John Fowles - The Magus

I got Leverrier’s address in England out of the school bursar, but then decided not to write; I had it at hand if I needed it.

I also did a little research on Artemis. She was Apollo’s sister in mythology; protectress of virgins and patroness of hunters. The saffron dress, the buskins and the silver bow (the crescent new moon) constituted her standard uniform in classical poetry. Though she seemed permanently trigger-happy where amorous young men were concerned I could find no mention of her being helped by her brother. She was “an element in the ancient matriarchal cult of the Triple Moon-goddess, linked with Astarte in Syria and Isis in Egypt.” Isis, I noted, was often accompanied by the dogheaded Anubis, guardian of the underworld, who later became Cerberus.

Fascinating. But it explained nothing.

On Tuesday and Wednesday prep duties kept me at the school. On Thursday I went over to Bourani again; nothing had changed. It was as deserted as it had been on Monday.

I went up to the house, tried the shutters, roamed the grounds, went down to the private beach, from which the boat was gone. I sat for half an hour in the darkness under the colonnade; and thought, among other things, of Conchis’s foolishness in leaving the Modigliani and Bonnards like that, in such a deserted house. My mind traveled up to the Bonnards, and grasshoppered from them to Alison. That night there was a special midnight boat to take the boys and masters back to Athens for the half-term holiday. It meant sitting up all night dozing in an armchair in the scruffy first-class saloon, but it gave one all Friday in Athens.

A minute later I was walking fast down the path towards the gate. But even then, as I came to the trees, I looked back and hoped, with one thousandth of a hope, that someone might be beckoning me back.

But no one was; so I set out for my faute de mieux .

Athens was dust and drought, ochre and drab. Even the palm trees looked exhausted; all the humanity in human beings had retreated behind dark skins and even darker glasses. At two in the afternoon city and citizens gave up; the streets were empty, abandoned to indolence and heat. I lay slumped behind shutters on a bed in the Piraeus hotel, and dozed fitfully. The city was doubly too much for me. After Bourani, the descent back into the age, the machinery, the stress, was completely disorientating.

The afternoon dragged out its listless hours. The closer I came to meeting Alison, the more muddle-motived I grew. I knew that if I was in Athens at all, it was mainly out of spite. Six days before it had not been too difficult to think of her as something that could be used if nothing better turned up; but two hours before changed my meanness into guilt. In any case, I no longer wanted sex with her. It was unthinkable—not because of her, but because of Lily. I wanted neither to deceive Alison nor to get involved with her; and it seemed to me that there was only one pretext that would do what I required: make her sorry for me and make her keep at arm’s length.

At five I got up, had a shower, and caught a taxi out to the airport. I sat on a bench opposite the long reception counter, then moved away; finding, to my irritation, that I was increasingly nervous. Several other air hostesses passed quickly—hard, trim, professionally pretty, mechanically sexy; more in love with looking attractive than being it. Six came, six fifteen. I goaded myself to walk up to the counter. There was a girl there in the tight uniform, with flashing white teeth and dark brown eyes whose innuendoes seemed put on with the rest of her lavish makeup.

“I’m supposed to be meeting one of your girls. Alison Kelly.”

“Allie? Her flight’s in. She’ll be changing.” She picked up a telephone, dialed a number, gleamed her teeth at me. Her accent was impeccable; and American. “Allie? Your date’s here. If you don’t come rightaway he’s taking me instead.” She held out the receiver. “She wants to speak to you.”

“Tell her I’ll wait. Not to hurry.”

“He’s shy.” Alison must have said something, because the girl smiled. She put the phone down.

“She’ll be right across.”

“What did she say then?”

“She said you’re not shy, it’s just your technique.”

“Oh.”

She gave me what was meant to be a coolly audacious look between her long black eyelashes, then turned to deal with two women who had mercifully appeared at the other end of her section of the counter. I escaped and went and stood near the entrance. When I had first lived on the island, Athens, the city life, had seemed like a normalizing influence, as desirable as it was still familiar. Now I realized that it began to frighten me, that I loathed it; the slick exchange at the desk, its blatant implications of sex, confracepted excitement, the next stereotyped thrill. I came from another planet.

A minute or two later Alison appeared through the door. Her hair was short, too short, she was wearing a white dress, and immediately we were on the wrong foot, because I knew she had worn it to remind me of our first meeting. Her skin was paler than I remembered. She took off her dark glasses when she saw me and I could see she was tired, her most bruised. Pretty enough body, pretty enough clothes, a good walk, the same old wounded face and truth-seeking eyes. Alison might launch ten ships in me; but Lily launched a thousand. She came and stood and we gave each other a little smile.

“Hi.”

“Hello, Alison.”

“Sorry. Late as usual.”

She spoke as if we had last met the week before. But it didn’t work. The nine months stood like a sieve between us, through which words came, but none of the emotions.

“Shall we go?”

I took the airline bag she was carrying and led her out to a taxi. Inside we sat in opposite corners and looked at each other again. She smiled.

“I thought you wouldn’t come.”

“I didn’t know where to send my refusal.”

“I was cunning.”

She looked out of the window, waved to a man in uniform. She looked older to me, overexperienced by travel; needing to be known all over again, and I hadn’t the energy.

“I’ve got you a room overlooking the port.”

“Fine.”

“They’re so bloody stuffy in Greek hotels. You know.”

“ Toujours the done thing.” She gave me a brief ironic look from her gray eyes, then covered up. “It’s fun. Vive the done thing.” I nearly made my prepared speech, but it annoyed me that she assumed I hadn’t changed. was still slave to English convention; it even annoyed me that she felt she had to cover up.

“Your hair.”

“You don’t like it.”

“Not used to it.”

She held out her hand and I took it and we pressed fingers. Then she reached out and took off my dark glasses.

“You look devastatingly handsome now. Do you know that? You’re so brown. Dried in the sun, sort of beginning to be ravaged. Jesus, when you’re forty.”

I remembered Lily’s prophecy, I remembered—that evening I never forgot—Lily. I smiled, but I looked down and let go of her hand to get a cigarette. I knew what her flattery meant; the invitation extended.

“Alison, I’m in a sort of weird situation.”

It knocked all the false lightness out of her. She looked straight ahead.

“Another girl?”

“No.” She flashed a look at me. “I’ve changed, I don’t know how one begins to explain things.”

“But you wish to God I’d kept away.”

“No, I’m… glad you’ve come.” She glanced at me suspiciously again. “Really.”

She was silent for a few moments. We moved out onto the coast road.

“I’m through with Pete.”

“You said.”

“I forgot.” But I knew she hadn’t.