The Betrayals

by Bridget Collins

  Fifth week

  Odd thing this evening with Carfax. We were both on edge anyway, I think. This afternoon we’d got back an analysis from Magister Holt, and he’d scored sixty-three and I’d only got fifty-seven, so I was feeling irritable already. Also I think we’re both tired, in an electric unrestful way that means we spark off each other, and we were having one of those conversations where no matter how reasonable I’m being he’s determined to take offence. (Well, it felt like that. On reflection, I suppose I might not have been all that reasonable.) I’d criticised the middle movement of his Tempest, and he’d put his head in his hands and said through gritted teeth, ‘You said it was too overwhelming, and now you’re saying it’s underwhelming. What do you advise, Martin?’

  I said, ‘It’s not my place to tell you what to do, I’m explaining what’s wrong—’

  ‘All right, all right!’ He got up and paced to the window. Running his hands through his hair had made it stand on end. He looked like a lunatic. I didn’t point it out – see how tactful I am these days? – but I suppose it made me grin, because he frowned at me. ‘What? It’s not as if your game is flawless. What’s so funny?’ He picked up a book and threw it at me.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘Well, help me! Don’t just sit there smirking—’ He threw another and another. I shielded my head with one arm and scrabbled for the nearest book. By that stage I was giggling. ‘You’re infuriating. You’re not even taking me seriously. Don’t do that—’ he said, and dodged as I shied it back at him.

  ‘You started it,’ I said, and went on pitching them at him.

  ‘Some of those are priceless – irreplaceable—’

  ‘Oh, stow it,’ I said. I tossed the last one at his head. He ducked. It flew past him and flopped into the corner, pages splayed. Something had come out of it, a bit of folded paper, and I crawled half off the bed to pick it up. It was a letter.

  ‘Give me that!’

  He grabbed for it. I would have handed it over, but his tone was so intense I couldn’t resist holding it at arm’s length. ‘Why? Is it a love letter? Have you got a girl waiting for you at—’

  He slapped me.

  It hurt. Although possibly not as much as it would have done, if I hadn’t been so bloody shocked. I never thought, out of everyone I know, Carfax would turn violent. It didn’t even occur to me to hit him back. I offered the envelope and let him take it. He didn’t say anything. I swung my legs off his bed and got up to leave.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  I waved away his concern. I’ve been in worse fights. That day at the scrapyard, when they were poking fun at Dad, I came home with two black eyes and a split lip. A smack on the cheek wasn’t going to kill me.

  He stepped between me and the door. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I really am sorry. I shouldn’t have …’

  ‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to hit people who’re taller than you?’ It was meant to be a joke, but it made him flinch. ‘It doesn’t matter, Carfax.’

  ‘The letter … it’s important. Private. That’s why I – I was afraid – I didn’t want—’

  ‘I didn’t read it,’ I said. I was so tired I was swaying. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that interesting.’

  ‘It—’ He hesitated. ‘It’s from my sister. She’s … not well.’

  ‘Let me past, will you?’

  ‘If anyone saw her letters … I think—’

  ‘Even me?’

  ‘Yes, even you. I don’t – I can’t …’ He stared at me. He was still clutching the letter. Suddenly he shoved it towards me. ‘All right. Go on, why not? What does it matter. Read it.’

  His hand was shaking. He’d gone white. Maybe he’d shocked himself as much as me.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to. Thanks.’

  A kind of spasm went over his face. He turned away and crossed to the window. He opened it, ripped the letter into tiny fragments and scattered them into the dark. Then he sat down on the bed. ‘Do you have sisters, Martin?’

  ‘No. I’m on my own.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be here. Sh-she needs me at home. She writes me letters telling me how unhappy she is. Sometimes they don’t even make sense. She’s alone there, going mad, while I …’ He drew in his breath. ‘I’m tired of lying, Martin.’

  ‘Lying to her? About what?’

  He bowed his head and didn’t answer. I imagined fragments of paper whirling into the melting snow, sticking in the trees, the ink running. Gingerly I reached out and put my hand on his shoulder. I must have touched him before, but it was like the first time. And he went rigid. I felt like Midas: flesh turning to metal under my hand.

  I bent my head to look at him, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. It was like a pause in the grand jeu – the rest between the resultance and the motif – those moments that Carfax holds almost too long when he plays, prolonging the silence until it’s unbearable. I could feel the next move, suspended, breathless. All it needed was for him to glance up. But he stayed utterly still.

  I don’t know what he wanted, or what he was scared of. Neither of us spoke. I waited and waited, in case he’d pull away or turn to me, either, anything to break the silence. I was so sure that one way or another he’d show me what he was thinking.

  He sat like a statue, until my fingers started to ache, and I began to wonder if I’d imagined the tension in the room. Then it was too late. I let go and left him to it.

  Later

  Lying? What is he lying about?

  Fifth week, Wednesday

  He said he was sorry. I didn’t know how to reply. I acted like I hadn’t heard. I was at my desk, going over the bit he’s still stuck on. It’s funny, his games are normally so perfect, structurally. But this one’s got a big disjunction in the middle section. I think that’s why it’s not working. No matter how much brilliant stuff he throws at it, there’s something missing, or something extra, or … I don’t know. He was pacing about behind me and I couldn’t concentrate. Then he said, ‘Sorry about hitting you.’

  There was a bit of a pause. I kept on staring at his notes. That bloody porridge of classical and Artemonian. Can’t believe I’ve got used to it. I said, ‘How about an English contrevure?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘For this movement. An English contrevure. Look it up.’

  I heard him grunt and flip through a book. ‘It’s not in the Snary.’

  ‘Try the index of the Theoric. I’ve seen it somewhere recently.’

  He riffled more pages, and whistled. ‘An English contrevure … Hmmm. Interesting. You might be on to something.’

  ‘No need to sound so surprised.’ I’d come up with something he hadn’t heard of. Finally.

  There was another silence. Eventually I looked round. He was standing right behind me. His hand was hovering over my shoulder. As I watched, his fingers curled into a fist and he lowered his arm. ‘There’s the bell,’ he said. ‘Give me a second to write that down. I’ll meet you downstairs.’

  So that was that. His apology.

  Sunday

  This morning – not early, thank goodness – I got press-ganged into a couple of bouts with Felix and Jacob. Felix stood in my doorway and refused to go away until I came down to the Lesser Hall. Actually, in the end I enjoyed myself. And won, although I’m woefully out of practice. Afterwards we all sat around on the steps of the Lesser Hall, looking down into the valley. It was lovely, one of those early spring days when the snow’s melting and a warm wind’s blowing; every so often a spatter of freezing water would spray into our faces from the gutter overhead. It was me, Felix, Jacob, Paul, and Emile. There was the usual banter, jokes about the Magisters and one another, teasing about our prowess at the grand jeu, sex, etc. When they were trying to get a rise out of me, Felix was laughing the loudest, but at lunchtime when we all stood up to go he hung back a bit and asked me if I’d have a look at his game. ‘I’m too busy at the moment,’ I said. ‘What about Paul? What does he say?’

  ‘I haven
’t asked him. I’m asking you. Come on, Martin, if I fail—’

  ‘No one fails, Felix. You might get a Third, but it’s not the end of the world.’

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Have a heart.’

  ‘I’ll see. Put a copy under my door.’ He grinned, and I added, ‘I’m not promising anything. I’m working like a navvy myself. I don’t have time to help other people.’

  I’m not sure he was listening, because he slapped me on the back and galloped off. I was about to follow him when Emile took hold of my elbow. ‘Liar,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re helping Carfax, aren’t you? Every spare moment, it sounds like.’

  I tried to shake him off. ‘You’re not jealous as well, are you?’

  He laughed. ‘Certainly not. I’m only pointing out that you’re lying.’

  ‘What if I am? It’d be a waste of time helping Felix, you know that.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s definitely true.’ I went to move away but he still had hold of my arm. ‘One more thing,’ he went on, tilting his head at me as if I’d said something stupid in a lesson. ‘Don’t forget that time he parodied you in front of everyone. You do realise, don’t you, that Carfax is a ruthless bastard? Why do you think he’s suddenly friends with you? Because not only are you second in the class, you’re also apparently prepared to spend every waking hour with him, working on his game. It’s not because of your charm, you can bet.’

  ‘Leave me alone, Emile.’

  ‘He’s using you. Look at yourself, you’re all starry-eyed,’ he said, and released me, stepping back and spreading his arms. ‘Don’t fall for it, that’s all.’

  It’s not true. We work on my game as much as Carfax’s. Don’t we?

  Sunday again, sixth week

  Early morning. I can’t sleep. I haven’t written for days because I didn’t want to think. I don’t want to admit it. I don’t want to write it down.

  But: I have fallen for it, haven’t I?

  For him.

  I didn’t even notice it happening. Not really. Not till Emile looked at me that way, all knowing and slippery, as though he could see inside my head. I keep telling myself it’s because he’s got a mind like a sewer, and he can’t imagine that Carfax and I could genuinely be friends. But I’m kidding myself.

  Carfax, for pity’s sake. A pathetic schoolboy crush on Carfax. What is wrong with me? This isn’t an opportunistic sure-why-not? like those other times in the scrapyard. Not a quick toss-off behind a pile of finials, while everyone else smokes a fag or goes for a brew. I want him. I’d risk expulsion for him. Would I? I think I would. If he’d turned round, that time I touched his shoulder, and … Shut up. SHUT UP. But all these nights we’ve spent playing the grand jeu, all the jokes and the ideas and the rush, being as happy as I think I could ever be … It’s all part of the same thing. The whole world, falling into place. All of myself, cock and balls and heart as well as brain. We play the grand jeu with our bodies too, don’t we?

  (Essay question: ‘As with scatological, macabre or trivial concerns, there is no place for the erotic in the grand jeu; it ranks among the lowest of human impulses while the grand jeu celebrates the most elevated.’ Discuss. And hang it, I want to discuss it with Carfax.)

  Don’t fall for it. It’s too fucking late. But Emile’s right. I can see that. Carfax and I won’t ever be anything but rivals. He wants to beat me, that’s all. And the best way to do that is to reel me in. Fake a meeting of true minds when all he cares about is getting a higher mark than me. Of course he acts strangely around me. Of course he’s fed up of pretending.

  It’s making me sick, the thought that he’s done it on purpose. That’s what Emile meant, wasn’t it? And if it’s true … Surely he’s not that cynical? He’s not that much of a shit. But I can’t trust him. I can’t let myself relax. I’ve got to stay on my guard. Pull back. Keep away.

  Or lean in. Play him at his own game.

  Later

  I worked alone in the library for most of the day. Then I was all thick-headed and miserable, and it was another lovely evening, so I wandered outside for a little while, watching the sun drop behind the mountains. Then I got too cold and had to come in. I came back along the music corridor, jogging to warm myself up.

  There was someone playing the cello in one of the practice rooms. The music was Bach, one of those restless mathematical preludes that hovers on the edge of melody. You can feel the beauty, the drive, but all the time the piece is containing it, there’s a sort of iron discipline that lets it shine through but won’t surrender to it. It made me stop in my tracks. Outside, above the courtyard, the sky was a perfect deep blue, the bluest blue you can imagine. There was a new moon, and the evening star, absolutely blazing. The prelude stumbled and started again.

  I must have stood there for ten minutes, at least, listening to that prelude being played over and over. There’s a moment about halfway through – a low E, is it? – when it opens up, abruptly, into something different, something deep – it’s what you’ve been waiting for, without knowing … and every time it made the hairs on my arms stand up. Every time. I wanted it to go on for ever.

  It didn’t, of course. Finally whoever-it-was was satisfied and went on to the allemande. I was going to walk past, but then the music broke off and I heard swearing.

  I pushed open the door. Carfax was there, wrapped around his cello; I thought I’d recognised his voice. He looked round. The expression on his face made me stop in the doorway: as if he wanted me to come in but he didn’t want to say so. I said, ‘It’s you.’

  ‘As far as I know,’ he said.

  I shut the door behind me. He gave me a long look and then started to play again. He’s pretty good; much better than I am at the piano. But he started getting notes wrong, more and more of them, until finally he lowered his bow and said, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. I didn’t know why I was there, except that I couldn’t avoid him for ever.

  ‘I’m practising.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  He raised his bow, sighed, and lowered it again. ‘Go away, will you? You’re putting me off.’

  ‘I was listening outside. It was good.’

  He frowned, but he started to play again. At the end of the suite he sat back, stretching his neck to one side and then the other. ‘Better men than you would pay for that,’ he said.

  ‘It’s got an amazing tone.’

  ‘I should hope so. It’s a Stradivarius.’ He laughed, probably at me, and moved so that I could see the light falling on the cello. It was the colour of maple leaves, with a warm lustrous gleam. ‘The Auburn Mistress,’ he said. ‘It’s famous. You see the red varnish? Vernice rossa. It’s almost unique. No one’s entirely sure what it’s made of.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Nothing but the best for the de Courcys.’

  ‘We don’t have many heirlooms. I expect over the last century lots of things have got thrown against the wall. Or smashed. Or burnt,’ he added, with a glimmer of a smile.

  ‘If I said that, you’d hit me.’

  He gave me a sidelong glance, and brushed the purfling with his knuckles, very gently. ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Why “mistress”?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe men love their mistresses more than their wives.’

  ‘If I owned that, I’m pretty sure I’d want to marry it.’ I leaned forward and touched the varnish. It was like oil. Utterly smooth. ‘I mean, wouldn’t you want your violins to be legitimate?’

  He laughed and gave one string an affectionate twang. Then he looked up and into my eyes, and the smile died. Or rather, it sort of retreated; the warmth was still there, but there was something else in his face. And then he flushed. It was remarkable, like a red light shining on him.

  I stared at him. For a second he held my gaze. Then I think he realised that he was blushing, because he got to his feet and fumbled the cello back into its case. It se
emed to take an age. He glanced over his shoulder, as if he could sense me watching him, but he didn’t meet my eyes. I was only standing there, my hands in my pockets. As jokes go, it wasn’t exactly obscene; and he’d laughed, hadn’t he? And yet even his ears were scarlet. Somehow I was afraid I’d given myself away. I said, ‘What’s up, Carfax?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  I opened my mouth to tease him, but something stopped me. He put the cello into its case and leant it against the wall. ‘I’ll see you later,’ he said. ‘Give me a knock after dinner.’

  I was standing in front of the door. He waited for me to move. I took a step back, but not enough, so he stepped towards me and still couldn’t get past. We wavered in the doorway for a second, our faces close together, in a kind of absurd dance. And then … his gaze flickered. His look skimmed my face, my mouth, and came back to my eyes. It hardly took a fraction of a second, and then he barged past me, clipping me with his shoulder.

  But it was enough. That something else in his expression … It was there. I’m certain of it.

  I started to laugh when he’d gone. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I had to bend over and put my hands on my knees, breathing hard, until finally I got myself under control.

  What if I’m making it up? What if that look didn’t mean anything, what if it was just his manner? Arrogance? Sheer irritation, because I wouldn’t move out of his way? I’ve only now realised how I feel about him – so what if I’m only seeing what I want to see? The more I think about it the less sure I am. But I was sure. When it happened, I knew. And now, if I shut my eyes and remember … Yes. I’m not mistaken. That blush, that long look, his clumsy hands when he tried to put his cello away. How he reacts when I touch him. He may not realise, mind you – any more than I did, till Emile said his piece – but it’s there. It has to be. Which means …

  No. We can’t. It’s too dangerous. Even if we were careful.

  I can’t sleep. My stomach is churning. What am I going to do?

  And I can’t help thinking: if it’s true, if I’m right … then I’ve won, after all. Haven’t I?