The Flight From the Enchanter

by Iris Murdoch

  With the arrival of the typist, Miss Casement became even more confident. Rainborough, who had always behaved to her with the utmost formality, suddenly began to find himself being driven more mad than usual by her perfume, the lemon-coloured expanse of her neck, and the red-rimmed cigarette ends which she would leave behind in the tray on his desk. He at first attributed this disturbance to the cumulative effect of living in the proximity of so many provocative harpies; but later he realized that it was perhaps rather the result of some subtle change of tactics on the part of Miss Casement. He noticed then how she would linger a little longer than before at the door of his room, swaying her long body to and fro, or how she would bring him the most unnecessary files, which they would then have to pore over together, Miss Casement’s powdery cheek almost brushing his. And then one day she electrified him by calling him ‘John.’

  This move was not, so far as Rainborough could see, correlated with any other real alteration in their relations, and could not but be interpreted as an unprovoked frontal attack which he was at a loss to counter. He made, of course, no comment upon the now fairly frequent incidence of this monosyllable. He was only grateful that, so far, Miss Casement had refrained from making use of it in the presence of a third person. What he could not bring himself to do was to respond by calling her ‘Agnes’. Do what he would, he could not think of her except as Miss Casement; and as it was now impossible for him to address her in this way, since she had elected to address him less formally, he was forced to attract her attention by other devices such as coughing, dropping books, or cries of ‘Oh, er, I say!’ The state of misery and embarrassment to which this situation reduced the nervous Rainborough seemed to touch Miss Casement not at all. She tripped about the office with a gay and dainty demeanour, more neat and freshly laundered than ever, and her repeated utterance of Rainborough’s Christian name rang in his ears like the monotonous cooing of a dove.

  Rainborough had been saying to himself for some time, ‘It can’t last much longer,’ without having much of an idea in his head about how it was likely to finish. He was by now very much concerned about Miss Casement, and during office hours he thought about little else. She became in fact a subject for both contemplation and research; and Rainborough reflected bitterly, as he settled down to these studies, that after all what he was doing was no more pointless than what was going on at that moment in most of the other rooms in the SELIB building. His latest craze was to discover her age, which he cursed himself for not having observed when he had her passport in his hands. He proposed to do this by an elaborately prepared scheme of questions which would be asked at intervals over a certain period, in such a way that the answers would, when pieced together, provide the required information. The starting-point of this scheme was the datum that Miss Casement’s brother was three years her senior. Surreptitiously to discover her brother’s age was the aim of the subtle plan which Rainborough, reaching for his pen, was now about to commit to paper.

  There was a knock on the door. Miss Casement and the typist, it appeared, had gone to tea, and someone had penetrated as far as the door of Rainborough’s room. He put down his pen with irritation and called ‘Come in?’

  It was Hunter Keepe. Rainborough looked at him with surprise and annoyance. ‘How very nice to see you!’ he said.

  ‘Hello,’ said Hunter. The boy seemed agitated and embarrassed. He looked round for somewhere to sit, and settled himself quickly on a seat with the ungraceful haste of a player of the game of Musical Chairs.

  Rainborough leaned back and regarded him with a puzzled frown. Hunter’s arrival put him completely at his ease, so calmly superior did he feel to Rosa’s not very mature and not very successful younger brother. The sight of Hunter, however, also reminded him of Rosa, and he felt a tiny pang of guilt at the juxtaposition in his mind of the images of Rosa and Miss Casement. It was axiomatic to Rainborough that Rosa was above all other women; and he would have told himself quite simply that Rosa was a matter of the spirit while Miss Casement was a matter of the flesh, had he not been honest enough to suspect that his interest in Miss Casement had become complex enough to deserve a better name. For this fact, when he thought of Rosa, he despised himself.

  Rainborough felt, if anything, a certain dislike for Hunter. He knew that Hunter was aware of, and even perhaps overestimated, his, Rainborough’s, interest in his sister. He knew, too, that Hunter was notoriously hostile to anyone who was sweet on Rosa. This led Rainborough to expect, and then very easily to find, Hunter’s behaviour to be studded with small acts of aggression. He looked at him now with impatience as he sat on the edge of the chair, blushing like an undergraduate. What on earth can he want? Rainborough wondered.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked Hunter. ‘I mean, what can I do for you?’ And as he spoke he thought to himself, it’s probably something to do with Mischa Fox.

  Hunter was in no hurry to explain. He began by looking about the room as if he expected to see some strange animal roosting in a comer. Then he said to Rainborough, ‘I expect you’re pretty busy.’

  Rainborough, who was not sure whether or not this was sarcastic, replied vaguely, ‘Oh, it comes and it goes, you know.’

  ‘I was passing,’ said Hunter, ‘and I just thought I’d drop in for a chat.’ This was so transparently false that Rainborough was silenced.

  Hunter continued, ‘I hear Rosa saw you the other day with Dr Saward.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Rainborough.

  ‘What a nice man Dr Saward is,’ said Hunter; ‘really almost a saint.’

  ‘He’s a good man,’ said Rainborough, ‘but he’d be the first to tell you not to mistake a scholar for a true ascetic.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Hunter. ‘And then there’s his health.’

  Rainborough was wondering whether he hadn’t better make some thoroughly nice remark about his friend, when Hunter went on, ‘Dr Saward saw Mischa Fox last week.’

  ‘So I believe,’ said Rainborough. He was interested to see just what the information was that Hunter wanted.

  ‘Have you seen him?’ Hunter asked.

  ‘Who?’ asked Rainborough, simply to annoy.

  ‘Mischa Fox.’

  Rainborough did not like to admit that he had not seen Mischa, so he said, ‘Yes, I saw him a few days ago, but very briefly. I’ve been rather busy.’

  ‘Did he say anything special?’ asked Hunter.

  ‘No,’ said Rainborough, ‘nothing special.’ It occurred to him that people were always impelled to ask this question about Mischa, although they always got the same discreet reply.

  ‘Oh,’ said Hunter. He began once more to look round the office with simulated interest. Rainborough, watching him, felt irritation at his simplicity and envy for his copious head of hair.

  ‘It must be interesting, this work of yours,’ said Hunter. ‘Tell me now,’ he said, ‘when people immigrate under your scheme, do they have only temporary leave to work here, or can they stay for good?’

  He’s being polite, thought Rainborough. ‘In effect,’ he said, ‘unless there’s some special reason to chuck them out, they can stay for good. For the first five years they hold a special SELIB permit. After that they can apply for an ordinary Ministry of Labour permit, or else ask for naturalization.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hunter. ‘I imagined they were somehow on probation.’

  ‘Only in the sense,’ said Rainborough, ‘that their permission to be here at all depends on their work permit. But in fact, once they’re here, no one is going to bother their heads about them, and provided they behave normally there’s nothing to stop them being here forever.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hunter rather gloomily. ‘Forever.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Rainborough, who was suddenly beginning to feel interested in the subject, ‘the whole thing is absurd in a way. Technically speaking, half these workers oughtn’t to be here at all.’

  ‘How is that?’ asked Hunter.

  ‘Well, you know we’re
a hybrid organization,’ said Rainborough, ‘half State-aided and half voluntary. Most of the voluntary contributions come from America. When we accepted this money originally we made an agreement that we would only use it for the benefit of people born west of a certain line.’

  ‘People born west of a certain line?’ asked Hunter.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rainborough. ‘It sounds crazy and arbitrary, doesn’t it? But we had to adopt some sort of rough and ready distinction. You see the point, of course, of some such arrangement. An international organization like this one has a tricky course to steer. We’re likely to be accused by one party of enticement and by the other of using their money for political purposes. Not that some Americans would mind about that. But our benefactors are mainly liberal organizations, Quakers and so on, and they were very correct about the way the money should be tied up. In our foundation charter there’s a lot of stuff about our purpose being to assist people who want to emigrate because of purely economic hardship. It’s very artificial, of course. Who’s going to define economic hardship? Every conference we have, someone harks back to that. But one just has to make a distinction and stick to it. That’s administration. That’s what that line was invented for. Here it is.’

  Rainborough got up and turned to a large map which was hanging behind him. He pointed to an irregular red line which ran through Europe from north to south. ‘We call it the FPE,’ said Rainborough. ‘That means Farthest Point East.’

  ‘But, in fact,’ said Hunter, ‘if I understood you, a lot of people who immigrate under SELIB were really born east of the line?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rainborough, ‘but we just keep quiet about that. Like so many things in England, it’s known unofficially in high quarters, but so long as it’s not known officially there’ll be no trouble.’

  ‘What would make it known officially?’ asked Hunter.

  ‘Well,’ said Rainborough, ‘if someone were to write to The Times, or to ask a question in Parliament, or if some minister were to take it up, then obviously it couldn’t be ignored. But, in fact, it’s to no one’s advantage to raise the matter.’

  ‘To no one’s advantage?’ asked Hunter.

  ‘No,’ said Rainborough, ‘neither the Government of the day nor the Opposition has any interest in making a stink about it. Why should they? It would merely expose Great Britain to attacks from both sides.’ Rainborough was beginning to put on what his friends called his ‘Royal Commission manner’; he liked explaining this sort of point.

  ‘How do you know where your people were born, anyway?’ asked Hunter.

  ‘Well, in some cases, when documents have been lost,’ said Rainborough, ‘it’s hard to tell. A lot of these lads hold passports that are obviously forged.’ He went to a huge filing-cabinet in the corner, unlocked it, and pulled out a few drawers. ‘We hold all their identity documents here. Look at that,’ he said, holding out a greenish booklet to Hunter, ‘obviously a crude forgery. We just wink the eye at that. But in some cases there isn’t even concealment. Their papers show quite clearly that they were born to the east.’

  ‘It would be a sad thing for a man,’ said Hunter, ‘to have his fate decided by where he was born. He didn’t choose where he was born.’

  ‘Yes, it’s not a pleasant way to have to discriminate between human beings,’ said Rainborough, ‘but you have to deal with the situation that you have, and we didn’t make this one. Anyhow, life is full of that sort of injustice. We have to be things that we didn’t choose.’ Rainborough looked at Hunter’s hair.

  ‘Supposing there were a scandal,’ asked Hunter, ‘what would happen to the people born east of FPE who were already working in this country?’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Rainborough. ‘I suppose they’d be deported. Come in!’

  Evans put his head round the door. ‘So sorry,’ said Evans, ‘I didn’t know you were busy. It’s just about the usual.’ The usual was The Times crossword, concerning which Rainborough and Evans normally exchanged information at this hour in the day.

  Rainborough, who did not want this matter mentioned in Hunter’s presence, said, ‘I’ll come along to your room in a moment.’ Evans went away. ‘You must excuse me,’ Rainborough told Hunter, ‘a routine check-up. I won’t be long.’

  As soon as the door closed behind Rainborough, Hunter sprang from his chair and ran to the filing-cabinet. Suddenly he was trembling and breathing hard. He drew a shaking hand along the top of the files. It was not long before he found what he wanted, and studied it carefully for some minutes. Then he left the cabinet as he had found it and turned his attention to the map.

  When Rainborough returned, Hunter was still studying the map. He seemed absorbed in it.

  ‘It’s a good map,’ said Rainborough. ‘Even the smallest places are marked. Looking for anything special?’

  ‘No,’ said Hunter. He was drawing his finger slowly across eastern Poland. At last he sighed deeply and turned away with a smile. ‘I’m afraid I must be off now,’ he said to Rainborough.

  Rainborough felt quite sorry. He would have liked to tell him more things. ‘Ah, well,’ said Rainborough, ‘drop in again some time. How’s Rosa?’

  Hunter’s face closed up. ‘Rosa’s fine,’ he said.

  ‘Very tied up at the factory, I suppose,’ said Rainborough.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hunter, ‘she’s fine. Good-bye, and thanks for the talk.’ He went away.

  Rainborough sat down again and looked at his watch. Nearly time to go home. Silly puppy, he thought; what did he want, I wonder? His thoughts reverted to Miss Casement.

  Nine

  ROSA was very unhappy indeed. She felt that her relation with the Lusiewicz brothers was drawing nearer and nearer to the brink of some disaster. She also knew that she was passing through a period to which she would look back later to marvel at her inertia. There was still some possibility of action. She had not yet entirely lost the initiative. Very soon she would be powerless. But she was not yet powerless; not quite yet. This was the most painful thought of all.

  She was worried, too, about Hunter. It was obvious that Hunter needed help. He was in a torment of indecision about the Artemis and badly wanting Rosa to give him a lead. Rosa loved her brother, and to have to withhold this help from him caused her continual distress. But so far she had felt herself unable to make any move. Neither she nor Hunter spoke of the matter, and as this silence made them incapable of talking about anything else, they had hardly exchanged a word for days. Only Hunter’s eyes, reproachful and sad, continually reminded Rosa that she herself had brought upon him the griefs in the midst of which she now refused to give him her good counsel.

  Rosa had no special affection for the Artemis. She had imagined once that she might edit it herself and make it into a great pure-hearted periodical; but her time in Fleet Street had taught her both how hard it is to sell pure-hearted periodicals and how little she herself had the temperament of an editor. If she had had a sum of money to put behind the magazine, it might have been different. As it was, she had left it to struggle on, and the best that she hoped from it was that before it finally perished it might afford some useful experience to Hunter and help to qualify him for a more lucrative occupation. If at any time Hunter had received from anyone else such an advantageous offer as he had now received from Mischa Fox, Rosa, who felt herself to be responsible for her brother’s poverty, would have counselled him to accept. She knew that the idea of buying Artemis had come up more than once in highly reputable quarters, and she had always been disappointed when she had heard no more about it.

  There was no doubt in Rosa’s mind that Mischa Fox’s offer was carefully timed. It was also clear to her that what Mischa wanted was not so much the Artemis as to put Hunter and herself into a certain kind of dilemma. This was typical of him. Further than this she could not see; and she was still unsure whether Mischa’s move was to be thought of as an attempt to reopen negotiations and not rather as an act of
revenge. Mischa was quite capable of taking, after ten years, a carefully-thought-out reprisal. As Rosa sat wondering about this, she was tortured by her lack of knowledge. She could hardly think of anything she would not have given to know Mischa Fox’s mind at that moment. What terrified her most was that she found deep in her heart a strong wish that Mischa might indeed want to reopen negotiations. This discovery alarmed her for many reasons. She had decided ten years earlier that any relation with Mischa could only do her harm, and she had not had occasion to change her mind. But to find herself still, however partially and however obscurely, fascinated by the idea of Mischa was alarming, not so much because this fascination might ever come definitively to tempt her, as because of the endless variety of torments which such a situation could promise.

  When Rosa began to feel how strong, after so long a time, her interest still was in Mischa, her position with the Lusiewicz brothers began to seem unendurable. She found herself aching with the desire to be free of them, partly because of a simple wish to be able to indulge, without any further complication, her hopeless and half-guilty thoughts about Mischa Fox, and partly because, and this was perhaps what bit most deeply into her, she was sick with fear at the thought that Mischa might find out about the brothers. So far, Rosa was very certain that the secret of her association with them had been well kept. They had their own motives for silence. As for herself, she had not mentioned their name to anyone for many months, and there was no one, except Hunter, who was in any position to follow her movements; and whatever Hunter suspected, he would be but too anxious to keep to himself. But if Mischa Fox should find out, then the discovery would be likely both to make up his mind in favour of revenge rather than negotiations and to put him at the same moment in possession of a weapon against Rosa of such power that she grew pale at the thought of any person even possessing it, let alone using it.