The Magus, A Revised Version (78 page)

I didn
’
t acknowledge that, either, and he went on inside. I believed him, as regards no one coming, but I had begun to smile to myself in the darkness. I knew that the threat to walk out at once had secretly alarmed him; had forced him to toss me another hasty carrot, a reason to stay. It must all have been a test, some sort of ordeal to be passed before I entered the inner circle … at any rate, I felt more than ever certain that the girls were on the yacht. I had, so to speak, been brought before the execution squad, but this time there was to be a last-minute reprieve. The longer he denied me Julie now, the more he followed the philosophy of a Wimmel … and at least I knew Conchis was a very different human being; if he was cruel it was, by his lights, to be kind.

I smoked one cigarette, another. There was a great stewing stillness, an oppressiveness, a silence. The gibbous moon hung over the planet Earth, a dead thing over a dying thing. I got up and strolled across the gravel to the seat on the path down to the beach.

I had not expected such a finale: the statue of stone in the comic door. But then he couldn
’
t have known of its secret relevance to me. He had simply guessed that for me freedom meant the freedom to satisfy personal desire, private ambition. Against that he set a freedom that must be responsible for its actions; something much older than the existentialist freedom, I suspected
–
a moral imperative, an
almost Christian concept, certainly not a political or democratic one. I thought back over the last few years of my life, the striving for individuality that had obsessed all my generation after the limiting and conforming years of the war, our retreat from society, nation, into self. I knew I couldn
’
t really answer his charge, the question his story posed; and that I could not get
off
by claiming that I was a historical victim, powerless to be anything else but selfish
–
or I should not be able to get
off
from now on. It was as if he had planted a bandillera in my shoulder, or a succubus on my back: a knowledge I did not want.

Once more my mind wandered, in the grey silences of the night, not to Julie, but to Alison. Staring out to sea, I finally forced myself to stop thinking of her as someone still somewhere, if only in memory, still obscurely alive, breathing, doing, moving, but as a shovelful of ashes already scattered; as a broken link, a biological dead end, an eternal withdrawal from reality, a once complex object that now dwindled, dwindled, left nothing behind except a smudge like a fallen speck of soot on a blank sheet of paper.

As something too small to mourn; the very word was archaic and superstitious, of the age of Browne, or Hervey; yet Donne was right, her death detracted, would for ever detract, from my own life. Each death laid a dreadful charge of complicity on the living; each death was incongenerous, its guilt irreducible, its sadness immortal; a bracelet of bright hair about the bone.

I
did not pray for her, because prayer has no efficacy; I did not cry for her, or for myself, because only extraverts cry twice; but I sat in the silence of that night, that infinite hostility to man, to permanence, to love, remembering her, remembering her.

Ten o
’
clock. I woke and swung out of bed, aware that I had overslept; shaved in a hurry. Somewhere below I could hear hammering, a man
’
s voice, and what sounded like Maria
’
s. But the colonnade was deserted when I came down. By the wall I saw four wooden crates. It was obvious that three of them had paintings inside. I looked back
inside the music-room. The Modigliani had gone; so had the little Rodin and the Giacometti; and I guessed that the other two crates held the Bonnards from upstairs. My optimism of the night before swiftly vanished before this evidence that the
‘
theatre
’
was being dismantled. I had a dreadful intuition that Conchis meant exactly what he had said.

Maria appeared with c
off
ee for me. I gestured at the crates.

‘
What
’
s happening?
’

‘
Phygoume.
’
We
’
re going.

‘
O
kyrios Conchis
?’

‘
Tha
elthei.
’

He
’
s coming. I gave up with her, swallowed a cup of c
off
ee, another. There was a bright wind, it was a Dufy day, all bustle, movement, animated colour.
I
walked over to the edge of the gravel. The yacht was alive now, I could see several people on deck, but none seemed female. Then I glanced back to the house. Conchis stood under the colonnade, as if waiting for me to return.

He wore clothes that were somehow as incongruous as if he had been wearing fancy-dress. He looked exactly like some slightly intellectual businessman: a black leather briefcase; a dark blue summer suit, a cream shirt, a discreetly polka-dotted bow tie. It was perfect for Athens, but ridiculous on Phraxos … and unnecessary, since he would have had at least six hours on his yacht to change, except as a proof to me that his other world had already claimed him. He did not smile as I came up to him.

‘
I am leaving very shortly.
’
He glanced at his wrist-watch, an object I had never seen him wear before.
‘
This time tomorrow I shall be in Paris.
’

The wind rattled the shimmering vegetal glass of the palm-fronds. The last act was to be played
presto.

‘
A quick curtain?
’

‘
No real play has a curtain. It is acted, and then it continues to act.
’

We stared at each other.

‘
The girls?
’

‘
Are accompanying me to Paris.
’
I
took a breath, and gave him a little grimace of scepticism. He said,
‘
You are being very naive.
’

‘
In what way?
’

‘
In supposing that rich men give up their toys.
’

‘
Julie and June are not your toys.
’
He smiled without humour, and I said angrily,
‘
I don
’
t swallow that one, either.
’

‘
You think intelligence and good taste, to say nothing of good looks, camiot be bought? You are profoundly mistaken.
’

‘
Then you have a very unfaithful pair of mistresses.
’

I continued to amuse him.
‘
When you are older you will realize that infidelity of that sort is of no importance. I pay for their appearance, their presence, their conversation. Not their bodies. At my age, the demand there is easily met.
’

‘
Are you really expecting me to
–’

He cut me short.
‘
I know what you are thinking. I have them locked away in a cabin. Under duress somewhere
–
some such conclusion to the nonsense we have been feeding you.
’
He shook his head.
‘
We did not meet last weekend for a very simple reason. So that Lily might decide which she preferred
–
life with a penniless and, I suspect, ungifted schoolmaster … or an existence in a much richer and more interesting world.
’

‘
If she
’
s what you say she is, she wouldn
’
t have to think twice.
’

He folded his arms.
‘
If it is any consolation to your self-esteem, she did. But she finally had the good sense to see that a long, dull and predictable future was an expensive price to pay for the satisfaction of a passing sexual attraction.
’

I left a brief silence, then put down my c
off
ee.
‘
Lily? And what did you say, Rose?
’

‘
I told you last night.
’

I stared at him, then took out my wallet, found the letter from Barclay
’
s Bank and pushed it at him. He took it, but only gave it a cursory glance.

‘
A forgery. I am sorry.
’

I snatched the letter back from his hands.
‘
Mr Conchis, I want to see those two girls. I also know the story of how you got them here in the first place. The police might be interested in that.
’

‘
Then they must be interested in Athens. Since the girls are there -and will laugh your charge to ridicule in the first minute.
’

‘
I don
’
t believe you. They
’
re on the yacht.
’

‘
You may come aboard with me in a minute. If you insist. Look where you like. Question my crew. We will return you to shore before we sail.
’

I knew he could be bluffing, but I had a strong idea that he wasn
’
t
–
and anyway, if he was holding them under duress, he would not risk using such an obvious place.

‘
All right. I
’
ll give you credit for being cleverer than that. But I
’
ll have the whole matter in British Embassy hands as soon as I get to the village.
’

‘
I do not think the Embassy will be amused. When they discover that their aid is being invoked by a mere disappointed lover.
’
He went on quickly, as if this display of futile threat was boring him.
‘
Now. Two of my cast wish to say goodbye to you.
’
He walked back to the corner of the house.

‘
Catherine!
’

It was pronounced in the French way. He turned back to me.

‘
Maria
–
of course
–
is not a simple Greek peasant.
’

But I was not to be diverted so easily. I accused him again.

‘
Quite apart from anything else, Julie … even if she was what you claim … would at least have the courage to tell me all this to my face.
’

‘
Such scenes belong to the old drama. Not the new.
’

‘
That
’
s got nothing to do with what she is.
’

‘
Perhaps one day you will meet her again. You may indulge your masochistic instincts then.
’

We were saved all further argument by the appearance of Maria. She was still an elderly woman, still had a lined face; but she wore a well-cut black suit, a gilt-and-garnet brooch at one lapel. Stockings, shoes with the beginning of high heels, a touch of powder and rouge, lipstick … the sort of middle-class matron of sixty one might see in any fashionable Athens street. She stood with a faint smile -the surprise, the quick-change entrance. Conchis watched me drily.

‘
This is Madame Catherine Athanasoulis, who has made a speciality of peasant roles. She has helped me many times before.
’

He held out a hand politely for her to come nearer. She advanced with an open-palmed gesture, almost one of regret at having deceived me so completely. I gave her a cold and wide-eyed look; she wasn
’
t going to have any compliments from me. She reached out a hand. I ignored it. After a moment, she gave a little mock bow of the head.

Conchis said,
‘
Les valises?

‘
Tout est pr
ê
t.
’
She eyed me.
‘
Eh bien, monsieur. Adieu.
’

She withdrew as composedly as she had come. I had begun to feel something like despair
–
or shock. I knew Conchis was lying, but he was lying at such length, so circumstantially; and I was to have no relief, because he looked across the gravel.