#3 The gods are fiction

Moira is introduced to Simon and Vincent's fantastical sculptural experiment...

This section of Moira's story follows on from ‘The great mutilation’ , where she met postgraduate Classics students, Simon and Vincent. Here, she is shown a statue being stored in The British Museum.

The museum official in the entrance hall gave Simon a courteous nod, which Moira took as a good sign. Her coat was taken from her, though she asked to keep her bag.

‘Excellent, excellent,’ said Simon, without removing his hat.  

Instead of ascending either of the large staircases on the right or left, Moira followed her companions through a set of double, wooden doors. Vincent, who had not yet said a word, opened the left-hand panel of the door labelled ‘In’ and stood to one side to let her pass. She nodded in thanks and he returned her a toothy smile.

Through the doors was a long corridor, carpeted in blue, panelled in deep, shiny mahogany. They moved briskly, but Moira caught sight of the gold-painted writing on the doors: Reading Room, North Gallery, Official Publications Gallery, Map Library, Social Science Service. She was sure the sculptures would not be kept down here; they needed light to be viewed properly. This felt as though they were heading for the cellars. 

‘Where are we going?’ 

‘Shhh!’ both men responded in unison. 

They came to another set of double doors, again one panel labelled ‘In’ and the other ‘Out’. Filing through the narrow doorway, they spilled into an enormous room, shaped like a bee’s hive winding round and round and up and up in layers of black iron and wood. A maze of desks, covered in black leather modulated the main, circular floor space. A few people sat at the desks, typing or reading, heads bowed in concentration.  

‘The stacks,’ Simon whispered. 

Moira felt his breath against her neck and fought the urge to step away; it was important not to seem childish. He was looking at the mesh of books that surrounded the room. Moira nodded. The university’s library had been impressive, but this was spectacular. Gargantuan windows arched up high to the curved roof, which domed above her head, culminating in a bright, glass oculus. She raised her hand to the circular light, thinking that neither Simon nor Vincent were the type to care what she did, and reached for the heavens. This was the work of the gods, surely? It was a room that matched her brain.

A jingle of keys brought her attention back down to the reading space. Vincent was holding a set of all different sizes. He spoke, finally, his voice higher pitched than Moira had expected. In the dome, it sounded nymph-like, elusive.

‘They’ve moved her into the back room, everything’s set. As requested.’ 

Moira noted that Vincent was not told to keep his voice down. She was ushered along one of the aisles of desks and lamps towards a great, tall bookcase. As she approached, she realised there was a small doorway between the stacks. Vincent bent over and fiddled with the keys. One of the readers behind them sighed. 

‘Apologies my good friend!’ cooed Simon. The door finally opened with a soft jolt and all three of them peered into a small, dark tunnel. 

‘Don’t be afraid,’ Simon whispered.  

Huddling her arms close, Moira found herself wedged between the two men, pushing uncomfortably through the narrow, dim space. Thankfully, another door emerged over the shoulder of Vincent. 

‘Hurrah!’ he sang. Moira laughed stiffly and they waited again as he fiddled with the lock. 

Then, the sound of a bolt sliding, more shuffling and Vincent said, ‘Moira, was it? Yes, Moira…welcome to our lab.’ 

Moira stepped to one side and took in the new room. It was not as impressive as the last, not nearly. It had high, rectangular windows and a few, tall bookshelves, mostly half-empty. There was a high back chair on one end, facing the centre of the space. However, what stood in the middle triumphed over anything Moira had ever seen in the flesh before.  

On a low-lying plinth, a marble woman, soft and smooth, crouched down, her right arm reaching across her chest, unsuccessfully covering her breasts. Her stomach relaxed in three, glorious folds of skin. But it was her face that Moira could not reconcile. Her lips were completely apathetic, there was no grimace, no hint of a smile; those lips were devoid of humanity. No mortal could achieve such disinterest. Her eyes, though, hollow as they were, colourless in their plain marble, were sad. Emotion and apathy. A contradiction. She knew her efforts to cover her naked body were not enough, Moira thought. She knew she was destined to be observed indefinitely. Created for the eyes of others.  

‘You like her?’ Simon asked. 

‘How could you not?’ Moira asked, unable to tear her eyes away. She began to walk around the statue, peering at the crevices of the body. ‘Aphrodite?’ 

‘A Roman copy, yes. Venus technically,’ Simon replied. He batted the air with his hand as if the fact were unimportant. 

‘Came to us from Windsor Castle less than two years ago. We thought she would be the perfect specimen for our study,’ Vincent added.

Moira finished a circle about the statue and removed her satchel, pushing it to one side.

‘So, what is the study? The advert mentioned something about statues’ lives?’ She hadn’t meant it, but her question had a derisive ring about it.

Simon sprang into action. At the far end of the room – opposite the lonely chair – was a platform. He jumped onto it as if about to give a lecture, but instead of speaking, he flicked a switch. The room plunged into darkness. Moira swallowed loudly, watching the white, ghostly remnants of Aphrodite slide in rotations before her eyes.  

‘Don’t panic,’ lulled Vincent, from somewhere nearby.  

Without warning, a spotlight illuminated the sculpture in a clear-cut circle.

‘There!’ shouted Simon, still from the platform. Blinking past the light, she could just about make out his silhouette. He was bent over, fiddling with wires. She knew this was exactly the sort of situation she ought to be apprehensive about. She imagined what her mother would say. However, Moira instructed her feet to stay put. What was there to fear, really? This was academia. She was ready for this.  

‘Moira.’

Vincent appeared behind her. Tentatively, he touched her shoulders. She did not fight him. He led her to the high-backed chair and asked her to sit down.

‘Rest your arms here, please,’ he said. Moira did as she was told, putting each of her arms onto the arms of the chair, sat on a throne. For a moment, she expected they would strap her in, but they did no such thing. Instead, Simon returned out of the darkness with a silver tray.  

‘Face frontwards,’ he said. Moira, again, did as she was told. She felt a dab of cold liquid on each of her temples and then two, small suction pads were attached to her head.  

‘Will you explain-’ 

‘Of course,’ Simon cut in. ‘As you know, we are examining the relationship between the human and the marble, or sometimes bronze. The relationship between the human and the heavenly, if you like. You will have heard, perhaps of the active medium?’ Moira shook her head. ‘Keep still, please, Moira. The active viewing medium is the relationship created between the statue and the viewer, in this case, you.’ 

Moira, trying as she was to keep up, was at a loss. ‘But what are you searching for?’ 

‘My dear,’ said Simon, placing two hands on her head to steady her perspective, ‘We are searching for the gods.’ 

Moira snorted. ‘The gods?’

She made to stand. Clearly, this had been a mistake. She was pleased to have seen the Crouching Aphrodite, of course, but she did not need to put up with this nonsense. The gods! Honestly. What professor had sanctioned this fanciful ‘experiment’? She tore the suction pads from her temples, when she felt a strong pair of hands clasp her wrists.

The moment was searingly identifiable. It was a choke in her throat, a punch in her stomach and a flutter in her chest. This was when fear caught up with her. Moira discovered in that very moment that she was neither of the flight nor fight disposition. She merely froze.  

Simon held her wrists with a firm grip, although he seemed careful not to hurt her. He seemed as uncomfortable as she was.

He spoke in a low voice, too soft, straight into her ear. He explained that it had not been easy to persuade the Hellenic curator to allow them to work on the statue down here. Nor were they inundated with volunteer experimental candidates. Moira was needed. Moira was needed to understand that this was ground-breaking. He said that this was spellbinding. It would be the making of them and her: if she gave it the chance.  

She remained frozen. Her mind needed time. 

‘Please!’ he shouted, releasing her wrists. Vincent ran over to them. 

Moira observed them arguing as if through a tunnel. Their words sounded muffled, their actions inconsequential.  

Do not touch her. 

It’s understandable she might be afraid.  

Let go, now, Simon. 

I know it’s important, to me too, but why scare her? 

Simon took a deep breath and spoke, steadily, ‘Moira. I am sorry to have given you a fright.’  

Moira pushed up from the chair; she felt tears on her cheeks. It occurred to her she had the power to lodge a complaint against him. He’d lose his funding. His reputation! She was in a position to teach him a lesson. 

Apart from, she knew that she would not. Something pulled her in. A taut and invisible rope. 

Simon continued, ‘Moira. You must, it is imperative that…’  

Vincent cleared his throat gently. 

‘Ah, yes, I would beg you to overlook my, erm, let us call it over-exuberance. Please, might we continue? I am – I have been told that…I am excitable.’ 

The soft hum of the spotlight provided the perfect cushion for Moira to assess her situation. The day, for Moira, had turned out quite unexpectedly. She was aware that she was crying and was adamant in her own mind that it was due to fatigue rather than anything else. She also had seen no evidence of either of these men wanting to ‘interfere’ with her, as her mother would have said. They would have done that by now, and, she liked the way Vincent sounded. 

Moira walked towards the statue. ‘Searching for the gods, you said?’ she sniffed.  

Vincent placed a hand upon Simon’s arm and replied, ‘That’s right. It may seem…unorthodox, but we have reason to believe that there is some connection something divine between certain statues and those who look upon them. Our theories are in the early stages but, well, what incited you to come today?’ 

The question caught Moira off-guard. She blushed, unwilling to disclose her Hermes just yet. Instead, she replied, ‘Like I said, I like statues. Greek statues, in particular. I like how they make me feel…’

‘They speak to you? Affect your behaviour, your decision, perhaps?’ 

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Perhaps, that is one way of putting it. But you cannot in all seriousness think you will find the gods? They are…fiction.’ 

Vincent joined her to look at Aphrodite. ‘We hope to find something, if not the gods, then the divine. Is that not all anyone is looking for, whatever subject you call it, whatever life you lead? Is not everyone searching for further meaning?’ 

The words sounded suspiciously rehearsed to Moira. However, she agreed with the sentiment. And she could not think of a single question to which the answer was not, ‘Well, why not?’ Why not indeed? These two had spoken to her more than anyone else on campus so far. Stranger things had happened – discoveries were made all the time. She shrugged and sat back on the chair. The wood scraped upon the tiled floor.  

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘What do you need me to do?’ 

Simon, placing the pads back onto her head, smiled at Vincent. He explained how all Moira needed to do was to focus on the statue before her. They would measure her brain activity as she stared at Aphrodite for half an hour and then they would move her to the next perspective, where they would repeat the process.  

‘It is important you remain silent,’ he said. ‘Ideally, you would reach a semi-meditative state, in which all that you know to exist is the statue and yourself.’ 

‘Fine,’ repeated Moira. 

‘There is,’ Simon continued, ‘something we can give you, to aid the experiment.’ 

He produced the silver tray again, apart from this time, it presented a small, grainy cube. Moira rolled her eyes. ‘It’s that type of experiment?’ 

Vincent intervened again, ‘It’s completely up to you, you can take it or leave it. We have merely found it to be useful, in terms of leaving the everyday worries and nagging thoughts behind…’ 

Moira, finding herself in this new life, alone, hopeful, dissatisfied, restless, did something that she would later not count as an accomplishment. She was thinking of the Caryatids as her fingers gripped the tender, sugary sides of the cube and moved it towards her lips. She was thinking that if there was a way – even only a hallucinatory way – of befriending these men, carrying them around with her, stealing their company, then she would at least make it through her first term.  

It melted quickly in her young mouth. Somewhere in the darkness, extending beyond the radius of the spotlight was a deep click. She thought she felt a slight jolt on either side of her head but ignored it, as it was not entirely unpleasant. Moira did as she was asked and simply stared at Aphrodite, who cowered in surprise at being happened upon naked. Moira felt an irresistible urge to look away but knew that she could not. She didn’t want to. She felt as though she ought to apologise, but instead, just stared and stared and stared, as the statue, at first indifferent, now glared and glared and glared.