John Fowles - The Magus

We faced each other.

“I could go to a newspaper and sell them the story. I could ruin your whole blasted…”

“Just as you could have brought that cat down across my daughter’s back.”

I looked sharply back at her. “It was you? In the sedan?”

“No.”

“Alison?”

“You were told. It was empty.” She met my disbelieving eyes. “I give you my word. It was not Alison. Or myself.” She smiled at my still suspicious look. “Well. Perhaps there was someone there.”

“Who?”

“Someone… quite famous in the world. Whose face you might have recognized. That is all.”

Tendrils of her sympathy began to sneak their way through my anger. With a curt look, I wheeled and walked towards the door. She came after me, snatching up a sheet of paper from the top of the desk.

“Please take this.”

I saw a list of names; dates of birth; Hughes to de Seitas, February 22, 1933 ; the telephone number.

“It doesn’t prove anything.”

“Yes it does. Go to Somerset House.”

I shrugged, pushed the list carelessly in my pocket and went on without looking at her. I opened the front door with her just behind me; and she came down the steps after me. I got in and she stood by the car. I gave her a quick glance up and reached for the ignition key, but her hand stopped my arm.

“I shall be waiting.”

“You’ll have to wait then.” I stared balefully up at her. “Because I’ll see Alison in hell before I come to you again.”

Her hand stayed, as if she wanted to say something more. I stared at the dashboard. The moment her hand lifted I switched on. As I went out of the gate I saw her in the mirror. She was standing there on the step in front of the open door, and her arms were raised in the Ka gesture.

Yet even then I knew I was pretending to be angrier than I really was; that just as she was trying to break down my hostility by charm, I was trying to break down her charm by hostility. I didn’t in the least regret being ungracious, rebuffing her overtures; and I more than half meant, at the time, what I said about Alison.

Because this was now the active mystery: that I was not allowed to meet Alison. Something was expected of me, some Orphean performance that would gain me access to the underworld where she was hidden… or hiding herself. I was on probation. But no one gave me any real indication of what I was meant to be proving. I had apparently found the entrance to Tartarus. But that brought me no nearer Eurydice.

Just as the things Lily de Seitas had told me brought me no nearer the permanent mystery: what voyage, what charts?

My anger carried me through the next day; but the day after that I went to Somerset House and found that every fact Lily de Seitas had given me to check was true, and somehow this turned my anger into a depression. That evening I rang up her number in Much Hadham. The Norwegian girl answered the phone.

“Dinsford House. Please, who is it?” I said nothing. Someone must have called, because I heard the girl say, “There is no one to answer.”

Then there came another voice.

“Hello. Hello.”

I put down the receiver. She was still there. But nothing would make me speak to her.

The next day, the third after the visit, I spent in getting drunk and in composing a bitter letter to Alison in Australia. I had decided that that was where she was. It said everything I had to say to her; I must have read it twenty times, as if by reading it enough I could turn it into the definitive truth about my innocence and her complicity. But I kept on putting off posting it, and in the end it spent the night on the mantelpiece.

I had got into the habit of going down and having breakfast with Kemp most mornings, though not those last three, when I had carried with me a scowl against the whole human condition. Kemp had no time at all for the kitchen, but she could make a good cup of coffee; and on the fourth morning, I badly needed it.

When I came in she put the Daily Worker down—she read the Worker “for the truth” and a certain other paper “for the fucking lies"—and sat there smoking. Her mouth without a cigarette was like a yacht without a mast; one presumed disaster. We exchanged a couple of sentences. She fell silent. But during the next few minutes I became aware that I was undergoing a prolonged scrutiny through the smoke she wore like a merciful veil in front of her Gorgon-like morning face. I pretended to read; but that didn’t deceive her.

“What’s up with you, Nick?”

“Up with me?”

“No friends. No girls. Nothing.”

“Not at this time of the morning. Please.”

She sat there dumpily, in an old red dressing gown, her hair uncombed, as old as time.

“You’re not looking for a job. That’s all my fanny.”

“If you say so.”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“I know you are, Kemp.”

I looked up at her. Her face was a disaster. She had long ago let it go to rack and ruin. It was pasty, bloated, with the eyes permanently narrowed against tobacco smoke; somehow like a mask in a Noh play, which in an odd way suited the Cockney resonances that loitered in her voice and the hard anti-sentimentality she affected. But now, in what was for her an extraordinary gesture of affection, she reached across the table and patted my hand. She was, I knew, five years younger than Lily de Seitas; and yet she looked ten years older. She was by ordinary standards foulmouthed; a blatant member of what had been my father’s most hated regiment, one he used to consign far lower even than the Damned Socialists and the Blasted Whitehall Airy Fairies—the Longhaired Brigade. I had a moment’s vision of his standing, his aggressive blue eyes, his bushy colonel’s moustache, in the door of the studio; the unmade divan, the stinking old rusty oilstove, the mess on the table, the garish sexual-fetal abstract oils that littered the walls; a tat of old pottery, old clothes, old newspapers. But in that short gesture of hers, and the look that accompanied it, I knew there was more real humanity than I had ever known in my own home. Yet still that home, those years, governed me; I had to repress the natural response. Our eyes met across a gap I could not bridge; her offer of a rough temporary motherhood, my ffight to what I had to be, the lonely son. She withdrew her hand.

I said, “It’s too complicated.”

“I’ve got all day.”

Her face peered at me through the blue smoke, and suddenly it seemed as blank, as menacing, as an interrogator’s. I liked her, I liked her, yet I felt her curiosity like a net drawn round me. I was like some freakish parasitic species that could establish itself only in one rare kind of situation, by one precarious symbiosis. They had been wrong, at the trial. It was not that I preyed on girls; but the fact that my only access to normal humanity, to social decency, to any openness of heart, lay through girls, preyed on me. It was in that that I was the real victim.

There was only one person I wanted to talk with. Till then I could not move, advance, plan, progress, become a better human being, anything; and till then, I carried my mystery, my secret, around with me like a defense; as my only companion.

“One day, Kemp. Not now.”

She shrugged; gave me a stonily sibylline look, auguring the worst.

The old char who cleaned the stairs once a fortnight bawled through the door. My phone was ringing. I raced up the stairs, lifting the receiver on what seemed the dying ring.

“Hello. Nicholas Urfe.”

“Oh, good morning, Urfe. It’s me. Sandy Mitford.”

“You’re back!”

“What’s left of me, old man. What’s left of me.” He cleared his throat. “Got your note. Wondered if you were free for a spot of lunchington.”