The Ebony Tower-Short Stories - John Fowles by John Fowles

Author:John Fowles
Format: MOBI, epub, pdf
Published: 2011-05-19T04:29:11.859655+00:00

'I'm afraid I couldn't write about something I don't begin to understand.'

With a sharp tug he finally detached the end he wanted. He passed behind the chair, and I heard his voice from above my head.

'What don't you understand?'

'How someone who is apparently not by any means a fool can behave as you are.'

He laced the washing-line through the slats at the back of the chair. His arm came over my shoulder and led it round my chest and under my other arm.

'Back straight, will you?' I felt the line tighten. Then the free end was passed round again. 'Thought I explained all that.'

'I can understand young people who go in for left-wing violence--even when they disrupt public life. At least they are acting for a cause. You seem to be acting purely for your private profit.'

In saying that I was, of course, hoping for some more substantial clue to confirm my hypothesis over Richard. But he didn't rise to the bait. I felt him knotting the cord behind the chair. Then once again he came in front of me and looked me over.

'How's that?'

'Extremely uncomfortable.'

He stood watching me a moment. Then there came another of his pointed fingers.

'Man, your trouble is you don't listen hard enough.'

I said nothing. He contemplated me a moment further.

'Now I load up. I'll be back to say tara.'

He picked up a large grip from beneath the window on the lane, and went to the front door, which I could partly see through the living-room doorway. He propped it open with the grip, then disappeared for a moment into the sitting-room. He came out of there with something pale and square under his arm, I think a carton box; picked up the grip, then went on out into the night. The front door swung gently to. There was silence for nearly a minute. Then I heard the faint sound of a car door being closed. The wicket-gate squeaked, but he did not come straight into the house. I saw why, when he did reappear. He showed me my glasses, which he put on the table.

'Your pebbles,' he said. 'Still in good nick. Sure you don't want a brandy?'

'No thank you.'

'Electric fire?'

'I'm not cold.'

'Right. Just got to gag you then.'

He picked up the tape and the scissors.

'There's no one within earshot. I could shout all night.'

He seemed to hesitate a moment, then shook his head. 'Sorry, man. Must do.'

I now watched him peel and cut four or five lengths from the tape, which he laid in a row on the table beside us. When he reached forward with the first of them I instinctively jerked my head aside.

'This is totally unnecessary!'

He waited. 'Come on. Let's end as we began.'

I am sure I should have struggled if he had used force. But he was like some bored nurse with a recalcitrant patient. In the end I closed my eyes and turned my head to face him. I felt the plaster pressed obliquely against my grimly resentful mouth. Then it was smoothed down on my cheeks; then the other lengths.

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