Lawrence Durrell - The Dark Labyrinth

He did not add to the translation. The guide had told him that once a shepherd, badly mauled, had been found at the mouth of the labyrinth. He had entered the main cave in pursuit of a sheep, and had encountered some animal in the darkness. He had not been able to give any clear account of it.

They had all managed to bring torches with them, however, so he felt that the party was sufficiently well-equipped to start moving. “A minotaur,” said Graecen, sniffing the cold air from the mountains. “If we could take it back to the British Museum how pleased they would be.”

“Well, after all these warnings we may expect either to be eaten alive or buried by a fall of rock. Does anyone feel his courage fail? If so, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.” Campion climbed into the nearest taxi as he spoke, with all his possessions. The rest of them followed.

The idea at the back of Graecen’s mind was a comparatively simple one; he wanted a chance to see the city in the rock, to get to work with his little bottle of acid, before he visited Axelos. He sat, with Baird, in the back seat of the foremost taxi, and meditated as he saw the pink sun-burned neck of Miss Dale, who had sat beside the driver. Her blonde hair had been gathered into a coloured handkerchief to keep it from the dust, and the bright cloth threw into relief her sad cheek-bones, and the small childish mouth when she turned to exclaim at the scenery or ask a question. Graecen had noticed an increase of his sentimental weakness for blonde women; she had been, indeed, a charming if uncultured companion. And so grateful for his help with her literature paper. They had spent whole afternoons sitting side by side and working; Virginia had loved being read to, and he had loved the sound of his own voice. And now somehow, directly his feet had touched the land again, his old preoccupation with the doctor’s diagnosis had come over him. Life was so beautiful in the sun — how could one forfeit it all of a sudden, like a shutter closing? The girl turned back and gave him a little smile, wrinkling up her nose. She had seen some peasants in bright costumes. “Are you all right, Richard?” she said. She used his name with a delightful timidity. Yes, he was all right. But for how long? That was the question.

It seemed to him, too, that Virginia herself was perhaps a little sentimentally inclined towards him. “So after tomorrow,” she had said, “I shan’t see you any more?” It seemed to him that her lip trembled ever so slightly; and he blushed to the roots of his — well, not exactly his hair — to the little bald spot on his crown. Now, sitting in the jolting car, he felt suddenly overwhelmed by the depression of his thoughts, and a haunting longing for someone in whom he could confide. Suddenly he was reminded of those illnesses when he was a boy — how he had enjoyed them. The luxury of those long bouts of measles and mumps. He cast a glance sideways at Baird, half afraid that his thoughts might be told from his expression; but Baird was hunched in his corner, his eyes fixed on the crags ahead of them, thinking — who knows what? — thoughts of his past life.

Graecen returned with pleasure to his own preoccupation with death. He closed his eyes and saw the great white house, set back among the flowering oleanders and the supple green myrtles of Cefalû. The large quiet rooms with their balconies. The chaffer of the fishermen at the mole beyond the clump of cypresses. Did he dare to tell Axelos? And then again, the prospect of keeping his secret filled him with an aching sense of emptiness and gloom. He needed comfort, he needed to be secured against the approaching darkness. What a fool he was, he said to himself, not to have married; to have sacrificed everything for selfish comforts of bachelorhood. Virginia was smiling at him again. At the ball she had danced beautifully — her body had seemed to him so resilient, so warm, so passive; inviting almost. He had felt that subtle correspondence of limbs as he held her lightly against his own body. What had she been thinking? Now, mixed with the desire to re-create the image of his mother through somebody else, there came also the feeling that his life had been worthless, had been untouched at any point except by indifference or gluttony or power. He felt a sudden urge to dedicate himself to something or somebody — to fulfil in patient, indulgent service all that he felt remained in him, seed without flower. Why should he not marry Virginia?

The thought brought him up with a jerk. The suggestion was completely unexpected. Virginia, the pallid little cockney waif — why should he not marry her? Devote himself to her; try and give her life a little meaning, a little form, from his own experience? Share some of his gifts with her? Above all, confide in her, look after her, until such a time as … But he averted his mind from that suddenly closing shutter which was to come down over this sunny world, and concentrated his gaze upon the childish contours of that face in front, whose excitement was manifest in every feature. Poor child, he said to himself, over and over again, thinking of her cockney accent. He had come to enjoy it almost. He had found her errors and defects almost an added charm. Why should he not marry Virginia?

But the whole thing was preposterous. Graecen was one of those hopelessly self-divided people who are so often made the victims of their own whims. Idly he would get an idea, as idly play with it; and then, all of a sudden, find himself dragged protesting towards it. He recognized this as one of those momentous ideas which would, if he did not act, enslave him utterly.

Damn the girl, she was smiling at him again. Apologetically he leaned forward and patted her arm. Virginia’s face melted sympathetically into a kind of smiling sadness. Graecen began calling himself names, but underneath he heard the systematic echo of the idea vibrating in the hollows of his consciousness. Why should he not marry Virginia? “Don’t be a fool,” he said aloud.

“Eh?” said Baird, coming out of his reverie.

“Sorry,” said Graecen with confusion. “I was thinking of something. I was miles away.”

Baird looked tired all of a sudden, and excited. His hand shook as he lit a cigarette. “I think”, he said, “I’ll not come directly to the labyrinth with you. I’ve got some other business to do first.” His effort to make it sound a business transaction was a palpable failure. He averted his eyes and added: “I know where the house is. If you’d be good enough to send on my bag, Graecen, I’ll come in to dinner.” He caught sight of the perplexity on his companion’s face and said: “Oh, it’s nothing serious. Perhaps I’ll be able to explain a little later.”

Graecen primmed his lips and nodded. Baird had already hinted at an official mission. No doubt this had something to do with it.

Canea had gone spinning away southwards with its orange trees and powdery houses of red and white. Painted into the hard blue frame of the horizon lay the unruffled cobalt of the sea, yellow and green where it touched the coastline. The three taxis rumbled across the verdant valleys, trailing behind them a great cloud of soft dust. The queer noise of their klaxons woke the uplands towards which they headed, and curious ink-spot jays dropped down from the trees to watch their progress.

Never had Elsie Truman dreamed of such scenery; flawless in their purity the valleys were picked out in rectangles and squares of colour by the sunlight. It was better, she told her husband, than the best Technicolor film. Riding down the winding roads she pressed his hand under the decent privacy of the rug, and handed him boiled sweets to suck.

Miss Dombey sat beside them, finding the dust very trying. She repeated the charge several times, as if to express her disapproval of a world in which one had to make long journeys in deep dust — and in such company. The implication was not lost on Mrs. Truman. She smiled as she saw Miss Dombey wind her face in a veil and lie back against the moth-eaten hood of the car, closing her eyes. The dog lay quietly at their feet.