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Exclusive short story; The final sacrifice

Independent, The (London), Apr 20, 2002 by Jeanette Winterson

AUGUST 31, 1997. Some time after midnight. A black Mercedes 600 SEL pulled away from the back door of the Paris Ritz into the narrow Rue Cambon. The driver might have been drinking. The bodyguard was tense. The man in the back wanted to marry the woman he had been dining.

As the car headed south towards the Rue de Rivoli, the bodyguard noticed the Mercedes was being followed by photographers on motorcycles. The driver of the Mercedes increased his speed as he went along the Rue de Rivoli, and out into the north-east corner of the Place de la Concorde. He kept to an outside lane, leaving the Champs Elysees roundabout on to the Cours de la Reine. He knew there was a straight run here, before a short tunnel beneath the Place de l'Alma. There was plenty of time for a car with a V12 engine to reach high speed. The couple in the back held hands.

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The motorcycles behind were very close now. The driver glanced in the mirror, said something in French that no one understood, then swung the car towards the tunnel, at around 120 mph.

As he lost control of the wheel, the car skidded across the duel carriageway, until it mounted a small kerb and its nearside struck the 13th pillar of the tunnel's central support section.

The driver and one of the passengers were killed instantly. The bodyguard was taken to hospital. For two hours, the emergency services tried to cut the second passenger from out of the crushed car.

What is the difference between sacrifice and betrayal?

The shield lies on the beaten shore.

The sand is burnished gold like the shield. Like the shield, the shore has been pounded by time. Everyday, the tide that follows the moon indents the sand. Everyday, the shield takes a blow from some lunatic chasing time.

They all want their 15 minutes of fame. Achilles knows that. Fight a hero and you get famous. Snap a princess, and your picture makes history.

Human beings love making history ... Make love. Make history. It's sexy to do both. Achilles knows that. He leaves making money to greengrocers.

Today though, Achilles has to make time. He's in love with a princess of his own, and if he wants her, he will have to fight for her in a way unusual to him. He must lay down his sword and shield and kneel before a woman he could break with one arm.

He has to give up being a hero, just for today. There is nobody to talk him through it, because Freud has not been born. Nevertheless, Achilles knows that love and death are twins born at the same moment, each fighting for mastery. And if death would take all, then so would love, but Achilles knows we fight love harder than we fight death.

Death is seductive. Love is a challenge.

Death is inevitable. Love is a chance.

Achilles sits alone in the sand and polishes his shield. It helps him to remember who he is. What follows has no rehearsal time. Curtain up. Here she is.

Iphigenie, daughter of Agamemnon, King of Greece, walks barefoot across the shore towards her destiny. She could be any girl. This could be any moment. She walks lightly through the salt-weight of the water, her hand pushing back the wind-weight of her hair.

Her hair is as dark as destiny, and as heavy. She was made for difference. She cannot be obscure, any more than day can obscure night. She is night. She is star-lit, moon-changeful, as paused, and broken and reflective as a night spent on the seashore, eyes like stars, reading the sky.

When she was born, her mother Clytemnestra, read the runes of the after- birth, and deciphered a child less dependent on grammar than poetry. The meaning might falter, but the image would stay true. f

Clytemnestra, who translated the day though the lexicon of the night, understood that her child would be watchful and careful, minding her steps, guarding her breath, walking slowly - without the advantages of too much sun - with the intuition of other lights.

Achilles, who is a sun-god and a daytime hero, shines like his shield. Iphigenie bounces off him, making strange shapes and unlikely shadows in the sand. He cannot absorb her, though she enfolds him. Achilles is a noon-time man. Iphigenie is his shadow. She is with him wherever he goes, although he has tried to forget her. Only at midday does he feel himself whole and entire again. At midday he casts no shadow. At midday she casts no spell. He eats and drinks, then sleeps under the easy skin of his tent. When he wakes in his own skin and goes and kneels by the stream to wash his face, he sees his reflection, which he knows. Then he stands up and finds his shadow, which he hardly knows.

She is always with him.

The route they took suggests they were heading for the Bois de Boulogne or the Porte Maillot.

Achilles and Iphigenie are alone together on the seashore. There are no long lenses developing their intimacy into display. He kisses her and a gull shrieks. She rests her hand under his armour. She loves his skin, burnt like meat, and the pink of him where the sun never goes. She runs her finger in the tight divide of his bum. She feels him stand for her. He is a noon-time man. His wants are simple. He draws her to him out of obvious desire. She draws him to her because she is hidden. He never knows, really knows, that she wants him, but she does.

Exclusive short story; The final sacrifice

Independent, The (London), Apr 20, 2002 by Jeanette Winterson

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