John Fowles - The Magus

A crystal lay shattered.

And all betrayed.

At the last moment I had angrily cried her name. I thought at first that they had found some fantastic double; but no one could have imitated that walk. The way of standing.

I leapt back to the phone and got the night porter.

“That call—can you trace it?” He didn’t understand “trace.” “Do you know where it came from?”

No, he didn’t know.

Had anyone strange been in the hotel lobby during the last hour? Anyone waiting for some time?

No, Meester Ouf, nobody.

I turned off the shower, tore back into my clothes and went out into Constitution Square. I went round all the cafés, peered into all the taxis, went back to Zonar’s, to Tom’s, to Zaporiti’s, to all the fashionable places in the area; unable to think, unable to do anything but say her name and crush it savagely between my teeth.

Alison. Alison. Alison.

I understood, how I understood. Once I had accepted, and I had to accept, the first incredible fact: that she must have agreed to join the masque.

But how could she? And why? Again and again: why.

I went back to the hotel.

Conchis would have discovered about the quarrel, perhaps even overheard it; if he used cameras, he could use microphones and tape recorders. Contacted her during the night, or early the next morning. Perhaps through Lily. Those messages in the Earth: Hirondelle . The people in the Piraeus hotel, watching me try to get her to let me back into her room.

As soon as I mentioned Alison, Conchis must have pricked up his ears. As soon as he knew she was coming to Athens he must have started to envisage new complications in his action; sized up the situation; stepped in and used it; had us followed from the moment we met; then persuaded her, all his charm, probably half deceiving her, as everyone on the fringes was deceived .

That Sunday he had suddenly gone to Nauplia was the same day the opened telegram from Alison had arrived. Even then? Hadn’t he forced me to meet her by canceling—without warning—that next, half-term weekend? Gone to Nauplia to plan? And Lily had really begun to throw her web round me, that same strange Sunday. All must have changed course, that day.

The lies I had told the next weekend. To Lily-Julie. I felt my face go red. The day she had worn light blue, dark blue; to echo Alison. I growled out loud.

I saw a meeting of all of them: I saw them overwhelming her with their sick logic, their madness, their ease, their money. And the great secret: why they had chosen me.

I recalled something that had occurred to me in the Earth—how little use had been made of Rose. All her costumes had been there. Before Alison’s “entry,” she would have been going to play a much fuller role, and that first meeting with her had been the beginning of it ( and a sneer at my inconstancy). At only one week from his first approach to Alison Conchis riad probably not been quite sure of her, so Rose’s role that weekend was an insurance against Alison’s failing to cooperate. Very soon after Alison must have agreed; so Rose withdrew. That was why Lily’s character and role had changed and why she had to enter—and so rapidly—the present. First she had been acting “against” Rose; then “against” Alison.

The sedan-coffin. It had not been empty. The mercilessness of it; the endless exposure.

The trial: my “preying on young women"; Alison must have told them that. And the suicide—"hysterical suicide"; she would have told them that as well. All their knowledge of my past.

I was mad with anger. I thought of that genuine and atrocious wave of sadness I had felt when the news about Alison came. All the time she would have been in Athens; perhaps in the house in the village, or over at Bourani. Watching me, even. Playing an invisible Maria to Lily’s Olivia and my Malvolio—always these echoes of Shakespearean situations.

I walked up and down my room, imagining scenes where I had Alison at my mercy. Beating her black and blue, making her weep with remorse.

And then again, it all went back to Conchis, to the mystery of his power, his ability to mould and wield girls as intelligent as Lily; as independent as Alison. As if he had some secret that he revealed to them, that put them under his orders; and once again I was the man in the dark, the excluded, the eternal butt.

Malvolio. Not a Hamlet mourning Ophelia. But Malvolio.

I couldn’t sleep. I had to do something. I went down to the hall and telephoned Ellenikon again. I knew there were staging flights through at all hours, and there might be someone on the desk. I was lucky: there was. Even luckier, it was an English hostess who had just come off duty, and chanced to pick up the phone on her way to bed.

Yes, she knew about Alison.

“Look, I know this sounds pretty extraordinary, but I’m an old friend of hers and I think I’ve just seen her.”

There was a silence. “But she’s dead.”

“Yes, I know. I know she’s meant to be dead.”

“But it was in the papers.”

“You saw it?”

“I know lots of people who did.”

“Actually in the papers? Or just cuttings they’d been sent?”

Her patience began to break. “I’m terribly sorry but—”

“Do you know anyone who went to the funeral?”

She said, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

I wished her good night then; it was useless to go on. I could guess what they had done. Alison would have failed to report for duty one day in London, pleaded ill health or something. A week or two later, the same cuttings would have been sent out, the same forged letters from Ann Taylor.

I turned to the night porter.

“I want a line to London. This number.” I wrote it down. A few minutes later he pointed to a box.

I stood listening to the phone burr-burr in my old flat in Russell Square. It went on a long time. At last it was picked up.

“For goodness sake… who’s that?”

The operator said. “I have a long-distance call for you from Athens.”

“From where!”

I said, “Okay, operator. Hello?”

“Who is that?”

She sounded a nice girl, but she was half asleep. Though the call cost me four pounds, it was worth it. I discovered that Ann Taylor had gone back to Australia, but six weeks before. No one had killed herself. A girl the girl on the other end didn’t know, but “I think she’s a friend of Ann’s” had taken over the flat; she hadn’t seen her “for weeks.” Yes, she had blonde hair; actually she only saw her twice; yes, she thought she was Australian.

Back in my room I remembered the flower in my buttonhole. It was very wilted, but I took it out of the coat I had been wearing and stuck it in a glass of water.

I woke up late, having finally slept sounder than I expected. I lay in bed for a while, listening to the street noises down below, thinking about Alison. I tried to recall exactly what her expression had been, whether there was any humor, any sympathy, an indication of anything, good or bad, in her small standing there. I could understand the timing of her resurrection. As soon as I got back to London I should have found out; so it had to be in Athens.

And now I was to hunt for her.

I wanted to see her, I knew I wanted to see her desperately, to dig or beat the truth out of her, to let her know how vile her betrayal was. To let her know that even if she crawled round the equator on her knees I could never forgive her. That I was finished with her. Disgusted by her. As disintoxicated of her as I was of Lily. I thought, Christ, if I could only lay my hands on her. But the one thing I would not do was hunt for her.

Then, having a shower, I began to sing. Because the masque was not over. Because, though I would not consciously admit it, Alison was alive. Because I knew there must be a confrontation between us. And I would lure her on, lead her into believing that a reconciliation was possible. I thought, if I ever get a chance of making her fall in love with me again. Such a savage revenge I would have on her. On all of them. That cat. This time I would use that cat.