The Magus, A Revised Version (119 page)

Without warning she stood and walked away. I watched her move between the tables: her smallness, that slightly sullen smallness and slimness that was a natural part of her sexuality. I saw another man
’
s eyes follow her through the door.

I let a few stunned, torn seconds pass. Then I gave chase, pushing roughly past the people in my
“
way. She was walking slowly across the grass, towards the east. I came beside her, and she gave the bottom of my legs the smallest token glance. Still we said nothing. I felt so caught unawares—it was even in our clothes. I had lost all interest in what I wore, how I looked … had ta
ken on the cryptic colouring of
Kemp
’
s and
Jojo’s
worlds. Now
I
felt uncouth besid
e
her, and resented it; she had no right to reappear like some clothes-conscious and self-possessed young middle-class wife. It was almost as if she wanted to flaunt the reversal in our roles and fortunes. I looked round. There were so many people, so many too far to distinguish. And Regent
’
s Park. That other meeting, of the young deserter and his love; the scent of lilac, and bottomless darkness.

‘
Where are they?
’

She gave a little shrug.
‘
I
’
m alone.
’

‘
Like hell.
’

We walked more silent paces. She indicated with her head an empty bench beside a tree-lined path. She seemed as strange to me as if she had indeed come from Tartarus; so cold, so calm.

I followed her to the seat. She sat at one end and I sat halfway along, turned towards her, staring at her. It infuriated me that she would not look at me, had made not the slightest sign of apology; would not say anything.

I said,
‘
I
’
m waiting. As I
’
ve been waiting these last three and a half months.
’

She untied her scarf and shook her hair free. It had grown again, as when I first knew her, and she had a warm tan. From my very first glimpse of her I realized, and it seemed to aggravate my irritation, that the image, idealized by memory, of a Lily always at her best had distorted Alison into what she was only at her worst. She was wearing a pale-brown shirt beneath the suit. It was a very good suit; Conchis must have given her money. She was pretty and desirable; even without … I remembered Parnassus, her other selves. She stared down at the tip of her flat-heeled shoes.

I looked out over the grass.
‘
I want to make one thing clear from the start.
’
She said nothing.
‘
I forgive you that foul bloody trick you played this summer. I forgive you whatever miserable petty female vindictiveness made you decide to keep me waiting all this time.
’

She shrugged. A silence. Then she said,
‘
But?
’

‘
But I want to know what the hell went on that day in Athens. What the hell
’
s been going on since. And what the hell
’
s going on now.
’

‘
And then?
’

‘
We
’
ll see.
’

She took a cigarette out of her handbag and lit it; and then without friendliness
off
ered me the packet. I said,
‘
No thanks.
’

She stared into the distance, towards the aristocratic wall of houses that make up Cumberland Terrace and overlook the park. Cream stucco, a row of white statues along the cornices, the muted blues of the sky.

A poodle ran up to us. I waved it away with my foot, but she patted it on the head. A woman called,
‘
Tina! Darling! Come here.
’
In the old days we would have exchanged grimaces of disgust. She went back to staring at the houses. I looked round. There were other seats a few yards away. Other sitters and watchers. Suddenly the peopled park seemed a stage, the whole landscape a landscape of masquers, spies. I lit one of my own cigarettes; willed her to look at me, but she wouldn
’
t.

‘
Alison.
’

She glanced at me briefly, but then down again. She sat, holding the cigarette. As if nothing would make her speak. A plane leaf lolloped down, touched her skirt. She bent and picked it up, smoothed its yellow teeth against the tweed. An Indian came and sat on the far end of the bench. A threadbare black overcoat, a white scarf; a thin face. He looked small and unhappy, timidly alien; a waiter perhaps, the slave of some cheap curry-house kitchen. I moved a little closer to her, lowered my voice, and forced it to sound as cold as hers.

‘
What about Kemp?
’

‘
Nicko, please don
’
t interrogate me. Please don
’
t.
’

My name; a tiny shift. But she was still set hard and silent.

‘
Are they watching? Are they here somewhere?
’

An impatient sigh.

‘
Are they?
’

‘
No.
’
But at once she qualified it.
‘
I don
’
t know.
’

‘
Meaning you do.
’

Still she wouldn
’
t look at me. She spoke in a small, almost a bored, voice.

‘
It
’
s nothing to do with them now.
’

There was a long pause.

I said,
‘
You can
’
t lie to me. Face to face.
’

She touched her hair; the hair, her
wrist, a way she had of raising
her face a little as she made the gesture. A glimpse of the lobe of an ear. I had a sense of outrage, as if I was being barred from my own property.

‘
You
’
re the only person I
’
ve ever felt could never lie to me. Can you imagine what it was like in the summer? When I got that letter, those flowers

She said,
‘
If we start talking about the past.
’

All my overtures were in some way irrelevant; she had something else on her mind. My fingers touched a smooth dry roundness in my coat pocket: a chestnut, a talisman. Jojo had passed it to me wrapped in a t
off
ee-paper, her pawky joke, one evening in a cinema. I thought of Jojo, somewhere only a mile or two away through the brick and the traffic, sitting with some new pick-up, drifting into her womanhood; of holding her pudgy hand in the darkness. And suddenly I had to fight not to take Alison
’
s.

I said her name again.

But coming to a decision, determined to be untouched, she threw the yellow leaf away.
‘
I
’
ve returned to London to sell the flat. I
’
m going back to Australia.
’

‘
Long journey for such a small matter.
’

‘
And to see you.
’

‘
Like this?
’

‘
To see if I…
‘
but she cut her sentence short.

‘
If you?
’

‘
I didn
’
t want to come.
’

‘
Then why are you here?
’
She shrugged.
‘
If it
’
s against your will?
’

But she would not answer. She was mysterious, almost a new woman; one had to go back several steps, and start again;
and know
the place for the first time.
As if what had once been free in her, as
accessible as a pot of salt on the table, was now held in a phial, sacrosanct. But I knew Alison. I knew how she took on the colour and character of the people she loved or liked, however independent she remained underneath. And I knew where that smooth impermeability came from. I was sitting with a priestess from the temple of Demeter.

I tried to be matter-of-fact.
‘
Where have you been since Athens? At home?
’

‘
Perhaps.
’

I took a breath.
‘
Have you thought about me at all?
’

‘
Sometimes.
’

‘
Is there someone else?
’

She hesitated, then said,
‘
No.
’

‘
You don
’
t sound very certain.
’

‘
There
’
s always someone else—if you
’
re looking for it.
’

‘
Have you been looking for it?
’

She said,
‘
There
’
s no one.
’

‘
And I
’
m included in that
“
no one
”
?
’

‘
You
’
ve been included in it ever since that… day.
’

The sullen profile, that perverse stare into the distance. She was aware of my look, and her eyes followed someone who was passing, as if she found him more interesting than me.

‘
What am I meant to do ? Take you in my arms? Fall on my knees? What do they want?
’

‘
I don
’
t know what you
’
re talking about.
’

‘
Oh yes, you damn well do.
’

Her eyes flicked sideways at me, and she looked down. She said,
‘
I saw through you that day. That
’
s all. For ever.
’

‘
I made love to you that day. Also … in a sense … for ever.
’

I watched her breathe in, as if on a pent-up scorn; waited for her to say something, anything, even the scorn; quelled my own growing anger with her, tried to sound calm.

‘
There was a moment on that mountain when I loved you. I don
’
t think you know, I know you know. I saw it. I know you too well not to be sure you saw it too. And remember it.
’
I added,
‘
And I
’
m not talking about bodies.
’

Again she waited to answer.

‘
Why should I remember it? Why shouldn
’
t I do everything I can to forget it?
’

‘
You know the answer to that, too.
’

‘
Do I?
’

I said,
‘
Alison

‘
Don
’
t come closer. Please don
’
t come closer.
’

She would not look at me. But it was in her voice. I had a feeling of trembling too deep to show; as if the brain cells trembled. She spoke with her head turned away.
‘
All right, I know what it means.
’
Her face still averted, she took out another cigarette and lit it.
‘
Or it
meant. When I loved you. It meant everything you said or did to me had meaning. Emotional meaning. It moved me, excited me. It depressed me, it made me …
‘
she took a deep breath.
‘
Like the way after all that
’
s happened you can sit there in that tea place and look at me as if I
’
m a prostitute or something and—
’