John Fowles - The Magus

On Monday I read the drafts through, altered a word or two, then wrote the first two in longhand and laboriously typed the last in the bursar’s office, where there was an ancient English-character machine. I knew the third letter was a bit far-fetched; film stars do not normally become down-and-out teachers abroad. But any sort of reply would serve.

And then, deciding I might as well be hung for a suspicious sheep as for a suspicious lamb, I wrote two more letters, one to the Tavistock Rep… and another to Girton, at Cambridge.

I posted those five letters; and with them one to Leverrier. I had half hoped that there might be a letter waiting for me from Mitford. But I knew mine to him had probably to be forwarded; and even then he might well not answer it. I made the letter to Leverrier very brief, merely explaining who I was and then saying: My real reason for writing is that I have got into a rather complicated situation at Bourani. I understand that you used to visit Mr. Conchis over there—he told me this himself. I really need the benefit of someone else’s advice and experience at the moment. i’d better add that this is not only for myself. Others are involved. We should be very grateful for any sort of reply from you, for reasons that I have a feeling you will appreciate.

Even as I sealed that letter I knew that Mitford’s and Leverrier’s silence was the best possible augury of what would happen to me. If in previous years something had happened to annoy them at Bourani, they would surely have talked; and if they were silent, then it must be with the silence of gratitude. I had not forgotten Mitford’s story of his row with Conchis; or his warning. But I began to doubt his motives.

The more I thought about it the surer I was that Demetriades was the spy. The first rule of counterespionage is to look fooled, so I was especially friendly with him after supper on Sunday. We strolled out on the school jetty to get what breaths of air still moved in the oppressive night heat. Yes thank you, Méli, I said, I’ve had a nice weekend at Bourani. Reading and swimming and listening to music. I even laughed at his obscene guesses as to how I really passed my time there; and I thanked him once again for keeping so-quiet about it all with the other masters.

As we strolled up and down I looked across the dark water of the straits between the island and the Argolian mainland; there to the west, behind its hill, twenty miles away, lay Nauplia. And I dreamt a sleek white yacht riding in the silent water.

Wednesday… Wednesday.

I came up to the gate, waited a few moments to listen, heard nothing, and went off the track through the trees to where I could see the house. It lay in silence, black against the last lavender light from the west; there was one light on, in the music room. The scops owl called from somewhere nearby. As I returned to the gate a small black shape slipped overhead and dipped towards the sea between the trees. Conchis, perhaps; the wizard as owl.

I came out onto the edge of the beach at Moutsa; the beach dark, the water dim, the very faintest night lap.

She stood, pale ghost, from the chapel wall as soon as I appeared through the trees; a pale ivory skirt with a green hem, a white blouse under a loose long Virginia Woolf-like cardigan garment of the same—almost, in that light, black—dark green. She held up her wrist with the sleeve pushed back. But I hardly glanced at the scar and we took each other’s hands. A moment, suddenly shy. Then she came into my arms, and we kissed; she turned her head away almost at once but let me hold her close. It was strange; physical privileges so small that I had taken them with so many other girls for granted—granted to the point of not even realizing they existed—seemed with her things one was lucky to have.

“I thought you weren’t coming.”

“I thought you wouldn’t be here.”

“Have you missed me?”

I kissed the top of her head: a melony perfume in the hair. “Where have you been?”

“On Maurice’s yacht. At Nauplia.”

“Is he here?” She nodded. “And the Negro?”

“Somewhere.”

“Watching us?”

“I said I didn’t want him watching me all the time. Maurice says he won’t. But I don’t know.” She felt in her cardigan pocket. “He’s given me his whistle. To blow if I need help.”

“High opinion of me.”

“It’s his same old trick.” We began to walk towards the sea. After a moment I put my arm round her shoulders.

“How long?”

“Till eleven.”

“By the way. Those names. Tsimbou and Papaioannou. Unknown.”

She nodded. “We guessed.”

We began to walk along the edge of the trees between the water and the forest.

“I asked one of the teachers of demotic about Three Hearts . It seems it is a sort of modern Greek classic. But he hadn’t heard they were making a film. Obviously.” She was silent. “Tell me what you’ve been doing.”

“Maurice has been alway. He sent us on a cruise. Down to a place called Kyparissi. It was nice. Except that we have to keep out of the sun all the time. Under the awning.” I thought of my own two days: catching up on a backlog of marking, a prep duty, the smell of chalk, the smell of boys… the split being. She was silent again.

“Sometimes I feel you’re still Lily.” She gave a little downbreath of amusement, but said nothing. “Julie?”

“I’m sorry. I’m being difficult.” She bowed her head.

“What about next weekend?”

“We’re going to discuss it tomorrow.”

“Here?”

“No. We’re going back to Nauplia tonight.”

“What does June think about it all?”

“She wants us to fly home.”

“Is this what’s worrying you?” She nodded. “Where’s June now?”

“At the house. She says you obviously don’t care what risks we’re running.”

“Because of you.”

“And me because of you.” I pressed her shoulder. “She’s agreed that we should wait till next weekend.”

The last peacock-blue light hung in the west, over the black headland. It was tropically airless. She stopped for a moment to take off her cardigan coat. I carried it over my free arm, and we went on hand in hand.

She said, “Whatever happens June won’t play that part. I think Maurice knows she won’t.”

“Where’s he been away to?”

“I don’t know. He only came back tonight.” She smiled briefly in the darkness. “On the way here he apologized to me twice mcre. Advice. About keeping you at arm’s length.”

“Which you apparently take.”

We walked perhaps another five steps and then she said, “Please kiss me.”

She turned into my arms. Her mouth twisted under mine in a nervous need to shed all her masks, real and imposed. When we separated she gave me one of those slightly sullen under-the-eyebrows looks girls one has just aroused seem unable to repress. I put my arm round her shoulders again and we went on.

She said, “I feel so desperate for Englishness sometimes. For knowing where you are with things.”

“I know.”

“Then I think it’s cowardly. It’s part of growing up, not clinging to England as if we’d drown if we ever let go. But if you hadn’t come tonight…

We came to where the beach curved away out to the headland. I led her a little way into the trees, up a bill, and then sat down against a pine and made her curl against me. We kissed; tender-mouthed, though I felt too excited for tenderness. She let me undo the top button of her blouse and I caressed her throat, her shoulders. I ran my hand lower over a silky slip—her breast underneath, almost naked. She caught my wrist then, holding my hand still, where it was.

“Please don’t.”