Metacontextualisation

A marketplace fable set in the Romano-Greco-Phoenician city of Tyre during the reign of the Emperor Nerva

The other day in the marketplace, who should I come across but Teutamus the haranguer.

Doing what, you ask? Haranguing, as usual. Standing with his back to the lighthouse, on that plank-and-tile platform he sets up on the Sidon side of the harbour steps, apostrophising all and sundry. With more success than most days, judging by the scores of people listening. Not that he gives you much choice. Even where I was, near the date-sellers’ stalls on the Gaza side, I could hear every consonant. What he was bellowing went something like this: “Metacontextualisation they call it! Metacontextualisation! As usual, friends, the longer the word, the uglier the reality. And what do they mean when they say they’re going to metacontextualise purple-cloth production? The death of Tyre, that’s what. One thousand two hundred and thirty-two jobs! One thousand two hundred and thirty-two! Can this city afford to lose so many? Can this marketplace?”

Below Teutamus stood ten or twelve supporters, mostly dye-workers. Most also, like him, fighting a losing battle with thinning or greying hair, or a widening girth, or all three. “Excuse me, what’s he talking about?” I whispered as I turned to the person on my right, a stylish young man with blue-tinted hair. No sooner had I spoken than I recognised him as the lighthouse-keeper’s son, and saw that he had his arm around a well-shaped girl on his right.

“Pylades!”

“Tyrius!”

Laughing at the unexpected meeting, we embraced one another.

“Didn’t know you were back, my friend. And wouldn’t have recognised you with the hair.” Which was not only sky-blue but skilfully cut. How buoyant he looked, how confident compared to the gawky boy I remembered.

“A souvenir of Alexandria,” he grinned. “Like it?” He parted the strands at the roots so I could better admire the colour.

“Do these things while you’re young, I say. What did your father say when he saw it?”

“You know Pa. Not much hair left, but he says what he has is Tyrian, and he’s threatening to dye it purple. But I don’t think you’ve met Thaïda.”

As soon as he said her name, and Thaïda turned in my direction her brown eyes and beautiful smile, when we began to exchange greetings, we realised we knew one another in a different setting. Her father was mapmaker to the Merchants’ Council, she reminded me. I’d seen her a few times waiting for him under the peristyle of the Council building.

Introductions over, Pylades returned to my question. “What an idiot, that Teutamus! As always when he gets going, it’s hard to sort out the wheat from the chaff. I gather they’re going to close down the Dye-Works.”

This was news to me. “Impossible. Whatever for?”

“The MDG wants to move production to Sicily.” In Tyre, when you say the MDG, or the Guild. everyone knows you mean the All-Phoenicia Master Dyers’ Guild.

“More central position?”

“Not just that. Tyre’s costs are too high, they say, and purple-cloth sales at the eastern end of the empire are declining as a proportion of sales overall. The Master Dyers claim that the only way they can keep up with the whole-world market is by shifting the Dye-Works. Metacontextualisation, that’s their word for it. Metacontextualising production so that it will be in the centre of the marketplace. Labour costs in Sicily are a quarter lower than ours …”

“… and it’s closer to Hispania, Gallia, Britannia,” the fastest-growing markets for purple-cloth. The arguments were hardly unfamiliar. “For once Teutamus has a point. If the Dye-Works goes, Tyre may as well curl up and die.”

“As if the place wasn’t dead enough,” sighed Thaïda, fingering the pendant hanging at her throat. Her hand prevented my seeing it, other than that it was made of silver.

“A present from Pylades?”

She nodded and held it out for me to see. It showed the Lighthouse in Alexandria. I recognised it as the sort of keepsake you can buy from the silversmiths on the Esplanade.

“So, your two years are up?” I said to Pylades, recalling how proud his father was when the son left for Alexandria to study mapmaking in the Library. By arrangement with the lighthouse-keeper there, and with a recommendation from Thaïda’s father, the Tyrian had been living in the lighthouse-man’s household, doing watch every third night for his keep.

“Been back four days. Long enough to miss Alexandria. As far as I’m concerned, the only good thing here is …” He indicated Thaïda.

Then, as Teutamus’s voice boomed louder, he covered his ears with his hands, saying, “Does he think we’re deaf? Time he went to Alexandria to hear some real speakers, like the ones on the Esplanade. A day there, and he’d triple what he’s learnt in a lifetime here.”

At that moment Teutamus seemed to be finishing off, so we turned our attention back to what he was saying.

“A common front, my friends. That’s the thing you have to take away from what I’ve told you this morning, that Tyre needs a common front. Merchants’ Council, Guild, dye-workers, citizens, everyone. That’s why we’re here today”—he pointed to his fellow-workers—“to urge you to join us tomorrow, in the theatre at the third hour. Tell your neighbours to come, so we can get everyone’s support. And ideas, Tyre needs ideas that will make a difference. But first we have to set up the action team I mentioned, to save the Dye-Works. Tomorrow at the third hour in the theatre. Until then, friends, thank you for your attention.”

The applause which greeted his speech showed not only that his hearers were relieved to hear him conclude, as usual, but that on this occasion they saw the urgency of the situation.

“A dilemma for your father,” I observed to Pylades as Teutamus and his supporters dismantled the plank-and-tile platform, and left the marketplace.

“As you say,” he agreed. “I can’t wait to hear what he thinks.”

We had in mind an incident three years ago. Out of nowhere one morning, haranguing in the marketplace, Teutamus had turned on Tryphon, Pylades’s father, calling him a “fat-cat”.

The haranguer had been flailing the Merchants’ Council for funding repairs to the lighthouse plinth while refusing to give an obol to the Dye-Works for new latrines. The lighthouse-man did not take well to being belittled in public, nor to the dye-worker’s refusal in speech after speech to apologise, with the result that he and Teutamus had not spoken since that day.

“My guess is he’ll be at the meeting for Tyre’s sake but won’t serve on any action team Teutamus sets up,” I said.

“Well, he’ll know who to blame for that,” agreed Pylades. “Heaven knows the city could do with more men like Pa. He’s one of the few who moves with the times.”

“Which is more than you can say for Teutamus, even if he’s right this time,” added Thaïda. She seemed to dislike him even more than did Pylades, doubtless because through her mapmaking father she heard the Merchants’ Council’s viewpoint. “Everyone knows it’s time someone stood up to him. Told him to his face that Tyre needs to move on from the Dye-Works. You know, develop some new source of income. Preferably one that doesn’t stink.”

As Thaïda held her nose, Pylades and I exchanged glances. It was an east wind day, and yes, Tyre stank. Because we love our city, we Tyrians do not talk about the stench from the Dye-Works. We live with it because we have to, knowing that without the vats of rotting shellfish on the city’s outskirts, Tyre would have no dye, no income, no renown. Located to the east, most days downwind, the Dye-Works generally do not bother us. But twice or three times a month, sometimes for days at a time, the ponds and vats remind us that they are there.

Pylades endorsed his fiancee’s words. “I agree. Pa could propose a new lighthouse, put it to the Council that we build one bigger and better than Alexandria’s, to bring in the tourists.”

“That’s the way to make money these days,” I agreed. “Hand over fist, like the souvenir-sellers on the Esplanade.”

“Not to mention the barbers,” added Pylades. On that note, we parted, he and Thaïda having already bought figs and bread for the picnic they were planning, upwind from the Dye-Works, I having a bone to pick with the ink-maker about his so-called superior non-fading red. Next morning, I was up before dawn, to finish off a story before the meeting in the theatre. When the water-clock gonged the third hour, as I was pondering whether or not to delete a wordy and meandering subordinate clause superfluous to the narrative, Diomedes, the cook, came to tell me the lighthouse-keeper was waiting in the courtyard to see me. Although we are old friends, nowadays we seldom meet, as most days he sleeps in the daytime.

“Tryphon,” I greeted him. “I thought you’d be at the theatre by now.”

“When I didn’t see you there, I knew you’d still be writing. Pylades sent me, he needs information for a proposal he wants to put. We thought you’d be able to help.”

“Information on what?

“The Seven Wonders of the World. Don’t laugh, I’ll explain later. We were going through the list last night and could think of only five.”

“The Great Pyramid, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Colossus of Rhodes,” I began.

“The Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, the Lighthouse of Alexandria. That’s as far as we got.”

“The Statue of Zeus at Olympus.”

“That makes six.”

Neither of us could recall the seventh—the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus, we found later—so I racked my brain trying to think which of my books would have the list.

“Who put the seven names together in the first place?”

“That’s what I was trying to remember. I know I have the list somewhere …”

I found it, but only after a long search through my notes, and when that gave nothing, with some lateral thinking. I had indexed it not under the man who drew up the list, Callimachus of Cyrene, nor under Wonders or Seven, but under Rome, on the same sheet of papyrus as the Seven Hills. I made a copy of the names and gave it to Tryphon, saying, “Time to be off.”

As we made for the theatre, I asked the obvious question, “Why does Pylades need the list?”

“I think he’s keen to take on Teutamus. We had a long talk last night.”

“Up there, remaking the world as usual?” I pointed to the lighthouse.

“Can you think of a better place? We talked about today’s meeting, and me proposing a new lighthouse. Then he went on about Tyre’s handicap being its image problem.”

“Image problem?” I had to laugh. “No doubt he picked that up in Alexandria.”

“Good, isn’t it? Anyway, he wants to propose that Tyre should start marketing itself. Instead of selling everything else, or as well, sell itself. But I don’t want to steal his thunder.”

“I don’t suppose you’re planning to speak?”

“And give Teutamus the satisfaction of seeing a fat-cat fall into line?”

“There’s something to be said for being late, then. Teutamus will have his action team by the time we get there.”

As turned out to be the case. It must have been nearly the fourth hour when we reached the meeting. The theatre was two-thirds full, the first time in years that Tyrians had turned out for a political meeting in such numbers. Teutamus’s moment of glory had come.

By a raising of hands, the gathering had already shown its backing for ten men willing to form the Save the Dye-Works Action Team. Other than Teutamus and two fellow workers, there were three craftsmen from the marketplace—including the ink-maker, as if he knows anything about anything—three shipmen and an observer from the Merchants’ Council. Which was as far as the Council was prepared to engage itself, preferring to take the most discreet part possible in negotiations with the Master Dyers.

The moment we walked in, Pylades’s blue hair leaping out at us, we spotted him and Thaïda near the back. We sat near them in places they had kept for us. Tryphon handed his son my list, which he took and memorised, thanking us with a raised hand.

The action-team members were sitting on the first bench of the theatre. Except for Teutamus who, as if no vote were needed to choose their chairman, had taken on the post. With the biggest audience he had ever assembled, he was haranguing as if for the first time in his life.

“Pathetic!” he was roaring. “So many people, so few ideas? What use is your action team if you don’t give it ideas to work with?”

From the accounts I heard afterwards, the suggestions which the meeting had put forward before we arrived were uninspiring, all having been tried without success. Whether it was the heat, or the citizens’ sense that they had done their duty by setting up the action team, or their fear of being ridiculed by Teutamus, the meeting was groping for a straw to save Tyre from drowning. It was at this point that Pylades, a third the age of the action-teamers, rose to speak.

“Yes, young man?” Teutamus was unable to suppress a smile. “What news from the lighthouse?”

“Some light on what we’re doing, I hope,” replied Pylades.

While the crowd seemed to like his response, they would take a lot of convincing from one so young. Pylades no doubt had this in mind as he made his way down to where Teutamus was standing, in the middle of the dancing circle.

But youth was not his only crime. Partly because he was Tryphon’s son and partly because of his Alexandrian appearance, a few of the older dye-workers greeted him with remarks like:

“You tell them, bluey!”

“Can’t your Pa speak?”

“Who’s your hairdresser, pretty-boy?”

And just as Pylades was about to begin, “Guess who’s been to Alexandria?”

The last remark brought forth a roar of laughter. When it subsided, as if he hadn’t understood, Pylades cupped his hand to his ear. “Guess who …?”

“Guess who’s been to Alexandria!” repeated the heckler, proud of his success.

“I have,” replied Pylades, “and …”

He turned to face the dye-worker—almost bald, as it happened—who had asked who his barber was—and said, “My hairdresser is Charistratus the Lydian.” Again the crowd roared, and even more so when, after the laughter ceased, Pylades continued, “You’ll find him on the Esplanade, near the southern end of the Heptastadium. Tell him who sent you, Pylades the Tyrian, and ask for the same thing, and he’s sure to give you a discount.”

From this moment, the young man had his fellow Tyrians in the palm of his hand. When they had finished laughing, he said, “Now, if I may speak seriously, what I want to say is this. And yes, I am drawing on my experience in Alexandria.”

Reaching into his belt he took out three coins, which he held up one by one to the crowd.

“I have here three obols. Not Tyrian obols, but newly struck in …?” He moved close to Teutamus and showed them to him.

“Alexandria,” announced the haranguer, not quite sure what Pylades was up to.

“Teutamus, can you keep a secret?” continued the lighthouse-man’s son, in a stage whisper.

“I’ll do my best,” he replied, clearly ill at ease.

“I wanted to bring Tyrian obols,” Pylades informed him, “but Pa wouldn’t swap. Even though he has bags and bags of them, which he counts every night, sitting up there in the lighthouse. Wouldn’t you like to be a fat-cat, too?”

This time the laughter was at Teutamus’s expense, and his discomfort was evident. Once again, only when the theatre was silent did Pylades continue his demonstration.

“Three Alexandrian obols, three questions, one coin for each.” He held up an obol. “First question. Which of these place-names is the odd man out, and why? Alexandria, Memphis, Tyre, Rhodes, Ephesus, Olympus, Halicarnassus, Babylon.”

He repeated the list, but did not need to. Almost every hand in the theatre was up.

“Yes, sir,” asked Pylades, choosing a citizen at random.

“You’ve named the Seven Wonders of the World. Tyre’s not one of them.”

“Well spoken, sir,” responded Pylades, throwing him the coin. He held up another. “Second obol, second question. Why is Tyre not one of the Wonders of the World? Nor Rome, nor Athens, nor Antioch, nor most cities?”

Again, most of the citizens raised their hands. Pylades chose a woman at random. “Yes, madam?”

“Tyre has no well-known monument, no great temple or statue …”

“Excellent, madam.” He threw her the obol and held up the last.

“Third obol, third question. A little harder than the others.”

He paused, making sure the silence in the theatre was total, then lowered his voice.

“Without spending an obol, I stress that phrase, without spending a good Tyrian obol, how can Tyre make itself the Eighth Wonder of the World?”

This time there were no raised hands. The people sat, waiting for the lighthouse-keeper’s son to enlighten them.

“Citizens of Tyre!” he admonished them, lowering his voice even further. “If you don’t mind this coming from a boy, shouldn’t you be ashamed of yourselves? Are you Phoenician or not? Aren’t we supposed to be the greatest trading people in the world? And are you telling me that you can’t even market your own city? Who says there are Seven Wonders of the World? Why not fourteen, or eight? What’s to stop us marketing ourselves as the Eighth Wonder?”

He let the idea sink in for a few moments, until, from the ink-maker on the front bench, there came the question in everyone’s mind.

“What with?”

“What with, sir? The Dye-Works, of course.”

The thought of our factory taking its place alongside the Temple of Artemis or the Pyramids made the Tyrians laugh at the incongruity. Unperturbed, Pylades went on.

“Yes, my friends, the Dye-Works. What industry in the world is as famous as our purple-dye manufacture? As spectacular to observe? Can’t you see that what we have to do is …”

As he went on to expound it, his idea was glaringly obvious. What better resource did Tyre have, he asked, than to bring paying visitors to the city to visit the Dye-Works. “Senso-tourism,” he called it. Great monuments the existing Wonders of the World might be, he said, but they were mere objects, satisfying one sense only, that of sight. You could look at them, and yes, touch them, maybe lick the stonework if you wanted, or in the case of Alexandria’s Lighthouse, strain from far below to hear the burning wood crackle, but that was all.

Not so our Dye-Works. Here you get all five senses full on, he reminded us. Not only smell but sight, sound, touch, and for those brave enough to try, taste. One could imagine a tourist circuit organised in such a way that people would pay separately to experience each sense, listening in one room to the noises coming from a tub of decaying shellfish, in another putting their hands into a vat and feeling the cloth, concluding with a tasting-room where the more daring members of a tour group might be persuaded to taste the dye-liquid. Cleverly promoted by Tyre’s merchants when abroad, such tourism would give the city a second source of income, and stave off the Dye-Works’ need for metacontextualisation. What was to stop the Merchants’ Council from launching a publicity campaign in Alexandria, Athens and elsewhere, through the traders on every ship leaving our port, to promote the Dye-Works as the Eighth Wonder of the World? One which, unlike the others, was not made of stone or metal, but centred on industry, on men at work …

The cheers and applause which greeted Pylades’s exposition of his scheme showed that he had convinced the assembly, and for days afterwards it was the talk of the marketplace. By the consensus of all, the lighthouse-keeper’s son had accomplished three things.

First, with his reference to fat-cats, he had avenged his father.

Second, not least with his sky-blue hair, he had confirmed that age and exper­ience, even the collective wisdom of a city, are no match for youth’s eternal question, “Why not?”

Third, he had served notice on Teutamus that his days as Tyre’s best-known haranguer were numbered. Better than that, that in Pylades our city now had the makings not merely of a haranguer but of an orator.

As for the idea he put forward, making the Dye-Works the Eighth Wonder of the World through senso-tourism, it has put the Guild’s plans to metacontextualise production on hold, and is making headway in the Merchants’ Council. If one is to believe the talk in the marketplace, that is. From what I heard yesterday, over a cup of Cypriot wine with Tryphon, the merchants like the idea so much that they have set up an action team of their own to appraise it, the action team has commissioned a working party to conduct a feasibility study, and it is anticipated that the working party will submit its report around this time next year.

Frank Murphy, who lives in Melbourne, is a linguist and teacher, and was formerly Head of Languages at Xavier College, Kew. This is the fifth of the stories in his Tyrian series to appear in Quadrant.