By the time he had swum fifty lengths of a small floodlit pool he had found near his room to work off his undischarged head of energy he was in a relatively philosophical frame of mind. After the first twenty lengths he had been seized by a sudden hope that Nikki might have forgiven his mistake, and opened her window again. But when he got down to Democritus and crept past the (still open) right-hand veranda window, as it appeared to him to be from outside, with scarcely the sound of a splash or a wet foot on the ground, the left-hand veranda window was firmly closed. He had tapped and pushed at it and peered in. He had thought he could see her sitting on the edge of her bed in the darkness inside, but she had not relented.
Well, there was always tomorrow. The golden pathway still stretched ahead. Until the other claimant to his identity turned up, he was Dr. Norman Wilfred still. He knew everything, he had done everything, and he would be irresistible. And if by any chance his elusive fat Doppelgänger had still not arrived in time to give his lecture … He laughed to himself at the thought as he swam. What would he say? He had no idea. Something would come to him, though. Something would turn up. Something always did. The world would continue to revolve, one way or another.
Forty-one lengths. Forty-two.
But how endlessly uncertain life was! Things might be like this, or might be like that, or might be like nothing anyone could imagine — and it all depended upon the endlessly shifting sands of who was who, and when they were, and where. Upon who was Oliver Fox and who was Dr. Norman Wilfred. Upon whether you were outside the window looking in, or inside the window looking out.
16
When Oliver emerged from Parmenides next morning the confusions of the night landscape had been resolved, and the reasonableness of the world restored, only fresher, greener, lighter, happier than ever. The air was already hot, but still agreeably so. Prostrating itself at his feet, almost whimpering and wagging its tail like a dog begging to be loved and walked, was a neatly cobbled path zigzagging down to the perfectly composed picture laid out below him: translucent blue water, white boats, blue and white cottages. His kingdom, waiting only for him to enter upon it and claim it.
Down there by the water he could see blue umbrellas, with white mess-jackets moving among them and bending to take orders, offer trays, pour juice and coffee. Breakfast! Yes! He had eaten nothing since the economy-class sandwich on the plane, and he had swum fifty lengths in the darkness. He was suddenly seized by a huge hunger — for breakfast, for the world at his feet, for being who he had elected to be. He had a clean shirt on, white and perfectly laundered, even if it was a couple of sizes too big, and clean silk underpants under his chinos, slyly insinuating their luxurious softness, even if they were held up by the paper clip from the foundation’s brochure. His hair, after his nocturnal swim, was more tousled than ever.
He swung down the path with long strides. Nikki had told him that he was expected to mingle. He was happy to oblige. He was Dr. Norman Wilfred. Everyone would be pleased to see him. There might be people there who had known him in the days when he was Oliver Fox, or who knew a rival claimant to the title of Dr. Norman Wilfred. He didn’t care. He would face them down. And when the pretender to his identity turned up, Oliver would face him down, too. This morning he felt himself to be so solidly established as Dr. Norman Wilfred that no other Dr. Norman Wilfred, however freighted with passports and credit cards, could take the title from him. Somewhere in this shining blue world Nikki was waiting. Together they would laugh over the misunderstandings of the night. And even when things went humiliatingly, flesh-crawlingly wrong, as sooner or later they inevitably would, he would laugh about it, and she would laugh with him.
The easy gradient ushered him eagerly on down into the picture. The world was bright, the world was downhill, the world was good again.
* * *
When Dr. Wilfred came out of the villa that morning the unsatisfactorinesses of the night had faded, and he stepped into a new and better world. Just beyond the road he found the promised path, zigzagging enticingly downhill into a pale green sea of olive groves, with the tiled roofs of the foundation’s buildings like red-rocked islands among them, though from up here there was still no sign of the sea. He started down the path with long strides. The sun was already hot, but it was still perfectly bearable, and as the valley opened out below him, he felt his spirits begin to return.
He had found it difficult to get back to sleep after the incident in the night; he had been painfully aware that the woman, who seemed to be seriously deranged, was still concealed behind the bathroom door, only feet away from where he was lying. He was now also ill prepared to face the day ahead. He had had to put yesterday’s shirt, socks, and underpants back on. He was unshaven and his teeth were uncleaned, since he had no razor or toothbrush. In any case, the woman was still locked in the bathroom, so he hadn’t even been able to have a shower.
He had done his best in the night, once he had recovered from his initial shock, to establish rational communication with her. He had suggested, as calmly and temperately as he could through the woodwork, that he would help her find her way to wherever it was she supposed herself to be, but there had been no response. He had tried once again this morning. He was going out, he had told her, to find someone who could help her, though she might prefer to avoid embarrassment by slipping quietly away before he returned. Still no response, and a picture had come into his head of her lying dead on the bathroom floor with her wrists slashed, or an empty pack of pills clutched in her hand, followed by another picture of his name prominent in the resulting headlines. He had very cautiously tried the door. It was locked, but he had been reassured to hear a little cry of alarm as the handle turned.
His problems, though, paled in the bright light of the Mediterranean morning. Sooner or later, obviously, normality would resume. He had his flight bag on his shoulder, and his lecture inside it — that was the main thing. Someone at the foundation would get rid of the woman in his bathroom. Someone would take charge of locating his luggage for him, and in the meanwhile provide him with everything he needed. He would presently be sitting down, shaved and showered, at a table beside the water. Breakfast! Yes! Freshly squeezed orange juice, certainly, and sugary Greek croissants, with perhaps a crisp rasher or two of bacon. He had eaten only a pizza out of the guest-quarters freezer since he had got off the plane. His breakfast would be interrupted, of course, by people coming up to introduce themselves in the usual tiresome way. “Dr. Norman Wilfred? Such an admirer … so looking forward…” This, though, he would bear, philosophically, with breakfast in front of him and clean socks on his feet.
The path was rough underfoot, but so steep that he was striding towards the coffee and the socks with wonderful swiftness. It was a remarkably long way down, though. He had been going for twenty minutes or more before he reached the first of the foundation’s buildings.
It was deserted. The windows were broken, and the front door leaned wearily forward on its one remaining hinge.
The sight was curiously disheartening. The foundation was evidently less well endowed than he had supposed. The sun was getting noticeably hotter as he set out again down the path. He could see another glimpse of tiles among the trees below him, but ten minutes later, as he got a little closer, he discovered that they were a jumbled heap, with no walls left to support them.