The room radiated a sort of disregarded opulence that made you sick to look at. A catastrophic glamour. A grotesquery of melted finery.
On the floor in the corner, Clytemnestra gracelessly bent over a pile of wood that either used to be, or was in the process of becoming, a table. She was doing something with a drill and screws that wasn’t doing much to build, or rebuild, the thing. Eventually, she tossed a handful of screws at the wall in a fit of frustration and slumped over the bed, the picture of exhaustion. She stared vacantly at the immense oil painting on wall the across from her, a younger version of herself next to a man and a young girl stared back.
Finally, she screamed.
“Will you be quiet!” Clytemnestra shouted, “Gods! Will no one close that fucking window!”
She looked around, taking a moment to notice that she was alone.
“Have to do everything myself.”
From the third story window she could see past the front gate and into a close by public park. People milled about, setting things up in the amphitheater, and music and sounds of celebration piped in from below. The trees reached up their arms to shield much of The House from the sights and sounds of the city, but Clytemnestra was beyond even the trees’ protection.
She reached the window, closed it, and collapsed to the ground leaning against the wall, “Finally. Why can’t anyone just be quiet?”
She glared at the now closed window and shouted, “He’s not that important!”
Clytemnestra stood, seeming at first unsure of why she did so, then went over to a cluttered dressing table with a large mirror on it. She nonchalantly swept everything off of one corner and set out a candle, sprinkling a bit of something from a jar around it in a circle before lighting it. It was a mixture of dried flowers and roughly crushed grain. An offering. She whispered over the little flame, words of honor and petitions to a goddess who may or may not have heard her.
When she looked up, there was a familiar face in the mirror beside hers. She looked around 18, face flushed from cold weather, the hood of her saffron yellow jacket pulled up over long hair. The first few times Iphigenia came to her, Clytemnestra had tried to ignore the wound. The slash across her daughters throat. The way her phantom blood soaked into that yellow jacket and crusted on her little heart shaped pendant. It could be paint if you looked away quickly enough.
“My baby,” Clytemnestra embraced the ghost. Once, she had wondered what made the phantom solid, or why she saw her at all. Now, she let her dead daughter wrap bloodied arms around her and did not care to question it.
Iphigenia pulled away, not speaking, but smiling.
“You don’t have to smile to make me feel better, I’ve told you, don’t pretend you’re happy to make someone else comfortable.”
The ghost gave her an unconvinced look.
“Well, alright, there are circumstances-Iphi let’s not get into semantics please.”
Iphigenia sat beside her mother and started curiously rifling through the objects on the table.
“I suppose it is a mess, you’re right.”
She found a brush, lowered the hood of her jacket, and started brushing through long hair. Iphigenia resembled her father. It hit Clytemnestra hard every time she noticed. Rich strawberry blond hair, and skin tan from hours spent running around outside. So unlike the bookish Electra and Orestes. Most unnervingly, she had his eyes. Dark brown and huge. What must it have been like for him, to look himself in the eye—
“Let me,” Clytemnestra cut off her own thoughts, and took the brush.
Iphigenia gave her an “I’m not a kid” look, and she said “Yes, I know you can do it yourself”
She sang as she brushed the girl’s hair, an old song that her own mother had sung to her about a garden. Before she could get to the part about the lilies, there was a knock at the door. Iphigenia whipped her head towards the sound, a sudden panic.
“You’re okay love, you’re okay, it’s only—" Clytemnestra tried to comfort her, but the ghost was already gone “—Aegisthus.”
“What!” He called, having heard his name.
“Nothing, what do you want!?”
In answer, he knocked on the door again, three slow, pointed raps this time.
“You think you’re funny,” she called.
“I am funny. Let me in.”
“Fine!”
The door opened and a man walked in. He was thin, with olive skin and brown hair. He shared Agamemnon’s height, and large eyes, but they were blessedly hazel, and he wore a sharp suit.
“Were you singing?” Aegisthus asked.
“What?”
“Just now, when I was in the hall.”
“Are you listening at my door?”
“No? I just—”
“Yes. I was singing.”
“You’re a strange woman, Cly,” he said.
“It’s strange to sing,” she paused, then said, “have you heard anything about my sister.”
“This place is a mess,” he said, surveying the room.
“Did you hear me?”
“You have so many maids—”
“Aegisthus?”
“Just get someone to clean your damn room.”
“I’m not a child,” she snapped, “I can do it myself.”
Aegisthus looked unconvinced, and she turned her attention away from him.
“Did you just come here to criticize me?”
“I’m just saying,” he sighed, “other people clean the rest of your house—”
“It’s a huge house, I’m busy, I have responsibilities. I don’t have time—”
“That’s not what I’m—”
“If it bothers you so much that I—”
“Cly—”
“They’re all employed here, it’s a fucking job, it’s not like I just enjoy ordering—”
“Cly,” he moved closer to where she sat and put a thin hand on her shoulder, she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. Aegisthus’ hands were not quite comforting, rather they were an echo of comfort, the trace memory of what she was no longer allowed to want.
“I just mean you don’t need to make everything so hard for yourself,” he said, “can I please get someone to clean in here, you know it’s got to be done by tonight.”
“I don’t like people touching my things.”
“Can I do it?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
He was quiet for a moment, and she knew he was taking in the state of her appearance and weighing that against the current time. His expression sharpened but softened again when he saw the how tired she looked.
“Give me that,” he said, gently taking the brush from her.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing your hair. It’s almost as bad as this room.”
“Oh Aegisthus, you say the sweetest things,” she said flatly.
Comfortable silence fell as he brushed her hair, scouring the desk for elastics, pins, and hairspray. He had asked her once, why she didn’t let the stylists help her, and she’d just said, “I know what suits me.” Aegisthus was never sure if the fact that she let him help her was an expression of trust, or just proof that she considered him a convenient extension of her own hands.
“You asked before, about Helen.”
“You know something? I’ve had no reports of her, I’ve—”
“Nothing new.”
Clytemnestra froze then just nodded. She’d suspected this. She’d felt it already. But it still hurt.
“She’s my twin, you know? A lot of people don’t know that.”
Aegisthus nodded silently.
“We never wanted to look anything like each other. We were technically fraternal twins, but we looked really alike as kids, and people loved it. They would put us in matching outfits and all that. Then we got older, and I decided to wear a lot of very dark makeup and we pretended we were independent people. It was ridiculous; we weren’t even identical. Gods, imagine the horror, it would be like living in her corpse. I’d cover up all the mirrors. Have them banned.”
She laughed then, a choked, pained sound that was almost a sob.
“She’s not dead,” he said.
Clytemnestra said nothing, but her unspoken demand for proof hung heavy in the air between them.
“Cly.”
“What!” she snapped.
“Would you just keep your head still so I can fix your pins?”
“Who gives a fuck about what my hair looks like?!”
“Large crowds of people lining the street, many of whom will have cameras.”
She sighed, resigned, and held still, allowing Aegisthus to adjust a few of her hairpins. He looked around, confused, then said, “Where did you put the—”
“Look down.”
Aegisthus glanced under the table and bent down to retrieve a beautifully carved wooden box. He shook his head, disapproving, “Probably hundreds of dollars and you leave them on the ground.”
“They’re in a box,” she shrugged.
“They’re in a box,” he mimicked, “I don’t understand why they don’t make you keep them in a vault.”
Aegisthus opened the box, revealing a set of decorative hair pins. Solid gold, heavy things. Old and one of a kind. Gently, he slid them into her hair, taking a moment to admire her.
“You look like a queen,” he said.
“Maybe. In another life.”
In the mirror, their reflections watched each other. Then, Clytemnestra raised an eyebrow, and dove under the table, swift and sure like a bird of prey. She retrieved a crumpled paper crown, a discarded relic left over from a themed event she could barely remember now, and turned to look at Aegisthus with mischief.
They stared at each other, and at the crown, giggling like children who were breaking a silly rule. He took the crown from her hands, then froze, with it just above her head. For a moment, neither of them moved, then they made eye contact and slowly nodded at each other.
The crown crinkled in her hands as she took it from him, and set it on her head. Though it was nothing more than paper and glue, she felt the phantom weight of it in her bones. As though the old gold of those hairpins had taken on a new shape. Playing Dress Up is a solemn and mirthful art.
Clytemnestra noticed Aegisthus beside her, in the mirror, and turned to him. Silently, he offered her a hand, which she took and stood.
“My queen,” he bowed deeply.
Clytemnestra was a small woman, but she seemed very tall all of a sudden, walking as though in a trance. She surveyed the room, her kingdom, and walked to the oil painting hanging on the wall. She climbed on the bed, putting herself at eye level with the figures in the painting. Herself, her husband, their daughter. She looked at the painted likeness of the man, looked right in his big, brown eyes, and she could swear she saw him shudder under her gaze. She traced his face with her finger, a long acrylic nail scratching at the pigment of his skin like a claw.
“Agamemnon,” she whispered, to the painting, “finally you are coming home.”
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