The Magus, A Revised Version (3 page)

THE LORD BYRON SCHOOL, PHRAXOS

The Lord Byron School, Phraxos, Greece, requires in early October an assistant master to teach English. Candidates must be single and must have a degree in English. A knowledge of Modern Greek is not essential. The salary is worth about
£600
per annum, and is fully convertible. Two-year contract, renewable. Fares paid at the beginning and end of contract.

There was an information sheet that long-windedly amplified the advertisement. Phraxos was an island in the Aegean about eighty miles from Athens. The Lord Byron was
‘
one of the most famous boarding schools in Greece, run on English public-school lines
’
-whence the name. It appeared to have every facility a school should have. One had to give a maximum of five lessons a day.

‘
The school
’
s terribly
well-spoken
of. And the island
’
s simply heavenly.
’

‘
You
’
ve been there?
’

She was about thirty, a born spinster, with a lack of sexuality so total that her smart clothes and too heavy make-up made her pathetic; like an unsuccessful geisha. She hadn
’
t been there, but everybody said so. I re-read the advertisement.

‘
Why
’
ve they left it so late?
’

‘
Well, we understand they did appoint another man. Not through us. But there
’
s been some awful mess-up.
’
I looked again at the information sheet.
‘
We haven
’
t actually recruited for them before. We
’
re only doing it out of courtesy now, as a matter of fact.
’
She gave me a patient smile; her front teeth were much too big. I asked, in my best Oxford voice, if I might take her out to lunch.

When I got home, I filled in the form she had brought to the restaurant, and went straight out and posted it. That same evening, by a curious neatness of fate, I met Alison.

I suppose I
’
d had, by the standards of that pr
e
-permissive time, a good deal of sex for my age. Girls, or a certain kind of girl, liked me; I had a car
–
not so common among undergraduates in those days -and I had some money. I wasn
’
t ugly; and even more important, I had my loneliness, which, as every cad knows, is a deadly weapon with women. My
‘
technique
’
was to make a show of unpredictability, cynicism, and indifference. Then, like a conjurer with his white rabbit, I produced the solitary heart.

I didn
’
t collect conquests, but by the time I left Oxford I was a dozen girls away from virginity. I found my sexual success and the apparently ephemeral nature of love equally pleasing. It was like being good at golf, but despising the game. One was covered all round, both when one played and when one didn
’
t. I contrived most of my affaires in the vacations, away from Oxford, since the new term meant that I could conveniently leave the scene of the crime. There were sometimes a few tedious weeks of letters, but I soon put the solitary heart away,
‘
assumed responsibility with my total being
’
and showed the Chesterfieldian mask instead. I became almost as neat at ending liaisons as at starting them.

This sounds, and was, calculating, but it was caused less by a true coldness than by my narcissistic belief in the importance of the lifestyle. I mistook the feeling of relief that dropping a girl always brought for a love of freedom. Perhaps the one thing in my favour was that I lied very little; I was always careful to make sure that the current victim knew, before she took her clothes
off
, the difference between coupling and
m
arrying.

But then, in East Anglia, things became complicated. I started to take the daughter of one of the older masters out. She was pretty in a stock English way, as province-hating as myself, and she seemed rather passionate, but I belatedly realized she was passionate for a purpose: I was to marry her. I began to be sick of the way a mere bodily need threatened to distort my life. There were even one or two evenings when I felt myself near surrendering
to Janet, a
fundamentally silly girl I knew I didn
’
t love and would never love.
Our parting scene, an infinitely sour all-night of nagging and weeping in the car beside the July sea, haunted me. Fortunately I knew, and she
knew I knew, that she was not pregnant. I came to London with the firm determination to stay away from women for a while.

The Russell Square flat below the one I had rented had been empty through most of August, but then one Sunday I heard movements, doors slammed, and there was music. I passed a couple of uninteresting-looking girls on the stairs on the Monday; heard them talking, all their short a
’
s flattened into short
e
’
s, as I went on down. They were Australians. Then came the evening of the day I had lunch with Miss Spencer-Haigh; a Friday.

About six, there was a knock on the door, and the stockier of the two girls I had seen was standing there.

‘
Oh hi. I
’
m Margaret. From below.
’
I took her outstretched hand.
‘
Gled to know you. Look, we
’
re heving ourselves a bottle pardy. Like to come along?
’

‘
Oh. Well actually…
’

‘
It
’
ll be noisy up here.
’

It was the usual thing: an invitation to kill complaint. I hesitated, then shrugged.

‘
All right. Thanks.
’

‘
Well thet
’
s good. Eight?
’
She began to go downstairs, but she called back.
‘
You hev a girl-friend you
’
d like to bring?
’

‘
Not just now.
’

‘
We
’
ll fix you up. Hi.
’

And she was gone. I wished then that I hadn
’
t accepted.

So I went down when I could hear that a lot of people had already arrived. The ugly girls
–
they always arrive first
–
would, I hoped, have been disposed of. The door was open. I went in through a little hall and stood in the doorway of the living-room, holding my bottle of Algerian burgundy ready to present. I tried to discover in the crowded room one of the two girls I had seen before. Loud Australian voices; a man in a kilt, and several West Indians. It didn
’
t look my sort of party, and I was within five seconds of slipping back out. Then someone arrived and stood in the hall behind me.

It was a girl of about my own age, carrying a heavy suitcase, with a small rucksack on her shoulders. She was wearing a whitish mackintosh, creased and travel-weary, and she had the sort of tan that only weeks in hot sun can give. Her long hair was not quite blonde, but bleached almost to that colour. It looked odd, because the urchin cut was the fashion: girls like boys, not girls like girls; and there was something German, Danish, about her
–
waif-like, yet perversely or immorally so. She kept back from the open doorway, beckoned me. Her smile was very thin, very insincere, and very curt.

‘
Could you find Maggie and ask her to come out?
’

‘
Margaret?
’

She nodded. I forced my way through the packed room and eventually caught sight of Margaret in the kitchen.

‘
Hi there! You made it.
’

‘
Someone wants to see you outside. A girl with a suitcase.
’

‘
Oh no!
’
She turned to a woman behind her. I sensed trouble. She hesitated, then put down the quart beer-bottle she was opening. I followed her plump shoulders back through the crowd.

‘
Alison! You said next week.
’

‘
I spent all my money.
’
The waif gave the older girl an oddly split look, half guilty and half wary.
‘
Is Pete back?
’

‘
No.
’
The voice dropped, half warning.
‘
But Charlie and Bill are.
’

‘
Oh
mer
de
!
She looked outraged.
‘
I
must
have a bath.
’

‘
Charlie
’
s filled it to cool the beer. It
’
s stecked to the brim.
’

The girl with the tan sagged. I broke in.

‘
Use mine. Upstairs.
’

‘
Yes? Alison, this is…
‘

‘
Nicholas.
’

‘
Would you mind? I
’
ve just come from Paris.
’
I noticed she had two voices; one almost Australian, one almost English.

‘
Of course. I
’
ll take you up.
’

‘
I must go and get some gear first.
’
As soon as she went into the room there was a shout.

‘
Hey Allie! Where you been, girl?
’

Two or three of the Australian men gathered round her. She kissed them all briefly. In a minute Margaret, one of those fat girls who mother thin girls, pushed them away. Alison reappeared with the clothes she wanted, and we went up.

‘
Oh
Jesus,
’
she said.
‘
Australians.
’

‘
Where
’
ve you been?
’

‘
All over. France. Spain.
’

We went into the flat.

‘
I
’
ll just clean the spiders out of the bath. Have a drink. Over there.
’

When I came back, she was standing with a glass of Scotch in her hand. She smiled again, but it was an effort; shut
off
almost at once. I helped her remove her mackintosh. She was wearing a French perfume so dark it was almost carbolic, and her primrose shirt was dirty.

‘
You live downstairs?
’

‘
Uhuh. Share.
’

She raised her glass in silent toast. She had candid grey eyes, the only innocent things in a corrupt face, as if circumstances, not nature, had forced her to be hard. To fend for herself, yet to seem to need defending. And her voice, only very slightly Australian, yet not
English, veered between hars
h
ness, faint nasal rancidity, and a strange
salty directness. She was bizarre, a kind of human oxymoron.

‘
Are you alone? At the party?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
Would you keep with me this evening?
’

‘
Of course.
’

‘
Come back in about twenty minutes?
’

‘
I
’
ll wait.
’

‘
I
’
d rather you came back.
’

We exchanged wary smiles. I went back to the party.

Margaret came up. I think she
’
d been waiting.
‘
I
’
ve a nice English girl enxious to meet you, Nicholas.
’

‘
I
’
m afraid your friend
’
s jumped the gun.
’

She stared at me, then round, then motioned me back into the hall.
‘
Listen, this is a liddle difficult to expline, but… Alison, she
’
s engaged to my brother. Some of his friends are here tonight.
’

‘
So?
’

‘
She
’
s been very mixed up.
’

‘
I still don
’
t understand.
’

‘
Just that I don
’
t want a rough-house. We hed one once before.
’
I looked blank.
‘
People grow jealous on other people
’
s behalf?
’

‘
I shan
’
t start anything.
’

Someone called her from inside. She tried to feel sure of me, but failed, and apparently decided she couldn
’
t do anything about it.
‘
Fair deal. But you hev the message?
’

‘
Absolutely.
’

She gave me a veteran
’
s look, then a nod, not a very happy one, and went away. I waited for about twenty minutes, near the d
o
or, and then I slipped out and went back up to my own flat. I rang the bell. There was a long pause, then there was a voice behind the door.

‘
Who is it?
’

‘
Twenty minutes.
’

The door opened. She had her hair up, and a towel wrapped round her; very brown shoulders, very brown legs. She went quickly back into the bathroom. Draining water gurgled. I shouted through the door.

‘
I
’
ve been warned
off
you.
’

‘
Maggie?
’

‘
She says she doesn
’
t want a rough-house.
’

‘
Fucking cow. She
’
s my potential sister-in-law.
’

‘
I know.
’

‘
Studying sociology. London University.
’
There was a pause.
‘
Isn
’
t it crazy? You go away and you think people will have changed and they
’
re just the same.
’

‘
What does that mean?
’

‘
Wait a minute.
’

I
“
waited several. But then the door opened and she came out into the living-room. She was wearing a very simple white dress, and her hair was down again. She had no make-up, and looked ten times prettier.

She gave me a little bitten-in grin.
‘
I pass?
’

‘
The belle of the ball.
’
Her look was so direct I found it disconcerting.
‘
We go down?
’

‘
Just one finger?
’

I filled her glass again, and with more than one finger. Watching the whisky fall, she said,
‘
I don
’
t know why I
’
m frightened. Why am I frightened?
’

‘
What of?
’

‘
I don
’
t know. Maggie. The boys. The dear old diggers.
’

‘
This rough-house?
’

‘
Oh God. It was
so
stupid. There was a nice Israeli boy, we were just kissing. It was a party. That was all. But Charlie told Pete, and they
just picked a quarrel, and … oh God. You know. He-men.
’

Downstairs I lost her for a time. A group formed round her. I went and got a drink and passed it over someone
’
s shoulder; talk about Cannes, about Collioure and Valencia. Jazz had started in the back room and I went to the doorway to watch. Outside the window, past the dark dancers, were dusk trees, a pale amber sky. I had a sharp sense of alienation from everyone around me. A girl with spectacles, myopic eyes in an insipidly soft face, one of those soulful-intellectual creatures born to be preyed on and exploited by phonies, smiled coyly from the other side of the room. She was standing alone and I guessed that she was the
‘
nice English girl
’
Margaret had picked for me. Her lipstick was too red; and she was as familiar as a species of bird. I turned away from her as from a cliff edge, and went and sat on the floor by a bookshelf. There I pretended to read a paperback.

Alison knelt beside me.
‘
I
’
m sloshed. That whisky. Hey, have
some of this.
’
It was gin. She sat sideways, I shook my head. I thought
of that white-faced English girl with the red smudged mouth. At least this girl was alive; crude, but alive.

‘
I
’
m glad you returned tonight.
’