The Magus, A Revised Version (28 page)

I had never had a telepathic experience in my life, and I thought it unlikely I should start with Conchis; and if benevolent gentlemen from other worlds were feeding good deeds and artistic genius into me, they had done it singularly badly
–
and not only for me, for most of the age I was born into. On the other hand, I began to understand why Conchis had told mc
I was psychic. It was a sort of
softening-up process, in preparation for the no doubt even stranger scene that would take place in the masque that next night… the
‘
experiment
’
.

The masque, the masque: it fascinated and irritated me, like an obscure poem
–
more than that, for it was not only obscure in itself, but doubly obscure in why it had even been written. During the evening a new theory had occurred to me: that Conchis was trying to recreate some lost world of his own and for some reason I was cast as the
jeune premier
in it, his younger self. I was intensely aware that our relationship, or my position, had changed again; as I had been shifted from guest to pupil, now I uneasily felt myself being manoeuvred into a butt. He clearly meant me not to be able to relate the conflicting sides of his personality. Things like the humanity in his playing of Bach, in certain aspects, however embroidered, of his autobiography, were undermined, nullified by his perversity and malice elsewhere. He must know it, therefore must want me to flounder; flounder indeed, since the
‘
curious
’
books and objects he put in my way, Lily herself, and now the myth-figures in the night with all their abnormal undertones had to be seen as a hook, and I couldn
’
t pretend that it had not sunk home. But the more I thought about it, the more I suspected the authenticity of that Belgian count … or at any rate, of Conchis
’
s account of him. He was no more than a stalking-horse for Conchis himself. De Deukans had some sort of truth by analogy, perhaps; but far less than a literal one.

Meanwhile, the masque was letting me down. Silence still reigned. I looked at my watch. Nearly half an hour had passed. I could not sleep. After some hesitation, I crept downstairs and out through the music-room under the colonnade. I walked a little way into the trees in the direction the
‘
god
’
and
‘
goddess
’
had disappeared; then turned back and went down to the beach. The sea lapped slowly, dragging down a few small pebbles now and again, making them rattle drily, though there was no wind, no air. The cliffs and trees
and the little boat lay drenched in starlight, in a million indecipherable
thoughts from other worlds. The mysterious southern sea, luminous, waited; alive yet empty. I smoked a cigarette, and then climbed back to the fraught house and my bedroom.
3
¹

I had my breakfast alone again. It was a day of wind, the sky as blue as ever, but the breeze tore boisterously
off
the sea, typhooning the fronds of the two palms that stood like sentinels in front of the house. Farther south,
off
Cape Matapan, the
meltemi,
the tough summer gale from the Ionian islands, was blowing.

I went down to the beach. The boat was not there. It confirmed my half-formed theory about the
‘
visitors
’
–
that they were on a yacht in one of the many deserted coves round the west and south sides of the island, or anchored among the group of deserted islets some five miles to the east. I swam out of the cove to see if Conchis was visible on the terrace. But it was empty. I lay on my back and floated for a while, feeling the cool slop of the waves over my sun-warmed face, thinking of Lily.

Then I looked towards the beach.

She was standing on it, a brilliant figure on the salt-grey shingle, with the ochre of the cliff and the green plants behind her. I began to swim towards the shore, as fast as I could. She moved a few steps along the stones and then stopped and watched me. At last I stood up, dripping, panting, and looked at her. She was about ten yards away, in an exquisitely pretty First World War summer dress. It was striped mussel-blue, white and pink, and she carried a fringed sunshade of the same cloth. She wore the sea-wind like a jewel. It caught her dress, moulded it against her body. Every so often she had a little struggle with the sunshade. And all the time fingers of wind teased and skeined her long, silky-blonde hair around her neck or across her mouth.

She showed a little
moue,
half mocking herself, half mocking me as I stood knee-deep in the water. I don
’
t know why silence descended on us, why we were locked for a strange few moments in a more serious look. It must have been transparently excited on my side. She looked so young, so timidly naughty. She gave an embarrassed yet mischievous smile, as if she should not have been there, had risked impropriety.

‘
Has Neptune cut your tongue
off
?
’

‘
You look so ravishing. Like a Renoir.
’

She moved a little farther away, and twirled her sunshade. I slipped into my beach-shoes and, towelling my back, caught up with her. She smiled with a sort of innocent sideways slyness; then sat down on a flat rock overshadowed by a solitary pine-tree, where the precipitous gulley ran down to the shingle. She closed her sunshade and pointed with it to a stone beside the rock, in the sun, where I was to sit. But I spread my towel on the rock and perched close beside her. The moist mouth, the down on the bare forearms, a scar above her left wrist, the loose hair: the grave young creature of the previous night had completely disappeared.

‘
You
’
re the most deliciously pretty ghost I
’
ve ever seen.
’

‘
Ami?
’

I had meant it; and I had also meant to embarrass her. But she simply widened her smile.

‘
Who are the other girls?
’

‘
Which other girls?
’

‘
Come on. A
joke
’
s a
joke.
’

‘
Then pray do not spoil it.
’

‘
At least you admit it is a
joke?
’

‘
I admit nothing.
’

She was avoiding my eyes
–
and also biting her lips. I took a breath. She was so patently waiting to parry whatever next thrust I made. She shifted a pebble with the tip of her shoe. It was elegant, buttoned, of grey kid, over a white silk stocking with little open clocks, tiny petals of bare skin that ran up her ankles and disappeared under the hem of the dress some four inches higher. I had a feeling the foot was held out so that I should not miss this charming period detail. Her hair blew forward, clouding her face a little. I wanted to brush it back, or to shake her hard; I wasn
’
t quite sure which. In the end I stared out to sea, a little on the same principle as Ulysses when he tied himself to the mast.

‘
You keep suggesting you
’
re playing this pretend game to please the old man. If you want me to join in, I think you
’
d better explain why. Especially why I should believe that he doesn
’
t know exactly what
’
s going on.
’

She hesitated, and for a moment I thought I had broken through.

‘
Give me your hand. I will read your fortune. You may
\
little nearer, but you must not wet my dress.
’

I took another breath, but I gave her my hand. Perhaps this
a
at least to be some sort of indirect admission. She held the ha __ lightly by the wrist and traced the palmistry lines with a forefinger. I was able to see the shape of her breasts at the bottom of the opening in her dress; very pale skin, the seductive beginning of soft curves. She managed to suggest that this hackneyed sex-gambit was rather daring, mama-defying. The fingertip ran innocently yet suggestively over my palm. She began to read.

‘
You will have a long life. You will have three children. At forty years old you will nearly die. You are stronger in mind than in heart. Your mind betrays your heart. There are … I see many treacheries in your life. Sometimes you betray your true self. Sometimes you betray those who love you.
’

‘
Now will you answer my question?
’

‘
The palm says what is. Never why it is.
’

‘
Can I read yours?
’

‘
I
have not finished. You will never be rich. Beware of black dogs, strong drink and old women. You will make love to many girls, but you will love truly only one
–
her you will marry … and be very happy.
’

‘
In spite of nearly dying at forty.
’

‘
Perhaps because you nearly die at forty. Here is where you nearly die. The happiness line is most strong after that.
’

She let go of my hand, and folded her own primly on her lap.

‘
Now can I read yours?
’

‘
Can is not may.
’

She played coy a moment after this little lesson in correct English usage, but then suddenly held her hand out. I pretended to read it, did the same tracing of the lines; and tried to read it quite seriously in the manner of Sherlock Holmes. But even that great master at detecting in a second Irish maidservants from Brixton with a mania for boating and bullseyes would have been baffled. However, Lily
’
s hands were smooth and unblemished; whatever else she was, she was not a maidservant from anywhere.

‘
You are taking a long time, Mr Urfe.
’

‘
Nicholas.
’

‘
You may call me Lily, Nicholas. But you may not sit for hours canoodling.
’

‘
I see only one thing clearly.
’

‘
And what is that?
’

‘
A great deal more intelligence than you
’
re showing at the moment.
’

She snatched her hand away, and contemplated it with a sort of pout. But she wasn
’
t the sort of girl who went in for pouting. A wisp of hair blew across her cheek; the wind kindled in her clothes a wantonness, a coquettishness, aiding her impersonation of someone younger than I knew she must be. I remembered what Conchis had said about the original Lily. The girl beside me was making a brave effort
–
or perhaps casting had preceded narrating. But all the acting skill in the world couldn
’
t carry
off
this present role. She tilted the palm a little towards me again.

‘
And death?
’

‘
You
’
re forgetting your part. You
’
re already dead.
’

She folded her arms and stared out to sea.

‘
Perhaps I have no choice.
’

This was a new tack. I thought I heard a faint note of regret, something obscurely mutinous; a note of the real year we were in, from behind her disguise. I searched her face.

‘
Meaning?
’

‘
Everything we say, he hears. He knows.
’

‘
You have to reveal it to him?
’
I sounded incredulous. She nodded, and I knew she was not unmasking at all.
‘
Don
’
t tell me. Telepathy?
’

‘
Telepathy and
–’
she looked down.

‘
And?
’

‘
I cannot say more.
’

She picked up the sunshade and opened it, as if she were thinking of going away. It had little black tassels that hung from the ends of the ribs.

‘
Are you his mistress?
’
She flashed a look at me, and I had the impression that for once I had shocked her out of acting. I said,
‘
In view of last night
’
s strip show.
’
Then,
‘
I just want to know where lam.
’