, a cyclonic Juno!" He made a valiant effort to calm himself. "But I go too quickly. The success of this Service is based on practical help, a step at a time... therefore it is important that you begin with a good night's sleep the evening before you decide to make love to your wife. A little nap during the following afternoon to conserve your strength and if you cannot sleep, lie awake and count the delights ahead. In the evening a light supper, a single plate of moussaka, or lamb with green beans. Then a half bottle of retsina ... no more than that because as the great Aristotle said, 'a wet stick does not make a good fire.' "

  Telecles waited in a stark and blistering suspense.

  "Now you begin," Matsoukas said softly. "A few compliments first. How lovely she is. How radiant her eyes. How like a peach is her skin. A little kissing, a caressing of the ears and the eyes and the curve of the throat. A tender fondling of the marvels below. The great moment approaches."

  Matsoukas extended one hand slowly with the palm up and the fingers spread. He brought his other hand to hover over it with the middle finger pointed stiffly down. Even as Telecles clutched the arms of his chair and moved his knobby knees apart, Matsoukas brought his hands together sharply, the finger of the upper hand piercing like a lance between the fingers of the hand below
.

  "At this moment of union," Matsoukas said fiercely, "you must lose mortal shape and become a goat with the ears, mouth, and horns of a goat. You hear the reed panpipes wailing all about you. You are a worshipper of Bacchus in a woodland of fertility and you have a ravishing nymph in your arms. Love her in that instant as if you were the God, Pan, himself!"

  He bent and clutched the old man by the shoulders and brought him resonating with ardor out of his chair.

  "Remember who you are!" Matsoukas cried. "You come of a race of mighty men! Look upon all of life with the eye of a tiger! Let your spirit be a torch, a flame, a fiery dart! Let your loins be a golden goblet full of foaming wine!"

  Telecles stood breathing in short gasps, numbed by the majestic sweep of the narrative. He nodded mutely in burning affirmation.

  "That will be five dollars," Matsoukas said crisply, "and if you do not enjoy immediate improvement in your conjugal relations, my unconditional guarantee permits a second consultation absolutely free of charge."

  "A second consultation will not be needed!" Telecles cried. He brought out his wallet and with trembling fingers counted out five dollar bills. He passed them to Matsoukas and then looked once more at Aphrodite, his lip curling in an ominous leer. With a handclasp of poignant farewell he took his leave.

  Matsoukas looked at the five soiled bills in his hand and pulled out his own worn wallet. He inserted four of the bills in the wallet carefully, feeling a resurgence of excitement because the wretched Olympian chasm was no longer bone empty. He walked back to the desk and unlocked the upper right-hand drawer. Inside was a small metal cashbox. He added the dollar remaining from the fee to the small scatter of change and few crumpled bills within. There was a passport for Stavros and himself for Greece and a bankbook. He took out the bankbook and scanned the entry of one hundred and eleven dollars that it had taken him a year to save by putting aside twenty percent of his income. An inadequate amount beside what was needed but it was growing. A solid parlay or a hot streak at poker might put him over the top. Once in the cashbox he never touched the bills or change regardless of the urgency of his need. Twice a month he took the money to the bank and received another entry in the bankbook.

  With the box locked and closed again in the drawer he thought suddenly of visiting the bakery. A press of customers might summon Anthoula from the kitchen.

  He went quickly to the closet and opened the door to the small basin within. He washed his hands, whistling hoarsely, and then picked up his hairbrush. He wet the bristles under a quick spray of water and drew the brush vigorously through his thick tangled hair, groaning slightly as the strands tugged against their roots. When he finished he stared uneasily at his reflection.

  His face seemed suddenly composed of a deeper darkness and shadow. It was as if the shade at the window had been partly drawn, the room about him grown darker. A strange eerie silence filled his ears. He leaned forward and tried to see into the hollows of the hidden eyes. A chill swept his flesh.

  "Matsoukas, Matsoukas," he said softly. "We are things of a day. What we are and what we are not. Man is a shadow's dream."

  CHAPTER TWO

  Matsoukas descended the stairs and entered the grocery, his nostrils dilating before the pungent aroma of sharp cheeses and spiced meats. He considered purchasing a spare lunch but he wanted to retain the four dollars remaining from his fee for a wager on a choice horse. The number four had certain hortatory connotations he could not ignore.

  At the same time he was hungry. He brought out what loose change he had in his pocket and counted thirty-six cents. However he tabulated the coins, the total was the same. This amount was the very least he would need to justify an excursion into the bakery.

  He might exhort Akragas into releasing some cheese and lamb and a chunk of bread by promising him a share of possible winnings from the day's play. Although it had been a long time since the grocer had succumbed to such an enticement, Matsoukas knew the man's extraordinary greed made such a commitment always a possibility.

  He called out the grocer's name in a tone that suggested matters of great urgency to discuss. For an instant there was no response and then Akragas came out of the cubicle in the rear of the store, tugging feebly at his shapeless pants, the sibilant rumble of water echoing behind him. It was obvious from the old man's tight and plaintive demeanor that his ritual had been a futile one. Matsoukas shrugged at the way in which fate weighted her scales and swiftly whipped a glistening ripe plum into his pocket as consolation.

  "I am expecting a package from the Greek Consulate," Matsoukas said as Akragas approached. "Kindly hold it carefully for me."

  "Your deportation papers?" Akragas sneered. Matsoukas waved the grocer a cheerful goodbye, meanwhile stroking the plum in his pocket.

  After making a bet on a broad-rumped little filly named Dolphina at one of Falconis' cigar store branches and passing over his four dollar bills, Matsoukas walked to the bakery. He stood for a moment outside the window with the reverence of a man preparing to enter church. Bracing his shoulders and rising to his full height, he took one final look at his reflection in the glass and entered the sacred portal.

  He was struck as always by an awareness of how these surroundings suited Anthoula. From these warm cloisters she made sweet the bitter hungers of the world. The racks of fragrant pastries, the trays of luscious honey and nut sweets, the warm fresh marrow of dark and light breads were as much a landscape for a Goddess as any sylvan setting by a sparkling pool. Even the cupids and nymphs were there, winged tiny figures molded of sugar, quivering to spring aloft from the escarpments of frosted crocus and tulip petals that friezed the cakes.

  "What's yours?" The voice was aseptic, a jarring intrusion upon his celestial reflections. Old lady Barboonis, dried by jaundice and celibacy into a yellow and withered stalk, stood across the counter from him. Matsoukas peered for a plaintive moment at the buzzer beside the register which would summon Anthoula and then turned to dazzle the old lady with a smile.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Barboonis!" he said cheerfully. "You are looking your usual lovely self today."

  "Save that syrup for some young tart, Matsoukas," the old lady sneered. "And I have told you fifty times it is Miss Barboonis."

  "Impossible to believe!" Matsoukas stared at her incredulously. "I can never fathom how the men permitted a woman such as you to escape!"

  "Strutting cocks and swaggering bulls!" The old lady spit in a cloud of scorn. "I would rather be dead than married!"

  So would the poor devil who married you, Matsoukas thought. "Don't say that!" he cried. "Poor creatures as we men are we struggle all our lives to be worthy of the women we love."

  "If you were to struggle a little harder when you came in here," Miss Barboonis snapped, "perhaps it would not take you half an hour to decide on one raisin cookie."

  He smiled quickly to conceal the effect of the barb she had winged into his flesh. He bent and bared his teeth at a tray of splendid cakes. When the door of the bakery opened and a woman entered, he straightened up with a resurgence of hope. "Please attend to the lady," he said loudly to Miss Barboonis. He walked along the counter, whistling softly, keeping an eye on the doorway from the kitchen.

  He was delighted when the front door opened again and another woman entered closely followed by two more customers. They clustered in a small group before the counter. Matsoukas felt his pulse mounting.

  For a frantic moment it appeared he might be denied his pleasure. The old lady raced about on her spindly legs, counting cookies, cutting sweets, wrapping bread, breaking the string of packages with a swift snap of her hard fingers. Matsoukas was despairingly awed at the speed her withered flanks could muster.

  The entrance of two additional customers, a man and a woman, decided the fray. The old lady, breathing hard, stopped directly before the buzzer, a shudder of defeat scaling her cheeks. Matsoukas, his arm partially concealed by his body, extended his finger stiffly and pressed in gleeful unison with the old lady'
s shove. The strident buzzing that sounded from the kitchen resonated through his body.

  When Anthoula emerged from the kitchen, she was the same lovely woman he had spied upon in the alley countless times. She wore the simple white shift, her hair bound in dark lustrous braids about her head. But from the perspective of his window, her body invited lust. There was wantonness in her breasts and thighs straining against the shift and in the way her bare arms and legs glistened nakedly in the daylight.

  When he came close to her he saw with a strange delight that she was chaste. Her full lips were bare of any stain, her cheeks scrubbed clean of powder and rouge, her dark eyes seemly with a virtue she had spun from the cloth of her sorrow on the loom of her loneliness. Before the shadow of her mourning, the hard thrust of his passion turned tender and he saw her body as part of a mural for the wall of heaven.

  I will write you a poem, Anthoula, he thought, and pin the words like flowers in your hair.

  "Good afternoon, Widow Anthoula," he spoke gravely without a trace of a smile. She replied with no more than a courteous nod but a faint flush glittered for a moment in her cheeks. She spoke to one of the customers and bent to raise a platter of baklava to the counter.

  "Make up your mind yet, Matsoukas?" Miss Barboonis was back, sour and stringy, eyes like dried and wrinkled prunes.

  "Give me a kouloura," he said, with his eyes still unwilling to abandon Anthoula. "There is nobody in this city," he said loudly, "who bakes a better kouloura than Widow Anthoula."

  This time there was no mistaking the warmth that curled into her cheeks. He felt a fever of weakness sweep his legs.

  Miss Barboonis handed him the wrapped kouloura. "Fifty-two cents," she said.