The Magus, A Revised Version (7 page)

‘
And the village?
’

He smiled grimly.
‘
Old boy, your Greek village isn
’
t like an English one. Absolute bloody dump socially. Masters
’
wives. Haifa dozen
off
icials. Odd pater and mater on a visit.
’
He raised his neck, as if his shirt collar was too tight. It was a tic; made him feel authoritative.
‘
A few villas. But they
’
re all boarded up for ten months of the year.
’

‘
You
’
re not exactly selling the place to me.
’

‘
It
’
s remote. Let
’
s face it, bloody remote. And you
’
d find the people in the villas pretty damn dull, anyway. There
’
s one that you might say isn
’
t, but I don
’
t suppose you
’
ll meet him.
’

‘
Oh?
’

‘
Actually, we had a row and I told him pretty effing quick what I thought of him.
’

‘
What was it all about?
’

‘
Bastard collaborated during the war. That was really at the root of it.
’
He exhaled smoke.
‘
No
–
you
’
ll have to put up with the other beaks if you want chat.
’

‘
They speak English?
’

‘
Most of
‘
em speak Frog. There
’
s the Greek chap who teaches English with you. Cocky little bastard. Gave him a black eye one day.
’

‘
You
’
ve really prepared the ground for me.
’

He laughed.
‘
Got to keep
‘
em down, you know.
’
He felt his mask had slipped a little.
‘
Your peasant, especially your Cretan peasant, salt of the earth. Wonderful chaps. Believe me. I know.
’

I asked him why he
’
d left.

‘
Writing a book actually. Wartime experiences and all that. See my publisher.
’

There was something forlorn about him; I could imagine him briskly dashing about like a destructive Boy Scout, blowing up bridges and wearing picturesque
off
-beat uniforms; but
he had to
live in this dull new welfare world, like a stranded archosaur. He went
hurriedly on.

‘
You
’
ll piss blood for England. Be worse for you, with no Greek. And you
’
ll drink. Everyone does. Have to.
’
He talked about
retsina
and
aretsinato, reiki
and
ouzo
–
and then about women.
‘
The girls in
Athens are strictly O.O.B. Unless you want the pox.
’

‘
No talent on the island?
’

‘
Nix, old boy. Women are about the ugliest in the Aegean. And anyway
–
village honour. Makes that caper highly dangerous. Shouldn
’
t advise it. Discovered that somewhere else once.
’
He gave me a curt grin, with the appropriate hooded look in his eyes.

I drove him back towards his club. It was a bronchial mid-afternoon, already darkening, the people, the traffic, everything fish-grey. I asked him why he hadn
’
t stayed in the Army.

‘
Too damn orthodox, old boy. Specially in peacetime.
’

I guessed that he had been rejected for a permanent commission; there was something obscurely wild and unstable about him, under the mess mannerisms.

We came to where he wanted to be dropped
off
.

‘
Think I
’
ll do?
’

His look was doubtful.
‘
Treat
‘
em tough. It
’
s the only way. Never let
‘
em get you down. They did the chap before me, you know. Never met him, but apparently he went bonkers. Couldn
’
t control the boys.
’

He got out of the car.

‘
Well, all the best, old man.
’
He grinned.
‘
And listen.
’
He had his hand on the door-handle.
‘
Beware of the waiting-room.
’

He closed the door at once, as if he had rehearsed that moment. I opened it quickly and leant out to call after him.
‘
The
what?

He turned, but only to give a sharp wave. The Trafalgar Square crowd swallowed him up. I couldn
’
t get the smile on his face out of my mind. It secreted an omission; something he
’
d saved up, a mysterious last word. Waiting-room, waiting-room, waiting-room; it went round in my head all that evening.

I picked up Alison and we went to the garage that was going to sell the car for me. I
’
d
off
ered it to her some time before, but she had refused.

‘
If I had it I
’
d always think of you.
’

‘
Then have it.
’

‘
I don
’
t want to think of you. And I couldn
’
t stand anyone else sitting where you are.
’

‘
Will you take whatever I get for it? It won
’
t be much.
’

‘
My wages?
’

‘
Don
’
t be silly.
’

‘
I don
’
t want anything.
’

But I knew she wanted a scooter. I could leave a cheque with
‘
Towards a scooter
’
on a card, and I thought she would take that, when I had gone.

It was curious how quiet that last evening was; as if I had already left, and we were two ghosts talking to each other. We arranged what we should do in the morning. She didn
’
t want to come and see me
off
– I
was going by train
–
at Victoria; we would have breakfast as usual, she would go, it was cleanest and simplest that way. We arranged our future. As soon as she could she would try to get herself to Athens. If that was impossible, I might fly back to England at Christmas. We might meet halfway somewhere
–
Rome, Switzerland.

‘
Alice Springs,
’
she said.

In the night we lay awake, knowing each other awake, yet afraid to talk. I felt her hand feel out for mine. We lay for a while without talking. Then she spoke.

‘
If I said I
’
d wait?
’
I was silent.
‘
I think I could wait. That
’
s what I mean.
’

‘
I know.
’

‘
You
’
re always saying
“
I know
”
. But it doesn
’
t answer anything.
’

‘
I know.
’
She pinched my hand.
‘
Suppose I say, yes, wait, in a year
’
s time I shall know. All the time you
’
ll be waiting, waiting.
’

‘
I wouldn
’
t mind.
’

‘
But it
’
s mad. It
’
s like putting a girl in a convent till you
’
re ready to marry her. And then deciding you don
’
t want to marry her. We have to be free. We haven
’
t got a choice.
’

‘
Don
’
t get upset. Please don
’
t get upset.
’

‘
We
’
ve got to see how things go.
’

There was a silence.

‘
I was thinking of coming back here tomorrow night. That
’
s all.
’

‘
I
’
ll write. Every day.
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
It
’
s a sort of test, really. We
’
ll see how much we miss each other.
’

‘
I know what it
’
s like when people go away. It
’
s agony for a week, then painful for a week, then you begin to forget, and then it seems as if it never happened, it happened to someone else, and you start shrugging. You say, dingo, it
’
s life, that
’
s the way things are. Stupid things like that. As if you haven
’
t really lost something for ever.
’

‘I
shan
’
t forget. I shan
’
t ever forget.
’

‘
You will. And I will.
’

‘
We
’
ve got to go on living. However sad it is.
’

After a long time she said,
‘
I don
’
t think you know what sadness is.
’

We overslept in the morning. I had deliberately set the alarm late, to make a rush, not to leave time for tears. Alison ate her breakfast standing up. We talked about absurd things; cutting the milk order, where a library ticket I had lost might be. And then she put down her c
off
ee-cup and we were standing at the door. I saw her face, as if it was still not too late, all a bad dream, her grey eyes searching mine, her small puffy cheeks. There were tears forming in her eyes, and she opened her mouth to say something. But then she leant forward, desperately, clumsily, kissed me so swiftly that I hardly felt her mouth; and was gone. Her camel-hair coat disappeared down the stairs. She didn
’
t look back. I went to the window, and saw her walking fast across the street, the pale coat, the straw-coloured hair almost the same colour as the coat, a movement of her hand to her handbag, her blowing her nose; not once did she look back. She broke into a run. I opened the window and leant out and watched until she disappeared round the corner at the end of the street into
Marylebone Road. And not even then, at the very end, did she look back.

I turned to the room, washed up the breakfast things, made the bed; then I sat at the table and wrote out a cheque for fifty pounds, and a little note.

Alison darling, please believe that if it was to be anyone, it would have been you; that I
’
ve really been far sadder than I could show, if we were not both to go mad. Please wear the earrings. Please take this money and buy a scooter and go where we used to go
–
or do what you want with it. Please look after yourself. Oh God,
if only I was worth waiting for
…
NICHOLAS

It was supposed to sound spontaneous, but I had been composing it on and
off
for days. I put the cheque and the note in an envelope, and set it on the mantelpiece with the little box containing the pair of jet earrings we had seen in a closed antique-shop one day. Then I shaved and went out to get a taxi.

The thing I felt most clearly, when the first corner was turned, was that I had escaped; and hardly less clearly, but much more odiously, that she loved me more than I loved her, and that consequently I had in some indefinable way won. So on top of the excitement of the voyage into the unknown, the taking wing again, I had an agreeable feeling of emotional triumph. A dry feeling; but I liked things dry. I went towards Victoria as a hungry man goes towards a good dinner after a couple of glasses of Mananzilla. I began to hum, and it was not a brave attempt to hide my grief, but a revoltingly unclouded desire to celebrate my release.