The Magus, A Revised Version (43 page)

‘
This experience. It
’
s like being halfway through a book. I can
’
t just throw it in the dustbin.
’

‘
So you throw me instead.
’

I went behind her to try to put my hands on her shoulders, but she jerked angrily away.

‘
Fuck
off
. Just fuck
off
.
’

I sat on the bed and lit a cigarette. Down in the street monotonous Macedonian folk-music skirled from some cafe loudspeaker; but we sat and stood in a strange cocoon of remoteness from even the nearest outside things.

‘
I came to Athens knowing I ought not to meet you. I did my damnedest that first evening and yesterday to prove to myself that I don
’
t have any special feeling for you any more. But it didn
’
t work. That
’
s why I talked. So ineptly. So at the wrong time.
’
She gave no sign of listening; I produced my trump.
‘
Talked when I could have kept quiet. Could still be deceiving you.
’

‘
I
’
m not the one who
’
s deceived.
’

‘
Look
–’

‘
And what the hell does
“
special feeling
”
mean?
’
I was silent.
‘
Christ, you
’
re not just afraid of the
thing
love. You
’
re even afraid of using the word now.
’

‘
I don
’
t know what love is.
’

She spun round.
‘
Well let me tell you. Love isn
’
t only what
I
said it was in that letter. Not turning back to look. Love is pretending to go to work but going to Victoria. To give you one last surprise, one last kiss, one last … it doesn
’
t matter, I saw you buying magazines. That morning I couldn
’
t have laughed with anyone in the world. And yet you laughed. You fucking well stood with a porter and laughed about something. That
’
s when I found out what love was. Seeing the one person you want to live with happy to have escaped from you.
’

‘
But why didn
’
t you
–
‘

‘
You know what I di
d? I crept away. And spent the
whole godawful day curled up on
our
bed. Not because I loved you. Because I was so mad with rage and shame that I loved you.
’

‘
I wasn
’
t to know.
’

She turned away.
‘
I wasn
’
t to know. Christ!
’
Violence hung in the air like static electricity.
‘
Another th
ing. You think love is sex. Let
me tell you something. If I
’
d wanted you just for that, I
’
d have left you straight after the first night.
’

‘
My apologies.
’

She looked at me, took a breath, gave a bitter little smile.
‘
Oh God, now he
’
s hurt. I
’
m trying to tell you that I loved you for you. Not for your blasted prick.
’
She stared back out into the night.
‘
Of course you
’
re all right in bed. But you
’
re not the

Silence.

‘
Best you
’
ve had.
’

‘
If that was what mattered.
’
She came to the end of the bed and leant against it, looking down at me.
‘
I think you
’
re so blind you probably don
’
t even know you don
’
t love me. You don
’
t even know you
’
re a filthy selfish bastard who can
’
t, can
’
t like being impotent, can
’
t
ever
think of anything except number one. Because nothing can hurt you, Nicko. Deep down, where it counts. You
’
ve built your life so that nothing can ever reach you. So whatever you do you can say, I couldn
’
t help it. You can
’
t lose. You can always have your next adventure. Your next bloody affaire.
’

‘
You always twist
–
‘

‘
Twist! Holy Jesus, don
’
t you talk of twisting. You can
’
t even tell a simple fact straight.
’

I looked round at her.
‘
Meaning?
’

‘
All that mystery balls. You think I fall for that? There
’
s some girl on your island and you want to lay her. That
’
s all. But of course that
’
s nasty, that
’
s crude. So you tart it up. As usual. Tart it up so it makes you seem the innocent one, the great intellectual who must have his experience. Always both ways. Always cake and eat it. Always
–’

‘
I swear …
‘
But her impatient jerk away silenced me. She walked up and down the room. I tried another excuse.
‘
Because I don
’
t want to marry you
–
or anyone
–
it doesn
’
t mean I don
’
t love you.
’

‘
That reminds me. That child. You thought I didn
’
t notice. That little girl with the boil. It made you furious. Alison showing how good she is with kids. Doing the mother act. And shall I tell you something? I was doing the mother act. Just for a moment, when she smiled, I did think that. I did think how I
’
d like to have your children and … have my arm round them and have you near me. Isn
’
t that terrible? I have this filthy disgust
ing stinking-taste thing called
love … God, syphilis is
nice
compared to love … and I
’
m so depraved, so colonial, so degenerate that I actually dare show you

‘
Alison.
’

She took a shuddery breath; near tears.

‘
I realized as soon as we met on Friday. For you I
’
ll always be Alison who slept around. That Australian girl who had an abortion. The human boomerang. Throw her away and she
’
ll always come back for another weekend of cheap knock.
’

‘
That
’
s a long way below the belt.
’

She lit a cigarette. I went and stood by the window and she spoke at my back, across the bed and the room, from the door.
‘
All that time, last autumn … I didn
’
t realize then. I didn
’
t realize you can get softer. I thought you went on getting harder. God only knows why, I felt closer to you than I
’
ve ever felt to any other man. God only knows why. In spite of all your smart-alec Pommie ways. Your bloody class mania. So I never really got over your going. I tried Pete, I tried another man, but it didn
’
t work. Always this stupid, pathetic little dream. That one day you
’
d write … so I went mad trying to organize these three days. Betting everything on them. Even though I could see, God how I could see you were just bored.
’

‘
That
’
s not true. I wasn
’
t bored.
’

‘
Thinking about this bit on Phraxos.
’

‘
I
missed you too. Hellishly, those first months.
’

Suddenly she switched the lights on.

‘
Turn round and look at me.
’

I did. She was standing by the door, still in her blue jeans and the dark-blue shirt; her face a grey-and-white mask.

‘
I
’
ve saved some money. And you can
’
t be exactly broke. If you say the word, I
’
ll walk out of my job tomorrow. I
’
ll come on your island and live with you. I said a cottage in Ireland. But I
’
ll take a cottage on Phraxos. You can have that. The dreadful responsibility of having to live with someone who loves you.
’

It was vile, but my one reaction when she said
‘
a cottage on Phraxos
’
was of profound relief that I hadn
’
t told her of Conchis
’
s
off
er.

‘
Or?
’

‘
You can say no.
’

‘
An ultimatum.
’

‘
No sliding. Yes or no.
’

‘
Alison, if
–’

‘
Yes or no.
’

‘
You can
’
t decide these things

Her voice sharpened a pitch.
‘
Yes or no.
’

I stared at her. She gave a tiny humourless twist of her lips and answered for me.

‘
No.
’

‘
Only because

She ran straight to the door and opened it. I felt angry, trapped into this ridiculous either-or choice, this brutal demand for total commitment. I went round the bed towards her, yanked the door away from her grip and slammed it shut again; then caught her and tried to kiss her, reaching past her at the same time to flick
off
the light. The room was plunged into darkness again, but she struggled wildly, jerking her head from side to side. I pulled her back towards the bed and fell with her across it, making it roll and knock both lamp and ashtray
off
the bedside table. I thought she would give in, she must give in, but suddenly she screamed, so loud that it must have pierced all through the hotel and echoed over on the other side of the port.

‘
let me go!
’

I sat back a little and she hit me with her clubbed fists. I caught her wrists.

‘
For God
’
s sake.
’

‘
i
hate you!
’

‘
Keep quiet!
’

I forced her on her side. Someone in the next room banged on the wall. Another nerve-splitting scream.

‘
I
hate you!
’

I slapped the side of her face. She began to sob violently, twisted sideways against the bed-end, fragments of words howled at me between gasps for air and tears.

‘
Leave me alone … leave me alone … you shit… you fucking selfish …
‘
Explosion of sobs, her shoulders racked. I stood and went to the window.

She began to bang the bedrail with her fists, as if she was beyond words. I hated her then; her lack of control, her hyste
ria. I remem
bered that there was a bottle of Scotch downstairs in my room
–
she had brought it for me as a present, the first day.