The Betrayals

by Bridget Collins

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Will there be anything else?’

  ‘No. Thank you.’ He sits down next to the window, his back to her. Churlish, but what does it matter? He’s not a politician any more.

  The coffee, when it arrives, is terrible – half chicory, half-burnt – but at least it’s nearly as hot as he likes it, hot enough to warm his hands through the cup. He sips it slowly, watching the sky change colour over the houses opposite. The sun hasn’t come up over the mountains yet, and the street outside is still dim, even though it’s almost eight o’clock. He should be at home, in his study, halfway through his second pot, absorbed in one of Dettler’s reports; it gives him an uneasy, itchy sensation, to be sitting here with nothing to do. He was buggered if he was going to trudge up the mountain at dawn, as if he were a student; yesterday he deliberately ordered the car for after lunch, but already he’s at a loss, shifting in his musty-smelling chair, wondering whether he’s hungry enough to ring for breakfast. How is he going to pass the hours? He winces; the question makes him think of Chryseïs, standing there on the balcony staring at him, the evening after his meeting with the Chancellor. ‘What am I going to do?’ she said, and he almost laughed at her predictability.

  ‘Have another Martini, I imagine,’ he said.

  She hardly blinked. ‘While you’re away,’ she said. She fished in her glass with a scarlet-lacquered fingernail, drew out the tiny coil of orange peel and flicked it over her shoulder into the street. ‘What do you expect me to do?’

  ‘I’ll still be paying the rent on the flat.’

  ‘You think I should stay here, alone?’

  ‘At least until you find someone better.’ It would have been kinder to say somewhere, but he wasn’t feeling kind. ‘You’ll be all right.’

  ‘Oh, thank you. I appreciate your concern.’ She tilted her head and stared at him, but for once he didn’t feel any answering spark, just weariness. ‘Jesus Christ, Léo! I can’t—’

  ‘I’ve told you not to say that.’

  ‘Oh, not that again. I’m hardly saying the rosary, am I? What are you going to do, report me to the Register?’ She pushed past him, knocking him with her elbow. She’d had her hair freshly marcelled, and a whiff of chemicals caught the back of his throat. ‘I can’t believe you fucked this up. I thought you were supposed to be the government’s golden boy. Didn’t the Old Man say you were—’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘You bloody idiot, how could you? You’re a coward, that’s what it is – now that the Party’s in power, you can’t stand the pressure – completely spineless.’ She kicked viciously at the leg of the chaise longue. Liquid slopped out of her Martini glass and splashed on to her dress. ‘Shit! This is new.’

  ‘I’ll buy you another one.’ He crossed the room to the cocktail cabinet and poured himself a whisky. They’d run out of ice, but he didn’t ring for more.

  ‘You’d better. And pay the rest of the bill while you’re at it.’ Her voice cracked. She collapsed on to a chair. ‘Oh, look at me, dressed to the nines … I thought he was going to promote you – after Minister for Culture I thought, finally, he’s going to get something important. I got all ready to celebrate.’

  ‘So celebrate.’ They stared at each other. Perhaps, if he’d said the right thing, she might have softened; but then, if she’d softened, he couldn’t have borne it.

  She got up. She drank the last of her Martini in one go, and reached for her wrap. ‘Have a lovely holiday, Léo,’ she said, and left.

  Now he tries to shrug off the memory. Of all the things he’s left behind, Chryseïs is the least of his worries. She’s better off than he is, yawning and sitting up in bed, pulling on her negligée and ringing for hot chocolate. She’ll be fine. And even if she weren’t, would he care that much? He turns away from the thought. A month ago, he’d imagined proposing to her: the breathless articles in society papers, the flash of an extravagant diamond on her left hand, the Old Man’s congratulations. Now …

  There’s a tap on the door. It makes him jump; when the door opens he’s on his feet, and the maid flinches. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I thought I heard you say to come in.’

  ‘Of course. Yes. Thank you.’ He waits until she’s gone before he crosses to the washstand and splashes his face, blowing air out through his mouth until his heartbeat settles and water soaks his collar. He’s not afraid; there’s nothing to be afraid of. But sometimes moments catch him off guard: the unexpected knock, the car going too fast as he crosses the road, the glint of metal as a drunkard sways into his path and reaches languidly for a hip flask. Ever since the meeting with the Chancellor. Ever since the Chancellor looked at him with that expression, weighing up how much he was worth. He can still feel the chill of it; as though, halfway through a shooting party, a friend had swung his gun casually to point it into Léo’s face. And, a split second behind, the humiliation that he’d been such a bloody fool not to see it coming, to think it was all a friendly, civilised game … To have walked into the office a little nervous, of course – like being brought up in front of the Magister Scholarium – but sure that the Old Man would come round, only slightly disconcerted when it was the Chancellor and not the Old Man himself who was sitting behind the desk with Léo’s letter in front of him. ‘Ah, Léo,’ he said. ‘Thank you for coming. I trust I haven’t interrupted anything?’

  ‘I’m sure Dettler can manage without me for an hour.’

  ‘Well, we must certainly hope so.’ He picked up the telephone. ‘Tea, please. Yes, two cups. Thank you. Sit down, Léo.’

  He sat. The Chancellor folded his hands and bowed his head as if he was about to say a prayer. ‘Léo,’ he said, at last, ‘thank you for your letter. We all admire your passion and your energy, you know that. And it is in a young man’s nature to be forthright. So thank you for your honesty.’

  ‘As Minister for Culture, I felt it was only right to ask if I could talk things through with the Prime Minister before the Bill goes to the vote.’

  ‘Naturally. And he was very sorry he couldn’t be here today. I know he was very interested in your point of view. He asked me to say that he admires your courage.’

  Perhaps it was then that the first misgiving slid coldly down Léo’s spine. ‘The proposals are quite extreme, Chancellor – all I was suggesting was that we reconsider—’

  ‘He was also rather … surprised.’ The Chancellor glanced past him at the door. ‘Come in. Ah, biscuits! Good girl. Yes, put it down there. On the coffee table.’ The secretary began to unload her tea-tray, and the Chancellor gestured to the sofa. ‘Léo, please …’

  Léo got up, crossed to the sofa, and sat down again; but the Chancellor hesitated and walked to the window, gazing out with his hands behind his back. ‘What was I saying?’

  ‘You said the Old M— that the Prime Minister was interested in what I wrote.’

  ‘A better phrase would be “taken aback”, I think.’ He waved a hand at the glinting array of china. ‘Please don’t stand on ceremony, young man. Help yourself to a cup of tea.’

  Léo poured a cup of tea, added lemon, stirred it and raised it to his lips. Then he put the cup and saucer down, conscious of the tension in his wrist. How many times, sitting here with the Old Man, had he heard the tell-tale rattle of porcelain, as other men tried to master their shaking hands? But this was different; he was different. It was simple hospitality, surely. Not a test, not an ordeal. When he looked up the Chancellor was smiling at him.

  ‘Ah, Léo, my dear boy. Well, not really a boy – forgive me, the privilege of age … How old are you, remind me? Twenty-eight, twenty-nine?’

  ‘Thirty-two.’

  ‘Really? Well, never mind …’ He turned to look out of the window, idly tugging at the curtain-cord. ‘The point is, Léo,’ he said, ‘that your letter was rather unfortunate.’

  He didn’t answer. For a vertiginous, dislocated moment he expected the Chancellor to draw the curtains across, as if someone had died.

 
‘To put it frankly … We are disappointed, Léo. You seemed to have such a promising career in front of you. We were confident in your abilities. Here is a young man, we thought, who can help bring the country into a new, prosperous, liberated era, who understands the Party’s vision, who will lead the next generation when we are too old to carry the burden any more … I thought you shared that dream, Léo.’

  The past tense was like a needle, digging deeper and deeper. ‘I do, Chancellor – I absolutely share the Party’s ideals.’

  ‘And yet your letter suggests that you do not.’

  ‘Only this one particular – this one section of the Bill …’

  ‘You find the measures to be – what was your phrase? – “irrational and morally repugnant”, in fact.’

  ‘Did I? I don’t remember saying repug—’

  ‘Please – feel free – if you would like to refresh your memory.’ The Chancellor waved towards the desk. The letter was there, on the blotter, Léo’s signature a dark scrawl at the bottom. There was a pause.

  Léo swallowed. His mouth had gone very dry. He shook his head. ‘I may have been slightly too emphatic, Chancellor. I apologise if I—’

  ‘No, no, dear boy.’ The Chancellor flicked his hand at the words. Léo almost saw them dropping to the carpet like dead flies. ‘Too late. I regret your impulsivity as much as anyone, but it serves no purpose to dwell on it.’ Finally he turned and met Léo’s eyes. It was the way Léo’s father looked at broken objects in his scrapyards, wondering whether they were worth the space they took up. ‘The question is,’ he said, ‘what do we do with you now?’

  ‘I – what? You mean—’

  ‘We cannot possibly have a cabinet minister who is lukewarm about our policies.’ The Chancellor frowned. ‘You are an astute politician, Léo, you must understand that.’

  ‘Hardly lukewarm.’

  ‘Please.’ He held up his hand. ‘I am as sorry as you are, believe me. As is the Old Man. But if we cannot trust you …’

  ‘Chancellor, please – I honestly don’t think—’

  ‘Be quiet.’ The bell of an ambulance clattered past, distantly. Léo’s mouth tasted bitter, but he didn’t trust himself to lift his cup of tea without spilling it. The Chancellor strode to the desk, picked up a piece of paper, and put it down on the low table in front of Léo. A letter. To whom it may concern … ‘Here is a letter of resignation.’ He put a fountain pen down next to it. ‘Be sensible, Léo. If you read it, you will find that we have made matters easy for you. In recognition of the work you have done for the Party. The Old Man is fond of you, you know. I think you will agree it is an elegant solution.’

  He had to blink to make the words come into focus … honoured to have served … contribution to the Prime Minister’s vision … glorious prosperity, unity and purity … but others are better fitted … in my heart of hearts, I have always yearned … He looked up. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I would have thought it was fairly self-explanatory.’

  ‘You’re saying – you want me to say—’ He stopped, and looked again at the letter. ‘“I am proud to have done my best as Minister for Culture, but it is as a humble student of the grand jeu that I long to leave my mark.” What is this?’

  The Chancellor sat down opposite him. He poured a cup of tea and tapped the spoon on the gilt edge of the cup with a brittle ting. ‘You were the only second-year ever to win a Gold Medal at Montverre, were you not?’

  ‘You know I was. Is that relevant?’ It sounded more belligerent than he meant it to.

  ‘You have played a very highly regarded part in the election of this government, Léo. But you were never cut out to be a politician – you repressed your personal wishes for as long as you could, in order to help bring about the greatest political success of this century – but you have never been able to forget the dream of going back to Montverre to study our national game – and now that the country’s future is assured, you finally have the opportunity … It is a touching story, the artist returning to his roots, fulfilling his vocation. Who knows, it’s possible you will be of use to us there.’

  ‘But I don’t—’

  The Chancellor put his teacup down. It was a smooth movement, almost casual; and yet it made Léo flinch. ‘Either you are being deliberately obtuse,’ he said, ‘or you are a complete simpleton. Which, until yesterday, I would have sworn you were not.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know how much more clearly I can put this.’

  Léo heard himself say, ‘Perhaps in words of one syllable.’

  The Chancellor raised his eyebrows. ‘You have a very easy choice. Either you sign this letter, tell the papers the same story, and retire to Montverre for as long as we deem it necessary, or the Prime Minister will be forced to deal with you more … forcefully.’

  ‘You mean someone will find me in a ditch with my throat cut?’ It came out as a joke. But it sat unanswered in the silence, solid and monstrous, until he realised it hadn’t been a joke at all. He fumbled to get the cap off the fountain pen and signed the letter without reading the rest of it. His signature was hardly recognisable. Underneath the first copy was another. He paused, without looking up. ‘There are two of these.’

  ‘One is for you to keep. For future reference. We’ll see about arrangements for Montverre – it’ll be a few weeks, I imagine. Your resignation will be formally accepted then. In the meantime, Dettler will carry out your duties.’ The Chancellor took a sip of tea. ‘It goes without saying that you won’t attempt to interfere with the progress of the Bill.’

  ‘I see.’ He hesitated. Then he put the lid back on the pen, focusing on his fingers as if only his eyes could tell him what they were doing. ‘Chancellor … please believe that I had no intention—’

  The Chancellor got to his feet. ‘I don’t think I need keep you any longer.’

  Léo folded the second copy of the letter and put it in his jacket pocket, next to his heart. Then he stood up, too. Somewhere a phone was ringing, a secretary was typing, the business of state was rolling on. It was as if he’d taken his hands off a keyboard and heard the music continue. He straightened his tie. ‘Well … thank you, Chancellor. If we don’t see each other again, good luck with government.’

  ‘Thank you, Léo. I hope our paths will cross again, eventually.’ The Chancellor made his way to the desk and sat down, reaching for his address book. ‘Good afternoon, Léo. From now on, if I were you, I would be very, very careful.’

  Léo shut the door behind him. The secretary – Sarah – glanced up at him and then quickly down again. He smiled at her, but she kept her head down, scribbling something in a notebook; when he walked past her desk he saw over her shoulder that it was a tangle of meaningless lines, not even shorthand.

  He came out onto the landing. Two civil servants climbed the stairs, halfway through a conversation: ‘… measures only reflect the times,’ the first said, and broke off to nod at him. Automatically he nodded back; then, with a jolt, he saw that the second, lagging a little behind, was Emile Fallon. It was too late to duck away. Instead he said, ‘Emile, long time no see, how are you? I’m afraid I must dash,’ all in one tight breath.

  ‘Ah, Minister,’ Emile said, ‘yes, indeed, let’s catch up soon,’ twisting mid-step to give Léo a sliding smile as he passed. There was something worse than straightforward malice in his face: irony, maybe, or – oh God, worst of all – compassion. Clearly news of Léo’s resignation had already spread to the Ministry for Information. Léo waited for them to disappear through the door opposite, holding his own smile in place as if it was a physical test.

  He was alone. Cadaverous portraits of statesmen watched him impassively from the walls. The dark carpet muffled every sound; he might have gone deaf. He leant against the wall; then he slid down into a crouch, his blood singing in his ears, nausea wringing sweat from every pore. His chest hurt. The air made a faint rasping sound as it went in and out of his lungs. He shut his eyes.

  Slowly the sickness eased. He pu
shed himself back to his feet and placed one hand on the wall, fighting for balance. If anyone saw him like this, if the Chancellor emerged or Emile came back … He stood up straight, wiped his face on his sleeve and smoothed his hair. Now only his damp collar could give him away, and it was a warm day; he would walk past the girl in the lobby downstairs and she wouldn’t look twice. He could pretend that nothing had happened – that, in fact, he had sent in his resignation, explained himself to the Chancellor, and been set free. He almost believed it himself.

  But when he got to the half-landing, something made him look back. There on the wallpaper, almost black on the green pattern, was a dark smear: the mark his sweaty hand had left, as he tried not to throw up.

  He shaves and puts on his jacket and tie, and orders more coffee. The maid offers him breakfast, but he can’t bring himself to accept. By the time he’s drunk the coffee the sun has cleared the houses and is shining into the street. Warmth creeps along the floor, reaching out for him. He can’t sit here all morning. He walks to the railway station and buys a paperback novel from the bookstall. There’s a line of porters waiting for the first train; the third- and second-years must have gone up last week, a few days apart, and today it’s the first-years’ turn to flood the town for a night. The train arrives as the bookseller gives Léo his change. He pauses, squeezing the coins in his hand, watching the young men pile excitedly on to the platform. There are a few families, too – bluestocking sisters, proud mamas, mulish younger brothers – who’ve come along to give their clever boys a good send-off, and get a few days of mountain air while they’re at it. They’re not allowed up to the school, of course, and they probably won’t even be awake to wave goodbye tomorrow when the new scholars slog up the path at dawn. ‘Oh – how lovely,’ a woman calls to her son, staring across the valley towards Montverre-les-Bains. She points at the Roman bath-house in the distance. ‘That must be it …’