The Forty-Ninth Night

 

When Nick arrived for our weekly meeting at my place, I said to him:

— You know Georges missed you when you didn’t come last week?

— What? That green critter missed me?

Georges was watching us with his sharp little eyes as he heard his name.

— Am I lying, Georges?

— That parrot can’t stand me!

— He’s grown used to your presence.

Nick stepped closer to Georges’s perch and asked him:

— So, you finally figured out my charm is irresistible, huh, Georges?

In reply, the bird spread his wings and ruffled his feathers, as if ready to strike.

— I’m telling you, my friend, that bird hates me.

— Well, last week, during dinner, he kept flying from the window to your place at the table, tapping his beak against the spot where you usually sit. Maybe he knows better than to get too friendly.

— What do you mean, not get too friendly? I’m totally trustworthy, you little bird from hell!

And we laughed hard, looking at Georges, who seemed to laugh back at us with a few cheerful squawks.

Nick then turned to me, more serious now, and said:

— So this really is your last week at the hotel?

— Yes. As promised.

— And you’re sticking to your plan of selling your work to galleries in the States?

— Yes. I’ve already started producing pieces so I’ll have something to offer. But I’m giving myself another couple of months to build it all up.

— You gonna do a lot?

— Not much in terms of volume. Oil paintings and ceramics take time, you know.

— And then you’ll need an agent?

— Maybe I already do.

— Last time we talked about this… you were thinking about me, right?

— I still am. I’ve been researching a few galleries, and I’ve also been thinking about a website. Who knows? I’m putting together a portfolio with some of my earlier work, but I want to round it out with these new pieces coming out. In a few weeks, I’ll really need you.

Nick’s eyes were shining with excitement, and I think mine were too.

Showing my work to the public feels like stripping naked in the middle of the street — but 2026 is right around the corner, and there’s the scent of change in the air.

 

The Forty-Eighth Night

 

On the last night of the year, Nick spent the evening at my place. I had organized a Brazilian-style New Year’s Eve supper. I had provided a bottle of wine (one of the four I buy over the course of a year), but Nick showed up carrying a box with twelve bottles of beer.

“Beer—lots of beer. That’s the American tradition!”

Well, before midnight, Nick was already snoring on the living-room couch, and the bottle of wine remained unopened.

It was only last Saturday that he seemed to pay any real attention to the supper I had prepared.

“So,” he said, “we eat pork because it brings good luck, right?”

“Progress is the better word,” I replied. “Pigs always move forward. Walking backward is a symbol of regression. That’s why chicken or turkey is avoided—they scratch backward. Crabs, too, since they walk sideways or back. But pork and fish are eaten because they always move ahead.”

“So what other traditions do you guys have in Brazil?” he asked.

“Eating twelve pomegranate seeds and keeping them in your wallet is said to attract money. The same goes for grapes, and for eating lentils at midnight.”

“Oh! So that’s why you served lentils with the pork!”

“Exactly. Tradition demands that one choose very carefully what to eat on New Year’s Eve. But there are also things to do in the first minutes of the new year: some people climb twelve steps of a staircase, starting on the first step, always leading with the right foot—the left one brings bad luck. And those who live near the coast usually bathe in the sea, because it’s said that salt cleanses us of bad energies. Jumping over three waves is also very common, as a symbol of overcoming the challenges of the year to come. And that’s not all! There are rules about what to eat, what to do, and even what to wear.”

“What do you mean?” Nick asked.

I laughed and explained:

“The colors you wear are supposed to attract certain things. White for peace and happiness; red for passion; pink for love; yellow for money; green for health. Of course, this is easier for women—they just put on a long dress and they’re wrapped in a single color. For us men, it’s more complicated: pants and shirt have to match. If dressing entirely in one color isn’t possible, a man should at least wear underwear in the desired color.”

“Underwear?” Nick said, laughing.

“Yes!” I replied, laughing heartily myself. “Some people say that the way you end the year is the way you’ll continue it in the new one. So it’s important to have a clean house, clean clothes, and so on. And we mustn’t forget to turn on all the lights in the house, to welcome the new year!”

“Wow. That’s a lot of stuff.”

“Yes,” I said, still laughing. “All of that, just so that in the end we can do one simple thing: change the calendar.”

“And do you actually follow all that?”

“No. There’s an important distinction to be made. One thing is that I love folklore. I enjoy noting down traditions from different places and studying them. Another thing is that these practices are superstitions—popular beliefs with elements of magic. Thinking that I can control events by doing this or that is incompatible with my faith. I served you a traditional Brazilian New Year’s supper as a way of reconnecting with my homeland, and also simply because I love fruit, lentils, and pork. The traditions of my land merely give me an extra excuse to delight in these things.”

“And I basically just drank beer and passed out on your couch.”

“…and you snore terribly!”

“Oh, come on—shut up!”

 

The Forty-Seventh Night

 

“You know, I think that Nativity scene of yours is really beautiful,” Nick said, after he had arrived at my place.

“Which one?”

“The bigger one. It’s gorgeous.”

“Thank you. I bought it at the Vatican some years ago.”

“Wow. At the Vatican?”

“The shop is very close to Saint Peter’s Basilica, though technically outside Vatican City. They have all sorts of wonders there.”

“No cheap little things, I’m guessing?”

“None at all.”

“Yeah, you can tell that one didn’t come cheap. I’ve never seen anyone love Christmas the way you do,” Nick said, turning toward me.

“I don’t do anything others don’t,” I replied, chopping an onion.

“Everybody decorates the house and cooks Christmas meals, but with you there’s something more. You live Christmas with every breath you take… I don’t quite know how to put it…”

“I have all this Christmas décor, I send cards, I invited you for lunch on the twenty-fifth—but I don’t need any of that to celebrate Christmas. If I understood you right, it seems you’ve noticed that, for me, Christmas is Christ. It’s His birthday, that midnight in Bethlehem, bitterly cold—but it’s also Jesus being born within me. And it’s from that ‘Jesus being born in me’ that the joy I feel comes. It’s so intense that it overflows and expresses itself in decorations, gifts, special meals, and everything else. If I were naked in the middle of the desert, I’d still be able to have a very happy Christmas.”

“Has it never crossed your mind that maybe there isn’t any Jesus being born in you at all, and that what you feel is just some kind of hysterical illusion?”

“That was… a heavy way to put it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. The truth is, I ask myself that question all the time. How often have I found myself publicly defending chastity while, at the same time, sleeping with someone close to me—simply because I know sex is pleasurable, and I’m giving it up for the sake of something as ethereal as ‘Heaven’?”

“But you remain faithful—to ‘Heaven.’”

“I do. I look back on my past; I recall the signs that Jesus is not an idea, but God, always present in our lives.”

I paused for a moment and went on, weighing my words with care:

“I remember my life, and I can see the presence of Jesus’ hand—intangible, invisible, scentless, silent, yet strong—guiding it. I remember, and I come to realize that my own will is my greatest enemy. God is not a fiction, and His joy is not hysteria. Still, of course, I have no way of proving any of this.”

“I have faith in you,” Nick said, softly.

“Well, I wouldn’t,” I answered. “God knows I’m not trustworthy.”

“Not completely, maybe—who is? But you’re trustworthy enough.”

“I can live with that,” I said, smiling.

 

 

The Forty-Sixth Night

  

Nick’s first words, upon arriving on Saturday night, were:

— So… today is when the story finally ends?

— Perhaps, I said. It is a long tale, after all. I told you of Medusa’s birth, and how, at her death, she gave life to the giant Chrysaor and to his brother, the winged horse Pegasus—both her children by the god Poseidon. Chrysaor married and begot a dreadful and far-reaching lineage of monsters. Pegasus, meanwhile, flew between heaven and earth, delivering to Zeus in the sky the thunderbolts and lightning that Hephaestus forged for him on earth.

“Then entered the scene the young and beautiful Bellerophon, falsely accused by a queen of wishing to violate her. Unwilling to kill his own guest, King Proteus sent Bellerophon to his father-in-law, Iobates, king of Lycia, charging him with delivering a sealed message:

“’Do me the favor of killing Bellerophon, violator of my wife, your daughter.’

“Unaware that he was carrying his own death sentence, Bellerophon traveled to Lycia and handed the tablet to King Iobates.

“But it pleased great Destiny that Iobates did not read the fatal message at once. Instead, taken by Bellerophon’s charm, he entertained him for nine whole days.

— “Entertained him?” Nick repeated, pointedly.

— Continuing the story, I said, firmly but with humor, only after nine days did Iobates take up the tablet. Upon reading it, he, like Proteus, feared the Erinyes—the three monstrous sisters who pursued hosts who mistreated their guests. They were dreadful, fury streaming from their eyes like black tears.

“And so Iobates conceived a plan: rather than killing his guest himself, he would send him on an impossible mission—to slay the Chimera.

“Do you recall the children of Chrysaor, the grandchildren of Medusa—Echidna and Typhon? The Chimera was one of them: a fire-breathing monster, made of lion, goat, and serpent. She ravaged the region of Caria nearby, laying waste to cattle and people alike to satisfy her hunger for warm flesh.

“Bellerophon was a true man and accepted the challenge of freeing his host’s land from such a creature.

“On his way to Caria, he met the seer Polyeidus. They sat together to eat, and Bellerophon told him of his mission. Upon hearing it, Polyeidus fell into a trance and saw Bellerophon victorious—but riding Pegasus.

“— But where will I find the winged horse? Bellerophon asked.

“— Pegasus serves high Zeus, replied the seer. You must ask the gods where to find him. Turn aside from your path in that direction and you will find a temple of Athena. Go there and pray.

“Thus Bellerophon did. He spent the night in Athena’s temple and slept there. Athena appeared to him and presented to the brave youth his father: Poseidon, lord of horses, father of Pegasus and great-great-grandfather of the Chimera.

“— Go, my son, said the god, and take your half-brother Pegasus. He awaits you outside. Here—take my trident. Its power will not fail you, for the Chimera must be stopped.

“Bellerophon left the temple, mounted the winged steed, and together they flew toward Caria.

“There stood the terrible monster—enormous, a bestial convulsion of shapes and devastating muscle. The fire spewed from her three maws heated the air beyond endurance. She was swift as a lion, sinuous as a serpent, and stubborn as a goat. Fixing her attention on Bellerophon, she reared and bucked, giving the youth no chance to strike with his father’s trident.

“Desperate, unable to approach the beast, Bellerophon looked to the high sky and saw the face of his cousin Athena. He rose toward her. The face vanished, and when he looked again, the Chimera seemed to have forgotten the hero, pausing to rest from battle. Bellerophon guided Pegasus downward like a dart, and at the right moment hurled the trident. It shattered the Chimera’s spine. She gave a horrific cry of pain and, after a thousand convulsions, died.

“Poseidon returned to reclaim his trident, and freed of it, the Chimera vanished in a ball of fire.

“Father and son exchanged a wave—the god proud of his brave child—and Bellerophon returned to the court of Iobates.

“But Iobates was still resolved to kill the young hero, and so he sent him alone to fight the enemies of the land: the Solymi, who lived in the mountains near Lycia.

“Bellerophon went with Pegasus and defeated them all, reducing them to vassals of Iobates.

“But Iobates was still resolved to kill the young hero, and so he sent him alone to fight the warrior Amazons.

“Bellerophon went with Pegasus and defeated them all, reducing them too to vassals of Iobates.

“Yet Iobates persisted, and finally sent his entire army against the hero. In horror, he saw the god Poseidon rise from the earth and command the river Xanthus, which flowed through the plains of Lycia, to flood the land and drown the whole army.

“At last Iobates understood the divine protection surrounding Bellerophon. Falling to his knees, he begged forgiveness, showed him the tablet sent by Proteus, and, to prove his repentance, gave him the hand of his youngest daughter, Philonoe, and half his kingdom.

“If Bellerophon’s heart rejoiced in his gracious wife, fair of body and soul, it also churned with hatred for Proteus and his wife.

“With Pegasus, he returned to the court of Proteus, pretending to be in love with the queen and promising to carry her away to his palace, where they would live happily ever after.

“Infatuated by the affection of so handsome and gallant a hero, she agreed. She abandoned her husband and mounted the winged horse. They took flight, and from on high Bellerophon cast her into the sea, where the adulteress drowned.

“Immediately, the hero returned to Proteus’s throne, told him what he had done, and declared himself satisfied: his enemy was dead, and the man who had sought his death now mourned.

“Bellerophon returned home, where he lived happily for many, many years, becoming the father of two sons and two daughters, all beautiful.

“This lasted until the day vanity bit him. Poets sang of his deeds, his kingdom prospered, and he began to believe he had the right to enter Olympus and join his father Poseidon.

“His heart poisoned by pride, one day he mounted Pegasus and set out to climb the distance to the home of the gods. Zeus, father of gods, seeing the arrogant audacity of his nephew, sent a gadfly to torment Pegasus.

Driven mad by the insect, Pegasus bucked and bucked until Bellerophon fell to the ground and died.

Zeus then took the valiant horse and placed him in the heavens as one of the constellations. The same fate befell the beautiful Andromeda, along with her mother Cassiopeia and her husband Perseus.

— Man… that’s a pretty stupid way for Bellerophon to die, Nick complained.

— Some say he did not die from the fall, I replied, which would be yet another heroic feat, but that he was left crippled and blind, dying old, alone, and in misery. Be that as it may, all agree that his tomb stood in the citadel of Tlos, in Lycia.

— Greek imagination was kinda wild, huh? said Nick. Everybody’s related to everybody else—monsters, humans, all mixed together. But yeah… they’re beautiful stories.

— What pleases me most is how they interweave, I said. I did not truly tell the stories of Perseus and Bellerophon, but rather the story of Medusa and her two sons, Pegasus and Chrysaor. I did not touch upon the full dramas of Perseus and Bellerophon—only their encounters with Medusa and Pegasus.

— I really loved it, my friend, Nick said. Totally worth the wait for the ending. Some other day I’ll want more—but right now, it’s time to head back to my little crash pad.

 

The Forty-Fifth Night

 

On his weekly visit, Nick was eager for the continuation of my tale, and after supper we settled beneath the stars and I went on:

“Where did we leave off, again?”

“Perseus married Andromeda and ended the feast by killing Phineus.”

“Quite right. Once married, Perseus and Andromeda set out for Tiryns, where she bore Perses, the eldest son of Perseus, and with him began the dynasty of the Andromedans. Yet Perseus still had to return the monster’s head to Polydectes; thus he left Andromeda and the child in Tiryns and, ever equipped with Hermes’ sandals and the Gorgon’s head in his satchel, he flew back to Seriphos. On his way he passed over Libya, where drops of blood from the Gorgon’s head leaked from the bag and gave rise to serpents of the deadliest venom—serpents that infest that land to this very day.

“In Seriphos, he discovered that his mother had been forced to seek refuge in desolate lands, in order to protect herself from Polydectes’ harassment. Perseus presented himself before the king and his court and declared that he carried Medusa’s head there, within the bag he held.

“Polydectes demanded to see the head as proof of the truth, and Perseus showed it to him, slaying the wicked king along with many of his courtiers and soldiers. Forthwith, he made Dictys—his benefactor and Polydectes’ brother—the new king of Seriphos, who restored Danaë to the palace with the honors due a princess.

“Next, he turned his attention to his divine half-brothers and, in Hermes’ presence, returned to him the winged sandals and the helm of Ares. To Athena he delivered the dreadful head. The gray-eyed goddess set it upon her breastplate, thus making herself an invincible warrior.

“But while all these things were taking place, the sons of Medusa and Poseidon—born from her blood when she was beheaded—the winged horse Pegasus and the giant Chrysaor, went each upon his own path.

“Chrysaor entered at a very early age the court of the god Oceanus, where he married Callirrhoe, who bore him two children: the three-bodied giant Geryon, later slain by Heracles, and the fierce, devouring Echidna, half-maiden, half-serpent, enormous in size. Echidna, with Typhon, became the mother of a great number of monsters.

“Pegasus, for his part, raced through the air and reached Olympus, where Zeus charged him with bearing the thunderbolts and lightning forged for him by his brother Hephaestus in the depths of Etna.

“Whenever Pegasus struck the earth with his hoof, a spring would burst forth.

“And it came to pass that Poseidon fell in love with Eurynome, the wife of King Glaucus. Glaucus and Eurynome had two sons, Alcimenes and Piren, and by Poseidon she bore Bellerophon.

“One day it happened that Bellerophon accidentally killed his brother Piren during some games, and for this reason he was sent to King Proteus of Tiryns, that he might pronounce judgment upon his crime. Proteus, exercising his royal authority, forgave the accidental death caused by Bellerophon, and all would have ended happily—had not Proteus’ wife been inflamed with lust for Bellerophon and sought to lie with him. Out of respect for the king, Bellerophon refused her advances, and the wretch, offended, accused him before Proteus, claiming that he had tried to violate her.

“Proteus was furious with Bellerophon, yet because he was host to the son of Poseidon, he dared neither harm nor kill him, though such was his desire. Thus he swallowed his pride and conceived a perverse plan to cleanse his honor: he sent Bellerophon to his father-in-law Iobates, king of Lycia, charging him to deliver a sealed message: ‘Do me the favor of killing Bellerophon, violator of my wife, your daughter.’

“Unaware that he carried his own death sentence, Bellerophon journeyed to Lycia and delivered the letter to King Iobates.”

Having said this, I fell silent.

“And then?” Nick asked.

“Well, many things happened after that—but now I am tired, and the rest must wait.”

“Oh no! Again?!” my friend protested.