This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(23)

After all, if it wasn’t for love, the universe itself would sputter into nothing and die.

“Let me think,” I continue. “Maybe Demeter is ripe for an affair. Or there’s Poseidon, maybe there’s a Nereid eager for the God of the Sea to notice her. Or you, Hephaestus, what about you? There’s all the goddesses in my retinue: the Horae, the Graces…” I’m thinking of Charis.

“I—well…” His face flushes.

I don’t want to make it obvious. I’ve seen the way his eyes linger on me. I know the softness and the longing; I could hardly miss it. It’s the depth of his feeling that makes me cautious. There would be no casual trysts with a god like Hephaestus, no easy ending. His heart is too tender for me to risk breaking it. Suggesting other goddesses to him is as gentle a signal as I can give him that it won’t be me.

I don’t want to be like Ares: blunt and direct with no regard for the consequence.

“Never mind,” I breeze. “I’ll find a pair of lovers with some obstacle between them that only I can remove.” I jump to my feet. “Thank you,” I say, gesturing to the empty wine cup. “I won’t keep you from the forge any longer.”

“Oh.” He blinks rapidly. “You don’t need to go.”

But before he can say anything else, I hurry out.



* * *



—

On my terrace that afternoon, I lie on a low couch in the thin sunlight, listening to the prayers that spiral up from the mortal world. I’m letting the words wash over me—whispered secrets, illicit confessions, forbidden yearnings that only I get to hear, always a brightening balm to my mood—when I’m startled back to reality by the ruffle of wingbeats.

I sit up, shading my eyes. “Eros?”

My son stands before me, gilded by sunlight. He’s breathtaking as always, and I feel a tingle of pride to look at him: a handsome young man with bright gold wings, pretty and delicate with a faint air of wickedness belied by his sweet appearance.

“Come and sit,” I urge him. “What have you come to tell me?”

“Have you been listening to the prayers from Paphos?” he asks.

I nod. “Only now, in fact. Why, is there something in particular?”

He hops up to sit on the balcony wall. “There is. I’ve been repeatedly hearing the petitions of a man called Pygmalion. I think you’ll be interested in this one—it’s very unusual.”

I’m immediately intrigued and his story doesn’t disappoint. I’m listening, breathless, when I hear movement from inside.

“Charis?” I call. “Is that you?”

She steps through the pillars that hold up the little porch.

“Did you want something?” she asks.

“Come and listen to this.” I beckon her eagerly, swinging my legs down so that she can sit beside me. “Eros is just telling me about a man in Cyprus. Pygmalion, a sculptor who’s fallen in love with his own statue.”

“What?”

“He’s been praying to me, asking for a wife just like the one he’s carved.”

“But that’s just because he doesn’t dare to ask for what he really wants,” Eros interjects.

“What is it that he really wants?” Charis asks.

“He wants her—the statue. That’s who he’s fallen in love with!” I finish.

Charis squints, smiling. “How would that work?”

“That’s why he’s praying: he doesn’t know what to do with his feelings,” I say. “He’s bought fine clothes for her, expensive jewelry, flowers. When he’s alone and no one can see what he’s doing—no one except me, that is—he kisses her as though he could coax that cold stone into warm flesh.” When Eros described his prayers to me, I could see the scene in his thoughts. Pygmalion’s memory of her inert lips under his, her unyielding cheeks framed by his loving hands. His hope giving way to disappointment, every time.

“Have you ever heard such a prayer before?” Charis asks, intrigued.

“Believe me, I’ve heard far more unusual prayers,” I assure her. “He’s very devoted—to her, and to me. It is rather unorthodox, but I think that might be exactly what I’m looking for. A challenge.”

“So,” she says, “what will you do?”

“Well…” I say.

She leans forward. “What?”

“Shouldn’t he have what he really longs for?” I say. “I could find him a substitute, I’m sure. A woman lovely and beautiful—”

“But not the same.” She nods in understanding.

I smile. “No, not the same.” I sit up taller, my cheeks flushing as my excitement builds.

Eros’ eyes sparkle with delight.

“I’m sure I can find a way,” I go on. “Something altogether more satisfying than a replacement—something much more romantic.” I glance at her. “Trust that I know how to make someone’s dreams come true. You’ve seen how happy Pasithea is with Hypnos now, after all.”

“Yes, she is,” Charis agrees, a wistful light in her eyes.

I wonder if now is the moment when I can draw her on the subject of Hephaestus. “What about you anyway?” I ask. “Is there someone…anyone on Olympus maybe?”