Free The Finishing School by Muriel Spark

eyes as if he was amazed at something. He was in fact amazed that those hands would decidedly want to strangle Chris.
    “But,” said Nina, “the laborer is worthy of his hire and so let’s hope that Chris will get reasonable pay for his work—Rowland, will you pass down the sauce, please?”
    Rowland did not move.
    “Rowland . . .”
    He slowly unwound himself from his trance and pushed the sauceboat across the table. He said, “Don’t count your chickens before . . . well, Chris, they might not accept the book.”
    Many protests arose from round the table, but Chris said, “I might never even live to finish the book, Rowland. How can one know?”
    Israel Brown said to Nina, “He should go on a spiritual retreat. I know of a Catholic monastery in the mountains. They don’t try to convert you, they just give peace of mind. If you like I’ll get them to arrange something for Rowland. It’s obviously what he needs.”
    “He’s already a Catholic,” Nina said, “nominally.” In desperation, she had been describing Rowland’s condition to Israel on one of her afternoon visits. She had said, “He needs a psychiatrist,” but Israel had said, “No, I think it’s a spiritual problem.”
    “It’s difficult, right in the middle of term,” said Nina. “I’d have to cope alone. But with this obsession . . .”
    “The boy should leave, of course,” Israel said.
    “We can’t send him away. We took him on as a sort of apprentice writer. He said he was writing a novel and we agreed. Rowland was supposed to help him. Rowland published an article in his university review and he has had a novel in mind. That’s all he’s done for three years. He’s come to a block. I keep telling him it’s nothing to do with his fundamental talent. He genuinely thinks Chris is a menace to the literary profession. A romantic novel from a boy of seventeen will always be popular.”
    “Could Rowland be an unconscious gay?”
    “He could be, but how would I know?”
    “You would know,” said Israel.
    “He’s hypnotized by Chris.”
    “By Chris or by his novel?”
    “How would I know?”
    “You would know,” said Israel.
    “I know you’re right,” she said. “In fact our marriage is all washed up. I’m just waiting till the end of term.”
    “Doesn’t he know that?”
    “Not a bit. He no longer thinks of me, his marriage, the school or anything at all but Chris, his novel. The students are aware there’s something wrong, they’re not fools.”
    “Can you tell him to his face that he’s ill?”
    “Not yet.”
    It was Chris who told Rowland that he was ill. He had taken it for granted that Rowland knew himself to be in a state of bad nerves. Rowland was sometimes in the habit of taking a long ride on his motorbike in the mountains in the early afternoons. In the past spring one of the students, very often Chris or Lionel Haas, had accompanied him on the back of the bike. It was good to get the mountain air. Chris had always enjoyed a ride with Rowland. But now when, one afternoon, Rowland said, “Coming for a spin?” Chris said, “No, thanks.”
    It was a cold, sunny day. Rowland said, “Come on, Chris, it will do you good. You must get some air.”
    “No, thanks, Rowland. Those steep roads are quite dangerous, you know. I honestly don’t think you’re in good enough shape to take the bike up there. Your nerves . . .”
    “My nerves? They’re all right. What’s the matter? Do you think I want to land you over a precipice?”
    “No, you wouldn’t want to, but you might.”
    “You think I would want to kill you?”
    “Not really.” They were in the entrance hall, and Chris turned to go upstairs. Tilly was coming down just then.
    “Tilly, will you come for a spin in the mountains on the bike?”
    “It’s our drama class this afternoon,” she said. “I don’t want to miss it.”
    It was true that a teacher of drama, a retired actress from Geneva, was due to take her weekly class that