Reality by Other Means. James Morrow

they not wonder why so much suffering and sacrifice was spent on a goddess gone to seed?” He turns to Paris and says, “Prince, you should not have let this happen.”

      “Let what happen?” asks Paris.

      “I heard she has wrinkles,” says Agamemnon.

      “I heard she got fat,” says Nestor.

      “What have you been feeding her?” asks Menelaus. “Bonbons?”

      “She’s a person,” protests Paris. “She’s not a marble statue. You can hardly blame me …”

      At which juncture King Priam raises his scepter and, as if to wound Gaea herself, rams it into the dirt.

      “Noble lords, I hate to say this, but the threat is more immediate than you might suppose. In the early years of the siege, the sight of fair Helen walking the ramparts did wonders for my army’s morale. Now that she’s no longer fit for public display, well …”

      “Yes?” says Agamemnon, steeling himself for the worst.

      “Well, I simply don’t know how much longer Troy can hold up its end of the war. If things don’t improve, we may have to capitulate by next winter.”

      Gasps of horror blow across the table, rattling the tent flaps and ruffling the aristocrats’ capes.

      But now, for the first time, clever, canny Odysseus addresses the council, and the winds of discontent grow still. “Our course is obvious,” he says. “Our destiny is clear,” he asserts. “We must put Helen — the old Helen, the pristine Helen — back on the walls.”

      “The pristine Helen?” says Hiketaon. “Are you not talking fantasy, resourceful Odysseus? Are you not singing a myth?”

      The lord of all Ithaca strolls the length of Priam’s tent, plucking at his beard. “It will require some wisdom from Pallas Athena, some technology from Hephaestus, but I believe the project is possible.”

      “Excuse me,” says Paris. “What project is possible?”

      “Refurbishing your little harlot,” says Odysseus. “Making the dear, sweet strumpet shine like new.”

      Back and forth, to and fro, Helen moves through her boudoir, wearing a ragged path of angst into the carpet. An hour passes. Then two. Why are they taking so long?

      What most gnaws at her, the thought that feasts on her entrails, is the possibility that, should the council not accept her surrender, she will have to raise the stakes. And how might she accomplish the deed? By what means might she book passage on Charon’s one-way ferry? Something from her lover’s arsenal, most likely — a sword, spear, dagger, or death-dripping arrow. O, please, my lord Apollo, she prays to the city’s prime protector, don’t let it come to that.

      At sunset Paris enters the room, his pace leaden, his jowls dragging his mouth into a grimace. For the first time ever, Helen observes tears in her lover’s eyes.

      “It is finished,” he moans, doffing his plumed helmet. “Peace has come. At dawn you must go to the long ships. Menelaus will bear you back to Sparta, where you will once again live as mother to his children, friend to his concubines, and emissary to his bed.”

      Relief pours out of Helen in a deep, orgasmic rush, but the pleasure is shortlived. She loves this man, flaws and all, flab and the rest. “I shall miss you, dearest Paris,” she tells him. “Your bold abduction of me remains the peak experience of my life.”

      “I agreed to the treaty only because Menelaus believes you might otherwise kill yourself. You’re a surprising woman, Helen. Sometimes I think I hardly know you.”

      “Hush, my darling,” she says, gently placing her palm across his mouth. “No more words.”

      Slowly they unclothe each other, methodically unlocking the doors to bliss — the straps and sashes, the snaps and catches — and thus begins their final, epic night together.

      “I’m sorry I’ve been so judgmental,” says Paris.

      “I accept your apology.”

      “You are so beautiful. So impossibly beautiful …”

      As dawn’s rosy fingers stretch across the Trojan sky, Hector’s faithful driver, Eniopeus the son of horse-loving Thebaios, steers his sturdy war chariot along the banks of the Menderes, bearing Helen to the Achaean stronghold. They reach the Arkadia just as the sun is cresting, so their arrival in the harbor becomes a flaming parade, a show of sparks and gold, as if they ride upon the burning wheels of Hyperion himself.

      Helen starts along the dock, moving past the platoons of squawking gulls adrift on the early morning breeze. Menelaus comes forward to greet her, accompanied by a man for whom Helen has always harbored a vague dislike — broad-chested, black-bearded Teukros, illegitimate son of Telemon.

      “The tide is ripe,” says her husband. “You and Teukros must board forthwith. You will find him a lively traveling companion. He knows a hundred fables and plays the harp.”

      “Can’t you take me home?”

      Menelaus squeezes his wife’s hand and, raising it to his lips, plants a gentle kiss. “I must see to the loading of my ships,” he explains, “the disposition of my battalions — a full week’s job, I’d guess.”

      “Surely you can leave that to Agamemnon.”

      “Give me seven days, Helen. In seven days I’ll be home, and we can begin picking up the pieces.”

      “We’re losing the tide,” says Teukros, anxiously intertwining his fingers.

      Do I trust my husband? Helen wonders as she strides up the Arkadia’s gangplank. Does he really mean to lift the siege?

      All during their slow voyage out of the harbor, Helen is haunted. Nebulous fears, nagging doubts, and odd presentiments swarm through her brain like Harpies. She beseeches her beloved Apollo to speak with her, calm her, assure her all is well, but the only sounds reaching her ears are the creaking of the oars and the windy, watery voice of the Hellespont.

      By the time the Arkadia finds the open sea, Helen has resolved to jump overboard and swim back to Troy.

      “And then Teukros tried to kill you,” says Daphne.

      “He came at you with his sword,” adds Damon.

      This is the twins’ favorite part, the moment of grue and gore. Eyes flashing, voice climbing to a melodramatic pitch, I tell them how, before I could put my escape plan into action, Teukros began chasing me around the Arkadia, slashing his two-faced blade. I tell them how I got the upper hand, tripping the bastard as he was about to run me through.

      “You stabbed him with his own sword, didn’t you, Mommy?” asks Damon.

      “I had no choice.”

      “And then his guts spilled, huh?” asks Daphne.

      “Agamemnon had ordered Teukros to kill me,” I explain. “I was ruining everything.”

      “They spilled out all over the deck, right?” asks Damon.

      “Yes, dear, they certainly did. I’m quite convinced Paris wasn’t part of the plot, or Menelaus either. Your mother falls for fools, not maniacs.”

      “What color were they?” asks Damon.

      “Color?”

      “His guts.”

      “Red, mostly, with daubs of purple and black.”

      “Neat.”

      I tell the twins of my long, arduous swim through the strait. I tell them how I crossed Ilium’s war-torn fields, dodging arrows and eluding patrols.

      I tell how I waited by the Skaian Gate until a farmer arrived with a cartload of provender for the besieged city