Then Alison. Her telegram was like grit in the eye when one particularly wants to see clearly. I could guess what had happened. My letter of the Monday before would have arrived on Friday or Saturday in London, she would have been on a flight out of England that day, perhaps feeling fed up, half an hour to kill at Ellenikon—on impulse, a telegram. But it came like an intrusion—of dispensable reality into pleasure, of now artificial duty into instinct. I couldn’t leave the island, I couldn’t waste three days in Athens. I read the wretched thing again. Conchis must have read it too—there was no envelope. Demetriades would have opened it when it was first delivered at the school.
So Conchis would know I was invited to Athens—and would guess that this was the girl I had spoken about, the girl I must “swim towards.” Perhaps that was why he had had to go away. There might be arrangements to cancel for the next weekend. I had assumed that he would invite me again, give me the whole four days of half-term; that Alison would not take my lukewarm offer.
I came to a decision. A physical confrontation, even the proximity that Alison’s coming to the island might represent, was unthinkable. Whatever happened, if I met her, it must be in Athens. If he invited me, I could easily make some excuse and not go. But if he didn’t, then after all I would have Alison to fall back on. I won either way.
The bell rang again for me. It was lunchtime. I collected my things and drunk with the sun, walked heavily up the path. But I was covertly trying to watch in every direction, preternaturally on the alert for events in the masque. As I walked through the windswept trees to the house, I expected some strange new sight to emerge, to see both twins together—I didn’t know. I was wrong. There was nothing. My lunch was laid; one place. Maria did not appear. Under the muslin there was taramasalata, boiled eggs, and a plate of loquats.
By the end of the meal under the windy colonnade I had banned Alison from my mind and was ready for anything that Conchis might now offer. To make things easier, I went through the pine trees to where I had lain and read of Robert Foulkes the Sunday before. I took no book. But lay on my back and shut my eyes.
33
I was given no time to sleep. I had not been lying there five minutes before I heard a rustle and, simultaneously, smelt the sandalwood perfume. I pretended to be asleep. The rustle came closer. I heard the tiny crepitation of pine needles. Her feet were just behind my head. There was a louder rustle; she had sat down, and very close behind me. I thought she would drop a cone, tickle my nose. But in a very low voice she began to recite, half singing.
A frog he would a-wooing go,
Whether his mother would let him or no.
So off he marched with his nice new hat
And on the way he met with a rat.
And they came to the door of the mouse’s hall,
They gave a loud knock and they gave a loud call.
Pray, Mrs. Mouse, are you within?
Oh yes, Mr. Rat, I’m learning to spin.
Pray, Mrs. Mouse, will you give us some beer?
Young froggy and I are fond of good cheer.
But as they were all a merry-making
The cat and her kittens came tumbling in.
The cat she seized the rat by the crown;
The kittens they pulled the little mouse down.
This put poor frog in a terrible fright,
So he took his new hat and wished them good night.
As froggy was crossing him over a brook,
A lily-white duck gob-gobbled him up.
So that was an end of one, two and three,
Riddle-me-ro, riddle-me-ree.
All the time I was silent, and kept my eyes closed. She teased the words; I was the frog. A willing frog; the wind blew in the pines above, she said each couplet in her dry-sweet voice. Alter each couplet, she paused. A little silence, the wind. Then the next couplet.
She finished. Without moving, I opened my eyes and looked back. A fiendish green and black face, with protuberant fire-red eyes, glared down at me. I twisted over. She was holding a Chinese carnival mask on a stick, in her left hand. I saw the scar. I grinned, and she lowered the mask to her nose and stared over it at me with taunting eyes.
She had changed into a long-sleeved white blouse and a long gray skirt and her hair was tied back by a black velvet bow. I pushed the mask aside. She was smiling.
“I have come to gobble you up.”
“I haven’t even been a-wooing yet.” She half raised the mask again and looked at me over the top of it with silent incredulity. “Well, I haven’t been a-wooing you yet.”
“You cannot woo me.”
“Why not?”
“Forbidden.”
“By you?”
“By everything.”
She put her hands round her enskirted knees and leant back and stared up through the branches at the sky. A fine throat. She was wearing absurd black lace-up boots.
“I saw your twin sister this morning.”
“That was very clever. I have no sister.”
“Yes you have. She was standing with a charming young man dressed in black. It was quite a shock. To see him dressed at all.” She looked down, and made no answer. “Where did you hide?”
“I went home.”
“Over there?” I pointed towards the sea.
“Yes. Over there.”
I knew it was no good; she wouldn’t lay down the other mask. I shrugged, smiled at her now rather serious, perceptibly watchful face and reached for my cigarettes. I offered her one, but she shook her head. She watched me strike the match and inhale a couple of times, and then suddenly reached out her hand.
“Have one.” I held out the packet, but she wanted the cigarette in my mouth.
“One puff.”
She took the cigarette and pecked out her lips at it in the characteristic way of first smokers; took a little puff, then a bigger one. She coughed and buried her head in her knees, holding out the cigarette for me to take back.
“Horrible.”
“Beautifully acted.”
She bowed her head again to cough. I looked at the nape of her neck, her slim shoulders, her total reality.
“Where did you train?”
“Train?” She spoke into her knees.
“Which drama school? RADA?”
She shook her head, then looked up and said, “I have never had a dramatic training.” I had the impression that this was the truth, a remark out of role; and that she sensed that I sensed it, and had to improvise defense. She went on quickly, “As far as I know.”
“Oh of course. You suffer from amnesia.” She was silent, looking straight ahead, as if in two minds about whether to play at being offended or not. She threw me a veiled look, then stared ahead again. I lay on my elbow. “I don’t mind in the least being made a fool of, but I can’t stand every attempt at natural curiosity being treated as bad taste.” I watched the side of her face. We were at right angles to each other. She remained chin on knees, eyes lost in the distance.