“Your cousin has good sense,” Philodemos said. That was true. Had he left it there, Menedemos wouldn't have minded. But he added, “Why don't you ever have good ideas like that?” Menedemos could have claimed going east as his own notion; it had been as much his as Sostratos'. Had he done so, though, he knew his father would have found some reason not to like it. I can't win, he thought. But arguing with his father wouldn't get him anything, either. He gave up, saying, “It's good to see you well.” “I could be better,” Philodemos said. “My joints pain me, as those of a man with my years will. Old age is a bitter business, no doubt about it.” After a sip of wine, though, he admitted, “It could be worse, too, I will say. My teeth are still mostly sound, and I thank the gods for that. I wouldn't want to have to live out my days on mush.” “I don't blame you,” Menedemos said. His father said, “You did well with those emeralds. How much were you getting for those last few?” When Menedemos told him, he whistled. “That's good. That's very good.” “Thank you.” Are you well? Menedemos wondered. Are you sure you won't hurt yourself, saying I did something right? “I feel I ought to pay my fair share of what you made for them, not what they cost you,” Philodemos said. Oh, so that's it, Menedemos thought. Say what you will about him —and I can say plenty —my father's as stubbornly honest as Sostratos. Aloud, he said, “You can do that if you feel you must, sir, but if anyone's entitled to buy at wholesale, not retail, it's the founder of the firm.” That won him a smile—no mean feat, seeing how spikily he and his father got along. Philodemos said, “You may be right. I'll talk with my brother and see what he thinks.” “All right,” Menedemos said. That was where things would matter, sure enough. As far as this line of the family was concerned, it was just a matter of two accounts for the same silver. But, to Uncle Lysistratos, it would be a question of whether the money belonged in the firm's account or out of it. Menedemos went on, “I still think he'd do the same thing.” “He might well,” his father replied. “But if he did, he would ask me, and so I'll ask him.” “How does your wife like the stone?” The question put Menedemos on dangerous ground: not so dangerous as it might be, for his father had no inkling of what he felt for Baukis, but dangerous even so. He knew as much, and asked anyhow. Philodemos smiled again, this time not at Menedemos but at the world at large. His lean, rather pinched features softened. For a moment, he seemed a different man, and one much easier to like. He said, “Timakrates the jeweler mounted it in a splendid ring, and she was glad to get it.” How glad was she? How did she show it? Menedemos could picture the answers to those questions readily enough. He shook his head, trying to get the pictures out of his mind. To keep his father from thinking he was unhappy—and to keep him from jumping to more unfortunate, and more accurate, conclusions—he said, “I hope she gives you a son.”
Вы читаете The Gryphon's Skull
