by John Fowles
‘I know that exactly.’
‘It was our second afternoon here. June – I was sleeping-tried to go for a walk. She got to the gate and suddenly this silent Negro -we’d never seen him before – stepped out in the path and stopped her. He wouldn’t let her pass, wouldn’t answer her. Of course she was petrified. She came back at once and we marched off to Maurice.’ Her eyes lingered a dry moment on mine. ‘Then he told us.’ She looked down at the rug. ‘Not quite straight out. He could see we were … obviously. He put us through a sort of catechism. Had he ever behaved improperly, had he not honoured all that the contracts stipulated in financial terms, didn’t the relationship we’d established on the cruise … you know. Then he did come out with it. Yes, he had misled us about the film, but not totally. He did need the services of two accomplished and highly intelligent – his adjectives – young actresses. We must please listen. He swore blind that if, having listened, we were unconvinced, then
‘You could go.’
She nodded. ‘So we made the mistake of listening. It went on for hours, in the end. The gist of it was that though he was truly interested in the theatre – really does own this film studio in the Lebanon – he had remained much more the doctor than he’d led us to believe. That his field had been psychiatry. He even said that he’d studied under Jung.’
‘I’ve had that.’
‘I know so little about Jung. Did you think … ?’
‘I was convinced at the time.’
‘So were we. In the end, and rather against our will. But that day. He kept talking about our helping him cross a frontier to a new world that was half art and half science. A unique psychological and philosophical adventure. What might be an extraordinary voyage into the human unconscious. Those were all phrases he used. Of course we wanted to know what lay behind all the fine words – what we were actually expected to do. Then for the first time he mentioned you. That he wanted to mount a situation in which we two were to play parts rather like the ones in the original Three Hearts story. And you, without realizing it, would play the Greek poet.’
‘But Christ Almighty, you must have –’
She tilted her head, looked away a moment, beyond the words to express it. ‘Nicholas, we were flabbergasted. And yet in some way … I don’t know, it had somehow always been there. You know, real theatre people are generally rather silly and superficial offstage. And Maurice … I remember June said something about feeling insulted. How dare he think he could buy people just because he was so rich. It was the nearest I’ve ever seen him to being caught on the raw. Hurt. He made a long speech, and I know for once it was sincere, about the guilt he’d always felt over his money. How his only real passion was to know, to extend human knowledge. How his one dream was to realize a long-held theory, how it was not a selfishness, a mere strange whim … as far as genuineness in that way was concerned, he really was rather impressive. He even silenced June in the end.’
‘You must have asked what the theory was.’
‘Over and over again. But he came up with the same old thing. If we knew, we would contaminate the purity of the experiment. His words again. He did give us more analogies than we’ve ever had since. In one way it was to be a sort of fantastic extension of the Stanislavski method. Improvising realities more real than reality. You were to be like a man following a mysterious voice, several voices, through a forest of alternative possibilities – who wouldn’t even know themselves … since they were us … what their alternatives really meant. Another parallel was a play, but without a writer or an audience. Only actors.’
‘And in the end – can we be told then?’
‘He’s promised that from the beginning.’
‘Me as well?’
‘He must be dying to know what you’re really feeling and thinking. Since you’re at the centre of it all. The chief guinea-pig.’
‘Obviously he won you over that day.’
‘We spent a night talking it over alone. One minute we would, the next we wouldn’t. In the end June decided to make a little test. “We came down the next morning and said we wanted to go home, as soon as possible. He argued and argued, but we were adamant. In the end he said very well, he’d have the yacht come from Nauplia and take us to Athens. But we said no. This day, now. We’d catch the steamer back to Athens.’
‘And he let you go?’
‘We packed, he took us and our luggage round the island in the boat. He was absolutely silent, he didn’t say a word. All I could think about was losing the sunlight, everything around us. Dreary old London. It came to the point when we were only a hundred yards from the steamer. I looked at June
‘And bit the apple.’ She nodded. ‘Had he wanted the money back?’
‘No. That was another thing. And he was so delighted. He didn’t blame us at all.’ She sighed. ‘He said it proved his choice was right.’
Through all this I had waited for a reference to the past, to my own certain knowledge that Conchis had now devoted at least three summers to his ‘long-held theory’, whatever it really was. But I held my tongue. Perhaps Julie sensed that I remained sceptical.
‘That story last night. About Seidevarre. I think that’s some kind of clue. The place of mystery in life. Not taking anything for granted. A world where nothing is certain. That’s what he’s trying to create here.’
‘With himself cast as God.’
‘But not out of vanity. Out of intellectual curiosity. As a hypothesis. To see how we react. And not one kind of god. Several.’
‘He keeps telling me hazard rules everything. But you can’t knowingly pretend to be God as Hazard.’
‘I think he means us to realize that.’ She added, ‘He even jokes about it sometimes. We see far less of him, ever since you appeared. Much more only to do with whatever’s happening. It’s as if he’s withdrawn. He says it. We can’t expect to question God.’
I surveyed her bent head, the line of her body, her closeness; and almost heard Conchis’s voice answering my doubt of hazard. Then why are you here with this girl? Or, Does it matter, as long as you are here with her?
‘June says he questions you about me.’
Her eyes went skywards a moment. ‘You’ve no idea. It’s not only you. What 7 feel. Whether I believe you … even what I think’s going on in his, Maurice’s, mind. You can’t imagine.’
‘It must have been obvious I was no actor.’
‘It wasn’t at all. I thought you were brilliant. Acting as if you couldn’t act.’ She turned and lay on her stomach, head towards me. ‘We’ve long realized that the first line he gave us – that we should mystify you – was a blind. According to the script we deceive you. But the deceiving deceives us even more.’
‘This script?’
‘“Script” is a joke. He tells us roughly when to appear and disappear – in terms of exits and entries. The sort of atmosphere to create. Sometimes lines.’
‘That theological talk last night?’
‘Yes. He asked me to say that.’ She gave a little half-apologetic glance up. ‘And I do believe it a little, anyway.’
‘But otherwise you improvise?’
‘All along he says that if things don’t go quite as planned it doesn’t matter. As long as we keep to the main development.’ She said, ‘It’s also all about role-playing. How people behave in situations they don’t understand. I told you. He has said that’s part of it.’
‘One thing’s obvious. He wants us to think he’s putting all sorts of obstacles between us. Then gives us all these opportunities to destroy them,’
‘To begin with there was no talk of getting you to fall in love with me except in a very distant nineteen-fifteeny sort of way. Then by that second week he persuaded me that I had to make some compromise between my 1915 false self and your 1953 true one. He asked me what I’d do if you wanted to kiss me.’ She shrugged. ‘One’s kissed men on stage. In the end I said, If it was absolutely necessary. That second Sunday I hadn’t decided. That’s why I put
on that dreadful act.’
‘It was a nice act.’
‘That first conversation with you. I had terrible trac. Far worse than I’ve ever had on a real stage.’
‘But you forced yourself to let me kiss you.’
‘Only because I thought I had to.’ I followed the hollow of her arched back. She had raised one blue-stockinged foot backwards in the air and, chin cupped in her hands, was avoiding my eyes. She said, ‘I think for him it’s like some mathematical proposition. Except that we’re all x, and he can put us where he likes in his equation.’ There was a little silence. ‘I’m not being honest. I wanted to know what it was like being kissed by you.’
‘Despite the adverse propaganda.’
‘That didn’t begin till after that Sunday afternoon. Though he had said all along that I mustn’t get emotionally involved with you.’
She stared at the rug. A yellow butterfly hovered over us, then glided away.
‘Did he give a reason?’
‘Yes. That one day I might have to make you … dislike me.’ She stared down. ‘Because you’d have to start feeling attracted to June. It all goes back to the ridiculous Three Hearts thing again. The poet character did transfer his affections. One sister was fickle, the other caught him on the rebound … you know.’ She added, ‘He does keep running you down terribly. To both of us. As if he’s apologizing to the hounds for having provided such an awful fox. Which is palpably absurd. Especially when you’ve done all the hunting.’ She looked up. ‘Do you remember that speech he gave me, when I was Lily, about your having no poetry? No humour, and all the rest? I’m sure it was meant just as much for me as for you.’
‘But why should he drive us together?’
She said nothing for a moment. ‘I don’t think the Three Hearts story means anything. But there’s a much greater work of literature that may.’ She left a pause for me to guess, then murmured, ‘Yesterday afternoon, after my little scene. Another magician once sent a young man hewing wood.’
‘I missed that. Prospero and Ferdinand.’
‘Those lines I recited.’
‘He also brought it up on my very first visit here. Before I even knew you existed.’ I noticed she was avoiding my eyes. It was not, given the end of The Tempest, difficult to guess why. I murmured, ‘He can’t have known we’d
‘I know. It’s just … ‘ she shook her head. ‘That I’m his to give.’ She added, ‘Not you.’
‘And he certainly has a Caliban.’
She sighed. ‘I know.’
‘Which reminds me. This hiding-place of yours.’
‘Nicholas, I can’t show you. If we are being watched, they’ll see.’
‘It’s close to here?’
‘Yes.’
‘At least you can tell me where.’ She seemed embarrassed in a different way now; again avoided my eyes. ‘Supposing you were in trouble.’
She smiled. ‘If we were earmarked for a fate worse than death … I think it would have happened by now.’
‘But why can’t I know? You promised.’
‘I still promise. But please not now.’ She must have heard the sharpness in my voice, because she reached out and touched my hand. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve broken so many other promises to Maurice this last hour. I feel I ought to keep one.’
‘Is it so important?’
‘Not at all. Except he says he wants to surprise you with it one day. I don’t know how.’
I was puzzled, yet in a way it was additional proof of her story; a contrariness that confirmed it. I left a little silence, as a test, knowing that liars hate silence. But she passed that.
‘Have you talked with the other people here?’
‘We’ve never seen the others to talk to. There’s Maria, but she’s hopeless. As impossible to get anything out of as Joe.’
‘The crew on the yacht?’
‘They’re just Greeks. I don’t think they know what goes on here.’ She suddenly said, ‘Did June tell you we suspect there’s a spy at your school?’
‘Who?’
‘Maurice told us one day you were very stand—offish with the other masters. That they didn’t like you.’
I thought at once of Demetriades; of how, when I reflected, it was odd that such a natural gossip should have kept my trips to Bourani so secret. Besides, I was stand—offish. He was the only other master I was ever frequently with, outside the common-room. I remembered, with a flash of relief, that I had lied to him about meeting Alison -not out of cunning, but to avoid his wretched jokes.
‘I can guess who it would be.’
‘It’s the one side of Maurice I can’t stand. All this spying. He’s got a cine-camera on the yacht. With a telephoto lens. He claims it’s for birds.’
‘If I ever caught the old bastard
‘I’ve never seen it here. I think it’s just another of his fifty-seven varieties of red herring.’
I watched her, I knew there was some conflict in her, some indecision, some admission she wanted to coax out of me that ran contrary to most of what we had been saying. I remembered what her sister had told me about her the night before; and made a guess.
‘In spite of everything, you want to go on?’
She shook her head. ‘Nicholas, I don’t know. Today, now, yes. Tomorrow, probably not. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I suppose if I have a clear instinct, it’s that if we walked out on it, nothing like it would ever happen again. Do you feel that?’
I had her eyes, and the moment seemed right. I sprang my final test.
‘Not really. Since I know it’s happened at least twice before this year.’
She was so surprised that she did not understand. She stared at my faint smile, then pushed off her stomach and sat back on her heels.
‘You mean you’ve been … this isn’t your first
She was transparently set back. Her eyes, both hurt and lost, accused mine.
‘My two predecessors at the school.’
Still she didn’t understand. ‘They told you? You knew all along?’
‘Just that something odd happened here last year. And the one before.’ I explained how I had found out; and how little; and that the old man had admitted it. Again I watched to see how she would react. ‘He also told me you’d both been here before. And met them.’
She stared at me, outraged. ‘But we’ve never set foot
‘I know.’
She sat sideways and looked out to sea. ‘Oh he’s impossible.’ Then her eyes were back on mine. ‘So all the time you’ve been thinking we –’
‘Not really. I knew he was lying about one thing.’ I described Mitford, and the old man’s tale of his supposed attraction for her. She asked questions, she wanted to know every detail.
‘And you’ve really no idea what happened with them?’
‘They certainly never told anyone at the school. Mitford gave me that one hint. I have written to him. No answer yet.’
She searched my eyes one last time, then looked down. ‘I suppose it argues that it can’t be too awful in the end.’
‘That’s what I try to tell myself
‘How extraordinary.’
‘You’d better not tell him.’
‘No, of course not.’ After a moment she smiled wrily up. ‘Do you think he has an endless supply of twin sisters?’
‘Like you, no. Not even him.’
She looked down from my unambiguous eyes.
‘What do you think we should do?’
‘ When’s he due back? Or pretending to be back?’
‘This evening. Or so we were told yesterday.’
‘It could be an interesting meeting.’
‘I may get the sack for incompetence.’
I said softly, ‘I’ll find you a job.’
There was a little silence, then she met my look. I reached a hand, and it too was met; I pulled her towards me, and we lay side by side, a little apart. I began to trace the lines of her face … the eyes, which she closed, the nose
to its tip, then the contour of the mouth. She kissed the finger. I drew her closer and kissed the mouth. She responded, yet I sensed a reserve still; a wanting, and not wanting. We separated a little, I stared at that face. It seemed to me one I could never tire of, an eternal source of desire, of the will to protect; without either physical or psychological flaw. She opened her eyes and gave me a gentle, but reticent, smile.
‘What are you thinking?’
‘How beautiful you are.’
‘Did you really not meet your friend in Athens?’
‘Would you be jealous if I had?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I didn’t.’
‘I bet you did really.’
‘Honestly. She couldn’t make it.’
‘Then you did want to meet her?’
‘Out of some sort of kindness to dumb animals. Only to tell her it was no good. I’d given my soul to a witch.’
‘Some witch.’
I raised her hand and kissed it, then the scar.
‘How did you get that?’