by John Fowles
"She begged me not to tell you."
"You are in love."
"I know she told you."
He looked down. "Yes, yes, she told me."
"She wrote me a letter." His eyes were hurt; almost reproachful. "I know you haven't been in Geneva, but that's all. I'm happy to go on being the butt."
He made a gesture of dismissal. "This is all I have tried to avoid in my theatre. Now it is theatre — make-believe and artifice." He waved the infamous idea of the conventional theatre away; tapped his head. "I have tried to be too clever."
"I'm sorry."
He stood up, stared down at me. "Well. You are fortunate. That she should really love you. I did not expect it."
"No?" I smiled back at his slow smile.
"Let us say — I did not intend it."
"I think, Mr. Conchis, now that at last I have you at my mercy, I'd like to know what you did intend."
He bit his lips, almost boyishly, his eyes suddenly brimming with good humor. I had an unexpected feeling of affection for him. Julie was right: one could not believe he was evil.
"You must ask her."
"She doesn't know."
"She does know. I have told her the truth. But I warn you it is very strange." The eyes crinkled. "Very strange indeed." Then before I could say anymore, he looked at his watch, seemed surprised, and went to the corner of the colonnade.
"Catherine!"
He pronounced it the French way. He turned back to me. "Maria — of course — is not a simple Greek peasant. This was to be another little surprise for you. But now . . ." He shrugged, as if all was wasted, all a damp fizzle. We heard her footsteps and turned. Maria was still an elderly woman, still had a lined face; but she wore a well-cut black suit, a gilt-and-garnet brooch. Stockings. Shoes with short heels. A touch of lipstick. The sort of middle-class matron of fifty one might see in any fashionable Athenian street. All her old manner was gone. She stood with a faint smile on her face — the big surprise, the quick-change entrance. But Conchis sacrificed the effect. "Nicholas, this is Madame Catherine Athanasoulis, who has made a speciality of peasant roles. She has helped us many times before." He moved towards her. "Catherine, tine maiheur nous est arrivée. Queiquechose de tout a fait inattendu." He took her elbow and led her aside; their backs to me, and a retreat into Greek. She nodded at what he was saying.
She looked at me and gave an open-palmed gesture, whether of resignation or regret, I could not tell. I made a small smile of appreciation at her change. I felt obscurely guilty; a hit of a bull in a china shop; no poetry, again.
Conchis watched her go back composedly towards her cottage, then turned to me. "Before Julie comes, I have much to say. First of all, I am not deceiving you about America. I must be there next week. I have meetings. Bourani will be shut from today." He looked at his watch. "And I shall be fetched at noon. I have a plane to catch in Athens. Now, money. There is . . . Patarescu. And other expenses." He produced a fat envelope from the briefcase. "Here is a small sum." He put it on the table.
"I don't want it."
"I insist. It is nothing. Ten million drachmai." I smiled; even allowing for Greek inflation, ten million was well over a hundred pounds.
"I can't take it."
He held out the envelope once more, but I shook my head very firmly.
"There is one other thing, Nicholas. For purposes I will not go into now I told you only yesterday that I did not like you. This was merely to authenticate what will not now take place today. So permit me to say, at this unexpected last moment, that I have grown to like you very much. Will you believe me?"
I said, "Of course."
"Whatever may happen to you in your life, I beg you never to stop believing that of me." I bowed.
He caught sight of something behind me, then glanced at his watch; things were carefully timed.
"Ah. Here is Joe. All this was meant as a surprise. What we call a désintoxication." It was the Negro. He was strolling through the trees from the gulley, in an elegant dark tan suit. A pink shirt, a club tie. It was still a surprise, this mask-dropping, however much sharper Conchis had intended it to be. The Negro raised a hand as he saw us looking at him. The moustache had disappeared. Conchis went out in the sun to meet him, to stop the pretense again. They spoke a few words, I saw the Negro look up towards me. Then they both came back across the gravel. Conchis looked almost a dwarf, a dapper dwarf, beside him. Joe was about ten years older than I; a hard face, but a mobile and intelligent one.
"Nicholas, this is Joe Harrison."
"Hi."
"Hello."
My tone was so curt that he grinned and gave a little side glance at Conchis. He reached out a hand. "Sorry, friend. Just did what the book said."
I took his hand, but I said, "With some conviction."
"Man, I was born in Alabama. In that kind of play . . ." he gestured back, as if he had left his role in the trees.
"I didn't mean that."
"Okay."
We exchanged a wary look. He pulled a pack of American cigarettes out of his pocket and shook one out for me, then he turned to Conchis. "Your bags?"
Conchis said, "They're upstairs."
"Fine." He glanced at me as I lit his cigarette, appeared to search for words, shrugged, smiled secretly and went indoors.
More footsteps. Hermes appeared, carrying two more suitcases over the gravel down to the beach. "Maria" followed him, under the colonnade. She came to me holding out her hand. "Sans rancune, j'espère, monsieur." Her accent was heavily Greek. I frogged a small grimace, and took her hand. "Eh bien. Bonne chance." Perhaps it had not been so difficult for her to play Maria; she was veil-eyed by nature.
I watched her black back descend the path, sink out of sight. And at once, in the same place, Julie rose into sight, climbing up from the beach.
Conchis said, "Let us pretend for a few moments."
She was wearing a white linen suit, a navy-blue shirt, town shoes; and the shock of seeing her in contemporary clothes was the greatest of the three.
She was walking quickly, lightly, in a way that made me realize I had never seen her move naturally before. She came across the gravel and I stared at her and she stared at me. Running up the steps, a glance at Conchis, she came, flicking her hair back, with a sort of cool impudence — I was sure the whole entry had been rehearsed — and stood some six feet in front of me; her back to Conchis; then winked, to invalidate the part she was playing.
"Good morning." Her voice was louder than usual; formal.
"Hello."
She gave another glance, a tiny smile, back at Conchis, who stood by the table, then looked boldly back at me. But hidden from him her left hand was against her ribs, and two fingers were crossed
"Maurice has told you? About America?"
"Yes."
"I am sorry."
I said, "All you've told me was . . . not serious?"
She put a touch of sharpness into her voice; turned half away. "I can't discuss it. I'll write. I've got to get away."
Conchis came up beside us and looked at her so long that she frowned.
"Not very convincing, my dear. From an actress of your caliber."
She sensed at once that something was wrong; flashed a look at me, saw me smiling; then back at Conchis.
"Has . . .?"
Her eyes accused mine.
"My dear Julie, I asked too much. I miscalculated. Nicholas has made me understand how much."
She said to me, "You haven't —"
"No. Nicholas has done nothing. Our little final plan — we forget it."
I reached out a hand and she took it hesitantly, still bewildered.
"But you said . . ."
"Never mind. It is better so."
Joe appeared in the music-room door, with two heavy suitcases.
Conchis said, "Hermes will help you."
"Aw come on. You know that joke about the white man's burden? They make it, we carry
it."
&nbs
p; I watched Julie's face. She gave an almost indignant look at Conchis, then frowned again; then smiled, ruefully; then glanced at me. Joe was grinning at her.
"Sorry, baby. There were times I could have said worlds."
Conchis said, "Joe is a very promising young actor from America. I'm afraid he played his part rather too well."
She said, "I'm afraid he has."
Joe put down the cases. "No hard feelings?" He put out his hand and she shook it, though like myself, tentatively. She kept on looking at me, with a vague hint of hurt suspicion in her eyes, as if I might still be in the conspiracy.
"Well, one thing," said Joe, "now you both got the same person to hate. Nice for you." He picked up the suitcases and started down the steps. But he paused a moment and grinned goodbye back at us.
Conchis came forward.
"Well. I will say no more. Julie, you will stay . . . as long as you wish. I have told Hermes."
She looked at me. "Maurice has lent me his house in the village. That was the surprise."
I smiled at him. "A very nice one."
Julie said, "I'm so sorry, Maurice. I've ruined everything."
"My dear, perhaps this year . . . perhaps I hoped for too much. But next year. Who knows? There may be an English master at the school who has newly married?" His dark eyes flicked momentarily at me. "And we shall see. I have an idea that requires . . . but not now."
He put his hands tenderly on her shoulders, gave her a long look. "I am forgiven?" She smiled, and he leant forward and kissed her on both cheeks and patted her avuncularly. There were more footsteps on the gravel: Hermes coming back from the beach.
Simultaneously I became aware of the till then unconsciously heard sound of an airplane. He called to us in Greek, "It is coming." Julie came beside me and I put my arm round her and kissed the side of her head. Conchis was moving, speaking in Greek to Hermes, giving instructions. She breathed something I hardly heard. "Oh I've so missed you. You got my letter?" I chucked her shoulder. "Why's he canceled —"
Conchis turned, as Hermes walked back to the cottage. "Now, Hermes has lunch ready for
you. Then he is going to lock up and if you wish to go back in the boat . . ."
"I'd rather walk."
"He can carry your case then. And I will telephone June."
Julie said, "Oh please do."
I could see the plane, a seaplane, coming in to land off Bourani; an echo.
"The colonel's arriving."
Conchis smiled. "No. But Greece's only air-taxi." He faced me. "Nicholas. After all." It was not an adverbial phrase.
Taking me by one hand and Julie by the other, he raised his eyes with a sort of tender irony. "'Look down, you gods, and on this couple drop a blessed crown."
Then he let go of our hands and started down the steps.
We followed. But he turned quickly and pushed us back with his hands, both upraised, forbidding, though with a smile — he had his briefcase in one hand and the hieratic gesture was guyed.
Julie called, "Next year." He lowered his arms then, and made a kind of openhanded final-curtain bow before turning and going on. We let him drop out of sight, then we went down to the seat beside the path. We saw Maria and Joe were already sitting in the boat. Conchis and Hermes appeared. The green seaplane was taxiing back slowly towards the land. A man in khaki dungarees clambered down onto the port float and got ready to hold the boat as it came alongside. We saw the three passengers wave. Maria went into the cabin, then Conchis, then Joe, and the suitcases were passed up as well. Then boat and seaplane drifted apart, and the latter swung round into the wind. The engine roared, twin white trails, and in a very short time it was airborne, heading first southeast, then climb-banking steeply to the left, Athensward.
I turned to Julie. "What was the last scene that wasn't?"
She gave me a grave, searching look. "You didn't know?"
"Look, I'm the victim. Not you."
She stared at me, then she pointed at the disappearing plane. "I was to be on it, you were to think I'd decided to go to America. You would have left here feeling . . . a little miserable?" I kissed her hair again. "But the plane would have landed the other side of the island. I was to go to the school. Perhaps wait in your room. You'd have come back —"
I smiled. "I almost wish he'd done it."
"I'd love to have seen your face. But what's happened? What did you say to him?"
I pulled her round. She had a pale lipstick on, her tilt-cornered eyes had been accentuated by a pencil; and she was wearing a bra for the first time. I had yet another Julie to discover.
I said, "Later."
56
We saw Hermes climbing the path towards us. Julie sat up and smoothed back her hair. Every time she had tried to speak I had stopped her. Now she stood and looked down at me, almost sullenly, a strange new face.
"What's wrong?"
"You."
She turned away. I stood behind her and put my hands on her hips; kissed the side of her neck.
Hermes came toiling up the path in his methodical peasant way. We stood apart. He said he would lay the lunch "Maria" had left, and passed on. Slowly, hand in hand, we followed him back towards the house.
"Come on. I hear he's told you the final, ultimate, absolute truth."
She looked amazed, then teased, then amused; bowed her head with laughter. I jerked her hand.
"What's so funny?"
"Can't you guess?" Her bright eyes sideways on mine.
"He . . ."
She nodded. "He told us you would be told everything last night."
I looked to the east. "The last laugh. I might have known."
"Perhaps he'll tell June."
"Where is she?"
"In Athens."
"You must have had more confidence in Maurice than I did."
"She's waiting to hear from me. We've agreed on a code. If I say Emily it means,
Everything's fine, wait till I write. If I say Charlotte, it means, Come at once. If I say Anne, it means, Stay where you are till I come."
"Emily?"
"Emily."
Her fingers laced into mine. I told her about the episode on the ridge, about what had happened that morning. We wandered through the vegetable garden and sat on the ground in the shade of the two loquats at the end. She took off her coat and lay back.
"Maurice has been sweet these last two or three days. He's letting us keep our contract
money."
I kissed the palm of her hand. "Was he really disappointed?"
"I felt . . . well, he did say. We were only just beginning the real play when we stopped." I looked down at her, at the shadows on her throat.
"Are you disappointed?"
She looked at me, smiled, and shook her head.
I said, "And now?"
She sat up. Her hair hid her face from me; silk-pale strands on the navy-blue shirt. "June's going to fly back to England."
"That's not an answer."
"Do you really need one?"
I smiled, stroked her hair, then pulled her to me; turned her head and kissed her. After a moment she sank back and I lay beside her. Her shirt had rucked up and I bent and kissed her stomach, then touched her navel with my tongue, and she pressed my head down against her bare skin.
* * *
The lunch stood on the table. Hermes picked up one of the roped crates as soon as he saw us, and began to carry it down to the beach. Four times he reappeared during the meal and went down with another crate. She went and changed out of her suit into pale blue trousers; dark blue, pale blue, changing before a walk . . . I remembered Alison. And looking at Julie, forgot her. We sat and ate; not very much. Neither of us was hungry.
"I went mad while you were away. Trying to find out where you hid here."
"Maurice thought someone in the village would tell you."
"In the village?"
She reached out and took a Kalamata olive; bit it, her amused eyes on mine. "I'll show you. If y
ou're good."
"I've just remembered. Some Latin poem Maurice asked me to ask you about. Nullos something? By Catullus."
"Nulli se dicit mulier mea nubere malle . . ."
"That was it."
"The last line says, 'What a woman tells a passionate lover should be written in wind and running water."
"Should it?"
She dropped her eyes.
"Ask me tomorrow."
"I love you."
But Hermes came to fetch the last picture crate and we were silent. I reached out with my bare foot and touched hers. Our eyes were serious, our feet played, pressed; soles and souls. We went up to my room to get my things. Julie stood in the door while I filled my dufflebag. I sat on the bed to tie up the strings round the neck. She came in and gently lifted the old photo of the house. The gecko clung to the wall.
I said, "You've slept in this room."
She nodded. I reached out and caught her hand, and made her sit beside me. We sat in silence, in the silent house, as if there were ghosts that could be listened to and heard. I kept on thinking of the bare skin under the shirt; of her body; and then of how much more than bare skin and body she was.
Perhaps it was seeing her in contemporary clothes; but I was intensely aware of her in a new nonsexual way. As a companion, a partner in life; in some ways, as an innocent — a very intelligent innocent, but one that needed protecting, cherishing; and her innocense, living up to. I felt a new sort of ardor, an anxious desire to hide nothing from her, to have nothing of her hidden from me. I was longing to tell her about Alison, longing for her sympathy and understanding. But the lie I had told her a fortnight before stood like a black guard, like Joe, between me and the absolving sunlight. As soon as we had consummated the physical thing, I would go to confession; and even then I knew a little wave of relief at the thought that there was now only one witness of that weekend in Athens. Those moments on Parnassus need never he told.
As a substitute, to confess something, I told her about the letters I had written: to the bank, to her mother.
"I don't mind. We've done the same."
"The same!"
"June telephoned the British Council. From Nauplia. Years ago."
We grinned. Silence. Hands.
"Julie."