‘No, that’s not true,’ she says suddenly, and he hears her getting to her feet. ‘They were all Finals questions, actually. I am glad you liked them. It’s only that …’
Slowly he turns back to her. She is standing beside the window, staring out into the banked snow. From here he can only see the side of her face, her temple and cheek, the corner of her lips. She looks painfully like Carfax. It’s funny how his features are different, transplanted into a female face. She has the same wide mouth and cheekbones, strong jaw, narrow eyes: but where he was handsome, she is plain. She must be the same height as he was, or almost: and again, where he was a good height for a man, she is gawky, for a woman. Where Carfax is dead, she’s alive. It’s like a parody, the universe’s vicious joke.
For an instant he waits for her to finish her sentence. Will it be an apology, of sorts? Then he realises that she isn’t going to. He wants to leave and slam the door on her silence. But then she shoots him a swift, jerky glance, as though she’s been trying to resist the impulse. That’s how he’s been looking and not-looking at her, these last few weeks.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘you obviously know me better than you realise.’ For some reason that makes her bite her lip. ‘I can imagine the conclusions you’ve come to. “Must try harder”. “Generally inauthentic”. Or “overly reliant on integral transitions”.’
‘Not integral transitions,’ she says, frowning, ‘so much as text loops. You always – that is, it might help you to focus more on maths and music. Science, even. You resist the abstract, and it weighs you down.’
He stares at her. For a second, with the light behind her, she could be Carfax’s ghost. ‘All right,’ he says, not knowing whether to laugh. ‘Fair enough. If I still played seriously, I’d take your advice. As it is …’
‘What did you make of the last essay, by the way?’
He can remember the title word for word: ‘A grand jeu is a kind of web made of abstractions. It glitters, it seduces; but its beauty is essentially functional – indeed, predatory – and its aim is to draw down the divine into a human trap.’ But when he read it, he couldn’t concentrate on the question: instead he saw again the spider’s web that was strung across the path, that first pre-dawn morning when he’d walked up the mountain to Montverre. He remembered sweeping it aside, breaking the threads and bubbles of light, and Carfax’s stifled protest. It was beautiful, but it was in the way; and he’d wanted to be first. He still wanted it.
She shifts her weight, and he realises that he’s been standing in silence for a long moment.
‘It was interesting,’ he says. ‘Amadé de Courcy was one of your ancestors, I assume? I think I’ve heard of him … Perhaps he’s right. Or perhaps it’s the other way round, and the grand jeu is a divine trap in which to catch humanity. Like love.’
Too late he anticipates her voice, pronouncing judgement on him: the clipped way she said rather facile, a few moments ago. But she’s looking at him with a crease between her brows, as if she’s trying to put a name to a face. A strange shiver goes down his back.
Then she smiles. ‘Very neat,’ she says. ‘Do you really believe that? Or is it a gimmick?’
‘Never mind.’
‘Games,’ she says, very softly. ‘That’s what you’re good at, isn’t it? And somehow you ended up trying to play the one game that – isn’t.’
‘The grand jeu?’
She doesn’t answer. Again – appallingly – he feels the itch to hit her. Who does she think she is, telling him about himself? The Delphic oracle? His game is one thing, but pronouncing on his whole life … She has the same taut authority that Carfax had – say what you like, but he was clever, he was observant – only in her it’s arrogance. She’s a woman, she doesn’t know him, she has no right … He came in here to be charming, to thank her and leave again; and her spikes and prickles have snagged all his silky intentions into a hopeless knot. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘thank you again. And goodbye. I’m leaving tomorrow.’
‘Leaving?’ Her voice is breathy: with relief or regret? No, he’s flattering himself. Relief, without doubt. She must have thought he was staying here for the vacation.
‘Yes. I know there are a few days left before the end of term, but I’ve been invited to address a local group of grand jeu amateurs in Montverre-les-Bains, so …’ He knows how it’ll be, paunchy Party members frowning at him through a jovial alcoholic haze, while he tries to shoe-horn games into official policy like mutilated feet into glass slippers. It’ll be excruciating. His old colleague Pirène sent him tacit sympathy along with the invitation; they both knew he wasn’t in a position to refuse. ‘It’s easier to stay in a hotel there, before I go home. To my mother’s house, that is.’
‘I see.’
‘So … I hope you have a very happy New Year.’
She nods. She goes on nodding. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘And you too, Mr Martin.’ She sounds distant, preoccupied.
‘Goodbye, then.’ He realises that he’s waiting for her to dismiss him.
‘I – wait,’ she says. ‘Léo—’
It’s the first time she’s used his first name. It makes him respond too soon, too eagerly. ‘Yes?’
‘I want you to know that I – I wish – if things had been different, maybe I would have …’ she says again, and tails off. Something is moving in her face. Ice on the edge of thawing. Fragility that seemed solid, a moment ago. ‘Never mind.’ She makes a quick, abortive gesture, as if she’s going to offer her hand and then thinks better of it. ‘Goodbye.’
Léo stares at her. She’s worked so hard to make him believe that she despises him, but for a moment … He wonders what she would do if he took her hand without giving her the chance to back away. He says, ‘Goodbye, then. I’ll see you next term.’
‘Next term?’ There’s a second of silence. Then the colour in her cheeks deepens and spreads. ‘You’re coming back? I thought you meant …’
‘Yes, I’m coming back.’ Emile’s last letter hinted that he might be able to leave Montverre at the end of the Vernal Term, if he was lucky. But even if Emile has kept Léo’s reputation alive, there’s nothing for him in the Ministry for Culture. He’ll have to start again from the bottom, or find something else – local government, perhaps, or a job in the scrapyard business. He’s not sure any more that he’s looking forward to it.
‘Oh. I see.’ She rubs her face with the inside of her wrist, as if she can wipe away the wash of pink. Belatedly he understands, and wants to laugh. That’s why she was almost kind: because she thought she was rid of him for ever. Now she’s regretting it.
The flush in her cheeks and forehead is like red light falling on her, like an untimely sunrise or sunset. Her eyes flicker to him and away. Something twists inside him, wringing tighter and tighter. He knows where he is, and when – of course, he’s sane, he’s sober – but he’s twenty again, a scholar again, in the music room with Carfax, laughing at his own joke. The way Carfax raised his head, the smile that was like a crack in his armour, the bloom of colour under his skin – exactly the same, subtle and unmissable, like a hoar frost melting … A second ago, he wanted to reach out to her from sheer mischief: now it’s something else, something much more dangerous. He blinks, trying to see the differences between her face and Carfax’s, trying to break the spell. The softness along her jawline, creases by her eyes, escaping wisps of long hair brushing the side of her neck. But it’s like an optical illusion: no matter how hard he tries – how certain he is that the picture is a vase, not two faces – he can’t make himself see her clearly. Carfax is there, on her face, like a mask. His stomach clenches.
‘What is it?’ she says. Her voice does what her face couldn’t, wrenching him back to the present. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Quite. Thank you.’
She glances at her desk. ‘I’m afraid I must get back to work.’
‘Yes. Yes, I should go and pack my things.’ He shuffles towards the door again, but something prevents him going
immediately. ‘How is the Midsummer Game coming along, by the way?’
She glances at him, sits down and starts to unscrew the lid of her fountain pen. ‘Happy New Year, Mr Martin.’
‘Happy New Year.’
‘Oh – and take this, please.’ She nods at the brandy. ‘It’s generous of you, but I don’t want it.’
Their eyes meet, a level, intimate stare. It’s not about the brandy – somehow he has no doubt that she’d drink it, if it came from someone else – but about scoring a point. And she thinks he’s the one who plays games? For an instant his irritation flares; then some other emotion takes hold of him. Slowly he reaches for it. ‘All right,’ he says, ‘if you insist. But on one condition.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That you let me bring you something else instead.’ He goes on speaking as she’s about to answer. ‘Whatever you want. You must want something. Please. It would give me pleasure.’ He doesn’t know himself how much of his pleading is real, and how much is a stratagem.
‘What makes you think I care about your pleasure, Mr Martin?’
‘You found games you thought I’d like.’
His heart is drumming in his fingers, around the neck of the bottle. It’s as if the pulse is in the glass. He’s pushed her; now she’ll order him out, and refuse to speak to him again.
Suddenly she grins. ‘A box of marrons glacés, then.’
‘Is that all?’
Her grin subsides into something more ironic, more guarded, and she doesn’t answer. She bends over her notebook and waves him away; but she’s still smiling as he bows himself out of the door, like a music-hall butler.
He stands in the corridor, and he realises that he’s grinning too. It takes him a second to identify what he’s feeling: and then – with a jolt of disbelief – he realises that he was flirting with her. With Magister Dryden … As though she’s a woman like any other, who can be bought with bonbons and jewels and pastel-coloured Russian cigarettes. As though she’s Chryseïs, who can only be undressed if she’s been dressed first at Léo’s expense, in something chic and silky and beautifully cut. An incongruous picture flashes through his mind’s eye: Magister Dryden in Schiaparelli pink, or a Mainbocher suit. It makes him laugh, but the picture has a rough edge to it that leaves a splinter under his skin. Under Magister Dryden’s white gown, she is a woman. A woman to whom he’s promised to bring a box of sweets. He’d’ve thought – if she asked for anything – it would have been books.
He wanted to please her. Why did he want to please her? To prove a point? Because she’s so resistant to his charm? Because every smile won from her is a point scored, a concession made? Because he can’t abide the thought that she might win?
No, it isn’t that. Not only that. He sees himself setting down the little wooden box of marrons glacés on her desk, waiting for her thanks. It’s not about pleasing her, or not really. It’s an offering. As if the power of life and death is in her hands. As if he might – as if – if he does everything right – if he can somehow alight on the exactly right move in the game – as if, yes, then she might look at him and not be herself any more but be Carfax – as if he could turn back time—
He wants forgiveness. The realisation brings a taste of bile into his mouth, a surge of self-disgust. Stupid. Pathetic. Even if he deserved it, there’s no way back.
He turns down the corridor, hurrying, but it’s not fast enough to leave himself behind. He speeds up, until sweat starts out on his forehead; then he breaks into a clumsy run, not caring if anyone sees him.
15
First day of winter vacation
I’m at the station, writing this in the tea room. I’ve got almost an hour before my train comes. To sit here I had to order some tea, but it’s bright orange and it tastes of grease and dirty dishcloth, so one mouthful was enough. But it was only so I could avoid the others. Emile and Jacob change here too, but I saw them go into the gentleman’s bar. It’s a pity, I could murder a brandy, but I can’t bear the prospect of having to talk. It was hard enough on the train from Montverre, everyone shouting and messing about, but now I don’t think I could string together a coherent sentence. Not aloud, anyway. I’m so tired I’ve come out the other end of it, and everything is a bit too clear and bright, as if I’m seeing it through a diamond.
Yesterday we only had morning lessons – mainly Magisters handing out the last of our vacation work. I can tell you already that next term is going to be oh-so amusing, given that we’ve been told to meditate on trees in all their forms (!), research the ancient Greek and Roman rituals of communion with the divine, and familiarise ourselves with the Bridges of Königsberg. Not to mention tick off everything on Magister Holt’s reading list, which is full of books that will definitely not be in our local library. Gah. I suppose they have to find some way to keep us out of mischief for two months, while the old place is snowed in … Anyway, after lunch we had the Quietus early, and then a few hours to pack before dinner. I flung everything into my trunk and then lay down on my bed, hoping to drift off to sleep, but I couldn’t. I was too nervous. The marks for the joint game always go up before dinner, the last day of term.
Finally the bell rang. It was as if everyone was waiting for that moment. I heard all the doors in our corridor open at once, and a rush of footsteps. I got up as slowly as I could, splashed my face with water, smoothed my hair down where it had got stuck in a stupid tuft, and then couldn’t think of any other way to distract myself. I didn’t want to be there at the same time as the rest of them, pushing and shoving to see the noticeboard, having to elbow people in order to stay at the front long enough to find my name … Our names. But I felt worse than before an exam, and I wanted it to be over. So I went downstairs to look.
There was a muttering group of scholars in front of the noticeboard. Paul looked round and said to me, ‘They haven’t put the marks up yet.’
‘What? Why?’
Paul shrugged. Freddie said, ‘Because they’re cold-blooded bastards,’ with real venom. His father promised him a motor car for New Year if he got more than fifty. Funny how it’s always the hopeless cases who get offered bribes. Maybe that’s why; if Dad had promised me the same he’d have had to cough up last term.
‘They’re still debating,’ Emile said. ‘I walked past the Capitulum on my way here.’
‘Past the Capitulum? To get here? Where were you, the servants’ quarters?’
I’d been joking, but Emile gave me a strange look. Someone (Jacob, I think) said, ‘Well, they’ll have to put them up soon. Won’t they? Before we go home?’
‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘I’m going to dinner.’ I wasn’t remotely hungry, but I wasn’t going to stand there mithering like an aristocrat in the queue for the guillotine. So I stalked off. Some of the others came with me, and we all made a point of talking and laughing as if we couldn’t care less.
It wasn’t until halfway through dinner (I have no idea what I ate, or if I ate anything) that Felix came rushing into the refectory and announced, ‘They’re up!’
And then he caught my eye, and said, ‘Well done.’
Seventy.
Seventy. A distinction. The nearest mark to us was Emile and Paul, and that was sixty-two.
I can’t remember what Felix said, or getting to my feet, or walking out. I was in front of the noticeboard, and our names were at the top of the page.
Aimé Carfax de Courcy and Léonard Martin, Danse Macabre, 70.
People were behind me. Someone swore, someone said, ‘Oh come on, we deserved more than that!’ and someone else said, ‘Phew, I was sure we’d completely messed it up …’ I let the current push me to one side and leant against the wall, still reeling. Seventy. I can’t remember anyone getting higher than sixty-five, not even Carfax.
After a while Emile came and stood next to me, watching the huddle of people in front of the noticeboard slowly dwindle. ‘You must be pleased,’ he said. ‘Bet that’s why they were late putting it up. Must’ve been conten
tious. A distinction for two second-years.’
I didn’t meet his eyes. ‘It’s not bad.’
He glanced at me. ‘What’s the matter? Would you rather have got a bare pass, like Felix and Freddie?’
‘No.’
‘You’re not annoyed because you have to share it with Carfax? You’ve got a year and a half to beat him, Léo. Make the most of this, why don’t you?’
I couldn’t look at him. I was afraid that if I did, I’d start to laugh, and not be able to stop. Or, worse, start to cry. I’d been so scared of failing. Of having to face Carfax, thinking I’d let him down. I said, ‘Yes, you’re right.’
‘How’s he taking it? Insufferable, I suppose?’
‘I don’t know.’ I hadn’t seen him. He wasn’t at dinner, and he wasn’t here. And I thought I had self-control …
I reached past Pierre and Thomas, who were the last people left in front of the noticeboard, and ripped the paper off its drawing pin. By the time they reacted I was already running towards the stairs; I heard their protests fading behind me, and Emile laughing.
It took Carfax ages to answer his door. When he finally said I could come in, he was sitting on his trunk, his arms crossed, as if I was bothering him. ‘Martin,’ he said. ‘What is it? I’m packing.’
I didn’t point out that he’d clearly finished. I held up the piece of paper and said, ‘I thought you’d want to know.’
I saw him resist the reflex to leap to his feet. He tipped his head back and said, ‘So?’
‘I thought it was all right, our game,’ I said. ‘But I guess we misjudged it.’
He stood up and plucked the page out of my hand. I waited for him to laugh. He sat down without saying anything, folding himself carefully into the chair as if he was afraid of breaking a bone. He rested his elbows on the desk and put his head in his hands.
‘Carfax? I was joking.’
He said, in a muffled voice, ‘Piss off, will you?’
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