Read The Magus, A Revised Version for Free Online

night I heard her say a name in her sleep.
    ‘ Who ’ s Michel? ’ I asked the next morning.
    ‘ Someone I want to forget. ’
    But she talked about everything else; about her English-born mother, genteel but dominating; about her father, a station-master who had died of cancer four years before.
    ‘ That ’ s why I ’ ve got this crazy between voice. It ’ s Mum and Dad living out their battles again every time I open my mouth. I suppose it ’ s why I hate Australia and I love Australia and I couldn ’ t ever be happy there and yet I ’ m always feeling homesick. Does that make sense? ’
    She was always asking me if she made sense.
    ‘ I went to see the old family in Wales. Mum ’ s brother. Jesus. Enough to make the wallabies weep. ’
    But she found me very English, very fascinating. Partly it was because I was ‘ cultured ’ , a word she often used. Pete had always ‘ honked ’ at her if she went to galleries or concerts. She mimicked him: ‘ What ’ s wrong with the boozer, girl? ’
    One day she said, ‘ You don ’ t know how nice Pete is. Besides being a bastard. I always know what he wants, I always know what he thinks, and what he means when he says anything. And you, I don ’ t know anything. I off end you and I don ’ t know why. I please you and I don ’ t know why. It ’ s because you ’ re English. You couldn ’ t ever understand that. ’
    She had finished high school in Australia, and had even had a year doing languages at Sydney University. But then she had met Pete, and it ‘ got complicated ’ . She ’ d had an abortion and come to England.
    ‘ Did he make you have the abortion? ’
    She was sitting on my knees.
    ‘ He never knew. ’
    ‘ Never knew! ’
    ‘ It could have been someone else ’ s. I wasn ’ t sure. ’
    ‘ You poor kid. ’
    ‘ I knew if it was Pete ’ s he wouldn ’ t want it. And if it wasn ’ t his he wouldn ’ t have it. So. ’
    ‘ Weren ’ t you – ‘
    ‘ I didn ’ t want a baby. It would have got in the way. ’ But she added more gently, ‘ Yes, I was. ’
    ‘ And still? ’
    A silence, a small shrug.
    ‘ Sometimes. ’
    I couldn ’ t see her face. We sat in silence, close and warm, both aware that we were close and aware that we were embarrassed by the implications of this talk about children. In our age it is not sex that raises its ugly head, but love.
    One evening we went to see Game ’ s old film Quai des Brumes. She was crying when we came out and she began to cry again when we were in bed. She sensed my disapproval.
    ‘ You ’ re not me. You can ’ t feel like I feel. ’
    ‘ I can feel. ’
    ‘ No, you can ’ t. You just choose not to feel or something, and everything ’ s fine. ’
    ‘ It ’ s not fine. It ’ s just not so bad. ’
    ‘ That film made me feel what I feel about everything. There isn ’ t any meaning. You try and try to be happy and then something chance happens and it ’ s all gone. It ’ s because we don ’ t believe in a life after death. ’
    ‘ Not don ’ t. Can ’ t. ’
    ‘ Every time you go out and I ’ m not with you I think you may die. I think about dying every day. Every time I have you, I think this is one in the eye for death. You know, you ’ ve got a lot of money and the shops are going to shut in an hour. It ’ s sick, but you ’ ve got to spend. Does that make sense? ’
    ‘ Of course. The bomb. ’
    She lay smoking.
    ‘ It ’ s not the bomb. It ’ s us. ’
    She didn ’ t fall for the solitary heart; she had a nose for emotional blackmail. She thought it must be nice to be totally alone in the world, to have no family ties. When I was going on one day in the car about not having any close friends – using my favourite metaphor: the cage of glass between me and the rest of the world – she just laughed. ‘ You like it, ’ she said. ‘ You say you ’ re isolated, boyo, but you really think you ’ re different. ’ She broke my hurt silence by saying, too