John Fowles - The Magus

“Nicholas.” A low, reproachful—and strange—voice.

“There must be some mistake. Nicholas is my twin brother.”

“I thought midnight would never come.”

“Where is she?”

I spoke angrily, and I was angry, but not quite as much as I sounded. It was so neat a modulation into the world of Beaumarchais, of Restoration comedy; and I knew the height the dupe has fallen is measured by his anger.

“She?”

“You forgot your scar.”

“How clever of you to see it was makeup before.”

“And your voice.”

“It’s the night air.” She coughed.

I caught hold of her hand and pulled her roughly over to the seat under the almond tree. Lily had never intended to meet me; it was not the kind of trap I had been expecting, but it was still a trap, with all the same implications for Lily’s honesty of intention.

“Now. Where is she?”

“She couldn’t come. And don’t be so rough.”

“Well where is she?” The girl was silent. “In bed with Maurice?”

“Shame on you.”

“I don’t think you’re very sensitive to shame.”

“I thought it was rather exciting.” She glanced sideways at me. “And so did you.”

“For Christ sake I thought you…” but I didn’t bother to finish the sentence.

“Perhaps you ought to kiss me again.”

She sat as Lily had sat that other afternoon, in a deliberate parody of the same position. Her eyes shut, her mouth slightly thrust forward, as if waiting to be kissed. I ignored her, leant forward, and tried to be lighter.

“Why must I be tormented like this?”

“Is kissing me torment?”

I turned and smiled; as if I admitted being the fool.

“Have a cigarette?”

I fished out a packet of Papastratos and she took one; screwed it into a long black cigarette holder she carried in a little silver wrist bag. I gave her a good look in the match flare; and she examined me, as if she was not feeling so frivolous as she pretended. She inhaled expertly. Her face had, under the soubrette part she was playing, the same intelligence as Lily’s; and for a moment I had a mad feeling that after all it was Lily. But I clung to the moment I had seen her on the terrace; when Lily had had to have a twin sister. Finally she gave a little embarrassed smile, avoided my stare; as if at a loss.

“How was Beirut?”

She was taken by surprise; abruptly cautious. “Who told you about that?”

“Your sister.”

“It was nice. And she didn’t.”

Her face was suspicious; all the lightness had gone.

“All right. She didn’t. Maurice did.”

“I see.” Her voice was cold, still inexplicably wary of something.

“Is there some crime in asking you how Beirut was?”

For answer she reached out and took the box of matches I still had in my hand; struck one. I received a second prolonged scrutiny. I smiled, to show her I was totally unfooled; but prepared to play a part in this new variation.

“What are you looking for?”

“Treachery. Or trustworthiness.”

“I’m not sure you can be much of a judge of that, either.”

“I know. If you are trustworthy you must think we’re treacherous. And vice versa. It’s very neat.”

She stood up and walked behind the seat. I looked round, and she was staring down at me. But then she came and sat down again, close, elbows on knees like myself. “Look, Nicholas, I’m sorry about the teasing. Which was really testing. I do believe you.” A quick, bright-sincere look.

“Could we get back to your sister?”

“She couldn’t come. And anyway.”

“Anyway what?”

“You know.”

“I know nothing.”

It was agreeable, pretending to be disagreeable.

She leant backward and stretched her arm along the seat back, and contemplated me. “Of course I know you know this is a trick, something my sister must have helped to play. But it might not all be a trick.” She pulled my shoulder gently, to make me sit back as well. When I did so, with bad grace, she moved away a little and began to trace a line along the top rail with her forefinger, as if she was feeling her way into my confidence. “This is nothing to do with Maurice. Just us.”

“Who is us?”

“She and me.”

“And your other friends?”

She looked at the back of her hand. “They aren’t our friends.”

“I want to know who you are, your real names, where you’re from, what you’re doing here, when—”

“My sister wants me to inspect you.”

“Well. Why not open my mouth and start with the teeth?”

She laughed. “But it is horse-trading. Really, isn’t it? Even between the best and the nicest and most intelligent people. To begin with.”

“I prefer to deal direct. No agents.”

“I’m a twin sister. Not an agent.”

“Twin sister to a schizophrenic.”

She smiled. “Did you believe that for a moment?”

“No. And will you answer my questions?”

She said, “May I have another cigarette?” I gave her one and lit it for her, and she took advantage of the light to give me a direct look and ask her own astounding question.

“Is there really a school on the other side of the island?”

I narrowed my eyes.

“There is?” Her voice was sharp again.

I blew out the match and said, “I think we’ve lost the ball.”

“I know this sounds silly, but I suppose you haven’t… any means of identification on you?” I laughed. “Seriously. Please.”

I fished in my back pocket and produced my wallet; then struck three or four matches while she looked at my Greek permis de séjour . It gave my address and profession.

“Thank you. That was kind of you.”

But she was silent; at a loss.

“Well come on. Next development.”

She hesitated; then amazed me again.

“We thought you might be working for Maurice.”

“Working for him!”

A circumspect voice. “Yes. Working for him.”

“Good God.”

“You solemnly swear that you’re not working for him?”

“Of course I’m not.”

“That you never met him before you came here?”

I stood up impatiently. “I feel I’m going mad.”

Her face had grown very serious. She looked away and said, “I can’t tell you anything now. It’s for my sister to decide.”

“Why? And decide what?”

“Because that’s what we’ve agreed. Because she’s seen more of you. And because she’s much closer to Maurice than I am. Much closer.”

“What does that mean?”

“What do you think it means?”

“I’m wondering.”

“She said she felt the other day that you half believed she was his mistress or something. Perhaps you think we both are.”

“Perhaps I do.”

She was cool. “In terms of what at least you must begin to suspect my sister really is… do you honestly think she could ever…

“No.”

“And Maurice. For all his peculiarities, is he that sort of person?” I said nothing, remembering the books, the objects. “Well if he was, would he introduce a young man—and a rather nice-looking young man, into his… harem?”

“That has occurred to me.” I sat down again. “All right. So? She is closer to Maurice than you.”

“She simply doesn’t want to betray him.”

“And you do?”

She answered obliquely. “The only thing we’re all sure of is that we’re all three English. Yes? The only three English people in this fantastic place. And my sister and I are sort of… well, committed to making a fool of you by our contracts—”

She broke off abruptly, hand to mouth, aghast.

“Contracts… contracts?” She leant forward and covered her face in her hands. “What the devil are you? Film stars?”