The Magus

by John Robert Fowles

  “I think I’ll go for a stroll, Mr. Conchis. I don’t feel very sleepy. Just down to Moutsa.”

  I knew he might say that he would come with me and so make it impossible to be at the statue at midnight; but it was a counter-trap for him, an insurance for me. If he let me go out alone, then it would be that he wanted me to walk into the trap, if there was a trap; and if he was genuinely innocent of the assignation, I could still—if discovered and then accused—pretend that I had assumed he was not.

  “As you wish.”

  He put out his hand in his foreign way and clasped mine with unusual warmth, and watched me for a moment as I went downstairs. But before I had reached the bottom I heard his door close. He might be out on the terrace listening, so I crunched noisily over the gravel to the track out of Bourani. But at the gate instead of turning down to Moutsa I went on up the hill for fifty yards or so and sat down against a tree trunk, from where I could watch the entrance and the track. It was a dark night, no moon, but the stars diffused a very faint luminescence over everything, a light like the softest sound, touch of fur on ebony.

  My heart was beating faster than it should. It was partly at the thought of meeting Lily, partly at something far more mysterious, the sense that I was now deep in the strangest maze in Europe. I remembered the feeling I had had one morning walking back to the school; of being Odysseus or Theseus. Now I was Theseus in the maze; somewhere in the darkness Ariadne waited; and the Minotaur.

  I sat there for quarter of an hour, smoking but shielding the red tip from view, ears alert and eyes alert. Nobody came; and nobody went.

  * * *

  At five to twelve I slipped back through the gate and struck off eastwards through the trees to the gulley. I moved slowly, stopping frequently. I reached the gulley, waited, then crossed it and walked as silently as I could up the path to the clearing with the statue. It came, majestic shadow, into sight. The seat under the almond tree was deserted. I stood in the starlight at the edge of the clearing, very tense, certain that something was about to happen, straining to see if there was anyone in the dense black background. I had an idea it might be a man with blue eyes and an axe.

  There was a loud ching. Someone had thrown a stone and hit the statue. I stepped into the darkness of the pine tree beside me. Then I saw a movement, and an instant later another stone, a pebble, rolled across the ground in front of me. The movement showed a gleam of white, and it came from behind a tree on my side of the clearing, higher up. I knew it was Lily.

  I ran up the steep slope, stumbled once, then stood. She was standing beside the tree, in the thickest shadow. I could see her white dress inside the opened cloak, her blonde hair, and suddenly she reached forward with both hands. In four long strides I got to her and her arms went round me, the cloak fell, and we were kissing, one long wild kiss that lasted, with one or two gulps for air, for a fevered readjustment of the embrace, and lasted… in that time I thought I finally knew her. She had abandoned all pretense, she was hot, passionate, she kissed with her tongue as prim 1915 could never have kissed. She let me have her body; met mine. I murmured one or two torn endearments, but she stopped my mouth. A torrent of feelings rushed through me; the knowledge that I was hopelessly in love with her. I had wanted other girls. Alison. But for the first time in my life I wanted desperately to be wanted in return.

  She stroked the side of my face, and I turned to kiss her hand; caught it; and brushed my lips down its side and round the wrist to the scar on the back.

  A second later I had let go of her and was reaching in my pocket for the matches. I struck one and lifted her left hand. It was scarless. I raised the match. The eyes, the mouth, the shape of the chin, everything about her was like Lily. But she was not Lily. There were little puckers at the corner of her mouth, a slight over-alertness in the look, a sort of calculated impudence; a much more modern face, though it could belong only to a twin sister. She sustained my stare, then looked down, then up again under her eyelashes; she had Lily’s mischievousness, but not her cool gentleness.

  “Damn.” I flicked the match away, and struck another. She promptly blew it out.

  “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?”

  Her head was shaking. “Please forget I said that.” But after a moment she leant back and said, “Yes. Obviously we thought you must have guessed.”

  “Film stars?” My voice was high with incredulity. She raised her finger, as if we must keep quiet.

  “No. But there’s only one profession—isn’t there?—where you do kiss strange men with apparent passion. Because it’s part of your job.” She suddenly grimaced. “I’ve just thought of another. I didn’t mean that.”

  “You’re trying to tell me you’re both actresses?”

  “We’re not even that. Just two girls in desperate need of help.”

  “Help?”

  “Are there any police on the island?”

  I clutched my hair.

  “Let me get this straight. First of all you were ghosts. Then you were schizophrenics. Now you are next week’s consignment to Saudi Arabia.”

  She smiled. “Sometimes I almost wish we were. It would be simpler.” She turned and put her hand on my knee. “Nicholas, I’m notorious for never taking anything very seriously, and that’s partly why we’re here, and even now it’s fun in a way—but we really are just two English girls who’ve got ourselves into such deep waters these last two or three months that…” she left an eloquent silence.

  “But how did he get hold of you? Where were you actresses?”

  “Tomorrow. Tomorrow morning we’re all meeting. The three of us.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because nothing here happens by chance. It’s all planned in advance.” She touched my sleeve. “You must tell me the time.”

  “Including this?”

  “Including my meeting you. But not what we’ve said.” She pulled her cloak round her. “Or only some of what we’ve said.” She took my hand and looked at the time. “I must go.”

  She stood up.

  “I’ll come with you now.”

  “No.”

  “She told me you live on a yacht.”

  “She told me what a terribly good impromptu liar you were.”

  I stood up and she put her hands on my shoulders and regarded me with a kind of anxious concern. “Nicholas, let’s be friends. Now we’ve met, I do trust you.”

  “That’s hardly the question. Do I trust you?”

  I answered “no” in my mind, but I reached up and took her hands; the cloak was open. I could see the white dress, the white throat. What I suspected of Conchis, what she had accused me of, I gave myself to taste: the charms of a ménage a trois; that wild kissing. Who cared about real meaning? I pressed her hands.

  “At least tell me your name.”

  “Rose.”

  I pressed her hands again.

  “Come on. Friends.”

  “Call me anything you like. You baptize me.”

  “No.”

  She smiled; a pressure back, the hands withdrawn.

  “I must go. I hate all this mystery. But just tonight.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “You can’t.” She had that same slightly desperate urgency Lily had had two weeks before. She moved away a step or two, as if to test me. I stood still.

  “I’ll follow you.”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Now.”

  She eyed me, then shrugged, with regret.

  “Then I’m awfully sorry, but I’ll have to use the emergency exit.”

  With her eyes still on mine, she called. Not very loud; to carry thirty or forty yards; as if to a dog.

  “Anubis!”

  I whipped round. She came and put her arm on mine. “Actually this looks better. He won’t hurt yo
u if you stay here.”

  Already I could hear someone coming swiftly down through the trees behind us. I saw a monstrous dark shape. “Rose” stood near me as if to protect me.

  “Who is it?”

  “Our dearly beloved watchdog.” Her tone was dry; and when I looked at her, she confirmed its dryness.

  It was the figure from the death and the maiden scene of two weeks before. The jackal-head, the “nurse.” Standing against us, in black from head to foot, the long ears pointing stiffly up, the muzzle waiting.

  She muttered quickly, “Don’t be afraid.” Then, in a very low whisper, “We had no choice tonight.” I didn’t know whether she meant “you and I,” or “Lily and I.”

  She started to walk down past the statue. I looked back up the hill. The figure had not moved. I began to walk after her. Immediately she heard me she stopped. When I came up with her, she gave me a wide-eyed look and then she said again, “Anubis.”

  The figure came and stood some six feet away. I could see that behind the macabre disguise was a big, tall man. He moved like a very fit man, too. I would be no match for him physically. I shrugged.

  “Force majeure.”

  “Just stay here. Please just stay here.” She turned to the figure. Her voice was cold. “And there is absolutely no need for violence. We all know you’re very strong.”

  She turned back to me, touched my arm one last time as if to reassure me; then she disappeared down through the trees towards the carob under which the man and the girl had stood.

  I spoke.

  “I suppose you’re the Reverend Mr. Foulkes.”

  He raised his arm and took off the headpiece. I was looking at a Negro. He had on black trousers, a black shirt, black gym shoes; even black gloves. He did not smile, but simply watched me. Poised yet coiled; an athlete, a boxer.

  I calculated whether I could risk a dash into the trees. But it was already too late. She had disappeared; and I felt sure that her real destination was in some very different direction.

  “Where you from? The West Indies?”

  No answer.

  “Well what are you supposed to be—the black eunuch or something?”

  No answer again; but I thought there was a tiny contraction of the eyes.

  “I’m going back to sit on the seat. All right?” He did not even nod. I said again “All right?” and then moved crabwise back up the hill, cautiously, watching him. He stayed where he was, and we remained like that for perhaps a minute. I lit a cigarette to try to counter the released adrenalin, and listened in vain for the sound of an engine down by the sea. Then, abruptly, the black figure came up towards me. He stood in front of me, blocking out the sky. The cigarette was snatched out of my mouth and flicked away. Then in the same movement I was jerked to my feet. I said, “Now wait a minute.” But he was strong and as quick as a leopard. Sweating a little. I could smell his sweat. An absolutely humorless face, and an angry one. It was no good, I was frightened—there was something insanely violent about his eyes, and it flashed through my mind that he was a black surrogate of Henrik Nygaard. Without warning he spat full in my face and then palm-pushed me sharply back. The edge of the seat cut into my legs and I fell half across it. As I wiped the spittle off my nose and cheek I saw him trotting away, carrying his mask, through the trees to the north. I opened my mouth to shout something at him, then said it in a whisper. I kept wiping my face with my handkerchief, but it was filthy, defiled.