The Magus, A Revised Version (13 page)

‘
The Albanians were pirates, not poets. Their word for this cape was Bourani. Two hundred years ago it was their slang word for gourd. Also for skull.
’
He moved away.
‘
Death and water.
’

As I walked behind him, I said,
‘
I wondered about the sign by the gate.
Salle d
’
attente.
’

‘
The German soldiers put it there. They requisitioned Bourani during the war.
’

‘
But why that?
’

‘
I think they had been stationed in France. They found it dull being garrisoned here.
’
He turned and saw me smile.
‘
Precisely. One must be grateful for the smallest grain of humour from the Germans. I should not like the responsibility of destroying such a rare plant.
’

‘
You know Germany?
’

‘
It is not possible to know Germany. Only to endure it.
’

‘
Bach? Isn
’
t he reasonably endurable?
’

He stopped.
‘
I do not judge countries by their geniuses. I judge them by their racial characteristics. The ancient Greeks could laugh
at themselves. The Romans could not. That is why France is a civilized
society and Spain is not. That is why I forgive the Jews and the Anglo-Saxons their countless vices. And why I should thank God, if I believed in God, that I have no German blood.
’

We had come to an arbour of bourgainvillaea and morning glory at the end of the kitchen-garden terrace, set back and obliquely. He gestured me in. In the shadows, in front of an outcrop of rock, stood a pedestal. On it was a bronze manikin with a grotesquely enormous erect phallus. Its hands were flung up as well, as if to frighten children; and on its face it had a manic-satyric grin. It was only eighteen inches or so high, yet it emitted a distinct primitive terror.

‘
You know what it is?
’
He was standing close behind me.

‘
Pan?
’

‘
A Priapus. In classical times every garden and orchard had one. To frighten away thieves and bring fertility. It should be made of pearwood.
’

‘
Where did you find it?
’

‘
I had it made. Come.
’
He said
‘
Come
’
as Greeks prod their donkeys; as if, it later struck me, I was a potential employee who had to be shown briefly round the works.

We went back towards the house. A narrow path zigzagged steeply down from in front of the colonnade to the shore. There was a small cove there, not fifty yards across at its cliffed mouth. He had built a miniature
jetty, and a small green and rose-pink boat, an open island boat with an engine fitted, was tied up alongside. At one end of the beach I could see a small cave; drums of kerosene. And there was a little pump-house, with a pipe running back up the cliff.

‘
Would you like to swim?
’

We were standing on the jetty.

‘
I left my trunks at the house.
’

‘
A costume is not necessary.
’
His eyes were those of a chess-player
who has made a good move. I remembered a joke of Demetriades
’
about English bottoms; and the Priapus. Perhaps this was the explana
tion: Conchis was simply an old queer.

‘
I don
’
t think I will.
’

‘
As you please.
’

We moved back to the strip of shingle and sat on a large baulk of timber that had been dragged up away from the water.

I lit a cigarette and looked at him; tried to determine him. I was in something not unlike a mild state of shock. It was not only the fact that this man who spoke English so fluently, who was seemingly cultured, cosmopolitan, had come to
‘
my
’
desert island, had sprung almost overnight from the barren earth, like some weird plant. It was not even that he conformed so little to what I had imagined. But I knew that there must really be some mystery about the previous year, some deliberate and inexplicable suppression on Mitford
’
s part. Second meanings hung in the air; ambiguities, unexpectednesses.

‘
How did you first come here, Mr Conchis?
’

‘
Will you forgive me if I ask you not to ask me questions?
’

‘
Of course.
’

‘
Good.
’

And that was that. I bit my lip. If anyone else had been there I should have had to laugh.

Shadows began to fall across the water from the pines on the bluff to our right, and there was peace, absolute peace over the world; the insects stilled and the water like a mirror. He sat in silence with his hands on his knees, apparently engaged in deep-breathing exercises. Not only his age but everything about him was difficult to tell. Outwardly he seemed to have very little interest in me, yet he watched me; even when he was looking away, he watched me; and he waited. Right from the beginning I had this: he was indifferent to me, yet he watched and he waited. So we sat there in the silence as if we knew each other well and had no need merely to talk; and as a matter of fact it seemed in a way to suit the stillness of the day. It was an unnatural, but not an embarrassing, silence.

Suddenly he moved. His eyes had flicked up to the top of the small cliff to our left. I looked round. There was nothing. I glanced back at him.

‘
Something there?
’

‘
A bird.
’

Silence.

I watched his profiled face. Was he mad? Was he making fun of me? I tried to make conversation again.

‘
I gather you
’
ve met both my predecessors.
’
His head turned on me with a snake-like swiftness, accusingly, but he said nothing. I prompted.
‘
Leverrier?
’

‘
Who told you this?
’

For some reason he was terrified about what we might have said of him behind his back. I explained about the sheet of notepaper, and he relaxed a little.

‘
He was not happy here. On Phraxos.
’

‘
So Mitford told me.
’

‘
Mitford?
’
Again the accusing stare.

‘
I suppose he heard gossip at the school.
’

He searched my eyes,
then nodded, but not very con
vincedly. I smiled at him, and he gave me the trace of a wary smile back. We were playing obscure psychological chess again. I apparently had the advantage, but I didn
’
t know why.

From the invisible house above came the sound of the bell. It rang twice; then after a moment, three times; then twice again. It clearly had a meaning, and it gave a voice to the peculiar state of tension that seemed to pervade both the place and its owner, and which clashed so oddly with the enormous peace of the landscape. Conchis stood at once.

‘
I must go. And you have a long walk.
’

Halfway up the cliff, where the steep path broadened, there was a small cast-iron seat. Conchis, who had set a quickish pace, sat down gratefully on it. He was breathing hard; so was I. He patted his heart. I put on a look of concern, but he shrugged.

‘
When you grow old. The annunciation in reverse.
’
He grimaced.
‘
Not to be.
’

We sat in silence and got our breaths back. I watched the yellowing sky through the delicate fenestrations in the pines. The sky in the
west was hazy. A few evening wisps of cloud were curled high, tranced over the stillness of the world.

Then once more out of the blue he said quietly,
‘
Are you elect?
’

‘
Elect?
’

‘
Do you feel chosen by anything?
’

‘
Chosen?
’

‘
John Leverrier felt chosen by God.
’

‘
I don
’
t believe in God. And I certainly don
’
t feel chosen.
’

‘
I think you may be.
’

I smiled dubiously.
‘
Thank you.
’

‘
It is not a compliment. Hazard makes you elect. You cannot elect yourself.
’

‘
And what chooses me?
’

‘
Chance wears many faces.
’

But then he stood, although his hand rested momentarily on my shoulder, as if to reassure me; to say it did not matter. We climbed the rest of the hill. At last we were on the gravel by the side colonnade. He stopped.

So.

‘
Thank you very much indeed.
’
I tried to get him to return my smile, to confess that he had been pulling my leg; but his brooding face was drained of humour.

‘
I make two requests of you. One is that you tell no one over there that you have met me. This is because of certain events that happened during the war.
’

‘
I
’
ve heard about that.
’

‘
What have you heard?
’

‘
The story.
’

‘
There are two versions of the story. But never mind now. For them I am a recluse. No one ever sees me. You understand?
’

‘
Of course. I shan
’
t tell anyone.
’

I knew what the next request would be: not to visit him again.

‘
My second request is that you come here next weekend. And stay Saturday and Sunday nights. That is, if you do not mind the walking back early on Monday morning.
’

‘
Thank you. Thank you very much. I
’
d love to.
’

‘
I think we have many things to discover.
’

‘
“
We shall not cease from exploration
”
?
’

‘
You read that in the book on the beach?
’

‘
Didn
’
t you leave it for me to read?
’

‘
How should I have known you were coming?
’

‘
I had a feeling someone was watching me.
’

His dark-brown eyes burnt into mine; he took a long moment to reply. The faintest ghost of a smile.

‘
Do you feel you are being watched now?
’

And once again his eyes flicked past my shoulders, as if he could see
something inside the trees. I looked round. The pines were empty. I looked back at him; a joke? He was still smiling, a small dry smile.

‘
Ami?
’

‘
I merely wondered, Mr Urfe.
’
He held out his hand.
‘
If for some reason you cannot come, leave a message at Sarantopoulos
’
s for Hermes. It will get here the next day.
’

Looking as wary as he had begun to make me, I took his hand. He retained it beyond courtesy. There was a stronger pressure in his grip, a quizzical searching in his eyes.

‘
Remember. Hazard.
’

‘
If you say.
’

‘
Go now.
’

I had to smile. It was too absurd
–
the invitation, then this curt dismissal, as if I had exhausted his patience. But he would concede nothing, and in the end I gave him a dry little bow and thanked him for the tea. All I received was a dry little bow in return. I could only make my exit.