The Magus, A Revised Version (115 page)

‘
Because it …
‘
I took a breath and looked down.
‘
I
’
m not defending what I was.
’

‘
And still not accepting what you might become?
’

‘
It
’
s not the lesson. The manner of it.
’

She hesitated, and once more I was being assessed, but she spoke much less peremptorily.

‘
I know they said some terrible things to you at that mock trial, Nicholas. But you were the judge. And if the terrible things had been all that was to be said about you, you would not have given the verdict that you did. Everyone there knew that. Not least my daughters.
’

‘
Why did she let me make love to her?
’

‘
I understand it was her wish. Her decision.
’

‘
That doesn
’
t answer my question.
’

‘
Then I imagine to teach you that physical pleasure and moral responsibility are two very different things.
’
I recalled Lily
’
s last words to me on that bed; and decided I had one small secret to myself. That night had been more complex, or less certain, than a planned lesson; or at least it had been a lesson that went both ways. Her mother went on.
‘
Nicholas, if one is trying to reproduce, however partially, something of the mysterious purposes that govern existence, then one also has to go beyond some of the conventions man has invented to keep those purposes at bay. That doesn
’
t mean that in our ordinary lives we think such conventions should be swept away. Far from it. They are necessary fictions. But in the godgame we start from the premise that in reality all is fiction, yet no single fiction is necessary.
’
She smiled.
‘
And I
’
m being lured into deeper waters than I meant to enter.
’

I gave her a little smile back.
‘
But I notice not into what began this—why in practical terms you picked on me.
’

‘
The basic principle of life is hazard
. Maurice tells mc that this is
no longer even a matter of debate. If one goes deep enough in atomic physics one ends with a situation of pure chance. Of course we all share the illusion that this can
’
t be so.
’

‘
But next year you are fixing the odds a little?
’

‘
Hardly. Who knows how he will react?
’

‘
What would have happened if I
’
d brought Alison to the island? It was suggested at one point.
’

‘
I can assure you of one thing. Maurice would have recognized at once that she was not a person whose emotional honesty needed to be put to the test.
’

I looked down.
‘
Does she know about… ?
’

‘
She understands what we are about. The details… no.
’

‘
Did she agree at once?
’

‘
I know she agreed finally, at least to the pretence of suicide, only in the certainty that you would soon discover it was a pretence.
’

I left a pause.

‘
Have you told her I want to see her?
’

‘
She knows my views on that.
’

‘
I
’
m not worth a further second
’
s thought.
’

‘
Only when you say such things.
’

I traced patterns with the cake-fork on the table-cloth; determined to seem guarded, unconvinced.

‘
What happened to you that very first year?
’

‘
The desire to help Maurice through following years.
’
She was silent a moment, then went on.
‘
I will tell you that it all began one weekend, not even that, one long night of talking that began in a guilt. When my uncle died, Bill and I suddenly found ourselves comparatively rich. It had been something of what people nowadays call a traumatic experience for us. We were discussing it with Maurice. Certain … leaps were taken. Certain gaps bridged. I imagine—don
’
t you?—all new discoveries happen like that. Very abruptly. But totally. And from then on you are obliged to explore them to their limits.
’

‘
And their victims
’
?
’

‘
Nicholas, our success is never certain. You have entered our secret. Now you are like a radio-active substance. We hope to keep you stable. But we are not sure.
’
She glanced down.
‘
Someone … rather in your position … once told me that I was like a p
ool. He
wanted to throw a stone into me. I am not so calm in these situations as I may appear.
’

‘
I think you handle them very intelligently.
’

‘
Touch
é
e.
’
She bowed her head. Then she said,
‘
Next week I
’
m going away—as I do every autumn when the children are
off
my hands. I shan
’
t be hiding, but just doing what I do every September.
’

‘
You
’
ll be with … him?
’

‘
Yes.
’

Something curiously like an apology lingered in the air; as if she knew the twinge of strange jealousy I felt and could not deny that it was justified; that whatever richness of relationship and shared experience I suspected, existed.

She looked at her watch.
‘
Oh dear. I
’
m so sorry. But Gunhild and and
Benjie will
be
waiting
for
me
at
King
’
s
Cross.
Those
lovely cakes
…’

They lay in their repulsive polychrome splendour, untouched.

‘
I think one pays for the pleasure of not eating them.
’

She grimaced agreement, and I beckoned to the waitress for the bill. While we were waiting she said,
‘
One thing I wanted to tell you is that in the last three years Maurice has had two quite serious heart attacks. So there may not even be … a next year.
’

‘
Yes. He told me.
’

‘
And you did not believe him?
’

‘
No.
’

‘
Do you believe me?
’

I answered obliquely.
‘
Nothing you said could make me believe that if he died there would not be another year.
’

She took
off
her gloves.
‘
Why do you say that?
’

I smiled at her; her own smile.

She nearly spoke, then chose silence. I remembered that phrase I had had to use of Lily: out of role. Her mother
’
s eyes, and Lily
’
s through them; the labyrinth; privileges bestowed and privileges rejected. A truce.

A minute later we were going down the corridor towards the entrance. Two men came down it towards us. They were about to pass when the one on the left gave a kind of gasp. Lily de Seitas stopped; she too was caught completely by
surprise. He was in a dark-blue
suit with a bow tie, a mane of prematurely white hair, a voluble, fleshy mouth in a florid face. She turned quickly.

‘
Nicholas—would you excuse me—and get me that taxi?
’

He had the face of a man, a distinguished man, suddenly become a boy again, rather comically melted by this evidently unexpected meeting into a green remembering. I made a convenient show of excessive politeness to some other people heading for the tea-room, which allowed me to hang back a moment. He was holding both her hands, drawing her aside, and she was smiling, that strange smile of hers, like Ceres returned to the barren land. I had to go on, but I turned again at the end of the corridor. The man he was with had walked on and was waiting by the tea-room door. The two of them stood there. I could see the tender creases round his eyes; and still she smiled, accepting homage.

There were no taxis about and I waited by the kerb. I wondered if it had been the
‘
someone quite famous
’
in the sedan; but I didn
’
t recognize him. I recognized only the fascination. His eyes had been for her only, as if the business he had been on shrivelled into nothingness at the sight of that face.

She came out hurriedly a minute or two later.

‘
Can I give you a lift?
’

She was not going to make any explanation, and something about her hermetic expression made it, yet once again, infuriatingly, seem vulgar to be curious. She was not good-mannered, but expert with good manners; used them like an engineer, to shift the coarse bulk of me where she wanted.

‘
No thanks. I
’
m going to Chelsea.
’
I
wasn
’
t; but I wanted to be free of her.

I watched her covertly for a moment, then I said,
‘
I used to think of a story with your daughter, and I think of it even more with you.
’
She smiled, a little uncertainly.
‘
It
’
s probably not true, but it
’
s about Marie Antoinette and a butcher. The butcher led a mob into the palace at Versailles. He had a cleaver in his hand and he was shouting that he was going to cut Marie Antoinette
’
s throat. The mob killed the guards and the butcher forced the door of the royal apartments. At last he rushed into her bedroom. She was alone. Standing by a window. There was no one else there. The butcher with a cleaver in his hand and the queen.
’

‘
What happened?
’

I caught sight of a taxi going in the wrong direction and waved to the driver to turn.

‘
He fell on his knees and burst into tears.
’

She was silent for a moment.

‘
Poor butcher.
’

‘
I believe that
’
s exactly what Marie Antoinette said.
’

She watched the taxi turn.

‘
Doesn
’
t everything depend on who the butcher was crying for?
’

I looked away from her eyes.
‘
No, I don
’
t think so.
’

The taxi drew up beside the kerb, and I opened the door. She watched me for a moment, then gave up, or remembered.

‘
Your plate.
’
She handed it to me from her basket.

‘
I
’
ll try not to break it.
’

‘
It carries my good wishes.
’
She held out a hand.
‘
But Alison isn
’
t a present. She has to be paid for.
’

‘
She
’
s had her revenge.
’

She had been about to release my hand, but now she retained it.
‘
Nicholas, I never told you the other commandment my husband and I kept with each other.
’