Волхв/The Magus (Джон Фоулз). Страница 60 из 136

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I

walked

up

a

galley

behind

the

school

,

climbed

to

a

small

saddle

,

and

went

into

the

trees

.

I

was

soon

in

shadow

.

To

the

north

,

across

the

water

,

the

golden

mainland

still

lay

in

the

sun

.

The

air

was

very

light

,

warm

,

the

sky

of

an

intense

luminous

blue

.

A

long

way

away

,

above

me

,

I

could

hear

the

bells

of

a

flock

of

goats

being

brought

back

to

the

village

for

the

night

.

I

walked

for

some

time

.

It

was

like

looking

for

a

place

to

relieve

oneself

in

;

I

had

to

be

sure

I

couldn

’

t

be

observed

.

At

last

I

found

a

rocky

hollow

.

I

put

a

cartridge

in

the

gun

,

and

sat

on

the

ground

,

against

the

stem

of

a

pine

tree

.

All

around

me

blue

grape

-

hyacinths

pushed

through

the

pine

needles

.

I

reversed

the

gun

and

looked

down

the

barrel

,

into

the

black

o

of

my

nonexistence

.

I

calculated

the

angle

at

which

I

should

have

to

hold

my

head

.

I

held

the

barrel

against

my

right

eye

,

turned

my

head

so

that

the

shot

would

mash

like

black

lightning

through

the

brain

and

blast

the

back

wall

of

my

skull

off

.

I

reached

for

the

trigger

—

this

was

all

testing

,

all

rehearsing

—

and

found

it

difficult

to

reach

.

In

straining

forward

,

I

thought

I

might

have

to

twist

my

head

at

the

last

moment

and

botch

the

job

,

so

I

searched

around

and

found

a

dead

branch

that

I

could

fit

between

the

guard

and

the

trigger

.

I

took

the

cartridge

out

and

fitted

the

stick

in

,

and

then

sat

with

the

gun

between

my

knees

,

the

soles

of

my

shoes

on

the

stick

,

the

right

barrel

an

inch

from

my

eye

.

There

was

a

click

as

the

hammer

fell

.

It

was

simple

.

I

reloaded

the

cartridge

.

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From

the

hills

behind

came

the

solitary

voice

of

a

girl

.

She

must

have

been

bringing

down

the

goats

,

and

she

was

singing

wildly

,

at

the

limit

of

her

uninhibited

voice

,

without

any

recognizable

melody

,

in

Turkish

-

Moslem

intervals

.

It

sounded

disembodied

,

of

place

,

not

person

.

I

remembered

having

heard

a

similar

voice

,

perhaps

this

same

girl

’

s

,

singing

one

day

on

the

hill

behind

the

school

.

It

had

drifted

down

into

the

classroom

,

and

the

boys

had

begun

to

giggle

.

But

now

it

seemed

intensely

mysterious

,

welling

out

of

a

solitude

and

suffering

that

made

mine

trivial

and

absurd

.

It

held

me

under

a

spell

.

I

sat

with

the

gun

across

my

knees

,

unable

to

move

while

the

sound

floated

down

through

the

evening

air

.

I

don

’

t

know

how

long

she

sang

for

,

but

the

sky

darkened

,

the

sea

paled

to

a

nacreous

gray

.

Over

the

mountains

there

were

pinkish

bars

of

high

cloud

in

the

still

strong

light

from

the

set

sun

.

All

the

land

and

the

sea

held

light

,

as

if

light

was

warmth

,

and

did

not

fade

as

soon

as

the

source

was

removed

.

But

the

voice

dwindled

towards

the

village

;

then

died

into

silence

.

I

raised

the

gun

again

until

the

barrel

was

pointing

at

me

.

The

stick

projected

,

waiting

for

my

feet

to

jerk

down

.

The

air

was

very

silent

.

Many

miles

away

I

heard

the

siren

of

the

Athens

boat

,

approaching

the

island

.

But

it

was

like

something

outside

a

vacuum

.

Death

was

now

.

I

did

nothing

.

I

waited

.

The

afterglow

,

the

palest

yellow

,

then

a

luminous

pale

green

,

then

a

limpid

stained

-

glass

blue

,

held

in

the

sky

over

the

sea

of

mountains

to

the

west

.

I

waited

,

I

waited

,

I

heard

the

siren

closer

,

I

waited

for

the

will

,

the

black

moment

,

to

come

to

raise

my

feet

and

kick

down

,

and

I

could

not

.

All

the

time

I

felt

I

was

being

watched

,

that

I

was

not

alone

,

that

I

was

putting

on

an

act

for

the

benefit

of

someone

,

that

this

action

could

be

done

only

if

it

was

spontaneous

,

pure

,

isolated

—

and

moral

.

Because

more

and

more

it

crept

through

my

mind

with

the

chill

spring

night

that

I

was

trying

to

commit

not

a

moral

action

,

but

a

fundamentally

aesthetic

one

;

to

do

something

that

would

end

my

life

sensationally

,

significantly

,

consistently

.

It

was

a

Mercutio

death

I

was

looking

for

,

not

a

real

one

.

A

death

to

be

remembered

,

not

the

true

death

of

a

true

suicide

,

the

death

obliterate

.

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And

the

voice

;

the

light

;

the

sky

.

It

began

to

grow

dark

,

the

siren

of

the

receding

Athens

boat

sounded

,

and

I

still

sat

smoking

,

with

the

gun

by

my

side

.

I

re

-

evaluated

myself

.

I

saw

that

I

was

from

now

on

,

forever

,

contemptible

.

I

had

been

,

and

remained

,

intensely

depressed

,

but

I

had

also

been

,

and

always

would

be

,

intensely

false

;

in

existentialist

terms

,

unauthentic

I

knew

I

would

never

kill

myself

,

I

knew

I

would

always

want

to

go

on

living

with

myself

,

however

hollow

I

became

,

however

diseased

.

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