The Magus, A Revised Version

by John Fowles

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hallo, Alison.’

  ‘Sorry. Late as usual.’

  She spoke as if we had last met the week before. But it didn’t work. The nine months stood like a sieve between us, through which words came, but none of the emotions.

  ‘Shall we go?’

  I took the airline bag she was carrying and led her out to a taxi. Inside we sat in opposite corners and looked at each other again. She smiled.

  ‘I thought you wouldn’t come.’

  ‘I didn’t know where to send my refusal.’

  ‘I was cunning.’

  She glanced out of the window, waved to a man in uniform. She seemed older to me, over-experienced by travel; needing to be learnt again, and I hadn’t the energy.

  ‘I’ve got you a room overlooking the port.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘They’re so bloody stuffy in Greek hotels. You know.’

  ‘Toujours the done thing.’ She gave me a tweak of irony from her grey eyes, then covered up. ‘It’s fun. Vive the done thing.’ I nearly made my prepared speech, but it annoyed me that she assumed I hadn’t changed, was still slave to English convention; it even annoyed me that she felt she had to cover up. She held out her hand and I took it and we pressed fingers. Then she reached out and took off my dark glasses.

  ‘You look devastatingly handsome now. Do you know that? You’re so brown. Dried in the sun, sort of beginning to be ravaged. Jesus, when you’re forty.’

  I smiled, but I looked down and let go of her hand to get a cigarette. I knew what her flattery meant; the invitation extended.

  ‘Alison, I’m in a sort of weird situation.’

  It knocked all the false lightness out of her. She stared straight ahead.

  ‘Another girl?’

  ‘No.’ She flashed a look at me. ‘I’ve changed, I don’t know how one begins to explain things.’

  ‘But you wish to God I’d kept away.’

  ‘No, I’m … glad you’ve come.’ She glanced at me suspiciously again. ‘Really.’

  She was silent for a few moments. We moved out on to the coast road.

  ‘I’m through with Pete.’

  ‘You said.’

  ‘I forgot.’ But I knew she hadn’t.

  ‘And I’ve been through with everyone else since I’ve been through with him.’ She kept staring out of the window. ‘Sorry. I ought to have started with the small talk.’

  ‘No. I mean … you know.’

  She slid another look at me; hurt and trying not to be hurt. She made an effort. ‘I’m living with Ann again. Only since last week. Back in the old flat. Maggie’s gone home.’

  ‘I liked Ann.’

  ‘Yes, she’s nice.’

  There was a long silence as we drove down past Phaleron. She stared out of the window and after a minute reached into her white handbag and took out her dark glasses. I knew why, I could see the lines of wet light round her eyes. I didn’t touch her, take her hand, but I talked about the difference between the Piraeus and Athens, how the former was more picturesque, more Greek, and I thought she’d like it better. I had really chosen the Piraeus because of the small, but horrifying, possibility of running into Conchis and Julie. The thought of her cool, amused and probably contemptuous eyes if such a thing happened sent shivers down my spine. There was something about Alison’s manner and appearance; if a man was with her, he went to bed with her. And as I talked, I wondered how we were going to survive the next three days.

  I tipped the boy and he left the room. She went to the window and looked down across the broad white quay, the slow crowds of evening strollers, the busy port. I stood behind her. After a moment’s swift calculation I put my arm round her and at once she leant against me.

  ‘I hate cities. I hate aeroplanes. I want to live in a cottage in Ireland.’

  “Why Ireland?’

  ‘Somewhere I’ve never been.’

  I could feel the warmth, the willingness to surrender, of her body. At any moment she would turn her face and I would have to kiss her.

  ‘Alison, I… don’t quite know how to break the news.’ I took my arm away, and stood closer to the window, so that she could not see my face. ‘I caught a disease two or three months ago. Well… syphilis.’ I turned and she gave me a look – concern and shock and incredulity. ‘I’m all right now, but… you know, I can’t possibly

  ‘You went to a … ‘I nodded. The incredulity became credulity. She looked down.

  ‘You had your revenge.’

  She came and put her arms round me. ‘Oh Nicko, Nicko.’

  I said over her head, ‘I’m not meant to have oral or closer contact for at least another month. I didn’t know what to do. I ought never to have written. This was never really on.’

  She let go of me and went and sat on the bed. I saw I had got myself into a new corner; she now thought that this satisfactorily explained our awkwardness till then. She gave me a kind, gentle little smile.

  ‘Tell me all about it.’

  I walked round and round the room, telling her about Patarescu and the clinic, about the poetry, even about the venture at suicide, about everything except Bourani. After a while she lay back on the bed, smoking, and I was unexpectedly filled with a pleasure in duplicity; with that pleasure, I imagined, Conchis felt when he was with me. In the end I sat on the end of the bed. She lay staring up at the ceiling.

  ‘Can I tell you about Pete now?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I half listened, playing my part, and suddenly began to enjoy being with her again; not particularly with Alison, but being in this hotel bedroom, hearing the murmur of the evening crowds below, the sound of sirens, the smell of the tired Aegean. I felt no attraction and no tenderness for her; no real interest in the break-up of her long relationship with the boor of an Australian pilot; simply the complex, ambiguous sadness of the darkening room. The light had drained out of the sky, it became rapid dusk. All the treacheries of modern love seemed beautiful, and I had my great secret, safe, locked away. It was Greece again, the Alexandrian Greece of Cavafy; there were only degrees of aesthetic pleasure; of beauty in decadence. Morality was a North European lie.

  There was a long silence.

  She said, ‘Where are we, Nicko?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  She was leaning on her elbow, staring at me, but I wouldn’t look round at her.

  ‘Now I know – of course … ‘ she shrugged. ‘But I didn’t come to be your old chum.’

  I put my head in my hands.

  ‘Alison, I’m sick of women, sick of love, sick of sex, sick of everything. I don’t know what I want. I should never have asked you to come.’ She looked down, seeming tacitly to agree. ‘The fact is… well, I suppose I have a sort of nostalgia for a sister at the moment. If you say fuck that – I understand. I have no right not to understand.’

  ‘All right.’ She looked up again. ‘Sister. But one day you’ll be cured.’

  ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know.’ I sounded suitably distraught. ‘Look – please go away, curse me, anything, but I’m a dead man at the moment.’ I went to the window. ‘It’s all my fault. I can’t ask you to spend three days with a dead man.’

  ‘A dead man I once loved.’

  A long silence crept between us. But then she briskly sat up and got off the bed; and went and switched on the light and combed her hair. She produced the jet earrings I had left that last day in London and put them on; then lipstick. I thought of Julie, of lips without lipstick; coolness, mystery, elegance. It seemed almost marvellous, to be so without desire; at last in my life, to be able to be so faithful.

  By an unhappy irony the way to the restaurant I had chosen lay through the red-light area of the Piraeus. Bars, multilingual neon signs, photos of strippers and bellydancers, sailors in lounging groups, glimpses through bead curtains of Lautrec-like interiors, women in lines along the padded benches. The streets were thronged with pimps and tarts, barrow-boys selling p
istachios and sunflower-pips, chestnut-sellers, pasty-sellers, lottery-ticket hawkers. Doormen invited us in, men slid up with wallets of watches, packets of Lucky Strike and Camel, shoddy souvenirs. And every ten yards someone whistled at Alison.

  We walked in silence. I had a vision of ‘Lily’ walking through that street, and silencing everything, purifying everything; not provoking and adding to the vulgarity. Alison had a set face, and we started to walk quickly to get out of the place; but I thought I could see in her walk a touch of that old amoral sexuality, that quality she could not help offering and other men noticing.

  When we got to Spiro’s, she said, too brightly, ‘Well, brother Nicholas, what are you going to do with me?’

  ‘Do you want to call it off?’

  She twisted her glass of ouzo.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I asked first.’

  ‘No. Now you.’

  ‘We could do something. Go somewhere you haven’t seen.’ To my relief she’d already told me that she had spent a day in Athens earlier that summer; had done the sights.

  ‘I don’t want to do a tourist thing. Think of something no one else ever does. Somewhere where we shall be alone.’ She added quickly, ‘Because of my job. I hate people.’

  ‘How’s your walking?’

  ‘I’d love to. Where?’

  ‘Well, there’s Parnassus. Apparently it’s a very easy climb. Just a long walk. We could hire a car. Go on to Delphi afterwards.’

  ‘Parnassus?’ She frowned, unable to quite place it.

  ‘Where the muses dash about. The mountain.’

  ‘Oh, Nicholas!’ A flash of her old self; the headlong willingness to go.

  Our barhounia came and we started eating. She suddenly became over-vivacious, over-excited by the idea of climbing Parnassus, and she drank glass for glass of retsina with me; did everything that Julie would never have done; then called, in her characteristic way, her own bluff.

  ‘I know I’m trying too hard. But you make me like that.’

  ‘If–’

  ‘Nicko.’

  ‘Alison, if only you – ‘

  ‘Nicko, listen. Last week I was in my old room in the flat. The first night. And I could hear footsteps. Upstairs. And I cried. Just as I cried in the taxi today. Just as I could cry now but I’m not going to.’

  She smiled, a little twisted smile. ‘I could even cry because we keep on using each other’s names.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we?’

  ‘We never did. We were so close we didn’t have to. But what I’m trying to say is … all right. But please be kind to me. Don’t always sit so in judgment on everything I say, everything I do.’ She stared at me and forced me to look her in the eyes. ‘I can’t help being what I am.’ I nodded, looked sorry and touched her hand to mollify her. The one thing I did not want was a row; emotion; this eternal reattachment to the past.

  After a moment she bit her mouth and the small grins we exchanged then were the first honest looks since we had met.

  I said good night to her outside her room. She kissed me on the cheek, and I pressed her shoulders as if, really, it was a far, far better thing that I did then than woman could easily imagine.

  39

  By half past eight we were on the road. We drove over the wide mountains to Thebes, where Alison bought herself some stronger shoes and a pair of jeans. The sun was shining, there was a wind, the road empty of traffic, and the old Pontiac I had hired the night before still had some guts in its engine. Everything interested Alison – the people, the country, the bits in my 1909 Baedeker about the places we passed. Her mixture of enthusiasm and ignorance, which I remembered so well from London, didn’t really irritate me any more. It seemed part of her energy, her candour; her companionability. But I had, so to speak, to be irritated; so I seized on her buoyancy, her ability to bob up from the worst disappointment. I thought she ought to have been more subdued, and much sadder.

  She asked me at one point whether I had discovered any more about the waiting-room; but, eyes on the road, I said no, it was just a villa. What Mitford had meant was a mystery; and then I slid the conversation off on to something else.

  We drove fast down the wide green valley between Thebes and Livadia, with its cornfields and melon-patches. But near the latter place a large flock of sheep straggled across the road and I had to slow down to a stop. We got out to watch them. There was a boy of fourteen, in ragged clothes and grotesquely large army boots. He had his sister, a dark-eyed little girl of six or seven, with him. Alison produced some airline barley-sugar. But the little girl was shy and hid behind her brother’s back. Alison squatted in her green sleeveless dress ten feet away, holding out the sweet, coaxing. The sheep-bells tinkled all around us, the girl stared at her, and I grew restless.

  ‘How do I ask her to come and take it?’

  I spoke to the little girl in Greek. She didn’t understand, but her brother decided we were trustworthy and urged her forward.

  ‘Why is she so frightened?’

  ‘Just ignorance.’

  ‘She’s so sweet.’

  Alison put a piece of barley-sugar in her own mouth and then held out another to the child, who pushed by her brother went slowly forwards. As she reached timidly for the barley-sugar Alison caught her hand and made her sit beside her; unwrapped the sweet. The brother came and knelt by them, trying to get the child to thank us. But she sat gravely sucking. Alison put her arm round her and stroked her cheeks.

  ‘I shouldn’t do that. She’s probably got lice.’

  ‘I know she’s probably got lice.’

  She didn’t look up at me or stop caressing the child. But a second later the little girl winced. Alison bent back. ‘Look at this, oh, look at this.’ It was a small boil, scratched and inflamed, on the child’s shoulder. ‘Bring my bag.’ I went and got it and watched her poke back the dress and rub cream on the sore place, and then without warning dab some on the child’s nose. The little girl rubbed the spot of white cream with a dirty finger, and suddenly, like a crocus bursting out of winter earth, she looked up at Alison and smiled.

  ‘Can’t we give them some money?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They’re not beggars. They’d refuse it anyway.’

  She fished in her bag and produced a small note, and held it out to the boy and pointed to him and the girl. They were to share it. The boy hesitated, then took it.

  ‘Please take a photo.’

  I went impatiently to the car, got her camera, and took a photo. The boy insisted that we take his address; he wanted a copy, to remember.

  We started back for the car with the little girl beside us. Now she seemed unable to stop smiling – that beaming smile all Greek peasant children have hidden behind their solemn shyness. Alison bent and kissed her, and as we drove off, turned and waved. And waved again. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her bright face turn to me, then take in my expression. She settled back.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t realize we were in such a hurry.’

  I shrugged; and didn’t argue.

  I knew exactly what she had been trying to tell me. Perhaps not all of it had been put on for me; but some of it had. We drove for a mile or two in silence. She said nothing until we got to Livadia. We had to talk then, because there was food to buy.

  It should have cast a shadow over the day. But it didn’t, perhaps be-because it was a beautiful day and the landscape we came into one of the greatest in the world; what we were doing began to loom, like the precipitous blue shadow of Parnassus itself, over what we were. We wound up the high hills and glens and had a picnic lunch in a meadow dense with clover and broom and wild bees. Afterwards we passed the crossroad where Oedipus is reputed to have killed his father. We stopped and stood among the sere thistles by a drystone wall; an anonymous upland place, exorcized by solitude. All the way in the car up to Arachova, prompted by Alison, I talked about my own father, and perhaps for the first time in my life without bitternes
s or blame; rather in the way that Conchis talked about his life. And then as I glanced sideways at Alison, who was against the door, half-turned towards me, it came to me that she was the only person in the world that I could have been talking like that to; that without noticing it I had slipped back into something of our old relationship … too close to need each other s names. I looked back to the road, but her eyes were still on me, and I had to speak.

  ‘A penny for them.’

  ‘How well you look.’

  ‘You haven’t been listening.’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘Staring at me. It makes me nervous.’

  ‘Can’t sisters look at their brothers?’

  ‘Not incestuously.’

  She sat back obediently against the seat, and craned up at the colossal grey cliffs we were winding under.

  ‘Just a walk.’

  ‘I know. I’m having second thoughts.’

  ‘For me or for you?’

  ‘Mainly for you.’

  ‘We’ll see who drops first.’

  Arachova was a romantic shoulder of pink and terracotta houses, a mountain village perched high over the Delphi valley. I made an inquiry and was sent to a cottage near the church. An old woman came to the door; beyond her in the shadows stood a carpet-loom, a dark-red carpet half-finished on it. A few minutes’ talk with her confirmed what the mountain had made obvious.

  Alison looked at me. ‘What’s she say?’

  ‘She says it’s about six hours’ walk. Hard walk.’

  ‘But that’s fine. It’s what Baedeker says. One must be there at sundown.’ I looked up at the huge grey mountainside. The old woman unhooked a key from behind the door. ‘What’s she saying?’

  ‘There’s some kind of hut up there.’

  ‘Then what are we worrying about?’