The Betrayals

by Bridget Collins

  ‘De Moivre,’ he said. ‘Heard of him?’

  ‘Didn’t he write something to do with complex numbers?’

  ‘De Moivre’s Law is a hypothetical model which can be used to predict how long people are going to live. For calculating annuities and so on. De Moivre was commonly held to have predicted the date of his own death.’

  ‘Maths as magic,’ I said. ‘Nice.’

  He smiled. It must be the first time he’d ever smiled at me as if he agreed, and not as if he was smirking at my stupidity. It was surprising how it nearly made me forget to despise him. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Since you want to work on something risibly difficult … How about death?’

  ‘Death?’ I repeated, like an idiot.

  ‘There’s a lot of material. I mean, it’s huge. Enormous. I think we’d be mad—’ He caught himself and looked away, tensing, as he waited for me to make the inevitable comment about his family. There was a second’s pause, and then he went on in a kind of rush. ‘We’d be mad to do it. But … there’s a musical precedent. The Danse Macabre – Saint-Saëns, Liszt.’

  ‘Shakespeare, Dante,’ I said. ‘“I had not thought death had undone so many …”’

  He grinned. ‘The structure of the Requiem Mass, the tension between an individual and infinity – asymptotes …’

  ‘Yes! The rituals of mortality, decomposition and belief in the eternal.’

  ‘The impossibility of comprehending the magnitude of our own demise – our own insignificance.’ He was teasing me, but he was excited, too, I think.

  ‘The undiscovered country – the deepest mystery of existence itself!’ It tipped me over the edge, and I started to giggle like a little kid. And suddenly he joined in, in a sort of high-pitched splutter, his shoulders shaking. I’d never heard him laugh like that. I didn’t know he could laugh. I thought anything more than a contemptuous snort would make him rupture something. ‘All right,’ I said, when I could speak again. ‘You’re on.’

  ‘If we fail—’

  ‘We fail?’ I said, in my best Lady Macbeth voice. As soon as I said it I was sure he’d raise an eyebrow and say something snobbish about the theatre, but to my surprise it made him catch at another gulp of laughter. Then that set us both off again. It was – I’ve only thought of this now, but it’s true – it was as if he’d never laughed before, and didn’t know how to deal with it. Or like someone who’s been holding back tears, until finally something snaps … But the strangest part of it was the way he got hold of himself – in a split second, from hysterical to sober, swallowing it all down. One moment he was giggling, like me, and I swear he meant it; but the next he was on his feet, his face set, almost angry. I drew back – maybe I’d touched his sleeve or something, I can’t remember, but nothing important, nothing that might have made him react like that, surely – and said, ‘What? What’s the matter?’

  ‘That’s settled, then,’ he said, without meeting my eyes. ‘The theme for our game is – death.’

  ‘We who are about to die, etc.,’ I said. ‘Yes.’

  He still wouldn’t look at me. I suppose he was furious at himself for getting chummy with someone so thoroughly beneath him. He’d let me glimpse something real about him, and he couldn’t stand it … I felt all the dislike flood back. As if I’d thought one bout of fou rire could make him into a decent human being.

  ‘You’d better go,’ he said. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

  I said, ‘I thought this was work. I’m certainly not here to enjoy myself.’

  He shot me a glance. I glared back at him, daring him to say something snide about my Lady Macbeth impression. He didn’t. Not aloud, anyway.

  I scraped up my notes. ‘You’re right. We both have better things to do.’ One of his pages was on top and I dropped it on the floor. ‘Work up the de Moivre theme for tomorrow. I’ll have a look at some of the text.’

  He blinked. You have to give him credit for realising that he couldn’t take exception to my tone, given how he’d spoken to me. ‘All right,’ he said.

  ‘Good.’

  There was a sort of tense pause while we tried to work out who was backing down. (For the record, it was him.) Then I left and slammed the door on him.

  It’s dinner time. I’d better go.

  Beginning of fifth week, Serotine Term

  Where was I? Oh yes. We were making progress. Still are, actually.

  Yesterday evening we worked straight through from meditation to past midnight. Halfway through dinner I caught sight of Felix and wondered why he was looking at me oddly; later I realised that it was because Carfax and I were sitting together, thrashing out one of the bits of counterpoint. It’s true that I’d never choose to sit with him normally, but it didn’t make sense to break off our conversation. We’re at that stage where everything is fermenting so fast you have to keep siphoning off the top, or it’ll all overflow and be lost. I didn’t realise what a joint game would be like; even though it’s Carfax, it’s exciting – more exciting, I think, than writing a grand jeu on my own. Less lonely. And there are those moments when something uncanny happens, something else steps into the space between us, and we’re both left marvelling at a move neither of us would ever play. I love the way the game is held together by the music – Carfax’s music, I have to admit he’s a much better musician than I am – and the way that gives us more freedom, not less. I can let him look after the structure, and add my own harmonies and ideas … It’s funny, his style is classical and clean, so I don’t understand why he makes me feel more exuberant, more daring. Maybe I’m trying to outdo him. I love it when I add a move to something he thinks is already finished, and pass it back to him, thinking: take that. Especially when he pretends to bang his head on the desk or gives me a filthy look.

  It’s bloody hard, though. He was right, we’re mad to be trying it. I keep waking up in the middle of the night, imagining the Magisters’ Remarks: This subject is an audacious and indeed distressing choice for second-year scholars, since what might otherwise have appeared confidence is necessarily exposed as the grossest (and most unfounded) arrogance … Or maybe, even if we stick with the themes, we should take out the Christian stuff? It works, and Magister Holt wouldn’t mark us down for that, but it might be frowned on by some of the others … Argh. It’s driving me off my onion. My only consolation is that if they slate it, at least Carfax will get the same mark.

  Felix keeps asking what we’re working on. He was quite persistent this morning, and I don’t know why it gave me such satisfaction to tell him it was none of his business. It might have been something to do with the way he sank down next to me at breakfast, as if he was my best friend. (Best friend! Ugh, it’s like schoolgirls.) I stood up to leave quite soon after that, as I had to go to the library to look up a bit of Webster, and he gave me a very funny look. ‘You and Carfax,’ he said. ‘Are you …?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You still hate him, right?’

  His voice carried. I saw Emile turn his head, and Pierre.

  ‘Of course I do,’ I said. I suppose I misjudged my voice, because suddenly the noise in the hall dipped. Carfax was at the end of the far table, with a book; he glanced up and met my eyes for a fraction of a second.

  Later

  I am pathetic. I couldn’t sleep. I kept lying awake, thinking about what I’d said. It kept going round in my head. In the end I got up, slung my robe on over my pyjamas, and went and knocked for him.

  When he came to the door he didn’t say anything. He stood there with raised eyebrows and waited.

  I said, ‘Listen … Carfax … this evening …’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘When I said to Felix that I still – um, that I hated you …’

  ‘Yes?’

  I didn’t say anything – I hoped he’d just get the message – but he was determined not to help me out. Finally I managed, ‘It was stupid. I shouldn’t have said it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, be
cause …’ I trailed off.

  ‘What makes you think I care that you hate me?’

  I was too tired to think properly. ‘I don’t hate you,’ I said. ‘I mean, occasionally I do, obviously. But mostly I don’t.’

  ‘How kind.’

  ‘Forget it.’ I turned away. I don’t know what I’d been trying to achieve. Of course he wasn’t going to admit that he cared a toss. I started to walk away.

  Then, abruptly, he said, ‘Don’t worry, Martin. It’s all right.’ I glanced back at him. He had that glint in his eye that isn’t quite warmth. We may not like each other, but it almost feels as though we understand each other better than anyone else in the world. He took his hand off the door-frame and made a mocking gesture of resemblance that ended with his hand on his heart. ‘I only hate you occasionally, too.’

  He didn’t exactly say he’d forgiven me. But it was enough.

  Forty-second day of Serotine Term

  (I went back and counted)

  Sunday today, thank goodness. And the Magister Cartae forgot to give us any prep (presumably because senile dementia is setting in, but I’m not complaining) so I have hours and hours of free time. Well, hour and hour. Hurrah.

  I ought to write to Mim. I’ve got five unanswered letters sitting on my desk. The last one I haven’t even read yet. If I don’t reply soon, when I go home at the end of term she’ll say something very gentle like, ‘I was so afraid you were ill, darling,’ and wave me off with a brave, bewildered smile if I try to explain. (Honestly, if something was wrong with me they’d tell her. It’s a school, not a prison camp.) Then again, unless I dash off five long letters and backdate them, she’ll do that anyway.

  Someone’s knocking. I hope it’s Carfax, I’m waiting for him to get back to me about the middle movement of Danse Macabre. It’s infuriating, he must know I’m anxious to get that motif sorted. We’ve got another four weeks, but that’s not as long as it sounds. Every second he wastes feels like an eternity.

  Later

  He liked it! Maybe he’s not such a toad after all.

  What am I saying? Obviously he’s a toad. Five seconds after saying, ‘I think this has definite possibilities,’ he was explaining all the corrections he’d written on it (in Artemonian, naturally). He was sitting at his desk, his head bent over the bit of paper, scratching tinier and tinier hieroglyphics in the margins, talking so quickly I lost track of what he was saying. I stared at his hand on the paper, and the veins running across the knuckles. Then he looked up. ‘Hey, Martin,’ he said. ‘Are you listening?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  He narrowed his eyes at me. ‘What did I say?’

  I was going to bluff but I couldn’t think of anything. It wasn’t just that I was annoyed. There was something about the light – late afternoon light turning gold – and the shape of his profile. It was like a painting. The bones of his neck, the line of shadow under his collar. I had a crazy impulse to put my palm on the lowest vertebra to feel the heat of his skin. At least it might have made him shut up, even for a few seconds …

  ‘I’m … surprised you like it,’ I said.

  His mouth twitched. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘so am I, to be honest.’

  I had to walk over to the window and look out, turning my back on him. I didn’t trust myself. Ugh, he is so exasperating.

  It’s ridiculous that I feel euphoric because some inbred, supercilious bastard thinks my move has possibilities. Get hold of yourself, Martin.

  Even later

  I went down to the Lesser Hall with Emile and Jacob, to play a few bouts, but my mind wasn’t on it and I lost. Fencing is a stupid sport, anyway, wish we could have punchbags instead. After a while I sat down on the bench and watched the others. Even then I couldn’t concentrate. I watched the sky darken through the windows, feeling light-headed, sort of dizzy and breathless. I’ve never had a problem with the altitude, but suddenly I could feel how high up we are, how thin the air is. My heart seemed louder than usual, too. It wasn’t exactly bad, just odd. I haven’t been sleeping well recently, so it’s probably that. Or I’m coming down with something.

  Forty-fourth day of Serotine Term

  This afternoon we only had maths and meditation, so Carfax and I decided to spend the rest of the day in the library. The middle movement is pretty much complete, or at least as complete as it can be before we go back for another look, and we’re trying to work out how to fit the algorithm and the tune together. We sat there in silence for half an hour, both of us making notes, but I wasn’t getting anywhere and I don’t think Carfax was either. I found myself staring into the middle distance, and then realised I was staring at him. He looked pretty exhausted, actually – pale, red-eyed, chapped lips – and I put my pen down and said, ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind.’ I don’t want him to get ill; if he went under now, I don’t know what would happen to our game. The thought of having to finish it on my own brings me out in a cold sweat.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, after a moment.

  ‘You look terrible.’

  He gave a twitchy shrug. ‘I had some news. My … a family matter.’

  I opened my mouth to ask whether someone had escaped from the lunatic asylum. Then I shut it again; but I saw him notice. He gathered his stuff together and stood up. I said, ‘Where’re you going?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘What’s up? You can’t take offence at something I didn’t say—’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. You don’t have to pretend.’

  ‘Really? So what am I thinking?’

  He hesitated. Then he shut his mouth again and walked away. I started to go after him, but then I remembered my notes – if I lost my notebook, I’d be scuppered – and went back for them; so by the time I got outside he was already disappearing into the Square Tower. I called his name, but either he didn’t hear or he was ignoring me. I sprinted across the courtyard, slipped on the tiles and cannoned into Felix emerging from the doorway. He said something to me, laughing, but I pushed him aside and climbed up the stairs two at a time.

  Carfax was standing on the threshold of his cell, looking in. Then, belatedly, I made sense of what Felix had said: something about my having missed the fun.

  Carfax looked round. Then he spread his arms and stood aside, inviting me to look.

  I have no idea where Felix had got so many matches. He must have got someone to send him parcels full of them. They were scattered everywhere, like a mad game of spillikins: on the bed, the desk, the windowsill, in the washbasin, all over the floor. I caught a faint whiff of sulphur. I think I made a noise that wasn’t quite a laugh.

  ‘Well done,’ Carfax said, in a tight voice.

  ‘I didn’t—’

  ‘Very impressive. Very – amusing.’

  ‘It wasn’t me! I was with you in the library.’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ he said, ‘I’m your alibi as well as your victim.’ He smiled at me, without warmth. ‘Why did you follow me? To see me open the door?’

  ‘It wasn’t,’ I said, and then, before I could stop myself, ‘it must have been Felix. I saw him a moment ago, coming down. Didn’t you see him, too?’

  ‘Yes. But …’ He tilted his head to one side, his eyes hard. ‘So the familiar demon has got free of the sorcerer, has it?’

  ‘That’s—’ I broke off. Bloody Felix. ‘It’s not my business what he does.’

  Carfax pushed at the matches on the floor with his toe, clearing a tiny patch of floorboard. Then he leant against the side of the door, his shoulders sagging. In a different voice, he said, ‘You know, Martin … I looked forward to coming to Montverre. I dreamt about it, for years. All those people studying the grand jeu, praying, making music and maths … I thought it would be like a kind of retreat. Hard, because the grand jeu is hard, but not – not like this.’

  I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say. The bloody matches weren’t my fault.r />
  ‘The grand jeu is worship, isn’t it? One way for humans to approach the divine. Trying to embody truth and beauty. A testament to the grace of God in the minds of men.’

  ‘Is that a quote from Philidor?’

  It was as if he hadn’t heard. ‘Shouldn’t the grand jeu make us better people?’

  I said, ‘That’s an essay question—’

  ‘No!’ he said. ‘No, it isn’t. It’s a real question, and the answer is yes.’ He shook his head, with a kind of grimace. ‘So why are you all such bastards?’

  ‘Carfax … It’s only a joke, there’s no need to be so—’

  He swung round to stare into my face, his eyes narrowed. ‘Do you know why your games are shit, Martin?’

  ‘What?’ It took me a second to take in what he’d said. ‘They’re not shit. I came second in the year.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. Second in the year. That’s not because your games are any good, it’s because there’s nothing wrong with them. Nothing to mark down. They’re completely empty. There’s nothing in them at all, no emotion, no truth.’

  ‘You’ve been talking to Magister Holt,’ I said. ‘I don’t know why I’m surprised, everyone knows you’re his pet.’

  ‘He agrees, does he? Well, he’s right. You’re a bad player. And you know why? Because you’re nothing but a bully. The only authentic feeling you ever show is contempt. When I wrote that parody of your games, last year—’ He stumbled a little, as if he hadn’t meant to admit it, but I didn’t have time to react. ‘When they all laughed. It was because they recognised you. You. It wasn’t your juxtapositions or your minor fifths or your pretentious three-level noteplay that they were laughing at. It’s what those things cover up. You rely on gimmicks because never, not once, have you put anything of yourself into a game. We can all see it. You’re a thug and a coward and you’ll always fail at the grand jeu, because you fail as a human being.’

  I forced myself to hold his gaze until he blinked and looked away.

  ‘They don’t hate me,’ I said, and I was pleased at how steady my voice was. ‘The rest of the class. They laughed at me once. So what? None of them think I’m a failure. They think I’m clever and amusing. They hate you.’