Lawrence Durrell - The Dark Labyrinth

She considered for a long moment. “I suppose you’re afraid,” she said, and added hastily, “I don’t mean of the jump, but of the world. You oughtn’t to be. A great artist should have some control over the world. Not be bowled over by small worries.” Campion listened with fascination to this small Cockney child lecturing him in her flattened Golder’s Green accent; the presumption of her made his hair stand on end; and yet he could find nothing to say in return. He went on drawing with an over-elaborate concentration. It was as he was giving her permission to have a few minutes’ rest and a cigarette that a small bedraggled object emerged from the tunnel behind them, whimpering softly. “Spot,” cried the girl, “however did you get up here?” Miss Dombey’s dog looked as if it had been set on fire, its coat was black with dust. It crawled whining into Virginia’s arms and buried its head in her lap. “It’s trembling all over,” she said, becoming soft and receptive and motherly. Campion watched with fascination the endearments, the petting, the cuddling. English women, he reflected, being given to this kind of generalization, only really yield to their pets — to their dogs. Never would the girl register such melting sympathy in the arms of a man. His thoughts turned with regret to the sanguine and lovely Francesca, with her plump, well-modelled buttocks and fig-like breasts. When she kissed it was as if she were burning to print some indelible message on one’s mouth; her whole being ached in her kisses. They hurt her to give and to receive. Campion sighed and ate a bit of bread, feeling steadier.

The girl, too, was happier with a child-substitute to fuss over; fawning, Spot accepted some food and wagged his tail. He must have believed himself safe from peril at last. Neither of them speculated aloud upon the possible fate of Miss Dombey, yet both wondered whether she were alive or dead.

Once more Campion hung over the edge of their eyrie and stared down upon the sea, trying to measure the distance with his eye. It was hopeless. He tossed a large boulder over and it seemed to take ages to reach the water, settling slowly in the viscous blueness with barely a splash. Suddenly he had an idea.

Turning, he called the dog to him, wheedling it with the promise of food. Then, taking it in his arms he stood up and was about to pitch it over when the girl rushed at him. “What are you doing?” she shouted, and half-dragged him back. Campion disengaged himself from her with fury. “Idiot,” he said. With her scuffling he might easily have been pushed over himself. “Can’t you see we must find out?” She protested indignantly against the use of Spot as a guinea-pig for such an experiment. “Don’t be a fool,” said Campion again, and grabbing the now struggling dog he advanced to the parapet once more. Spot squawked loudly and struggled. “Shut up,” cried Campion, and gave a sharp exclamation as the dog bit him.

Spot pitched out into space, and for a second seemed to hang in the air before he began his slow parcel-like flight towards the sea; Campion lay sucking the wound in his hand and watching. The little dog turned over and over, and finally melted with a small white feathery scar, into the sea’s blueness. For what seemed centuries Campion lay, his eyes fixed on the spot. Presently something rose slowly to the surface, and after lying still for a few moments began to weave slowly towards the shore. Campion shouted.

The girl was sitting where she had originally been, with her back pressed to the wall, examining her fingernails. “He’s all right,” said Campion again, and at his cry she rose and came to his side. Spot was out of sight now round the edge of the headland, but moving under his own steam. Campion lay back and breathed a sigh. “Well,” he said, “that gives one some indication.” Virginia was suddenly elated. She clapped her hands together and said: “What a wonderful chance.” Campion lay still blowing smoke softly into the air above his face and thinking. It was, of course, not certain that a human being weighing twenty times as much as an animal, would escape as lightly.

“What are you thinking?” she said, noticing his preoccupied face.

“There’s only an hour of sunlight to go. I think we should wait until tomorrow morning. Even supposing we get down safely and crawl out on to the land we may find ourselves miles from anywhere, wandering about in the dark with wet clothes.”

“Yes,” she said slowly, as if unconvinced.

They sat together and watched the sun sinking ponderously into the sea. Somehow the very act of sitting there, without speculation and anxiety, quietened and soothed their nerves. Gulls wheeled with anguished cries below them upon the great mauve expanse of water. The wind had crept up to pencil its strange hieroglyphs on the southern half of the bay. Slowly, very slowly the great golden drop touched the horizon, and the blue meniscus of evening ran, a crack of nacreous red, from one end of the sky to the other. They had no light, save the box of matches in Campion’s pocket; but there were plenty of cigarettes. The wind was not blowing directly into their balcony of stone. The night was warm. They settled themselves as comfortably as they could against the stone, he placing his arms round her shoulders. The darkness came on, blue and dense, and the stars put up their high malevolent lights, winking like the eyes of so many needles. “Campion,” she said drowsily, “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings just now.” Campion pretended ignorance of any slight, but he knew quite well what she meant. “I mean’ about being a Jew,” she added. Campion smoked on in silence for a while. “I think you are unjust to me,” he said at last, “in assuming that my idiosyncrasies are racial; I do belong to a race — but the race of artists: the Jewish part is what is personal in my nature, but there are other difficulties which belong to my other racial inheritance. As a matter of fact,” he went on with a chuckle, “I am not a Jew at all. I am just one of the others.” He began to talk slowly and without emphasis of what the artist was, what his peculiar needs were, his fears, his ambitions. It was only when he realized that she was asleep that he desisted.

They dozed fitfully that night under his coat, and rose at the first light of dawn. The air was cold and they were both cramped. A heavy dew had settled over everything. They ate the remains of the food left over from their lunch the previous day, and smoked the last two cigarettes left in Campion’s case, waiting for the sun to warm the rock upon which they sat. “So you do want it all,” said Campion at last. “Golder’s Green? The rain? The damp tubes? The last bus?” The girl stopped her ears in mock horror. “Please,” she said. “Don’t spoil it. It isn’t that I want. It’s other things, can’t you see?”

She took out her pocket comb and balancing a strip of mirror in a cranny, made up her face as well as she could, combed out her hair, and smoothed down her eyebrows with her finger. “I’m ready,” she said quietly. Campion stood up with a sigh. They took off all their clothes except their shoes, and made them into one bundle. Then, naked, they stood hand in hand upon the last jutting foothold of the balcony. “When I give the word,” said Campion. His voice had gone flat and calm and without emphasis. She leaned forward, bracing her toes against the stone. “Wait,” she said suddenly and leaned forward to kiss him on the mouth. Campion smiled and called: “One, two …”

The rushing of wind struck the last word from his lips, and he felt himself turning over and over as his body was poured down the ladder of blueness. A red roaring seemed to fill the horizon. Frightened kestrels fell with them from ledges of rock for a few metres and then planed out, whistling their curiosity and terror. The sea turned up its expansive shining surface and waited for them.