John Fowles - The Magus

“Did you… mention it to Mr. Conchis?”

“I did. And he was really nice about it. Even said she might be able to stay in his house.”

“I wonder which one. He has two, you know.”

“I think he said in the village.” He grinned. “Matter of fact he said he’d make me pay for her room.”

“Oh?”

“Wants me to help him on this…” he made a kind of you-know gesture.

“On this?”

“Didn’t you…” but he obviously saw from my face that whatever it was, I didn’t. “Well, maybe…

“Oh good lord, you can tell me.”

He hesitated, then smiled. “It’s just that he does want it kept secret. I thought you might have heard, but if you didn’t meet him much… this remarkable find on his estate?”

“Find?”

“You know the house? It’s some place on the other side of the island.”

“I know where it is.”

“Well, it seems part of a cliff fell away this summer and they’ve discovered what he believes to be the foundations of a Mycenean palace.”

“He’ll never keep that quiet.”

“I’d guess not. But he thinks he can for a while. Apparently he’s covered it up with loose dirt. Then this spring he’s going to dig. But naturally right now he doesn’t want everyone visiting all over.”

“Of course.”

“So I hope I won’t be too bored.”

I saw Lily dressed as the snake goddess of Knossos; as Electra; as Clytemnestra; Dr. Vanessa Maxwell, the brilliant young archaeologist.

“Doesn’t sound as if you will.”

He finished his beer, and looked at his watch.

“Jesus, I’ve got to run. I’m meeting Amanda at six.” He shook my hand. “You don’t know how much this has meant to me. And believe me, I’ll write and let you know how it goes.”

“Do that. I’d very much like to know.”

I followed him down the stairs and watched his crewcut head. I began to understand why Conchis had picked him. If one had taken a million young college-educated Americans and distilled them down into one quintessential exemplar one would have arrived at something like Briggs. I did not like to think of the omnipenetrating Americans reaching to so private a European core. But I remembered his name; much more English than my own. And there was already Joe; the prosecuting Dr. Marcus.

We came out on the front step.

“No last words of wisdom?”

“I don’t think so. Just my very good wishes.”

“Well…”

We shook hands again.

“You’ll be all right.”

“You really think so?”

“Of course you’ll find some of the experiences strange.”

“Oh sure. Don’t think I’m not going with a wide open mind. And prepared for everything. Thanks to you.”

I gave him a long smile; I wanted him to remember it was a smile that had gone on too long and hadn’t quite fitted in with the situation. He raised his hand and set off. After a few paces he looked at his watch, and began to run; and in my heart I lit a candle to Leverrier.

She was ten minutes late; came quickly through the turnstiles, a polite small torment of apology on her face, and straight to where I had been standing next to the postcard counter.

“Oh dear. I’m so sorry. The taxi crawled.”

I shook her outstretched hand. For a woman half a century old she was impressively good-looking; and she was dressed with an easy flair that made most of the dull afternoon visitors to the Victoria and Albert around us look even drabber than they really were; defiantly bareheaded, and in a pale gray-white Chanel suit that set off her tan and her clear eyes."It’s a mad place to meet. Do you mind?”

“Not in the least.”

“I bought an eighteenth-century plate the other day. They’re so good at identifying here.” I took the basket she was carrying. “It won’t take a moment.”

She evidently knew the museum well and led the way to the lifts. We had to wait. She smiled at me; the family smile; soliciting, I suspected, what I was still not prepared to give. Determined to tread delicately between her approval and my own dignity, I had a dozen things ready to say, but her breathless arrival, the sudden feeling I had that I was being fitted, inconveniently, into a busy day, made them all seem wrong.

I said, “I saw John Briggs on Tuesday.”

“How interesting. I haven’t met him.” We might have been talking about the new curate. The lift came, and we stepped inside.

“I told him everything I knew. All about Bourani and what to expect.”

“We thought you would. That is why we sent him to you.”

We were both smiling faintly; a cramped silence.

“But I might have.”

“Yes.” The lift stopped. We emerged into a gallery of furniture. “Yes. You might.” -

“Perhaps he was just a test.”

“A test wasn’t necessary.”

“You’re very sure.”

She gave me that same wide-eyed look she had had when she handed me the copy of Nevinson’s letter. At the end of the gallery we came to a door: Department of Ceramics . She pressed the bell beside it.

I said, “I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot.”

She looked down.

“Well yes. Shall we try again in a minute? If you wouldn’t mind waiting?”

The door opened and she was let inside. It was all too rushed, too broken, she gave me no chance, though her last quick look back before the door closed seemed apologetic; almost as if she was afraid I might run away.

Two minutes later she came back.

“Any luck?”

“Yes, it’s what I thought it was. Bow.”

“You don’t trust your intuition in everything then.”

She gave me a severe look, and then lightly took my arm as she led me on. “If there was a Department of Young Men I should certainly take you to it. I would like to have you identified.”

“And then keep me labeled on a shelf?”

“I might give you as a present to someone.”

“Am I yours to give?”

She looked through the windows at the gallery’s end.

“I should like the whole world. I could give it to something so much better than what possesses it now.”

A wistful smile at me, both self-mocking and self-revealing. She was defining possession, and giving. Was that why we had met in a museum? Could anyone possess anything? Tailboys, tables, Chippendale mirrors—we were walking in a world of objects possessed by nothing but themselves. Giving and possessing seemed infinitely superficial and transitory; the decor was chosen.

She pressed my arm after a long moment, then let go of it. “They say there’s a plate like mine on display. Just through here.”

We went into a long deserted gallery of china. Once again she seemed to know her way about—had rehearsed?—because she went straight to one of the walicases. She took the plate out of her basket and held it up, walking along, until from the back of a group of cups and jugs an almost identical blue and white plate was staring at her. I went beside her.

“That’s it.”

She compared them; wrapped her own loosely in its tissue paper again; and then, taking me completely by surprise, presented it.

“It’s for you.”

“But—”

“Please.” She was smiling at my ginger look.

“But really… I mean…”

“I bought it with Alison.” She corrected herself. “Alison was with me when I bought it.”

She pushed it into my hands. I unwrapped it. In the middle of the plate there was a naïvely drawn Chinaman and his wife; two children between them. A remote echo; peasants traveling steerage, the swell, the night wind.

“Supposing I break it.”

“I think you should get used to handling fragile objects.”

She made the double-meaning very plain. I looked down at the plate again, the small inky-blue figures.