I am brushing my teeth at the washbasin when I notice a spear in the bathtub. I go over to it and lift it out, it’s a heavy spear with an ornate bronze tip. The tip is razor-sharp. The thing’s a deadly weapon, a fearful weapon that must take an enormous man to wield it. I wonder to whom it belongs, but I won’t show it to my father until I’ve kept it for a while to admire for my own.
I sneak back to my room with it, my toothbrush still in my mouth. I open the door and there is a huge, muscular guy sitting on my bed examining his feet. He has beautiful feet — all of him is beautiful in fact, like a Greek statue. Golden hair ripples down over his shoulders. All he has on is a kind of fancy loincloth.
He looks up, regards me vacantly for a moment, then goes back to his feet. Right away of course I know the spear is his. A bit awestruck, I step over the huge eight-shaped shield lying on the floor and place the spear carefully against the wall. Other pieces of armor are strewn over the floor: an Argive helmet with a red brush plume, a breastplate ornamented with sinister images, a set of golden shin protectors, a stubby sword, a big tangle of straps. I would love to handle every one of these things, but I don’t dare. I place my toothbrush on the table and wipe my lips so I won’t drip on anything.
The Greek guy finishes with his feet and lounges back, looking sullen and preoccupied. Suddenly he heaves himself lithely to his feet and goes to the window. He stares out moodily. I come up behind him and see out there the swimming pool and my father floating on his back in his blue bathing shorts. His big belly sticks up in the air; his body is strangely congested with dark, fat muscles.
The Greek guy swears arcanely and spits on my rug. He starts pacing about, slamming his fist against his thigh. The room is small, I have to dodge to keep out of his way. I am startled that he seems to be mad at my father. He goes back to the window and rolls his bottom lip in his teeth. He growls under his breath, fiercer and fiercer. Abruptly, he turns around. His face is like a thundercloud, his icy blue eyes are smoking. He reaches for his armor.
“Oh my God!” I think. “He’s actually going to fight my old man!” With a sickened stomach I watch him tying on his breastplate and fitting on his shin protectors. I keep glancing out at the pool, at my poor old man floating out there. Why has he got those sinister muscles? But whatever he’s done, I’m sure he couldn’t have meant any harm. I want to explain this to the Greek, I want to at least warn my father — but I am too terrified to do either. The atmosphere of violence completely numbs me.
The Greek finishes adjusting his helmet. He picks up his shield. He shouts something towards the ceiling and brandishes the shield in the air. He grabs me and plants olive-smelling kisses on both my cheeks. Then he strides out the door.
I drag myself to the window. The back door slams, the Greek goes trotting across the lawn rhythmically, like a perfect animal of prey, his huge shield almost covering him. Without breaking stride he rears back and heaves the spear. “Dad! Dad!” I squawk, spraying toothpaste all over the window. The spear goes hurtling into the pool with a great splash. My father jerks up, he bolts out of the water with a power that is horrifying to see. The Greek comes through the pool gate and delivers a terrific blow with his sword. My father blocks it with his forearm, he swings the deck chair. It clangs against the shield.
I can’t bear to watch, I sink to the floor, pressing my eyes shut, hiding myself in my arms. A phrase blares through my head, over and over, like a hideous loudspeaker: “Bleeding like a pig! Bleeding like a pig!…”