The Magus - John Fowles [166]
50
Morning school began at seven, so I had had less than five hours' sleep when I appeared in class. It was ugly weather, too, without wind, remorselessly hot and stagnant. All the colour was burnt out of the land, what few remaining greens there were looked tired, defeated. Processional caterpillars had massacred the pines; the oleander flowers were brown at the edges. Only the sea lived, and I did not begin to think coherently until school was over at noon and I could plunge into the water and lie in its blue relief. One thing had occurred to me during the morning. Except for the main actors, almost all the German "soldiers" had looked very young--between' eighteen and twenty. It was the beginning of July; the German and the Greek university terms would probably be over. If Conchis really had some connection with film producing he could probably have got German students to come easily enough--to work for a few days for him and then holiday in Greece. What I could not believe was that having got them to Greece he would use them only once. More sadism was, as the colonel warned, to come. But I had cooled down enough to know that I wasn't going to write the angry and sarcastic letter I had been phrasing on the way down from the ridge. Conchis had the enormous advantage of giving the entertainment--and such entertainment; it seemed ridiculous to get angry about the _way_ the thing was done when the staggering fact was that the thing _had_ been done. I floated on my back with my arms out and my eyes shut, crucified in the water. A course of action: the paramount thing was that I should go on seeing Julie. I would make that absolutely clear to her over the weekend; if it meant ruining the masque, so much the worse for the masque; and if it meant going on with the masque, and finding myself in the middle of such unpleasant entertainments as the one on the ridge, so much the worse for me. The post came on the noon boat and was distributed during lunch. I had three letters; one of the rare ones from my uncle in Rhodesia, another with one of the information bulletins sent out by the British Council in Athens; and the third... I knew the handwriting, round, a bit loose, big letters. I slit it. My letter to Alison fell out, unopened. There was nothing else. A few minutes later, back in my room, I put it on an ashtray, still unopened, and burnt it. The next day was Friday. I had another letter at lunch. It was postmarked Geneva and I had a premonition about its contents, so that I didn't open it until I had escaped from the dining room. _Geneva, Monday_ _DEAR NICHOLAS,_ _I am afraid my presence here will be essential for at least another week. However, I think it almost certain that I shall be back at Bourani by the following weekend. I hope you are enjoying the good weather._ _Yours most sincerely,_ _MAURICE CONCHIS_ I felt a bitter plunge of disappointment, of new and different anger with Conchis. The last sentence--when was the weather ever not good in the Aegean in summer?--stung especially. It was a deliberate taunt, a way of saying, I know you can enjoy nothing till I pretend to return. Or perhaps "good weather" was a hint that he knew about my meetings with Julie... and that bad weather was soon to come. I couldn't believe that he would keep her from me for another week. He must know that I should rush over to Bourani whether he was there or not. I decided that it was his way of saying, Your move. So I would move. Soon after two o'clock on Saturday, I was on my way up into the hills. At three, I entered the clump of tamarisk. In the blazing heat--the weather remained windless, stagnant--it was difficult to believe that what I had seen had happened. But there were two or three recently broken twigs and branches; and where the "prisoner" had dived away there were several overturned stones, their bottoms stained ruddy from the island earth; and