The Magus - John Fowles [275]
74
I was out the next morning. When I got back, about two, I found Kemp had slipped a note under my door: _A Yank called. Says its urgent. Will come again four_. I went down to see her. She was splaying great worms of viridian green with her thumb across murky black and umber explosions of Ripolin. She did not like to be interrupted when she was "making a painting." "This man." "Said he must see you." "What about?" "Going to Greece." She stood stockily back, fag in mouth. "Your old job or something." "But how did he find where I live?" "Don't ask me." I stood staring at the note. "What sort of man was he?" "Christ, can't you wait a couple of hours?" She turned. "Buzz." He came at five to four, a tallish young man with a lean body and the unmistakable cropped head of an American. He wore glasses, was a year or two younger than I; pleasant face, pleasant smile, pleasant everything; as wholesome, and as green, as a lettuce. He thrust out a hand. "John Briggs." "Hello." "You're Nicholas Urfe? Is that how I pronounce it? The lady..." I made him come in. "Not much of a place, I'm afraid." "It's nice." He looked around for a better word. "Atmosphere." We clambered up the stairs. "I wasn't expecting an American." "No. Well, I guess it's the Cyprus situation." "Ah." "I've been over here this last year at London University. All along I've been trying to figure how I could get myself a year in Greece before I return home. You don't know how excited I am." We came to a landing. He saw some of the sewing girls at work through an open door. Two or three of them whistled. He waved to them. "Isn't that nice? Reminds me of Thomas Hood." "Where did you hear about the job?" "In the _Times Educational Supplement_." He gave even the most familiar English institutions an interrogative intonation, as if I might not have heard of them. We came to my flat. I closed the door. "I thought the British Council had stopped doing the recruiting." "Is that so? I suppose the school committee decided that as Mr. Conchis was over here he might as well do the interviewing." He had gone into the sitting room and was looking at the view down grimy old Charlotte Street. "This is charming. You know, I love this city." I indicated the least greasy of the armchairs. "And... Mr. Conchis gave you my address?" "Sure. Was that wrong?" "No. Not at all." I sat on the window seat. "Did he tell you anything about me?" He raised his hand, as if I might need quietening down. "Well yes, he--I do know, I mean... he warned me how dangerous these school intrigues can get. As I understand you had the misfortune..." he gave up. "You still feel sore about it?" I shrugged. "Greece is Greece." "I bet they're rubbing their hands already at the thought of a real live American." "They probably are." He shook his head, as if the thought that anyone could involve a real live American in a Levantine academic intrigue was almost past belief. I said, "When did you see Mr. Conchis?" "When he was here three weeks ago. I'd have gotten in contact earlier, but he lost your address. He just sent it to me from Greece. Only this morning." I thought quickly. "Only this morning?" "Yep. A cable." "A cable!" "Surprised me too. I think he'd forgotten