The Magus, A Revised Version (55 page)

I turned to the end. The letter was signed
Mummy.
I looked up and she pulled a face.
‘
Sorry.
’

She handed me three other letters. One was evidently from a former fellow-teacher
–
news about people, school activities. Another from a friend who signed herself Claire. One from a bank in London, to June, advising her that
‘
a remittance of
£
100
’
had been received
on May 31st. I memorized the address: Barclay
’
s Bank, EnglandsLane,
London NW3. The manager
’
s name was P.J. Fearn.

‘
And this.
’

It was her passport. Miss J. N. Holmes.

‘
N?
’

‘
Neilson. My mother
’
s family name.
’

I read the
signalement
opposite her photograph.
Profession:
teacher.
Date of birth:
16.1.1929.
Place of birth:
Winchester.

‘
Is Winchester where your father taught?
’

‘
He was the senior classics master there.
’

Country of residence:
England.
Height:
5 ft. 8 in.
Colour of eyes:
grey.
Hair:
fair.
Special peculiarities:
scar on left wrist (twin sister). At the bottom she had signed her name, a neat italic hand. I flicked through the visa pages. Two journeys to France, one to Italy the summer before. An entry visa to Greece made out in April; an entry stamp, May 2nd, Athens. There was none for the year before. I thought back to May 2nd
–
that all this had been preparing, even then.

‘
Which college were you at?
’

‘
Girton.
’

‘
You must know old Miss Wainwright. Doctor Wainwright.
’

‘
At Girton?
’

‘
Chaucer expert. Langland.
’
She stared at me, then looked down, then up again with a little smile: she wasn
’
t falling for that.
‘
Sorry. Okay. You were at Girton. Then a teacher?
’

She mentioned the name of a famous girls
’
grammar school in North London.

‘
That
’
s not very plausible.
’

‘
Why not?
’

‘
Not enough
cachet.
’

‘
I
didn
’
t want
cachet.
I wanted to be in London.
’
She picked at her skirt.
‘
You mustn
’
t think I was born to this sort of life.
’

‘
Why did you want to be in London?
’

‘
June and I did act quite a lot at Cambridge. We both had careers, but
–’

‘
What was hers?
’

‘
She was in advertising. Copy-writing. Not a world I liked very much. Or its men, anyway.
’

‘
I interrupted.
’

‘
I
’
m just saying that neither of us was mad about what we were doing. We got involved with a London amateur company called the Tavistock Rep. They have a little theatre in Canonbury?
’

‘
I
’
ve heard of it.
’

I leant back on an elbow, she sat propped on an arm. Beyond her the deep blue sea merged into the sky
’
s azure. A breeze blew through the pine-branches above us, caressed the skin like a current of warm water. I found her new, her real self, a simplicity and seriousness in her expression, even more delectable than the previous ones. I realized that it was what had been lacking: a sense of her ordinariness, that she was attainable.

‘
Well, last November they put on
Lysistrata.
’

‘
Tell me first why you weren
’
t happy teaching.
’

‘
Are you?
’

‘
No. Or not until I met you.
’

‘
Just… not feeling my heart was in it. The rather prim facade one has to wear?
’

I smiled, and nodded.
‘
Lysistrata.
’

‘
I
thought you might have read about it. No? Anyway, a rather clever producer there called Tony Hill put us both, June and I, in the main part. I stood in front of the stage and spoke the lines, some in Greek, and June did all the acting in mime. It was … in some of the papers, quite a lot of real theatre people came to see it. The production. Not us.
’

She reached in her basket and found a packet of cigarettes. I lit them both and she went straight on.

‘
One day near the end of the run a man came backstage and told us he was a theatrical agent and he had someone who wanted to meet us. A film producer.
’
She smiled at my raised eyebrows.
‘
Of course. And he was so secretive about who it was that it seemed too clumsy and obvious for words. But then two days later we both got enormous bouquets and an invitation to have lunch at Claridge
’
s from someone who signed himself-
‘

‘
Don
’
t bother. I can guess.
’

She bowed her head drily.
‘
We talked it over, then
–
really just for fun-went along.
’
She paused.
‘
I
suppose he dazzled us. We were so sure it was going to be some dreadful pseudo-Hollywood type. Instead there was this… he seemed perfectly open. Obviously very rich, he told us he had business interests all over Europe. He gave us a card, some Swiss address, but he said he lived mainly in France and Greece. He even described Bourani and the island. Everything here. Exactly as it is … as a place.
’

‘
Nothing about his past?
’

‘
We did ask about his English. He said he
’
d wanted to be a doctor as a young man and had studied medicine in London.
’
She shrugged.
‘
I know countless things he told us then were so much eyewash, but putting together all the bits of jigsaw we
’
ve been handed since
–
I think he must have spent a lot of his youth in England. Perhaps he even went to boarding-school at home
–
he was very sarcastic about the English public-school system the other day. It did rather sound from the heart.
’
She put out her cigarette.
‘
I
’
m sure that at some time in his life he rebelled against money. And his father.
’

‘
You
’
ve not discovered … ?
’

‘
That very first time. We did politely ask. I remember exactly what he said.
“
My father was the dullest of human beings. A millionaire with the mind of a shopkeeper.
”
End of subject. We
’
ve never really got any closer than that. Except that he did once say he was born in Alexandria
–
Maurice himself. There is a rich Greek colony there.
’

‘
So something really the opposite of the de Deukans story?
’

‘
I suspect that may have been a temptation Maurice himself underwent at some point. A way he might have used the fortune he inherited.
’

‘
That
’
s how I read it. But you didn
’
t finish at Claridge
’
s.
’

‘
It did all rather bear this out. He was so anxious to put himself across as a cosmopolitan man of culture. Not a mere millionaire. He asked us what we
’
d read at Cambridge
–
which of course allowed him to demonstrate his own reading. Then the contemporary theatre, he obviously knows that very well. What
’
s going on in the rest of Europe. He said he was backing a small experimental theatre in Paris.
’
She took a breath.
‘
Anyway. Cultural credentials thoroughly established. More than thoroughly, we were beginning to wonder why we were there. In the end June, in her usual way, asked point-blank. Whereupon he announced that he was the major shareholder in a film company in the Lebanon.
’
Her grey eyes opened wide at me.
‘
Then. In the next breath. Absolutely out of the blue.
’
She paused.
‘
He wanted us to star in a film this summer.
’

‘
But you must have
…’

‘
Actually we nearly had the giggles. We knew he must really be suggesting something else
–
what we
’
d suspected in the first place.

But then he said the terms.
’
She showed me a still amazed face.
‘
A thousand pounds each when we signed a contract. A thousand more when we finished the making. Plus a hundred pounds a month each for expenses. Of which, it
’
s turned out, we have virtually none.
’

‘
Christ. Have you seen any of it?
’

‘
The contract money. And the expenses… that letter.
’
She looked down, as if I must think her mercenary, and smoothed the nap of the rug.
‘
It
’
s one major reason we
’
ve stuck it here, Nicholas. It
’
s so absurd. We
’
ve done so little to earn it.
’

‘
What was the film supposed to be about?
’

‘
It was to be shot here in Greece. I
’
ll explain in a minute.
’
She gave me an uncertain look.
‘
You mustn
’
t think we were totally innocent. We didn
’
t at all say yes at once. Rather the opposite. And he played his cards so well. He was almost paternal. Of course we couldn
’
t decide at once, we
’
d want to make enquiries, consult our agent
–
not that we actually even had one at that point.
’

‘
Go on.
’

‘
We were driven home
–
in a hired Rolls
–
to think it over. You know, to a pokey top-floor flat in Belsize Park. Like two Cinderellas. He was so clever, he never put any suspicious kind of pressure on us. We saw him, oh
–
twice, three times more. He took us out. Theatre. Opera. Never any attempt to get either of us on our own. I
’
m missing out so many things. But you know what he can be like when he wants to charm you. That feeling he can give of knowing what life
’
s about.
’

‘
What did everyone else think? Your friends
–
this producer man?
’

‘
They thought we ought to be very careful. We found ourselves an agent. He hadn
’
t heard of Maurice or the film company in Beirut. But he soon tracked it down. It makes bread-and-butter pictures for the Arab market. Iraq and Egypt. As Maurice had already told us. He
’
d explained that they wanted to get into the European market. Our film was only to be financed by the Lebanese company for some tax reason.
’