The Magus, A Revised Version (114 page)

‘
I bought an eighteenth-century plate the other day. They
’
re so good at identifying here. It won
’
t take a moment.
’

She evidently knew the museum well and led the way to the lifts. We had to wait. She smiled at me; the family smile; soliciting, I suspected, what I was still not prepared to give. Determined to tread delicately between her approval and my own dignity, I had a dozen things ready to say, but her breathless arrival, the sudden feeling I had that I was being fitted, inconveniently, into a busy day, made them all seem wrong.

I said,
‘
I saw John Briggs on Tuesday.
’

‘
How interesting. I haven
’
t met him.
’
We might have been talking about the new curate. The lift came, and we stepped inside.

‘
I told him everything I knew. All about Bourani and what to expect.
’

‘
We thought you would. That
’
s why we sent him to you.
’

We were both smiling, faintly; a cramped silence.

‘
But I might have.
’

‘
Yes.
’
The lift stopped. We emerged into a gallery of furniture.
‘
Yes. You might.
’

‘
Perhaps he was just a test.
’

‘
A test wasn
’
t necessary.
’

‘
You
’
re very sure.
’

She gave me that same wide-eyed look she had had when she handed me the copy of Nevinson
’
s letter. At the end of the gallery we
came
to a door:
Department of Ceramics.
She pressed the bell beside it.

I said,
‘
I think we
’
ve got
off
on the wrong foot.
’

She looked down.

‘
Well, yes. Shall we try again in a minute? If you wouldn
’
t mind waiting?
’

The door opened and she was let inside. It was all too rushed, too broken, she gave me no chance, though her last quick look back before the door closed seemed apologetic; almost as if she was afraid I might run away.

Two minutes later she came back.

‘
Any luck?
’

‘
Yes, it
’
s what I hoped it was. Bow.
’

‘
You don
’
t trust your intuition in everything, then.
’

She gave me an amused look.
‘
If there was a Department of Young Men …
‘

‘
And then keep me labelled on a shelf?
’

She smiled again, and glanced at the hall behind me.
‘
I don
’
t really like museums. And especially those of past attitudes.
’
She moved.
‘
They say there
’
s a similar plate on display. Just through here.
’

We went into a long deserted gallery of china. I began to suspect she had rehearsed this scene, since she went straight to one of the wall-cases. She took the plate out of her basket and held it up, walking slowly along until behind a group of cups and jugs, an almost identical blue-and-white plate appeared. I went beside her.

‘
That
’
s it.
’

She compared them; wrapped her own loosely in its tissue paper again, and then, taking me completely by surprise, presented it.

‘
For you.
’

‘
But
–’

‘
Please.
’
She challenged my almost
off
ended face.
‘
I bought it with Alison.
’
She corrected herself.
‘
Alison was with me when I bought it.
’

It was pushed gently into my hands. At a loss, I unwrapped it, and stared down at a naively drawn Chinaman and his wife, their two children between them, eternal ceramic fossils, in the centre. For some reason I thought of peasants travelling steerage, the swell, the night wind.

‘
I think you should get used to handling fragile objects. And ones much more valuable than that.
’

I still stared down at the inky-blue figures.

‘
That
’
s really why I asked to meet you.
’

Our eyes met; and for the first time I had a sense of not just being assessed.

‘
Shall we go and have our tea?
’

‘
Well,
’
she said,
‘
why you really asked to meet me.
’
We had found a table in the corner, and been served.
‘
Alison.
’

‘
I did tell you.
’
She picked up the tea-pot.
‘
It depends on her.
’
‘
And on you.
’

‘
No. Not in the least on me.
’
‘
Is she in London?
’

‘
I have promised her not to tell you where she is.
’

‘
Look, Mrs de Seitas, I think—
’
but I swallowed what I was going to say. I watched her pouring the tea; not otherwise helping me.
‘
What the hell does she want? What am I supposed to do now?
’

‘
Is that too strong?
’
I shook my head impatiently at the cup she held out. She poured some milk into her own cup, passed me the jug. She had a small smile.
‘
I never take anger at face value.
’

I wanted to shake that
off
as I had wanted to shake
off
her hand the week before; but I knew that behind the implicit condescension it was a valid statement of the difference between our two experiences of life. There was something discreetly maternal in it, a reminder to me that if I rebelled against her judgment, I rebelled against my own immaturity—if against her urbanity, against my own lack of it. I looked down.

‘
It
’
s simply that I
’
m not prepared to wait much longer.
’

‘
Then she will be well rid of you.
’

I drank some of the tea. She began calmly to spread honey over her toast.

I said,
‘
My name is Nicholas.
’
Her hands were momentarily arrested, then she went on spreading the honey … in more senses than one, perhaps.
‘
Is that the right votive
off
ering?
’

‘
If it is made sincerely.
’

‘
As sincerely as your
off
er of help the other day.
’

‘
Did you go to Somerset House?
’

‘
Yes.
’

She put down her knife, faced me.

‘
Wait as long as Alison makes you wait. I do not think it will be very long. But I can
’
t do anything to bring her to you. Now it is simply between you and her. I hope she will forgive you. But you must not be certain that she will. You still have to gain her back.
’

‘
There
’
s gaining back to be done on both sides.
’

‘
Perhaps. That is for the two of you to settle.
’
She surveyed the sliver of toast in her hand a moment, then smiled up.
‘
The godgame is over.
’

‘
The what?
’

‘
The godgame.
’
For a moment there was something both faintly mischievous and sardonic in her eyes.
‘
Because there is no God, and it is not a game.
’

She began to eat her toast, and I glanced past her at the busy, banal tea-room. The discreet chink of cutlery on china, the murmur of middle-class voices; sounds as commonplace as sparrows
’
chirruping.

‘
That
’
s what you call it?
’

‘
A kind of nickname we use.
’

‘
If I had any self-respect left, I
’
d get up and walk out.
’

‘
I
’
m counting on you to help find me a taxi in a minute. We
’
ve been doing Benjie
’
s school shopping today.
’

‘
Demeter in a department store?
’

‘
No? I think she would have liked them. Even the gaberdine mackintoshes and gym shoes.
’

‘
And does she like questions?
’

‘
That depends on the questions.
’

‘
Am I ever going to be told what you really think you
’
re doing?
’

‘
You have been told.
’

‘
Lie upon lie.
’

‘
Perhaps that
’
s our way of telling the truth.
’
But then, as if she knew she had smiled once too often, she looked down and added quickly.
‘
Maurice once said to me—when I had just asked him a question rather like yours—he said,
“
An answer is always a form of death
”
.
’

There was something else in her face then. It was not implacable; but in some way impermeable.

‘
I think questions are a form of life.
’
She said nothing, though I waited.
‘
All right. I treated Alison very badly. I
’
m a born cad, a swine, whatever you want. But why the colossal performance just to tell one miserable moral bankrupt what he is?
’

‘
Have you never wondered why evolution should have bothered to split itself up into so many different shapes and sizes? Doesn
’
t that also seem an unnecessary performance?
’

‘
Maurice gave me that line. I know what you
’
re saying in some vague metaphysical way, but—
’

‘
I should like to be sure. Tell me.
’

‘
That there must be some purpose in our not all being perfect—not all the same.
’

‘
And what is the purpose?
’

I shrugged.
‘
That it allows the duds like me freedom to become a little less imperfect?
’

‘
Did you have any sense of that before this summer?
’

‘
I didn
’
t need to be told I was far from perfect.
’

‘
Had you done anything about it?
’

‘
Not very much, no.
’

‘
Why not?
’