He stared at me. I started to laugh.
‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘I did. And you have.’
‘That isn’t funny, Martin,’ he said.
‘I’m not joking.’
‘That’s not … I can’t have done. My game wasn’t that good.’
I could have told him then that I’d submitted Red; but I was enjoying myself too much. And I wanted him to see it on the noticeboard when they put the marks up. I shrugged. ‘Guess it’s better than you think.’
‘But that’s mad – they can’t have.’ He shook his head. Then suddenly he put his hands on my shoulders. I could feel him quivering. ‘You promise? If you’re pulling my leg …’
‘I swear. Cross my heart,’ I said.
There was a tiny moment when he was absolutely still, looking into my eyes. Then he swung away from me, collapsing forward with a rush of air as if he’d been punched in the gut.
‘Are you all right?’ I said. ‘Hey – sit down – put your head between your knees.’
He sank on to the bed and put his hands over his face. He stayed like that, silently, until I started to wonder if he’d had some kind of seizure. Then he raised his head. His face was wet and blotched, his eyes shining. He looked … undone. New. When he smiled, it was as if I’d never seen him before. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Sure and certain.’ I wanted to tell him then. I felt as proud as if I’d won a Gold Medal myself, and dropped it into his hands like a gift. That expression on his face – I did it. I felt like a god.
There was a pause. ‘What about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘What did you get?’
‘I don’t know.’ It’s crazy, I hadn’t even wondered about mine.
He looked away. His forehead and mouth were damp. I think he must have been crying, because a single drop of moisture slid down the side of his neck and soaked into his collar. ‘So,’ he said, ‘do you hate me?’
‘What?’
‘I wouldn’t blame you. I don’t deserve the Gold Medal. Your game was better than mine. I’m not being humble,’ he said, cutting me off, ‘I mean it.’
I swallowed. It took everything I had not to tell him; but I was looking forward to the moment when he’d see it for himself. When he’d realise, and turn to me … ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t hate you.’
‘Good.’ There was another silence. He got to his feet. He seemed to be looking out of the window at the trees and the first stars. But when he turned back to me he had the frown he gets when he’s considering a particularly knotty grand jeu problem. ‘Why not?’ he said.
He meant it. He was genuinely asking me why I didn’t hate him.
I don’t know how it happened.
We were standing face to face. Close to each other, less than arm’s length.
I kissed him.
I need to write it down before I forget. Come on.
So. I kissed him. It wasn’t really – all I did was put my mouth against his, not even … As if I could somehow show him that I didn’t hate him. The moment I did it I thought better of it, a rush of embarrassment and second thoughts and fear that after all I was deluded, that Carfax would be disgusted, horrified, he’d tell the others and I’d get expelled – but then he grabbed hold of me and it honestly took me a second to understand that he was kissing me back, not pushing me away, and – I couldn’t believe it, it was surreal – I stopped to look into his eyes, to check, and then we started kissing again, properly, and I had to break off for a second to laugh, I remember looking down at his floor, the faint fuzz of dust, a grey plume clinging to the corner of the bedstead, I can still see it – and I put my hands in his hair, I was almost scared, somehow, it was so different from kissing anyone else – and then I think I was too gentle because he took over, pushing me, daring me … He dug his nails into the back of my neck and it felt like the most erotic thing anyone’s ever done.
And then later, don’t know how much later, I went to take off his gown, and he pushed me away.
Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. What was I thinking? Carfax, he must be a virgin, he’s as strait-laced as a corset. Even though we were kissing, I should’ve known better than to … It can’t have been the first time he’s kissed anyone, could it? Oh, shit. Maybe it could. And I can see how it would come as a shock, if out of the blue you found yourself kissing another man, if you hadn’t had time to get used to the idea … Anyone would panic. But how was I supposed to know? I was in shirt and trousers, I thought he’d – and he must’ve known that I was – I had – oh this is ridiculous, I can’t even write about it. Maybe he wasn’t turned on at all – I couldn’t feel that he was, but the way he was touching me – I thought it was the way he was standing or something, that – and he was still wearing his bloody gown.
He said, ‘Not now.’
I think I said, ‘What? Why?’
He was breathless. That’s a good sign, isn’t it? He was resisting himself, not me. Right? He said, ‘Not – no.’
‘Did I do something wrong?’
He shook his head. He was very flushed.
‘It’s all right, it doesn’t mean that you’re … just because – I’ve kissed girls too, you shouldn’t worry that …’ I couldn’t form a whole sentence.
For some reason that made him laugh; but quickly, and then he was serious again. ‘Oh, Léo, I wish …’
‘You’re scared,’ I said. ‘So am I. But I promise I won’t tell. I promise.’
There was a pause. He bit his lip, staring at me, and there was something in his face I couldn’t name: not quite hope or fear or shame, all or none of them. I thought then that he might take hold of my wrists and pull me back to him. But he didn’t, and all of a sudden I knew that if I pushed him it would be over.
‘Right. OK,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘But you have to promise you’ll stay until tomorrow. Long enough to see yourself on the noticeboard with Gold Medallist next to your name. All right?’ He didn’t answer. ‘If you run away tonight I’ll kill you. Twelve hours, Carfax. Please.’
He hesitated. ‘All right.’
‘Thank you.’ I meant to leave, but I couldn’t stop myself pulling up in the doorway. I said, ‘There’s something I should tell you.’
He said: ‘I love you, Léo.’
I knew it. I knew it.
It’s half past three. I’ve been writing for hours. But I know already I’m not going to be able to sleep. I’m going to go and sit in the Great Hall and watch the sun come up.
Chapter 29
30: Léo
She knows, curse her. Somehow Claire knows about that last night with Carfax – and about the Red game, how does she know that he submitted it? But the Red game is public, of course, it would be in the archive if it hadn’t been lost, perhaps she saw it before it disappeared … He can’t think straight. It doesn’t matter how. She knows. That he kissed Carfax. That Carfax’s death was his fault – whether it was the Red game – he sees BASTARD on the cell wall – or the kiss – if it was that, the shame in Carfax’s eyes as they drew apart, realisation, fear, a truth that he couldn’t handle … She knew all the time. But how? The police report said there was no note, and he’d never thought to question it. But perhaps there was. Or did Carfax tell her before he died – and if he did, does that mean it was the kiss? Or both. BASTARD. The one, then the other, when he could have survived either … Léo clenches his jaw. She knows, that’s all. As though he has been walking around naked for months. And when he kissed her, she must have thought – what did she think? No wonder she’s angry with him. The thought of her anger makes his skin prickle with shame and resentment. She has no right.
He’s in the library, at his desk in the archive, trying to analyse Harnoncourt’s Third Rule. But he can’t stop thinking about her. You would have done anything to win. It wasn’t that. It wasn’t. He can’t bear the thought of her judging him. All this time he’s been trying to speak to her he thought he’d go mad. He was haunted by the memor
y of her body against his, mixing with his dreams until he wasn’t sure what was real, what was her and what was Carfax, years ago. It hurt to think about her and yet he couldn’t resist. Her eyes, her mouth. You never looked at me … It’s driving him mad. That exchange, in the corridor … It would have been better not to see her at all. If only they had been somewhere private. If only he could tell her … what? There’s nothing, no magic word. No winning move. Even if he told her that he loved—
Carfax, Léo thinks. That he loved Carfax.
Then he thinks: her.
He stares at the wall. Mad. Of course he doesn’t love her. Not love. Desire, yes, although she’s prickly, plain, rebarbative. Desire because he’s lonely and frustrated, because she makes him laugh and think and work for her approval, desire because he was drunk and because she looked so much like Carfax in a certain light … But that’s all. Nothing more. Nothing more than a lightening of the heart when she smiles at him, a fierce raw happiness that she exists, that they’re under the same roof, that for a few seconds she didn’t push him away. A sense that whatever game they’re playing, it’s at the centre of the universe. Is that love?
It isn’t only that she’s like Carfax; it’s the differences, too, the lines under her eyes, the fact that she’s Magister Ludi, the softness she tries to hide. If he closes his eyes, it’s her face, not Carfax’s, that surfaces. Until it ripples, like a reflection, and for a moment he can see them both, superimposed; and then his guilt floods back, and the moment has passed. What is he thinking? It’s his fault Carfax is dead – she thinks so too – and this is self-indulgent, pathetic. He has no right. And it’s not only ridiculous, it’s hopeless. She despises him. That’s clear from how she spoke to him. And even if she didn’t … Magisters are celibate, nominally at least; perhaps a few of them bend the rule, discreetly, but she couldn’t risk it. Too many people would be pleased to see her dismissed. If he loves her … He grimaces. It was different, when he kissed her, thinking that was all he wanted. Now he’s struck by the enormity of it; and the impossibility. Love.
Can’t we go back …? he’d said, and she said, No.
The dinner bell rings. He clutches at the distraction. Hurriedly he tidies his desk and straightens his tie. Then he runs down the stairs to the main library, and stops dead.
Emile.
It takes him by surprise, so he almost trips up. His head has been so full of Claire and Carfax that he’d almost forgotten that Emile had arrived. He catches himself on the banister. Emile turns, and smiles. ‘Léo,’ he says. He’s holding a book, flicking through the pages. ‘Good to see you.’
‘Emile.’ He regains his balance. ‘Thanks for keeping in touch.’
‘Not at all. My pleasure.’
‘And for sending …’ He gestures. ‘The parcels.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Emile inclines his head. ‘My dear chap, it wasn’t charity. You earnt them.’
The letters. When Emile was miles away, it was easier to rationalise them; now, face to face, he feels the humiliation of it. He’s been so obedient, so useful. A servant. Frightened into compliance. He says, ‘I didn’t realise you were coming.’
‘I must say it brings back memories, doesn’t it?’ Emile puts down the book he’s holding and turns to take in the bookshelves and the empty desks. Of course, the Gold Medal was announced today: no one is studying tonight. He inhales theatrically. ‘Ah, the smell of youth and scholarship!’ He slides a hand neatly into his pocket and gets out his cigarette case.
The bell stops ringing. ‘Well then,’ Léo says, ‘shall we …?’ He starts to move towards the door.
‘Drop in on me later, won’t you?’ Emile says. ‘They’ve been very kind and found me a small suite above the Lesser Hall. Do come. I have some excellent brandy.’
‘I don’t think—’
‘No, I insist.’ He puts a cigarette between his lips and gets a box of matches out of his pocket. He lights his cigarette and flicks the match sideways without checking that it’s extinguished. It lands under one of the desks. He takes a long drag and blows smoke into the air.
Léo stifles the urge to crouch down to check it’s gone out. For a second he’s reminded, unpleasantly, of himself when he first got here, flicking matches in the Magisters’ courtyard. Now he understands how Claire felt. ‘You can’t smoke in here.’ He says it loudly, but the librarian at the far end of the room stays hunched over his ledger, studiously not noticing.
Emile laughs. ‘Well, I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.’
‘The books …’
‘Relax. The most valuable ones have been taken off the shelves, I believe.’
‘What? Why?’
An expression slides on and off Emile’s face like water, too quick to read. Then he blows a smoke ring towards the ceiling and says, ‘Come to my rooms later. I mean it.’
‘I have an article to write.’
‘You’ll regret it if you don’t.’ He smiles, as though it softens the words. Then he turns and walks away – not towards the refectory, but the other direction – before Léo has time to answer.
He leaves it as late as he can, but he’s too restless to resist. It’s either Emile or staying alone in his room thinking about Claire; and right now a bit of Party gossip might be a relief. He tries to ignore the mosquito-sting of his vanity when he knocks at Emile’s door like a scholar who’s been summoned by a Magister.
‘Martin,’ Emile calls. ‘Come in. Have a drink.’
The room is larger than Léo’s. It’s bright and warm with the honeyed breath of candles; light gleams on a white tablecloth and the bulbs of wineglasses, and one wall is covered with a dusty-looking hanging. There’s no bed, but then Emile said rooms, plural, didn’t he? So much for the Magister Domus insisting that Léo’s room under the clock was the only one available for guests.
Emile waves him to a chair. ‘Sit down, sit down. How was dinner? Brandy?’
‘Thank you.’ He takes it and sits, pushing aside a dirty plate with a napkin crumpled in its centre. Several people have had their dinner around this table. He remembers noticing that two of the Magisters weren’t in the refectory. So Emile is playing host, now, is he? Is that why he’s here, to ingratiate himself? ‘You asked me to come here. What did you want?’
Emile’s eyebrow goes up. ‘Manners, dear boy. You’re not Magister Scholarium yet, you know.’
He doesn’t pay attention to that. He reaches for the box of cigarettes across the table; when he takes one Emile strikes a match and leans forward to light it for him. Reluctantly he says, ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome. It’s good to see you, you know.’ There’s a pause. Emile smiles. ‘By the way, I’ve left the Ministry for Information. Did you hear? I’m in your old department now.’
‘I see.’ The news squeezes his gut like a fist. Is Emile in his old office? Do the secretaries giggle and bat their eyelashes at him, or the aides straighten their ties when he walks into the room? ‘Congratulations.’
‘There may be some more changes there soon. Dettler has never been up to the job. You were a hard act to follow.’
‘Thanks.’
Emile leans back in his chair. ‘What’s the matter, Léo?’
‘Nothing.’ The tastes of tobacco and brandy scald his tongue. He taps his cigarette on the rim of an abandoned wineglass, although it’s hardly burnt down. ‘You said I’d regret not coming to see you. So what’s up?’
‘Oh, Léo …’ Emile laughs, but it doesn’t take away the mockery. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. Honestly, did you imagine …? I wanted to catch up, that’s all. Get your impressions of Montverre face to face.’ He looks away, brushing a bit of ash from his trouser leg. ‘I feel for you, Léo, getting shoved back into this bloody place.’
‘It hasn’t been so bad,’ Léo says, but he isn’t sure Emile hears him.
‘Personally, I’d go mad.’ There’s a pause. Emile takes a gulp of brandy, throwing his head back with uncharacteristic abandon. He’s st
aring out of the window at the dark outline of the Square Tower against the night sky, visible behind the reflected candles. It’s never occurred to Léo before that Emile had any strong feelings about Montverre, let alone this deep hatred; and perhaps, after all, he’s mistaken, because Emile turns smoothly and refills both their glasses. ‘It takes one back to the days of one’s youth, doesn’t it? Worse for you, I imagine. Had you met our Magister Ludi before you came here?’
‘What?’ The blood rushes to his face and his heart at once. He doesn’t want to talk about Claire. He’ll betray himself. ‘No. When would I have met her?’
‘Oh, I wondered if … You were Carfax’s friend. Close.’
Léo shakes his head. He must have been the only person in the world not to know that she was Carfax’s sister, and a de Courcy; but then, he spent all those years trying not to think about Montverre, turning the page of the newspaper whenever he saw it mentioned.
‘Ah well. I hadn’t either. I’ll have to get to know her better after the Midsummer Game.’ He sips his brandy daintily, as if it was his first glass. ‘She gave me quite a turn when I saw her at the window. Nothing like her photo in the Gambit, but then I suppose they were trying to make her look pretty. Uncanny, isn’t it?’
There’s something about Emile’s tone that sets his teeth on edge. ‘What is?’
‘Don’t be disingenuous, Léo.’ Emile runs a finger through a candle flame; tiny flares of smoke curl upwards like diacritics. ‘How are you two getting on, by the way? You haven’t said much about her in your more recent letters. Has your dislike mellowed?’
‘Somewhat.’
‘As I remember, your dislike of Carfax mellowed significantly.’
Léo’s thighs twitch, telling him to get to his feet; but that might give him away. He drinks, and drinks again, dipping his nose into the glass. The brandy makes his lips tingle. He’s lost his tolerance for alcohol. ‘Tell me more about your new job,’ he says.
‘Oh, it’s planning, mainly. Strategy, implications, all that sort of thing. Not much actual culture, but that suits me … I have a finger in a few different pies.’ Emile pushes the brandy bottle towards him, sliding it across the tablecloth. ‘Consulting.’
The Betrayals Page 29