The Magus, A Revised Version by John Fowles

for you, with no Greek. And you ’ ll drink. Everyone does. Have to. ’ He talked about retsina and aretsinato, reiki and ouzo – and then about women. ‘ The girls in Athens are strictly O.O.B. Unless you want the pox. ’
    ‘ No talent on the island? ’
    ‘ Nix, old boy. Women are about the ugliest in the Aegean. And anyway – village honour. Makes that caper highly dangerous. Shouldn ’ t advise it. Discovered that somewhere else once. ’ He gave me a curt grin, with the appropriate hooded look in his eyes.
    I drove him back towards his club. It was a bronchial mid-afternoon, already darkening, the people, the traffic, everything fish-grey. I asked him why he hadn ’ t stayed in the Army.
    ‘ Too damn orthodox, old boy. Specially in peacetime. ’
    I guessed that he had been rejected for a permanent commission; there was something obscurely wild and unstable about him, under the mess mannerisms.
    We came to where he wanted to be dropped off .
    ‘ Think I ’ ll do? ’
    His look was doubtful. ‘ Treat ‘ em tough. It ’ s the only way. Never let ‘ em get you down. They did the chap before me, you know. Never met him, but apparently he went bonkers. Couldn ’ t control the boys. ’
    He got out of the car.
    ‘ Well, all the best, old man. ’ He grinned. ‘ And listen. ’ He had his hand on the door-handle. ‘ Beware of the waiting-room. ’
    He closed the door at once, as if he had rehearsed that moment. I opened it quickly and leant out to call after him. ‘ The what?
    He turned, but only to give a sharp wave. The Trafalgar Square crowd swallowed him up. I couldn ’ t get the smile on his face out of my mind. It secreted an omission; something he ’ d saved up, a mysterious last word. Waiting-room, waiting-room, waiting-room; it went round in my head all that evening.

 

     

    6

    I picked up Alison and we went to the garage that was going to sell the car for me. I ’ d off ered it to her some time before, but she had refused.
    ‘ If I had it I ’ d always think of you. ’
    ‘ Then have it. ’
    ‘ I don ’ t want to think of you. And I couldn ’ t stand anyone else sitting where you are. ’
    ‘ Will you take whatever I get for it? It won ’ t be much. ’
    ‘ My wages? ’
    ‘ Don ’ t be silly. ’
    ‘ I don ’ t want anything. ’
    But I knew she wanted a scooter. I could leave a cheque with ‘ Towards a scooter ’ on a card, and I thought she would take that, when I had gone.
    It was curious how quiet that last evening was; as if I had already left, and we were two ghosts talking to each other. We arranged what we should do in the morning. She didn ’ t want to come and see me off – I was going by train – at Victoria; we would have breakfast as usual, she would go, it was cleanest and simplest that way. We arranged our future. As soon as she could she would try to get herself to Athens. If that was impossible, I might fly back to England at Christmas. We might meet halfway somewhere – Rome, Switzerland.
    ‘ Alice Springs, ’ she said.
    In the night we lay awake, knowing each other awake, yet afraid to talk. I felt her hand feel out for mine. We lay for a while without talking. Then she spoke.
    ‘ If I said I ’ d wait? ’ I was silent. ‘ I think I could wait. That ’ s what I mean. ’
    ‘ I know. ’
    ‘ You ’ re always saying “ I know ” . But it doesn ’ t answer anything. ’
    ‘ I know. ’ She pinched my hand. ‘ Suppose I say, yes, wait, in a year ’ s time I shall know. All the time you ’ ll be waiting, waiting. ’
    ‘ I wouldn ’ t mind. ’
    ‘ But it ’ s mad. It ’ s like putting a girl in a convent till you ’ re ready to marry her. And then deciding you don ’ t want to marry her. We have to be free. We haven ’ t got a choice. ’
    ‘ Don ’ t get upset. Please don ’ t get upset. ’
    ‘ We ’ ve got to see how things go. ’
    There was a silence.
    ‘ I was thinking of coming back here tomorrow night. That ’ s