High life
Loss of a friend
Taki
The Ancient Greeks, in their infinite wisdom, knew a thing or two about pain, grief, and the loss of loved ones. Unlike today's godless urban biomasses, inY ancestors blamed it all on the gods, and derived great solace as a result. It was very simple, really. If a man had lived honour- ably and bravely, he would go to the Elysian Fields of Hades, to be forever rewarded for his goodness. So-so people (or those that Disraeli described as having committed every crime that does not re- quire punishment) were assigned to Hades, a grey and dismal place where they went round and round in ghost-like movements. Cowards, liars, and apostles of evil went straight to the punishment blocks of Hades, or Tartaros.
Now I am not about to list who among the ones I know will end up where in Hades. After all, I am only an ancient Greek, not a Greek god, and I may make a mistake. What I will do, however, is say in no uncertain terms where a friend who's been missing for a week will end up.
Rupert Birley, as of this writing, has vanished without trace in Togo. He is believed to have gone for a swim off the Gulf of Benin, a place known for ruthless rip currents and dangerous undertows, not to mention killer sharks. Needless to say, his disappearance has prompted a plethora of rumours and theories as to why he chose to swim alone in waters where even Tar- zan, say, feared to tread. The reason for this is because the rumour mongers did not know Rupert Birley. As Anakreon's epi- taph said of Timokritos, 'Ares spares not the brave man, but the coward.'
Rupert was brave to the point of absurdity. But before I tell you more about him, a brief look at the rumours. He was fluent in many languages, including Rus- sian and Polish. He had studied East-West trade relations in Vienna, and was involved in building a grain terminal in Togo. Worse, he loved political discussion and was more interested in serious matters than in which Hooray was sleeping with which Sloane. That, of course made him suspect. As irony would have it, there was a Soviet cargo-passenger ship cruising the Gulf at the time of Rupert's alleged disappear- ance. Amateur sleuths first called it a spy ship. The fact that in order to reach it Rupert would have had to swim for hours against a treacherous current didn't mat- ter. It made a good story. The other theory is that of suicide.•After all, anyone more interested in serious matters than in London gossip must be sui- cidal. Or so said the theorists. Rupert did have a melancholy disposition where the modern world and its barbarism are con- cerned, as so many right-thinking people do. But he was as likely to commit suicide as I am. He was a fighter, not a quitter, but try and tell that to the rumour reapers. He had a reckless disregard for danger, as all rash, brave and gallant men do. He was a strong skier and swimmer, a vora- cious reader of history, and had an ex- trovert, happy-go-lucky nature. He was also undoubtedly the best-looking man of his generation, and had more girls in love with him than Don Giovanni ever dreamed of having. But what endears him to those who know him — I use the present tense because there is still hope — is his generos- ity of spirit and sensitivity. His personal radiance, that warms one immediately on contact. Just before he disappeared he spoke to his one great love, Isobel, and according to her he had never sounded happier. The trouble with Rupert was not of his own making. It was that of the age. It was not imaginative enough for him. Like Hemingway's vision of a bullfight, he saw sport as tragedy. The tragedy lies in the possible death of the sportsman, and he proved it by racing bikes at break-neck speeds and swimming in dangerous waters. He recently collected a few epigrams for a friend's anthology. One was by Lucretius: `It is pleasant when the sea runs high, to view from land the distress of another.' And Francis Bacon's, 'Great boldness is seldom without absurdity.' If the worst comes to the worst, I know that he will go to the Elysian Fields God has in store for people like him. I weep not because I believe in God and know that tragedy, after all, is merely a literary form of little relevance in the age of the common man. Nor should his family weep. They should listen for — in the words of General MacArthur — 'the witching melody of faint bugles blowing reveille, of drums beating the long roll . . .
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