The Betrayals

by Bridget Collins

  At the top she’s written, Midsummer Game. There isn’t anything below, not even notes.

  She’s always been able to compose. That is, in the worst days, ten years ago, the grand jeu was an irrelevance, like prayer or food, and no doubt if she had tried to play she would have failed; but it never occurred to her. And for a long time afterwards she was too dazed to think at all. Aunt Frances and Cousin Helen taught her girlish pursuits – embroidery, gardening, découpage – and she flung herself into them, soothed by the trivial prettiness of flowers and stitches. It was a relief to let her musician’s fingers lose their agility, and her brain atrophy until she struggled to remember what day of the week it was. She worked at becoming someone new. Helen helped her to buy new clothes, steering her tactfully towards muted colours instead of black; and she grew to like them, the looser cuts and softer fabrics, the dove grey and mauve and violet of a life in twilight. Everyone was very gentle with her, and she was grateful for that, too. It was as though she was the one who’d died.

  But the grand jeu was in her blood – no, deeper than that, in her cells, in her nerve-endings – and it wooed her back, seducing her slowly with a whistled melody, a chance remark, a copy of the Gambit inadequately hidden in Helen’s stationery drawer. It must have taken a year, or two; but finally something inside her awoke and unfurled. At first it was sly, elusive as the smell of a thaw. Then, like spring, it took her over in a wild rush and left her gasping. She composed the Primavera in six weeks, and Twelve Variations on the Moon in two months. After that she caught her breath and forced herself to slow down, to study and broaden her knowledge; but that dim half-life had been left behind, and she knew she would never go back to it. There were moments, composing or playing or arguing (because although the Drydens weren’t grand jeu masters they were educated, at least, and so were their friends) when she felt an echo of the pure joy she’d felt before her brother died. It would never be the same, not ever, but it was all she had. It was always there. She could step into the clear air of the grand jeu as easily as opening a door. Even when she became Magister Ludi, she was never afraid that she’d fail; she’d as soon have doubted her ability to swallow.

  Not until now. Not until this blank page.

  Midsummer Game … She doesn’t have a title, or a theme. Before, inspiration has come like a wave, knocking her to her knees; or like a trail of sweetmeats, scattered along a forest path; or like a torch-beam that showed only the next step, and the next. She’s used to the differences between grands jeux, the way they have to be trapped or cajoled or even resisted. It makes her think of an old exam question: Make a case for ONE of the following as a metaphor for the grand jeu: a garden; an automobile; a banquet; a railway accident … But she has never had nothing. She has never wondered, with a clench of panic in her gut, whether she will ever compose another game again.

  If she can’t write her Midsummer Game … She can’t imagine what would happen if she defaulted. Even if she were ill, another Magister would be asked to perform it in her place, from her score. She has no choice. She must produce a game – and not just any game, a game good enough to be worthy of the first female Magister Ludi – or else she will lose everything. In front of the other Magisters, the invited dignitaries, foreign professors, journalists …

  This time is precious. Every second wasted is a second lost. Come on. Think. But her mind stays empty. She feels an unexpected surge of sympathy for yesterday’s class of scholars, gaping at their first page of Artemonian.

  It’s no good. She tells herself that it will come. She flicks her notebook shut. The desk is piled so thickly with books and papers that barely any wood is visible. The top volumes have grown a sparse fur of dust. She picks up a few tomes and looks around for somewhere to put them, but the shelves closest to her are already chaotic and overloaded. After a moment she replaces the books in the clean square of dust-shadow. A few old envelopes have been propped half-hidden against the wall. She can’t tell exactly how long they’ve been there, but it’s too late to bother opening them. She recognises the franking mark on one; it’s from the Ministry for Culture, who’ve been pestering her about a grand jeu festival in the capital, in the Summer Vacation. For the common man, they said in their first letter, as if that was something she would approve of. She drops it straight into the bin, followed by the others. Recently the Council has been arguing about whether scholars should be allowed to receive post during term-time; she sometimes wishes that the Magisters weren’t. The outside world is a distraction, at best. At worst, it can destroy you. For a split second she remembers the sensation of a curl of flimsy paper between her fingers, a telegram, COME HOME PLEASE STOP AM AFRAID TO BE ALONE. Then she jams the lid on the thought and pushes it to the back of her mind. She resists a sudden urge to get up and check that Léo Martin’s diary is safely locked away. Of course it is.

  She raises her head with a jerk. Did she hear a noise outside? She thought so; but when she winds through the mess of books and boxes to open the door, the corridor is empty. She sags against the side of the doorframe. She has found herself listening too much, recently; raising her head at the slightest noise, wondering if the murmur in her ears is a voice or the rush of her own blood. As if someone is calling her, from a long way away. She finds herself straining her ears, trying to make out words in the sound of the wind, or the syncopated Morse of rain on the windows. Sometimes she’s heard footsteps, approaching her room; but then they stop, and if she wrenches open the door to see who it is, it’s no one. Not even a draught, or a drift of fine snow melting on the floor.

  She doesn’t believe in ghosts – in spite of the rumours there’ve been here for years, about a phantom child sobbing in the walls. Nothing is haunting her except herself. It’s because she can’t work: her mind is undisciplined, spinning and sparking like a Catherine wheel. The energy she ought to be spending on the grand jeu is lighting on other things. Sounds, memories, the constant hot itch of knowing that Léo Martin is under the same roof. She refuses to admit the possibility that it’s the other way around, that Martin is the cause and not the symptom.

  He walks down the steps from the archive as if she’s summoned him into being. Startled, she rocks back into the shelter of the archway. The movement catches his eye and he turns his head as he passes. For a heartbeat or less they hold each other’s gaze; and then he’s gone, running lightly down the lower staircase to the library with a patter of leather soles. She feels heat bloom in her face and scalp and armpits. Thank goodness he can’t see inside her head.

  After his footsteps have died away the corridor is very quiet. The librarians have the day off on Sundays. There are probably a few scholars in the library below, poring over their books or gazing vacantly into space: some of them are keen, some are the usual misfits, bullied and miserable, who would rather seek sanctuary with a book than risk encountering their classmates in the Lesser Hall. But they’re quiet. From the thick, winter-muffled silence she could believe that she’s alone in the building. She looks around, listening; then she walks a few paces to the door of the archive and pushes it open. There isn’t anyone here, either. Pale light lies over everything, filtered by the snow that clings to the windowpanes. She shuts the door behind her and leans against it, breathing a faint scent of books and something spicy that might be cologne or scented soap. She walks down the aisle between the bookcases, glancing from side to side. One of the desks has been in use for months, since before the beginning of term, but the Magister Historiae – supposedly working on his magnum opus – hasn’t moved the books from their neat pile. The servants clean in here, so there’s no dust; but one day when she was at a loose end she slipped a long chignon-kinked hair between the pastedown and fly of the top volume, and she can still see the tiny glint where it catches the light. She has always despised those who couldn’t make progress. Now it gives her a pang of shame.

  On the other side, a little further down, under a round window, is Léo Martin’s desk.

  She approa
ches slowly, as if she is only going to look out at the weather. Anyone watching her from the doorway would think she was wool-gathering, wondering if more snow was going to fall. Her glance down at the papers on the desk looks like an afterthought, as if her curiosity is trifling, desultory. His handwriting gives her a little shock, like a sharp-edged stone under a bare foot. It hasn’t changed. She could put his diary side by side with this and not know the difference. She resists the urge to crumple the top page, and then the one underneath, working through until she reaches the leather panel of the desk. Instead she slides the first page aside with the tips of her fingers.

  It’s difficult to see what he’s working on; it’s fragmented, full of false beginnings and crossings-out. Here and there he has written the same passage in parallel, Artemonian and classical; the versions have subtle differences, but they both trail off without concluding. In the margins of the third page he has written bugger this. She doesn’t smile. There’s something about the few legible movements which makes her pause and bend closer, as if proximity to the paper will help her understand what she’s reading. She turns the pages, uncovering more notes: old roughs, this time, but with something strange and sketchy about them, as if they’re faked. Then, with a shock, she recognises them.

  The Danse Macabre. He’s trying to recreate the Danse Macabre.

  And he’s got it wrong. She curls her hand into a fist, resisting the furious impulse to grab a pen and correct his workings. How could he? It’s like a garbled poem, a scratched gramophone record. Can’t he see that it doesn’t work? In fairness, she knows he can – why else would he give up in a scrawl of obscenities? – but that’s not the point, what he’s written is an insult to the grand jeu. When she suggested he work in the archive, she imagined some anodyne course of study – not this, not … Why on earth is he doing it? How dare he? And this game, this one …

  There’s a movement in the corner of her eye, and she glances up. The library door. Martin, coming through it. She draws in her breath without knowing what she’s planning to say.

  But before she can speak he pushes past her, barging her out of the way. She lurches into his chair and her hip explodes with pain. ‘Hey—’ she says, a breath as much as a word, ‘what the—’

  ‘Get out!’ he says.

  ‘I was only looking—’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’ He spreads his arm over the papers, with a gesture that would be childish if it weren’t for his expression. She rights herself. Her breath is jumping in her throat, refusing to touch the bottom of her lungs.

  ‘I’m the Magister Ludi, I have every—’

  ‘Not to look at—’ He seems to catch himself. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he says, more calmly, ‘but this is very personal. I’d be grateful if you didn’t pry.’

  She turns her head, focusing on the bookshelves and the windows, the ordered familiarity of the archive. She forces herself to breathe out, very slowly, until the last shudder of air leaves her. She imagines her anger as a candle flame. By the end of the exhalation it’s guttered and gone. Or, at least, it’s an infinitesimal globe of blue, clinging to life but easy to ignore. ‘You weren’t here,’ she says, finally bringing her gaze back to his face, ‘and your notes were lying around. I wasn’t prying.’

  He bites his lip; but not as if he’s sorry, more as if he still wants to shout at her. A line of his handwriting flashes into her mind’s eye: Am I a thug and a bully? Yes. Yes, he is. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘you’ve seen them now. So …’ He gestures at the door, as if this long room were his own private office. His voice is too loud. ‘I’d like to get back to work.’

  The ache in her hip intensifies, overflowing suddenly into her thigh as if the pain was in her pocket and the seams have burst. She reaches out for the back of the chair, because her knees have started to shake. Her body is catching up; it’s always slower to react than her mind. He’ll think she’s emotional. She says, with as much disdain as she can, ‘Of course, Mr Martin. I’ll leave you to your … work.’ She tries to turn away without limping. ‘The Danse Macabre, though,’ she adds, making it sound like an afterthought. ‘You really want to spend your time here recreating a game from your second year? Can’t you think of anything better to do?’

  ‘For goodness’ sake,’ he says, ‘will you stop …’ Then he blinks. ‘Wait. You recognised it.’ A pause. ‘How …?’

  She doesn’t answer. That was foolish; she shouldn’t have indulged the impulse to make him feel small.

  ‘You looked at my file. Didn’t you? You looked me up. Wait, was it you that took the Danse Macabre out of the library? Both copies? Why both?’ He gives a single, incredulous gulp of laughter. ‘Honestly, I’m flattered, but—’ And he is. There’s a new note in his voice, ease, a relieved warmth, he thinks he knows what’s going on, he’s looking at her as if, for the first time, she’s a woman.

  She can’t bear it. ‘That’s absurd,’ she says. ‘Don’t be so vain.’

  ‘But you recognised it, didn’t you? How?’

  She digs one fingernail into the edge of her thumb. Careful. Whatever happens, she mustn’t let slip anything else, that she’s got his diary in her private collection – or that she knows him better than he realises, all his dirty secrets—

  She cuts off the thought, stupidly afraid that he’ll read it in her face. ‘If files are missing, that’s nothing to do with me. I don’t know what you’re talking about. It rang a bell, that’s all.’ She wants to turn away, but her body is betraying her, has left her stranded in front of him.

  ‘How could you possibly have known what it was called?’ Good God, he’s almost teasing her now. ‘It’s all right,’ he adds, ‘I can understand why you’d want to do your research on me before I arrived.’

  ‘I had – I have no interest in you whatsoever,’ she says. It’s a lie, of course, and it sounds like a lie; she feels a wave of sweat prickle over her scalp. ‘I happened to recognise the title – the Danse Macabre must have been mentioned in Magister Holt’s notes. Or perhaps …’ Her voice is sliding upwards. He’s watching her with ironic eyes. ‘Oh, please,’ she says, ‘I have every right to look at old games, I teach the scholars – and if I did happen to glance at your file it wasn’t on your account. I certainly wouldn’t dream of removing anything—’

  ‘Oh, of course not,’ he says. ‘A mere accidental glance, I’m sure. And a complete coincidence that the copies have disappeared.’

  ‘It was a joint game! It’s not all about you, Martin.’

  ‘Really?’ He smirks.

  She has never known anyone who could make her this angry. Reading his diary has always made her seethe – but this is worse, the way he’s looking at her, the absolute arrogance … ‘Yes, really. As it happens I was much more interested in Aimé’s contribution.’

  He blinks, once. It’s only a split second of surprise before he covers it up. But she can see he’s irked. ‘Oh come on,’ he says. ‘I was a Gold Medallist, you know. Not a second-year dropout. Carfax was clever, but I find it hard to believe that you happened to—’

  Bile burns her throat. Martin should never have won the Gold Medal. ‘Don’t talk about him like that.’

  ‘What? Clever? I’m only pointing out that he’s not exactly a credible subject for study.’

  ‘Whereas you would be?’ It takes all the breath she has to say it, and all the composure.

  ‘It would be understandable if you were curious about me, that’s all. And you did take those games, I wasn’t born yesterday.’ He smiles. ‘Look, I’m not saying …’

  She draws in her breath, furious: at him and at herself, because he thinks she is at a disadvantage and she has only herself to blame. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t waste my time on you.’

  Perhaps she did say it too sharply, but it’s no more than he deserves. He has no right to flinch. ‘How kind,’ he says. ‘But don’t spare my vanity, will you?’

  Spare his vanity? Who does he think she is, a Party wife? N
o, just a woman. ‘I’m sorry your vanity can’t face the truth.’

  ‘Look, there’s no need to be unpleasant. I’ve made something of myself. It’s not a laughable idea that you – that someone might be interested—’

  ‘Something? Yes. You’re an exiled ex-minister. The sooner you go home, the better.’ She nods, her neck tight, towards his chaotic notes. ‘Aimé was a genius. You’re still struggling with diacritics.’

  He catches his breath. ‘I may not be a grand jeu player any more but at least I didn’t cut my own thro—’

  Something ignites behind her breastbone like a spark. ‘How dare you? You of all people have no right to laugh at him – you’re so arrogant, you – he died, my brother died. And you stand there telling me he was nothing. Well, fuck you, Léo – fuck you—’ She stops.

  There’s a silence, like the gap between two ticks of a clock.

  Then she turns away, unable to look at his face.

  No time passes, and yet when she looks back at him he has aged. The creases around his mouth are deeper, the shadows and pallor of his face starker. He is still staring at her but she knows that he is seeing someone else, another face superimposed on her own. He says, ‘Your brother?’

  She swallows. He hadn’t realised. Of course, he hadn’t realised.

  But there is no point denying it now. It isn’t a secret, exactly. She’ll admit it to anyone who asks. She had enough of secrets long ago. She opens her mouth but her throat feels sore, her tongue swollen. ‘Aimé Carfax de Courcy was my brother,’ she says.

  He bows his head, as though someone has put a weight around his neck. ‘I see.’

  The words almost make her laugh: he didn’t see, did he? It was staring him in the face, and he never even looked at her. She glances away. ‘I remember him mentioning that game. The Danse Macabre. He was pleased with the way it ended up.’ It’s true; let Martin think that’s all she knows. No need to mention Léo’s diary, and the endless jokes about the de Courcys, and his sheer childish nastiness … When she read it, the first time, it stung like acid: he’ll pay for that. Well, Aimé did pay, didn’t he? But she can’t say it aloud. She bites her lip and tries to stare Martin out.