One week, four days
He apologised, late last night. ‘I forgot myself,’ he said. ‘It won’t happen again.’ I didn’t know how to reply. By the time I’d got over my surprise he’d gone.
Seven days
A week to go till we hand it in, and it’ll be over. I can’t wait.
Two days to go
I think it’s a dead loss. The Danse Macabre. All this work and it’s rubbish. I can’t even see it any more.
Handing-in day
That’s it. It’s done.
Later
I hardly slept at all last night. We finished our fair copies at past midnight, and swapped to proofread and correct. By the end, my copy must have had as much of Carfax’s handwriting on it as mine. Then we went to bed, but my head wouldn’t stop spinning. Finally I dropped off, but I jolted awake at five, convinced I’d left out the main theme. After that I had to get up. I took the opportunity to have a long solitary wash and shave, and came down to breakfast feeling almost human.
Everyone looked exhausted. It was like the day after a battle: we were all dark-eyed and gaunt and stubbly (except for me, obviously, and Carfax, who clearly thinks a bit of stubble is some kind of abomination). The table was covered in files. We were all contorting ourselves, trying to keep butter and crumbs away from them while keeping them within arm’s reach. (Because, after all, if we left them in our rooms they might spontaneously combust. Or someone might steal them, which I suppose is more likely.) When the bell rang we all stampeded for the office. I ended up at the back, too tired to fight, and Carfax and I went in together. We didn’t say much to each other. Not surprising, given that we’ve been talking non-stop for weeks. When we came out, finally empty-handed, he grinned at me. I started to grin back, until I realised he was probably looking happy because he knows he never has to speak to me again.
We had wine with dinner. (Second-years only.) It’s been so long since I had a proper drink that it went straight to my head. I was sitting between Felix and Emile. They were in high spirits, and it should’ve been natural to mess about and make jokes. But it wasn’t. It felt like an act. It was like I’d been on a long sea-journey: part of me was still reeling, struggling to remember how to walk on dry land. I couldn’t concentrate. My mind kept going to the Danse Macabre, tinkering with it in my head, thinking of things to say to Carfax. Then I’d remember that it was done and handed in. After a while they noticed, and started teasing me. That feeling of being in a foreign country, again.
Carfax turned up late, after we’d had the soup. I think he was hoping he’d be able to sit down unobserved, but the only free seat was halfway down our table, a couple of spaces from Felix. He hesitated, as if he was hoping for a better offer. Of course some wag made a snide comment about choosing from a set of one, and then there was an ironic cheer when he clambered over the bench to sit down. It wasn’t exactly unfriendly – we would have done it to anyone – but Carfax takes it all so bloody personally. If he could take it like a good sport it’d die down, but he doesn’t, he goes all white and hard-faced. It’s like he never went to school as a child. Maybe he didn’t.
After that first glance I didn’t look at him. I was talking to Paul about his joint game – sounds good, better than ours, so I was badgering him, hoping he’d reveal some enormous flaw that would set my mind at rest – and didn’t let my gaze wander in Carfax’s direction for a second. Now I wish I hadn’t, because I don’t know if he was trying to catch my eye. Although, let’s face it, why would he? We don’t have anything to talk about, now the game’s done.
Then someone poured half a carafe of wine over him.
I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know whether it was an accident. It probably was. We were all fooling around, weren’t we? There was a smash of pottery on the floor and a burst of noise, and when I looked round Carfax was on his feet with a big wet stain down the front of his gown. It didn’t show up all that much against the black, but his collar was red, and his hair and face were dripping. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. People at other tables craned over to see what was going on. Someone said, ‘Oh. Ah. Oops.’
There was a silence. Not complete silence, but enough to hear what wasn’t being said. Carfax shook himself and spattered drops on the floor.
‘Accident, old chap,’ the same voice said. It was Freddie, I think. He sounded drunk. Or stupid. ‘Never mind.’
Carfax went on standing there. I didn’t understand why, and then I did. He was expecting an apology. I wanted to stand up and shout at him not to be an idiot, that the longer he stood there the worse it was going to look. I took a sip from my glass and had to force myself to swallow.
‘Was that the last …?’ Freddie reached across a couple of people for another carafe, but when he tilted it over his glass nothing came out. ‘Oh dear, what a shame,’ he said to himself, and then to Carfax: ‘Come over here and drip in my glass, will you?’
Carfax said, ‘You stupid shit.’
People looked round. Thank goodness it was the table closest to the door; the Magisters at the High Table hadn’t noticed.
‘There’s no need to be like that,’ Freddie said. ‘I mean, you got more than your fair share. You can suck your gown.’
There was a split-second pause; then someone gave a huge snort of laughter. And then we were all joining in – Freddie braying, other people choking and clutching their ribs, even Emile giggling helplessly. It was the image, I suppose: Carfax bundling his gown into his mouth, his eyes bulging, drips running down his chin … Or the words, and Freddie’s innocuous tone, and the way what he really meant by ‘your gown’ was clearly ‘my cock’.
It was sheer bad luck, I think, that Carfax happened to look at me.
‘Fine,’ he said. He fumbled with his gown, pulled it over his head, and dropped it on the table on top of Freddie’s plate of food. The fabric of his shirt was purple and clinging to his shoulders. ‘You suck it, Freddie,’ he said. ‘And the rest of you can kiss my arse.’ This time his voice did carry to the High Table. I saw Magister Holt look up with a frown, and the Magister Motuum blinked heavily. For a moment I thought they’d tell him to leave, and my heart gave a lurch. But he was already stalking out of the hall.
There were three seconds of relative silence. Then someone said, with perfect, Montverre-trained timing, ‘Oooooh, who stole his mammy’s tit?’
He must have heard, even outside in the corridor. And he must have heard the burst of laughter. It didn’t last that long, and after it died down we were a little more subdued, as if after all some of it had been bravado; but that roar of exclusion, of amusement at his expense … It made it abundantly clear that he’s never going to fit in. If he would join in the laugh once. Or pretend he didn’t care …
I got up a few minutes later. Emile raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Dicky tummy,’ I said. ‘Working this hard has completely ruined my digestion.’ Felix started to argue, so I added, ‘Trust me, you really don’t want me to stay.’
I went up to my room, but I didn’t go in. I walked along to Carfax’s cell, and raised my hand to knock. But I couldn’t. There was a strip of light under the door. Maybe he’d heard me approach, because I saw a shadow cross it and then stay still, as if he was on the other side, listening. I still didn’t knock, though. I stood there for a long time. I tried to imagine what I’d say to him, but all the words were flat and empty. And even if I dredged up some kind of excuse or consolation, I knew how he’d react: disdain, contempt, faint bewilderment. He probably hadn’t even noticed that I’d smirked along with the others. And then I remembered how he’d made the others laugh at me, last year, and how he never apologised for that.
Now the game’s handed in, we’re back to where we were. We were civilised adults, doing a job that had to be done. We’re not friends.
I thought I’d be triumphant, tonight. Full of relief. Euphoric. But I feel terrible.
Chapter 13
14: Léo
A few days before the end of ter
m Léo finds himself in the Magister’s corridor. He hasn’t planned it; he doesn’t know where it’s sprung from, this sudden heart-quickening impulse. The last couple of weeks have slipped through his hands like a string of leaden beads, each day too heavy to hold but gone in an instant, followed by the next. It’s easy to be numb, absorbed in intellectual pursuits, essays, the games and theses and reading lists that the Magister – true to her word – has been leaving in his pigeonhole. This is how he felt in his third year here, as a scholar. The Gold Medal meant nothing, as though it had gone to someone else: now he was numb, conscientious, stoical. Nothing happened, nothing hurt. Or not much. He made his way carefully through the treacherous landscapes of his mind, treading lightly, avoiding the quicksand. The grand jeu was a path, that was all, and he kept his gaze on his feet. Now he’s doing the same thing. He navigates between the archive, and the library, and the refectory, and his cell, without pausing. He answers Emile’s letters mechanically, refusing to reread them. Every envelope, safely sent off, buys a week of safety, another week of not having to glance behind when a servant comes too close, or keep a brown glass bottle of emetic beside his bed, or check his pillow for needles. It’s worth it. And in a peculiar way it gives him something to think about: how to explain the intricate animosity between the Magister Cartae and the Magister Motuum, or the Magister Scholarium’s tacit avoidance of politics, or the bubbling over-confidence of the scholars who’ve got family in the Party? At meals he glances from face to face, letting his attention flit from one conversation to another. It’s like trying to see the currents in clear water. He’s good at it. It keeps his mind off the other things: the ache of missing the Ministry, the physical strength it takes not to turn his head and gaze at the Magister Ludi …
Mostly, his attempts not to think about her have been successful. That Sunday afternoon in the library, after she left, he was too dazed to do anything but sit and stare into space; he didn’t realise he was gritting his teeth until he staggered to his feet at the sound of the clock chiming, and felt the tension like a metal band around his temples. He couldn’t eat; he couldn’t sleep that night, either, but he lay in bed watching the stars come and go in the black sky, like blown drifts of sand. And the next day, passing Magister Dryden in the corridor, he was in control enough not to stare, although he wanted to. How had he not realised? He should have seen the resemblance. Maybe he did see it; but he thought it was because he was back at Montverre, a sly trick of the brain. After Carfax died, Léo saw him everywhere – walking down the street, gesturing to a waiter in a restaurant, laughing outside the scrapyard gates in a collarless shirt and flat cap. He learnt not to react, not to flinch or say Carfax’s name or even stare too long. If he had to see ghosts, at least he’d keep it to himself. That was years ago, and it hadn’t happened for a long time; but when he saw Magister Dryden that night in the corridor it was the same sick welter, the world lurching backwards on its spin as though his mind was betraying him again … If only someone else had mentioned it, if only she hadn’t told him herself. He winces at the recollection of her expression – pity, how dare she – and the way he didn’t have the presence of mind to do anything but look at her. That face.
Even later, he didn’t let himself examine his feelings too closely. But the next time he replied to Emile, he found himself writing: She is, of course, isolated and, one assumes, lonely. Her politics – as one might expect from a woman who has apparently never encountered real life in any of its manifestations – are liberal and soft, resisting change and clarity, based on a sort of kindly instinct which doesn’t stand up to scrutiny. Surprising, given her abrasive manner, but I suppose this is merely an example of feminine contradictions! Of all the Magisters, I’d guess that she is the most opposed to the Party, but perhaps more because of misplaced idealism than self-interest. Her influence is small, I suspect, but it might be enough to prove awkward if the Council were not whole-heartedly supportive of any new measures. I can’t comment on her skills as a teacher – the scholars murmur about being taught by a female, and one can’t exactly blame them, given her lack of formal education, but otherwise seem content enough to concede her authority. In fairness I should mention that she does have a certain charisma. He put down his pen before he wrote another sentence that he’d have to cross out. It was all true; so why did belittling her make him queasily triumphant, as if he’d squashed a mosquito? He folded the paper and shoved it into the envelope without bothering to sign off. His eyes went to the past papers on the desk, the mimeographed slip of essay questions on top. Time to get back to work. But all that afternoon he had a sense of someone at his shoulder, a censorious ghost that disappeared when he looked at it head-on.
Was that the week that Emile sent the bottles of brandy? He can’t remember. He let them gather dust in the corner of his bedroom, and spent hours tracing the motif of the Four Seasons in the light of the Broken Seam hypothesis. He didn’t exactly promise himself not to mention the Magister Ludi again, but the next time he wrote his letter was taken up with a slight that had been related to him, indignantly, by the Magister Cartae, and a nasty incident with the Christian scholar – Charpentier, is it? – in the first year. He even went to the Magister’s door, planning to thank her for the book she’d left in his pigeonhole; but he decided against it at the last moment. He despised himself for wanting to go crawling to her, to appease his own conscience. She’d look at him with a transparent surprise that he thought she’d care … When he woke at night (the bloody clock!) he could see her face, and Carfax’s, two faces that were somehow only one. Had Carfax ever mentioned her? What would he think now, seeing her and Léo together? But there were no answers, and that way madness lay. He made himself get up and study the Broken Seam hypothesis until he was too tired to see straight. The grand jeu was nothing if not a shield.
But he’s leaving tomorrow for the vacation, and suddenly life is prickling in his bones like pins and needles. He doesn’t know what made him pick up one of the bottles of brandy; but he’s standing in front of the Magister Ludi’s door with it in his hand, the glass faintly slick against his palm. This time he doesn’t give himself time to think before he knocks.
There’s a pause before she says, ‘Come in,’ as if she knows who it is.
He opens the door. She’s sitting at her desk, her face turned to him but her pen still poised above the page as if she’s mid-thought. When she sees who it is, she slides a sheet of paper down over her work; although he could have sworn the page was blank.
‘Yes?’
‘Am I disturbing you?’
‘You should have thought about that before you knocked.’
‘Yes, I suppose I should.’
She sighs and screws the cap on to her pen. ‘How can I be of assistance, Mr Martin?’
He has prepared himself for this, but all the same it stings. He isn’t an importunate first-year, for goodness’ sake. He puts the bottle he’s holding on the corner of her desk. ‘I brought you this. To say thank you.’
She blinks. All at once he wants to snatch up the inappropriate bottle, with its foreign label and red wax seal, and leave the room without a backward glance. Or dash it against the wall and leave her picking splinters of green glass off her white robe. But if politics has taught him anything, it’s how to hide humiliation.
‘How kind,’ she says at last.
‘A friend of mine sent it. It’s good. French. I thought perhaps …’ If she were her brother she – he – would reach out for it, scrutinise its provenance and nod, trying not to show his pleasure. And then he’d glance at Léo, at his work, and finally with a reluctant grin he’d rock back on the legs of his chair, casting about for something to drink from.
But she doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t. Léo pushes his hands into his pockets. ‘Well, never mind. I thought you were allowed.’
‘I am allowed,’ she says.
‘Good.’ A silence. ‘I’ll leave you to your work.’ He turns to go.
‘Than
k you,’ she says, a moment before he gets to the door. ‘I didn’t expect … I haven’t done anything for you, Mr Martin. I dug out a few past papers. You don’t have to give me expensive brandy.’
‘I know. Of course. But I … they were … I enjoyed working on them. You seemed to have spent a great deal of time finding interesting questions, suggesting further reading …’ It takes an effort to smile at her. ‘I’m grateful, that’s all.’
‘I’m a teacher, Mr Martin. I’d do the same for any scholar.’
‘And any scholar should be grateful.’ He tilts his head, in a half-ironic hint at a bow. Ah, this insistence that she has done nothing to be thanked for, that he is pathetic to see any hint of goodwill in her actions … He could hit her. The thought shocks him; he has never hit a woman in his life, and never wanted to before. ‘It’s nothing. I apologise if it seems excessive. I can understand – well, living here, like this, as you do …’ He gestures to the room, the dusty austerity, the snow outside, with casual disdain. ‘But honestly, it’s a trifle. It’s not even terribly good. If I gave a bottle of that stuff to my mistress she’d drop it off the balcony into the street.’
Now it’s easier to smile at her. He squashes a spark of self-contempt; it’s her, making him like this. All he wanted was to be polite.
She draws a long silent breath through parted lips. Then, unexpectedly, she gives a quick snort of amusement, as if they’re playing a game. ‘All right,’ she says. ‘I’m glad you liked the topics. I did look for questions that you’d enjoy.’
‘Did you? How did you know?’ He laughs too; then, abruptly, and too late, he realises that it wasn’t a ploy, a flirtatious suggestion that she knows him inside out. She isn’t Chryseïs. Her face has hardened again, and that momentary warmth is gone.
‘It’s what I give the first-years,’ she says. ‘Those questions sound very imposing, but ultimately they’re rather facile.’
He opens his mouth. But he can’t bring himself to answer. He nods, once, and reaches again for the door handle.
The Betrayals Page 15