The Magus - John Fowles [87]
55
Ten o'clock. A bright wind, a Dufy day. I woke, jumped out of bed, shaved with extra care, and went down to the colonnade. I caught Maria sitting at the table, as if waiting for me. When I appeared she stood up and bobbed and started to go. "Mr. Conchis?" "_Kanei banjo. Tha elthi_." He's having a swim. He's coming. By the wall I saw four wooden crates; it was obvious that three of them had paintings inside. I looked into the music room. The Modigliani had gone; so had the little Rodin and the Giacornetti; and I guessed, with a tinge of sadness, that the Bonnards had also come down. The decor was being dismantled. In a minute or two Maria reappeared with coffee for me. I was drinking the first cup when Conchis appeared in his swimming trunks and water-polo cap. He stood by me, hairs on the dark brown skin still curlicued wet from the water. I saw his scars again; white puckers of flesh. He smiled. The mask was back in place. "You have slept well?" "Thank you." "I will put on my clothes. Then I will join you for coffee." He did not return for some twenty minutes. And when he did, it was in clothes that were somehow as incongruous as if he had been wearing fancy dress. He looked exactly like a slightly intellectual businessman; a black leather briefcase; a dark blue summer suit, a cream shirt, a discreetly polka-dotted bow tie. It was perfect for Athens; but ridiculous on Phraxos. He looked at a wristwatch--I had never seen him wear one before--and sat down. Smiled at me; and delivered the line like a grenade. "We have one last hour together." "One last hour?" "At this time tomorrow I shall be in London." He poured himself a cup of coffee from the new pot Maria had brought. "And wishing I was still here." I began to smile. The wind rattled the shimmering vegetal glass of the palm fronds. The last act was to be played _presto_. "I didn't expect the curtain quite so soon." "No good play has a real curtain, Nicholas. It is acted, and then it continues to act." He analysed my expression, no mercy, enjoying the moment. He added, a deliberate broach, "Lily is coming in a few moments. She wishes to say goodbye." "Kind of her." "She is coming with me to America." "With her sister?" "No. Alone. As my secretary." His eyes watched me remorselessly. He had spoken without the slightest suggestiveness, but in that situation the very words were suggestive. There was a pause. I drew deep on my cigarette. "I shall see you next spring then." "Perhaps." "I have a two-year contract at the school." "Ah." "And be the butt again." "No more than that?" "When one's emotions get involved..." "I warned you." "And also ensured that the temptation remained." "Death is the only state without temptation." Again I would have liked to pull out my wallet, to face him with my own recent encounter with death. But I was not in the mood to admit to him that I had lied previously about meeting Alison. I stubbed out my cigarette. "Will she be here next year?" "You will not see her." "But will she be here?" Our eyes were locked, unconceding, like battling stags' horns. "You will not want to see her." "Why won't I want to see her?" "Because you will understand by then how much she has deceived you." "I don't mind being deceived. Especially by a girl as pretty as Julie." His eyes hesitated, black with suspicion, a lightning assessment; it was like playing chess with a five-second move limit. He said, "That is not her name." "You told me it was." "I was deceiving you." "_And_ her bank manager?" He quizzed, uncertain of my meaning. I took out my wallet, found the letter from Barclay's and pushed it across the table to him. He read it slowly, twice, as if it was difficult to understand, then put it back on the table. For a moment he had a downcast, bewildered look; Lear deceived by Cordelia. Then with a little shrug, a grimace, a wide smile, he conceded defeat. "I understand. It is I who am the butt today." "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 humour. 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 arriv