The Magus

by John Robert Fowles

  I knew I had called her bluff then; regained the initiative. I stood up behind her and lit a cigarette. She sat, looking down in front of her. After a moment her face went down on her knees. The boat came into the cove; Conchis had returned. I waited, thinking that I ought to have realized that a little force would do the trick. She was silent a long time. Then her shoulders gave a little shake. She was pretending to cry.

  “Sorry. No go.”

  She stared round. Her eyes were full of very real tears.

  I knelt beside her.

  She gave a rueful smile and brushed her eyes with the back of her wrist. I put my hand on her shoulder. I could feel the warmth of her skin through the linen; reached in my pocket and found a handkerchief. “Here.” She dabbed at her eyes, and looked at me, with a pleading simplicity.

  “I tried. I tried very hard.”

  “You’re wonderful… you’ve no idea how strange this experience has been. I mean, beautifully strange. Only, you know, it’s one’s sense of reality. It’s like gravity. One can resist it only so long.”

  She handed me back my handkerchief, and we stood up, very close together. I knew I wanted very much to kiss her, to hold her. She looked at me, submissively.

  “A truce?”

  “A truce.”

  “I want you to say nothing for… ten minutes. A little walk, if you like.”

  “I like.”

  “Nothing—not a word?”

  “I promise. If you—”

  But her warning finger was towards my lips. We turned and began to walk up the slope. After a time I took her hand.

  34

  I kept my side of the promise as firmly as I kept hold of her hand. She led me up through the trees to a point higher than where I had forced my way over the gulley the week before, to where there was a path across, with some rough-hewn steps. I had to let go of her hand because of the narrowness of the path, but at the top of the other side she waited and held it out for me to take again. We went over a rise and there, on the upper slope of a little hollow, stood a statue. I recognized it at once. It was a copy of the famous Poseidon fished out of the sea near Euboea at the beginning of the century. I had a postcard of it in my room. The superb man stood on a short raised floor of natural rock that had been roughly leveled off, his legs astride, his majestic forearm pointing south to the sea, as inscrutably royal, as mercilessly divine as any artifact in the history of man; a thing as modern as Henry Moore and as old as the rock it stood on. Even then I was still surprised that Conchis had not shown it to me before; I knew a replica like that must have cost a small fortune; and to keep it so casually, so in a corner, unspoken of… again I was reminded of de Deukans; and of that great dramatic skill, the art of timing one’s surprises.

  We stood and looked at it. She smiled at my impressed face, then led me to a wooden seat under an almond tree on the slope behind the statue. One could see the distant sea over the treetops, but the statue was invisible to anyone close to the shore. We sat down in the shade. I tried to keep her hand, but she curled her legs up and sat twisted towards me with her arm along the back of the seat. I looked at my watch, then at her. The ten minutes was up; and she had recovered her poise, though like a landscape after rain her face seemed less aloof, forever less dry.

  “May I talk?”

  “If you want to.”

  “You’d rather I didn’t.”

  “Sometimes being together is nicer than talking together.”

  “I only want to talk because it gives me an excuse to look at you.”

  “Why not just look?”

  I took up the same position as she had, and we stared at each other along the back of the seat. Her look was so steady, and in a way so newly interested in me, so unmasked, that it made me look down.

  “I’m no good at the staring game.”

  She shut her eyes then, with a faint smile, and it seemed to me that her face was slightly held out in the dappled shade for me to kiss. I bent forward. But she suddenly opened her eyes; they took the color of the light, were green for a moment too; we stared at each other, poised, very close, and then her hand came out and gently pushed me away.

  “No.”

  “Please.”

  “No.”

  “For friendship’s sake. Nothing else.” I glanced at the seaward-facing statue. “While his back’s turned.”

  “No.” But her long smile was widening. I reached out and snicked a white thread that hung from her sleeve. “Why did you do that?”

  “I’m going to put it in a bottle and see if it disappears.”

  “And if it does?”

  “Then I’ll know you’re a witch.” She turned and looked out to sea, as if there was a less agreeable meaning to things. “What’s your real name?”

  “Don’t you like Lily?”

  “Good Lord.” She looked. “You’ve just contracted ‘not’.” She smiled, and repeated her question, still contracting ‘not,’ admitting surrender.

  “Don’t you?”

  “Not much. It’s so Victorian.”

  “Poor Victorians.”

  “What’s your sister’s name?”

  She was silent. She looked at her hands, then out to sea again; made up her mind with a little sideways look.

  “I cried as much because you hadn’t understood. Not because you had. But it’s not your fault.”

  “That’s the oddest sister’s name I’ve ever heard.”

  She would not look at me; or smile.

  “You can’t understand how difficult things are.”

  “Difficult?”

  “I owe Maurice so much. I… it’s impossible, I can’t explain. But I owe him everything. So I must go on doing what he wants.”

  “And your sister is the same?”

  “I can’t lie to him. I don’t mean, I mustn’t. I mean literally—I can’t lie to him.” She sounded miserable, cornered.

  “Anyone can lie to anyone. Can’t they?”

  “You’ll understand tonight.”

  “How?”

  “You’ll understand why I can’t lie to him even if I want to.”

  I changed the attack. “Doing what he wants—what does he want?”

  “What I’ve been being with you.”

  “Mysterious?” She nodded. I sought for the word. “Flirtatious?” She nodded again. I glanced at her downcast face. “So you really don’t like me at all. You just lead me on because he wants you to.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Do you like me?”

  A huge bronze maybug boomed round the upper branches of the almond. The statue stood in the sun and eternally commanded the wind and the sea. I watched her face in shadow, hanging a little.

  “Yes.” It was very brief; reluctant. “I think so. I mean…” she sounded and looked genuinely shy. I reached out and touched her hand; then leant forward.

  “When can I see you again? Not here. Somewhere else.”

  She would not look up.

  “I’m not allowed outside Bourani.”

  “He won’t let you go out?”

  She shook her head; I had misunderstood.

  “I can’t let myself go out. For the same reason. Not being able to lie.”

  “You mean he has some way of forcing the truth out of you?”

  “Not forcing. It’s more complicated than that.” She said, but vaguely as if against her will. “I love him. Please don’t force me to explain.” She looked as if she was on the point of tears again. I took her hand and pressed it.

  “When shall I see you again?”

  “The next time Maurice asks you here.”

  “Next week?”

  “We’re going away next week.”

  “Where will you be?”

  She got up and moved away down the slope towards the statue into the burning light at the center of the glade. I watched her slim shape for a moment, then joined her. She seemed miserably ill at ease. She sat on the rock pedestal, in the shadow of Poseidon; bent and
picked a sprig of oregano and smelt it; would not look up.

  “What does it matter? You’re going to Athens.”

  I narrowed my eyes and looked down at her blonde head. There was a distinct, too distinct, tinge of jealousy in her voice; of hurtness. I sat down abruptly at her feet and forced her to look me in the eyes. She tried to look away, to look reserved and hurt, but I reached out my hand and turned her cheek back.

  “Why do you do that?”

  “I smell a rat. A rat about five feet eight—nine?—inches long.”

  She smiled, at the joke, not at any bluff being called.

  “I didn’t know such monsters existed.”

  “Neither did I. Till this afternoon.”

  Our eyes watched each other in some peculiar zone between teasing, unbelieving, believing, liking; I realized everything with her was in parentheses. What she was outside those parentheses I was no nearer to knowing.

  “We’re being watched. Don’t look round.”

  “Where? Who by? Maurice?”

  “I always know when he’s watching. I can feel it.”

  “You sound as if you owe him nothing but fear at the moment.”

  She gave me a troubled look.

  “It’s what I’m trying to say. Sometimes he makes me do things—I don’t really want to do.”

  “Such as?”

  “He wants me to do what you said. Make you fall in love with me.”

  “Wants you to? In love?” She nodded. “But why, for heaven’s sake? I mean I’m delighted that he does, but—” I was thinking of his advice about Alison. “God, it just doesn’t make sense.”

  “He wants to lead you into a… sort of trap.”

  “And you’re the bait?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have to be the bait? Can’t say no?” She shook her head. “What is the trap?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  I ran my hand over my hair. “I feel as if I’ve been too well spun in a game of blind man’s buff.”

  She smiled, but very briefly. She crumbled the oregano leaves between her fingers. “Maurice doesn’t realize how quick you are. And that I can’t really cope this year. I knew as soon as I saw you last night.”

  I gripped her knee. “This year?” She gave a little smile of confessed guilt; pushed my hand away.

  “Last year it was… easy.”

  “Well, well, well. That bastard Mitford.”

  “Yes, he was. What you say.”

  “You made him fall in love with you?”

  “No! Ugh. I couldn’t. It wasn’t necessary.”

  “Tell me now.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Your name. Where you come from at home. Who you are.”

  She bit her lips as if my fierce interrogation was amusing. “No. I can’t. Not yet.”

  “But you must. It’s ridiculous.”

  Her eyes flicked back towards the house. “Please don’t look upset. Come and sit beside me. Smile a little. As if we’re just teasing and… flirting.” She put on an insincere smile as if to show me the way. I did as she said. “Now put your arm round my shoulders.” Her eyes were down and she looked embarrassed; she drew an unsentimental breath, as if it was all an ordeal.

  “I don’t find this too unpleasant.”

  “I do. I hate it.”

  “You’ve been hiding it pretty well.”

  “You’ve got to kiss me now. Please do it quickly.”

  She turned her head rather desperately and closed her eyes. I looked round at the trees quickly and then kissed her mouth. But it remained tightly held against mine except for one small tremor of response just as she pushed me away.

  “I must go now. I’ve told you too much.”

  She tipped some dust from her eyelashes with her fingertip; then removed my arm from her shoulders.

  “Lily.”

  “I must go. And I wish I could meet you outside Bourani. As if everything was normal.” She gave me a strange look, a moment’s gentle, frank smile, and stood up. I caught her hand.

  “You have me under your spell. You know that?”

  “You have me just as much in your power. If you tell Maurice what I’ve told you… will you seriously, very seriously, promise not to?”

  “I promise, very seriously.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Don’t worry. Nothing.”

  “You will understand tonight.”

  Then the wretched bell rang, trisyllabically, for me again. I looked at my watch. It was teatime.

  “You must go now as well.”

  “To hell with the bell. Unless you come to tea too.”

  “No. I must go. I know he’s watching us.”

  “He said he would?”

  She gave the slightest of nods, then looked urgently at me. “Please, please, if you like me at all, go away now.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “I shall stay here till you’ve gone.”

  “But I’ll see you tonight.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. It’s not for me to—”

  The bell rang peremptorily again.

  “I must see you before next weekend.”

  “I can’t promise anything.”

  “I could meet you here. Not come to the house.”

  “No, no. You mustn’t. Please. You must go.” She looked faintly distraught under the false smiles, and pushed me to make me go.

  “I’ll come on Tuesday, no, damn, oh God and Wednesday I’ve got duties—tomorrow?”

  “No.”

  “Thursday.”

  “No. Please.”

  “Kiss me goodbye.”

  She hesitated, then leaning forward rather as she had that morning, she brushed my cheek with her lips; and whispered.

  “The weekend after, I promise.”

  She freed her hand almost with violence; but her look countermanded it. I went. At the gulley I waved, and she waved back. I said “Yes?” and she gave a minute nod; on the other side, I waved again. Then I saw Conchis.

  He was some sixty yards away through the trees. His back to us, he appeared to be watching some bird high in the trees beyond him through binoculars. After a moment he lowered them, turned, and made as if he had just seen me. I glanced back. Lily was walking slowly to the east. She looked dejected.

  35

  As I walked over the carpet of pine needles to meet him, I decided to be slightly annoyed; and then, when I was close to him, something about his quizzical look made me change tactics. It obviously did not pay at Bourani to look or speak as one felt. I believed, in terms of believing a person’s eyes and voice and gestures, that Lily had not been lying to me—at least in regard to some strain, some tension in her relationship with Conchis; but I knew very well that she could have been lying to me.

  “Hello.”

  “Good afternoon, Nicholas. I must apologize for that sudden absence. There has been a small scare on Wall Street.” Wall Street seemed to be on the other side of the universe; not just of the world. I tried to look concerned.

  “Oh.”

  “I had to go to Nauplia to telephone Geneva.”

  “I hope you’re not bankrupt.”

  “Only a fool is ever bankrupt. And he is bankrupt forever. You have been with Lily?”

  “Yes.”

  We began to walk back towards the house. I sized him up, and said, “And I’ve met her twin sister.”

  He touched the powerful glasses around his neck. “I thought I heard a subalpine warbler. It is very late for them to be still on migration.” It was not exactly a snub, but a sort of conjuring trick: how to make the subject disappear.

  “Or rather, seen her twin sister.”

  He walked several steps on; I had an idea that he was thinking fast.

  “Lily had no sister. Therefore has no sister here.”

  “I only meant to say that I’ve been very well entertained in your absence.”

  He did not smile, but inclined his head. We said nothing more. I h
ad the distinct feeling that he was a chess master caught between two moves; immensely rapid calculation of combinations. Once he even turned to say something, but changed his mind.

  We reached the gravel.

  “Did you like my Poseidon?”

  “Wonderful. I was going to—”

  He put his hand on my arm and stopped me, and looked down, almost as if he was at a loss for words.

  “She may be amused. That is what she needs. But not upset. For reasons you of course now realize. I am sorry for all this little mystery we spread around you before.” He pressed my arm, and went on.

  “You mean the… amnesia?”

  He stopped again; we had just come to the steps.

  “Nothing else about her struck you?”

  “Lots of things.”

  “Nothing pathological?”

  “No.”

  He raised his eyebrows a fraction as if I surprised him, but went up the steps; put his glasses on the old cane couch, and turned back to the tea table. I stood by my chair, and gave him his own interrogative shake of the head.

  “This obsessive need to assume disguises. To give herself false motivations. That did not strike you?”

  I bit my lips, but his face, as he whisked the muslin covers away, was as straight as a poker.

  “I thought that was rather required of her.”

  “Required?” He seemed momentarily puzzled, then clear. “You mean that schizophrenia produces these symptoms?”

  “Schizophrenia?”

  “Did you not mean that?” He gestured to me to sit. “I am sorry. Perhaps you are not familiar with all this psychiatric jargon.”

  “Yes I am. But—”

  “Split personality.”

  “I know what schizophrenia is. But you said she did everything… because you wanted it.”

  “Of course. As one says such things to a child. To encourage them to obey.”

  “But she isn’t a child.”

  “I speak metaphorically. As of course I was speaking last night.”

  “But she’s very intelligent.”

  He gave me a professional look. “The correlation between high intelligence and schizophrenia is well known.”