by John Fowles
She speaks in a very small voice. “May I ask something?”
He stands, and picks up the tie from the back of the chair.
“Of course.”
“I can’t quite understand, if there’s a place for humor in ordinary life, why there can’t also be one in the novel. I thought it was meant to reflect life.”
He leaves the tie hanging untied around his neck, and puts his hands on his hips.
“Oh God. I honestly don’t know where to begin with you.” He bends forward slightly. “The reflective novel is sixty years dead, Erato. What do you think modernism was about? Let alone post-modernism. Even the dumbest students know it’s a reflexive medium now, not a reflective one. Do you even know what that means?”
She shakes her head, avoiding his eyes. What she pretended in the story of the satyr seems at present to be taking place literally; she looks not a day over seventeen, a high-school student being forced to confess that she has not done her homework. He leans forward, tapping one extended forefinger with the other.
“Serious modern fiction has only one subject: the difficulty of writing serious modern fiction. First, it has fully accepted that it is only fiction, can only be fiction, will never be anything but fiction, and therefore has no business at all tampering with real life or reality. Right?”
He waits. She nods meekly.
“Second. The natural consequence of this is that writing about fiction has become a far more important matter than writing fiction itself. It’s one of the best ways you can tell the true novelist nowadays. He’s not going to waste his time over the messy garage-mechanic drudge of assembling stories and characters on paper.”
She looks up. “But –”
“Yes, all right. Obviously he has at some point to write something, just to show how irrelevant and unnecessary the actual writing part of it is. But that’s all.” He starts tying his tie. “I’m putting this in the simplest terms for you. Are you with me so far?”
She nods. He ties his tie.
“Third, and most important. At the creative level there is in any case no connection whatever between author and text. They are two entirely separate things. Nothing, but nothing, is to be inferred or deduced from one to the other, and in either direction. The deconstructivists have proved that beyond a shadow of doubt. The author’s role is purely fortuitous and agential. He has no more significant a status than the bookshop assistant or the librarian who hands the text qua object to the reader.”
“Why do writers still put their names on the title page, Miles?” She looks timidly up. “I’m only asking.”
“Because most of them are like you. Quite incredibly behind the times. And hair-raisingly vain. Most of them are still under the positively medieval illusion that they write their own books.”
“I honestly didn’t realize.”
“If you want story, character, suspense, description, all that antiquated nonsense from pre-modernist times, then go to the cinema. Or read comics. You do not come to a serious modern writer. Like me.”
“No, Miles.”
He realizes something has gone wrong with the knot of his tie; and rather irritatedly pulls it apart, then starts the tying again.
“Our one priority now is mode of discourse, function of discourse, status of discourse. Its metaphoricality, its disconnectedness, its totally ateleological self-containedness.”
“Yes, Miles.”
“I know you thought you were half teasing just now, but I consider it symptomatic of your ridiculously outdated views. You really haven’t a hope of inspiring anything worth even doctorate-level analysis when your first thought is always the same: how quickly you can get people’s clothes off and have them hop into bed. It’s absurd. Like thinking bow-and-arrow in the age of the neutron bomb.” He surveys her bent head. “I know you’re a harmless enough creature at heart and I do feel a certain affection for you. Actually you’d have made an excellent geisha girl. But you have got most terribly and hopelessly out of touch. Before you started interfering today the sexual component was absolutely clinical – if I may say so, rather cleverly deprived of all eroticism.” He pulls down the shirt collar, and gives the better knot of the second tying a last little tightening. “Clearly metaphysical in intent, at least to academic readers, who are the only ones who count nowadays. Then in you come, the whole neatly balanced structure’s blown to smithereens, it all has to be flogged to death, sent up, trivialized, adulterated to suit the vulgarest mass-market taste. It’s ruined now. Quite impossible. Is my tie straight?”
“Yes. And I’m terribly sorry.”
He sits again to put on his shoes.
“Look, I’ll be quite candid, Erato. Let’s face it, this isn’t the first time by any means we’ve had this sort of time-wasting trouble together. I’m not denying you can be quite helpful over one or two elementary aspects of the so-called female mind – inasmuch as the fundamental preoccupation of the modern novel still unfortunately has to be mediated through various superficial masks and props, alias men and women. But I don’t think you’ve ever understood the creative mind. You’re like a certain kind of editor. In the end you always want to write the whole damned book yourself. It’s just not on. I mean, if you want to write books, go off and write them yourself. You easily could, there’s a growing audience for a certain kind of women’s novel these days. ‘He rammed his four-letter thing up my four-letter thing’ – that sort of stuff.” He gives his shoelaces a final firm pull. “Read Jong.”
“The Swiss psychologist?”
“Never mind. The point is this. You must learn to accept that for me, for all of us who are truly serious, you can never again be more than an occasional editorial adviser in one or two very secondary areas.” He stands and reaches for his suit jacket. “And I must in all frankness tell you that you’re not even very reliable at that anymore. You still go on as if the world’s a pleasant place to live in. There’s no more flagrant giveaway of superficiality of approach to life in general. Every internationally admired and really successful modern artist of recent times has shown it’s totally pointless, black and absurd. Complete hell.”
“Even when you’re internationally admired and really successful, Miles?”
He stands looking down at the bent head. “That is a very childish and cheap remark.”
“I’m sorry, Miles.”
“Are you doubting the sincerity of some of the tragic key figures of contemporary culture?”
“No, Miles. Of course not.”
He is silent for a moment, to let his disapproval sink in; then continues in an even more critical voice.
“It’s all very well your making dubious jokes about twentieth-century womankind being by definition in despair. The fact is, you’d rather die than not be a woman yourself. You love every minute of it. You wouldn’t recognize genuine despair if it fell off the roof and hit you on the head.”
“Miles, I can’t help that.”
“All right. Then be a woman, and enjoy it. But don’t try to think in addition. Just accept that that’s the way the biological cards have fallen. You can’t have a male brain and intellect as well as a mania for being the universal girlfriend. Does that sound unreasonable?”
“Not if you say so, Miles.”
“Good.” He puts on his jacket. “Now I suggest we forget this whole unfortunate episode and shake hands. Then I’ll leave you here. At some future date, when and if I feel I could use a little advice, I’ll give you a ring. No offense, but I’ll call you. And I suggest that next time we meet in a public place. I’ll take you to some kebab house for lunch, we’ll talk, we’ll drink a little retsina, we’ll behave like two civilized contemporary people. If I have time I’ll take you to the airport, put you on the plane back to Greece. And that’ll be that. Okay?” She nods meekly. “And one last thing. I also think I’d be happier if in future we operate on a financial basis. I’ll give you a little fee for anything I use, right? I can always claim it against tax as research.”
“Cheer up, old girl. You’ll get over it. It had to be said.”
“Thank you for being so frank.”
“Not at all. Part of the room-service. Now. Is there anything you’d like before I go? Some pretty clothes? A magazine? Woman’s Own? Good Housekeeping? Vogue?”
“It’s all right. I’ll manage.”
“Only too happy to call a taxi on my way out.” She shakes her head. “You’re sure?” She nods. “And no hard feelings?” She shakes her head again. He smiles, almost avuncularly. “These are the nineteen eighties.”
“I know.”
He reaches a hand and ruffles the Grecian hair. “Then ciao.”
“Ciao.”
He turns and starts walking towards the door, with a firm tread and the demeanor of someone looking forward to his next engagement, after having brought off an excellent business deal. Mann ist was er isst, and also what he wears. Miles Green looks twice, ten times the man of the world in his well-cut suit, his old school tie; not of course (these are the 1980s) in the least ashamed at having found time in a busy day to spend an hour or so with what is, after all, essentially a mere call-girl; but now going on, refreshed, to more serious matters – a meeting with his agent, perhaps, or a literary conference, or the blessedly masculine peace of his club. For the first time there is a sense of rightness in the room, of sane reality.
Alas, it disappears almost as soon as it is come. Halfway to the door, the buoyant tread freezes. It is immediately clear why: there is no longer a door one can be halfway to. Where it was, now stretches an unbroken wall of grey quilting; even the hook has vanished. He flashes a look back at the bed, but the chided figure there sits with her head still bowed, transparently unaware of this minor change of ambience. He looks back at where the door has been; then flicks his thumb and finger at it. The wall remains unchanged. Again; again nothing happens. He hesitates, then strides to the place and begins groping the quilting, as if he is blind and somewhere on it there must be a handle. He stops, he steps back two or three paces, almost as if getting ready to shoulder-charge. Instead, he reaches his hands in front of him, a man sizing an imaginary door he is about to lift to its hinges. Once more there is the sound of a thumb and finger being clicked. Once more the wall remains exactly, blankly, doorlessly as it is. He gives the place on the wall a grim stare. Then he turns and marches back to the end of the bed.
“You can’t do this!”
Very slowly her head comes up.
“No, Miles.”
“I’m in charge here.”
“Yes, Miles.”
“If you think anyone would believe this for a millionth of a second… I order you to replace that door.” Her only answer is to recline against the pillows. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes, Miles. I’m very stupid, but I have perfect hearing.”
“Then do what you’re told.”
She raises her arms and locks her hands behind the slender neck. The bathrobe sags. She grins.
“I adore you when you pretend to be angry.”
“If that door is not back, and within five seconds, I warn you I shall start using physical violence.”
“Like the dear marquis.”
He takes a deep breath. “You’re behaving like a five-year-old.”
“Ah well. I am only a fifth-rate goddess.”
He stares at her, or rather at her bitten underlip.
“You cannot keep me here against my will.”
“And you can’t walk out of your own brain.”
“Oh yes I can. It’s only my metaphorical brain. You’re being totally absurd. You might just as well cancel the laws of nature, or make time go backwards.”
“I do, Miles. Quite often. If you remember.”
And suddenly every stitch he has just put on vanishes. He moves his hands hastily and instinctively in front of him. She bites her lips again.
“I’m not going to stand for this!”
She pats the bed beside her. “Then why don’t you come and sit down?”
He turns away and folds his arms. “Never.”
“Your poor little thing. I wish you’d let me kiss it.” He stares even more grimly into space – or what little the room allows. She takes the purple bathrobe and tosses it lightly towards him at the foot of the bed. “Would you like this? I don’t need it anymore.”
He glances resentfully down at the robe, then snatches it up. It is too small for him, but he manages to force it on and pull the front flaps across and tie the belt. Then he strides to the chair, grabs it up, walks to the corner of the room, and firmly plants it by the table with its back to the bed. He sits with arms folded and legs crossed; and stares resolutely at the corner of the quilted room, five feet away. There is a silence. At last he speaks over his shoulder.
“You may take my clothes away, you may stop me leaving. You cannot change my feelings.”
“I know. You silly thing.”
“Then this is a ridiculous waste of time.”
“Unless you change them yourself.”
“Never.”
“Miles.”
“In your own words, one has to have some elementary freedoms to exist.”
She sits watching him, then suddenly gets off the bed and looks underneath it, and retrieves the chaplet of roses and myrtle leaves. She faces the wall, as if there were a mirror there, and sets it back in place, adjusts it a little, and plays for a moment with her hair, flicking out one or two dark curls; and at last satisfied with her appearance, speaks across the room to him.
“May I come and sit on your lap, Miles?”
“You may not.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“I’ll be only fifteen if you like.”
He swivels abruptly around and points a finger.
“You keep away.”
But she comes towards him. However, just short of where he sits, seemingly poised to spring at her if she advances a step closer, she kneels on the old rose carpet, crosses her hands over her lap, and sits back submissively on her heels. He bears those eyes for a moment or so, then looks away.
“I only gave you the seed of it. You did all the real work.”
He sits briefly in silence, then explodes.
“God, when I think of all that palaver about plasticine, about pashas and harems. And Hitler!” He whips round on her. “You know something? You’re the biggest little fascist in the whole of history. And you needn’t think kneeling there with that dying spaniel look in your eyes fools me for one moment.”
“Fascists hate sex, Miles.”
He gives her a ghastly caricature of a smile. “Even the worst philosophies have their good points.”
“And love.”
“I find that an obscene word in the circumstances.”
“And tenderness.”
“You’re about as tender as a bloody cactus.”
“And they can never laugh at themselves.”
“I realize that destroying every belief a man has in himself, in effectively castrating him for the rest of his life, is a highly amusing situation. That you’re being enormously self-restrained in not rolling on the floor at the sheer fun of it. You’ll excuse me for not joining in.”
“All this just because you realize that after all you do need me a little?”
“I do not need you. The only need in it is yours. To humiliate me.”
“Miles.”
“I meant every word I said just then. You’ve ruined my work from the start, with your utterly banal, pifflingly novelettish ideas. I hadn’t the least desire to be what I am when I began. I was going to follow in Joyce and Beckett’s footsteps. But oh no, in you trot. Every female character has to be changed out of recognition. She must do this, must do that. Every time, pump her up till she swamps the whole
shoot. And in the end it’s always the same bloody one. I.e., you. Again and again you’ve made me cut out the best stuff. That text where I had twelve different endings – it was perfect as it was, no one had ever done that before. Then you get at it, and I’m left with just three. The whole point of the thing was missed. Wasted.” He turns to look angrily at her. She is biting her lips. “I can tell you now where I’m setting the next one. Mount Athos.”
The smile deepens. He looks away and rants on.
“All you’ve ever done is dictate. I have about as much say as an automatic typewriter. God, when I think of the endless pages the French have spent on trying to decide whether the writer himself is written or not. Ten seconds with you would have proved that one forever.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“Then why can’t that door go back? Why for once can’t I end this the way I want? Why do you always have to have the last word?”
“Miles, now it’s you who’s not being very consistent. You’ve just told me there’s no connection at all between author and text. So what’s it matter?”
“Because I have a right to establish my own non-connection at all in my own personal way.”
“I know I’m only your poor little brainless girlfriend, but I don’t think that really bears logical analysis.”
“I’m not going to argue about matters that are completely above your head.”
She watches his half-turned back.
“I don’t want us to stop until we’re friends again. Till you let me sit on your lap and give you a little cuddle. And a kiss.”
“Oh for God’s sake.”
“I am very fond of you. And I’m not laughing at you anymore.”
“You’re always laughing at me.”
“Miles, look at me.”
He casts her a suspicious glance; and she is not laughing. But once more he turns away, as if what he reads in her eyes is even worse than laughter. She sits in silence a moment, watching him, then speaks again.
“All right. There. The door’s back.”
He glances sharply towards where it was; and now indeed is again. She stands and goes to it, and opens it.