The Magus, A Revised Version (42 page)

Sitting in the grass beside the arbour we let the sun and the small breeze dry us and ate the last of the chocolate. Then Alison lay on her back, her arms thrown out, her legs a little open, abandoned to the sun
–
and, I knew, to me. For a time I lay like her, with my eyes closed.

Then she said,
‘
I
’
m Queen of the May.
’

She was sitting up, turned to me, propped on one arm. She had woven a rough crown out of the oxeyes and wild pinks that grew in the grass around us. It sat lopsidedly on her uncombed hair; and she wore a smile of touching innocence. She did not know it, but it was at first for me an intensely li
terary moment. I could place it
exactly:
England
’
s Helicon.
I had forgotten that there are metaphors and metaphors, and that the greatest lyrics are very rarely anything but direct and unmetaphysical. Suddenly she was like such a poem and I felt a passionate wave of desire for her. It was not only lust, not only because she looked, as she did in her periodic fashion, disturbingly pretty, small-breasted, small-waisted, leaning on one hand, dimpled then grave; a child of sixteen, not a girl of twenty-four; but because I was seeing through all the ugly, the unpoetic accretions of modern life to the naked real self of her
–
a vision of her as naked in that way as she was in body; Eve glimpsed again through ten thousand generations.

It rushed on me, it was quite simple, I did love her, I wanted to keep her
and
I wanted to keep
–
or to find -Julie. It wasn
’
t that I wanted one more than the other, I wanted both. I had to have both; there was no emotional dishonesty in it. The only dishonesty was in my feeling dishonest, concealing … it was love that finally drove me to confess, not cruelty, not a wish to be free, to be callous and clear, but simply love. I think, in those few long moments, that Alison saw that. She must have seen something torn and sad in my face, because she said, very gently,
‘
What
’
s wrong?
’

‘
I haven
’
t had syphilis. It
’
s all a lie.
’

She gave me an intense look, then sank back on the grass.

‘
Oh Nicholas.
’

‘
I want to tell you
–
‘

‘
Not now. Please not now. Whatever
’
s happened, come and make love to me.
’

And we did make love; not sex, but love; though sex would have been far wiser.

Lying beside her I began to try to describe what had happened at Bourani. The ancient Greeks said that if one slept a night on Parnassus either one became inspired or one went mad, and there was no doubt which happened to me; even as I spoke I knew it would have been better to say nothing, to have made something up … but love, that need to be naked. I had chosen the worst of all possible moments to be honest, and like most people who have spent much of their adult life being emotionally dishonest, I overcalculated the s
ympathy
a final being honest would bring … but love, that need to be understood. And Parnassus was also to blame, for being so Greek; a place that made anything but the truth a mindsore.

Of course she wanted first to know the reason for the bizarre pretext I had hit on, but I wanted her to understand the strangeness of Bourani before I mentioned its deepest attraction. I didn
’
t deliberately hide anything else about Conchis, but I still left great gaps.^

‘
It
’
s not that I believe any of these things in the way he tries to make me believe them. But even there … since he hypnotized me, I don
’
t absolutely know. It
’
s simply that when I
’
m with him I feel he does have access to some kind of power. Not occult. I can
’
t explain.
’

‘
But it must be all faked.
’

‘
All right. But why me? How did he know I would go there? I
’
m nothing to him, he obviously doesn
’
t even think very much of me. As a person. He
’
s always laughing at me.
’

‘
I still don
’
t understand …
‘
but then she did. She looked at me.
‘
There
’
s someone else there.
’

‘
Alison darling, for God
’
s sake try to understand. Listen.
’

‘
I
’
m listening.
’
But her face was averted.

So at last I told her. I made it out to be an asexual thing, a fascination of the mind.

‘
But she attracts you the other way.
’

‘
Allie, I can
’
t tell you how much I
’
ve hated myself this weekend. And tried to tell you everything a dozen times before. I don
’
t want to be attracted by her. In any way. A month, three weeks ago I couldn
’
t have believed it. I still don
’
t know what it is about her. Honestly. I only know I
’
m haunted, possessed by everything over there. Not just her. Something so strange is going on. And I
’
m … involved.
’
She looked u
n
impressed.
‘
I
’
ve got to go back to the island. Because of the job. There are so many ways in which I
’
m not a free agent.
’

‘
But this girl.
’
She was staring at the ground, picking seeds
off
grassheads.

‘
She
’
s irrelevant. Really. Just a very small part of it.
’

‘
Then why all the performance?
’

‘
You can
’
t understand, I
’
m being pulled in two.
’

‘
Is she pretty?
’

‘
If I still didn
’
t care like hell for you deep down it would all have been so easy.
’

‘
Is she pretty?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
Very pretty.
’

I said nothing. She buried her face in her arms. I stroked her warm shoulder.

‘
She
’
s totally unlike you. Unlike any modern girl. I can
’
t explain.
’
She turned her head away.
‘
Alison.
’

‘
I must seem just …
‘
but she didn
’
t finish.

‘
Now you
’
re being ridiculous.
’

‘
Ami?
’

There was a tense silence.

‘
Look, I
’
m trying desperately, for once in my miserable life, to be honest. I have no excuses. If I met this girl tomorrow, okay, I could say, I love Alison, Alison loves me, nothing doing. But I met her a fortnight ago. And I
’
ve got to meet her again.
’

‘
And you don
’
t love Alison.
’
She stared away.
‘
Or you love me till you see a better bit of tail.
’

‘
Don
’
t be crude.
’

‘
I am crude. I think crude. I talk crude. I
am
crude.
’
She knelt, took a breath.
‘
So what now? I curtsy and withdraw?
’

‘
I wish to God I wasn
’
t so complicated
–’

‘
Complicated!
’
She snorted.

‘
Selfish.
’

‘
That
’
s better.
’

We were silent. Two coupled yellow butterflies flitted heavily, saggingly, past.

‘
All I wanted was that you should know what I am.
’

‘
I know what you are.
’

‘
If you did you
’
d have cut me out right at the beginning.
’

‘
I still know what you are.
’

And her cold grey eyes went through me, till I had to look down. She stood up and went to wash. It was hopeless. I couldn
’
t manage it, I couldn
’
t explain, and she could never understand. I put my clothes on and turned my back while she dressed in silence.

When she was ready, she said,
‘
Don
’
t for God
’
s sake say any more. I can
’
t bear it.
’

We got to Arachova about five and set
off
to drive back to Athens. I twice tried to discuss everything again with her, but she wouldn
’
t allow it. We had said all that could be said; and she sat brooding, wordless, all the way.

We came over the pass at Daphni at about eight-thirty, with the last light over the pink and amber city, the first neon signs round Syntagma and Ommonia like distant jewels. I thought of where we had been that time the night before, and glanced at Alison. She was putting on lipstick. Perhaps after all there was a solution; to get her back into the hotel, make love to her, prove to her through the loins that I did love her … and why not, let her see that I might be worth suffering, just as I was and always would be. I began to talk a little, casually, about Athens; but her answers were so uninterested, so curt, that it sounded as ridiculous as it was, and I fell silent. The pink turned to violet, and soon it was night.

We arrived at the hotel in the Piraeus
– I
had reserved the same rooms. Alison went up while I took the car round to the garage. On the way back I saw a flower-seller and bought a dozen carnations from him. I went straight to her room, and knocked on the door. I had to knock three times before she unlocked it. She had been crying.

‘
I brought you some flowers.
’

‘
I don
’
t want your bloody flowers.
’

‘
Look, Alison, it
’
s not the end of the world.
’

‘
Just the end of the affaire.
’

I broke the silence.
‘
Aren
’
t you going to let me in?
’

‘
Why the hell should I?
’

She stood holding the door half shut, the room in darkness behind her. Her face was terrible; puffed and unforgiving; nakedly hurt.

‘
Just let me come in and talk to you.
’

‘
No.
’

‘
Please.
’

‘
Go away.
’

I pushed in past her and closed the door. She stood against the wall, staring at me. Light came up from the street, and I could see her eyes. I
off
ered the flowers. She snatched them from my hand, went to the window and hurled them, pink heads, green stems, out into the night; remained there with her back to me.