John Fowles - The Magus

As if they only wanted to punish me; and punish me; and punish me again. With no right; and nc reason.

I sat with my hands clenched against my head.

Fragments of things they had said kept on coming back, with dreadful double meanings; a constant dramatic irony. Almost every line Conchis and Lily had spoken was ironic; right up to that last, transparently double-meaning, dialogue with June.

Wind and running water.

I cannot stand dishonesty in personal relationships.

I cannot believe Maurice is evil.

You will understand.

A whole summer of tomorrows.

Perhaps a young English master who is newly married …

That blank weekend: of course they had canceled it to give me reasonable time to receive the “letter of reference” from the bank; holding me back only to hurl me faster down the slope.

That day she had murmured, down at Moutsa, when I said I loved her: I want you to love me . She might just as well have said, My real name is Circe.

Again and again images of Lily, the Lily of the Julie phase, surged back; moments of passion, that last almost total surrender of herself—and other moments of gentleness, sincerity, spontaneous moments that could not have been rehearsed but could only have sprung out of a deep identification with the part she was playing. I even went back to that earlier theory I had had, that she was acting under hypnosis. Our final wild struggle had seemed a struggle in Lily herself, a wanting to let go but a knowledge that she mustn’t let go; though the inhibition was certainly not virginal, there had been something to inhibit. Then I recalled her appearance afterwards, when she seemed so professional; coldly solicitous for me, but above all professional. Hypnotism explained nothing.

I lit another Philip Morris. I tried to think of the present. But everything drove me back to the same anger, the same profound humiliation. Only one thing could ever give me relief. Some equal humiliation of Lily. It made me furious that I had not been more violent with her before. That was indeed the ultimate indignity: that my own small stock of decency had been used against me.

There was noise outside, and the door opened. The crewcut blond German came in; behind him was another man, in the same black trousers, black shirt, black gym shoes. And behind him came Anton. He was in a doctor’s collarless white overall. A pocket with pens. A bright German-accented voice; as if on his rounds. And he had no limp.

“How are you feeling?”

I stared at him; controlled myself.

“Wonderful. Enjoying every minute of it.”

He looked at the breakfast tray. “You would like more coffee?”

I nodded. He gestured to the second man, who took the tray out. Anton sat on the chair by the table, and the other man leaned easily against the door. Beyond appeared a long corridor, and right at the end steps leading up to daylight. It was much too big a cistern for a private house. Anton watched me. I refused to speak, and we sat there in silence for some time.

“I am a doctor. I come to examine you.” He studied me, then smiled. “You feel… not too bad?”

I didn’t answer, but leant back against the wall; stared at him.

He waved his finger reprovingly. “Please to answer.”

“I love being humiliated. I love having a girl I like trampling over every human affection and decency. Every time that stupid old bugger tells me another lie I feel thrills of ecstasy run down my spine.” I shouted. “Now where the hell am I?”

He gave the impression that my words were meaningless; it was my manner he was watching.

He said slowly, “Good. You have awoken up.” He sat with his legs crossed, leaning back a little; a very fair imitation of a doctor in his consulting room.

“Where’s that little tart?” He seemed not to understand. “Lily. Julie. Whatever her name is.”

He smiled. “Ah so. 'Tart' means bad woman?”

I shut my eyes. My head was beginning to ache. I had to keep cool. The man in the door turned; the second man appeared down the distant steps with a tray and came and put it on the table. Anton poured out a cup for me and one for himself. The blondhead reached me mine. Anton swallowed his quickly.

“My friend, you are wrong. She is a good girl. Very pretty. Very intelligent. Very brave. Oh yes.” He contradicted my sneer. “Very brave.”

“All I have to say to you is that when I get out of here I am going to create such bloody fucking hell for all of you that you’ll wish to Christ you—”

He raised his hand, calmingly, forgivingly. “Your mind is not well. We have given you many drugs these last days.”

I took a breath.

“How many days?”

“It is Sunday.”

Three totally missing days: I remembered the wretched exam papers. The boys, the other masters… the whole school could not be in league with Conchis. It was the enormity of the abuse that bewildered me, far more than the aftermath of the drug; that they could crash through law, through my job, through respect for the dead, through everything that made the world customary and habitable and orientated. And it was not only a denial of my world; it was a denial of what I had come to understand was Conchis’s world.

I stared at Anton.

“Of course, this is all good homely fun to you Germans.”

“I am Swiss. And my mother is Jewish. By the way.”

His eyebrows were very heavy, charcoal tufts, his eyes amused. I swilled the last of the coffee in my cup, then threw it in his face. It stained his white coat. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face, and said something to the man beside him. He did not look angry; merely shrugged, then glanced at his watch.

“The time is ten thirty… eight. Today we have the trial and you must be awoke. So good.” He touched his coat. “You are awoke.”

He stood up.

“Trial?”

“Very soon we shall go and you will judge us.”

“Judge you!”

“Yes. You think this is like a prison. Not at all. It is like… how call you the room where the judge lives?”

“Chambers.”

“Chambers. So perhaps you would like to… shave?”

“Christ!”

“There will be many people there.” I stared incredulously at him. “It will look better.” He gave up. “Very well. Adam—” he nodded at the blondhead, stressing the name on the second syllable—"he will return in twenty minutes to prepare you.”

“Prepare me?”

“It is nothing. We have a small ritual. It is nothing for you. For us.”

“'Us'?”

“Very soon—you will understand all.”

I wished I had saved the coffee to throw till then.

He smiled, bowed, and went out. The other two closed the door, and a bolt was shot. I stared at the skeleton at the wall. And in his necromantic way he seemed to say the same: very soon, you will understand. All.

I rewound my watch; and in precisely twenty minutes the same three Germans in their “uniforms” came back into the cell. The black clothes made them look more aggressive, more fascist, than they were; there was nothing particularly brutal about their faces. Adam stood in front of me; in his hand he carried an incongruous small grip.

“Please… not fight.”

He set the grip on the table and fished inside it; came up with two pairs of handcuffs. I held out my wrists contemptuously and allowed myself to be linked to the other two beside me. Now he produced a curious black rubber mouthmask; concave, with a thick projection that one had to bite.

“Please… I put this on. No hurt.”

We both hesitated a moment. I had determined that I wouldn’t fight, that it would be better to keep cool and wait until a time when I could hurt someone I really wanted to hurt. He cautiously held out the rubber gag, and I shrugged. I took its black tongue between my teeth; a taste of disinfectant. Adam expertly fastened the straps behind. Then he went back to the case for some wide black adhesive, and taped the edges of the gag against my skin. I began to wish I had shaved.