The Betrayals Page 3

  Léo shoves his change into his pocket. He bends his head as he joins the stream of people surging through the ticket office, afraid that someone will recognise him; but they’re all too intent on themselves. They have to summon taxis, get trunks loaded, find the grandly named hotels before the sun gets too fierce. No one looks twice at Léo. He ducks into a grimy little café and watches until the square in front of the station is empty again, waiting in the quiet sunshine for the next train. There’s a newspaper on the bar, and he catches sight of the headline: Minister for Culture’s Shock Resignation. But he doesn’t reach for it. Dettler showed him a draft a couple of days ago. ‘If there are any suggestions you would like to make, Minister?’ he said, offering Léo a blue pencil with a funeral director’s delicacy. ‘It’ll be in Monday’s paper; that way you’ll be safely— that is, you won’t be too troubled by the attention.’ But Léo waved the pencil away. He didn’t care any more what they said about him; and he still doesn’t. He drags his eyes away from the paper, sits down at a table in the window and opens the cheap novel he’s bought. It’s a translation from the English, a detective story: the sort of thing Chryseïs devours in one go, curled on the chaise longue with a box of chocolate creams. He doesn’t know what made him buy it, except that he can’t think of any other way to pass the time. But after he’s read the first page three times he puts it aside. When the National Heritage Bill goes through, fiction will be taxed to the hilt and foreign fiction will be virtually unaffordable, even for people like him. What was it the Old Man said? We must find ways to cherish and protect our national game, which – as you know, Léo – is so much more than a game … At the time Léo thought he was right; or, at least, not wrong enough to warrant disagreement. He never disagreed with the Old Man, that was how he rose so high, so quickly. Not until the Culture and Integrity Bill.

  He gets up. The waiter, who has been slouching in the shadows doing a crossword, jumps to his feet and says, ‘What can I get you, sir?’ but Léo is already slipping out of the door. The station clock chimes ten. Only ten! Maybe he’ll get the car sent early. He walks up the hill towards the Palais Hotel, but when he gets there the foyer is full of people. A portly woman in a plumed hat is gesturing fiercely at the proprietor. ‘His father stayed in the Arnauld Suite thirty years ago,’ she says. ‘I requested it especially – yes, but why hasn’t the maid been able to …?’ Léo turns aside without bothering to listen to the rest. He walks up the street until he reaches the end, a little run-down church and a few ramshackle houses. A path leads up into the forest, climbing steeply, but there’s no signpost. It might be a shortcut to the school, or it might be merely a goatherd’s track up to the high pastures or Montverre-les-Bains. It’s not the road he slogged up on foot as a scholar, at the beginning of every term – the road he’ll be driven up this afternoon, while the gradient pushes him back in his seat and the chauffeur winces at every pothole. He can pause here, leaning on a tumbledown wall, without being reminded of anything.

  He shuts his eyes. The sun is bright through his eyelids. He wonders whether the Palais does a decent lunch, or whether it’ll be the same indigestible mixture of cheese and stodge that they gave him for dinner. ‘The best hotel in Montverre, sir,’ Dettler’s new secretary had said, as she held out his tickets and itinerary the day before yesterday, without meeting his eyes. ‘I do hope it will be suitable.’ Part of him wants to write a terse note to her, suggesting that if she wants to ingratiate herself with Party officials, he doesn’t recommend exposing them to bedbugs and heartburn; but it’s not worth it, now he’s not a Party official. Anyway, he’s spoilt. The first time he stayed in Montverre he didn’t even have a hotel room, just a bed in a smelly lean-to that was clearly a scullery for the rest of the year, in a house where the family looked at him without warmth and asked him for extra money for the soap he’d used. Yes, now he remembers – it had been one of his father’s clerks who had booked it for him, which meant his father must have given instructions not to spend more than necessary. But he hadn’t minded much, even though he had to walk for ten minutes in the pre-dawn chill before he got to the signpost, that first time; he can still remember looking up at it, Schola Ludi 5½, and the electric jolt of realising that at last he was really here. He’d got up hours earlier than he needed to, determined to be the first at the school gates, and the stars were still out. The sweep of the galaxy above him was richer and clearer than he’d ever seen. He stood and breathed, glad to be alone, his head full of ambition and the grand jeu. He’d left his trunk at the Town Hall the day before to be picked up by the porters, so all he had to carry was a knapsack. He knocked on the signpost for luck, took a deep breath, and set off as if he had a whole range of mountains to climb before dawn.

  His pace slackened quickly, and the burn in his calves started to spread upwards. After a while he forgot to look about him and walked in a dream, his head bowed. It nearly made him trip over his own feet when some unconscious impulse made him glance up, and he saw someone on the path in front of him, in the same dark uniform. The first thing he felt was outrage: he was going to be the first to Montverre, not this skinny youth standing still in the middle of the track, staring at nothing. The sky was deep blue, now, ripe with the promise of sunrise, and the shapes of things were starting to emerge from the shadows, newly solid. It should have been beautiful, but he wanted to be alone, the first …

  ‘What are you doing?’

  The youth looked round. There was something unexpected about his face, something Léo couldn’t put his finger on. ‘Looking,’ he said. The softness of his voice seemed to mock Léo’s rudeness.

  ‘Looking at what?’

  He didn’t answer. Instead he raised his arm, his hand open. Something in the grace of it reminded Léo of the opening gesture of the grand jeu: here, it said, is my creation, which you have no choice but to admire.

  Léo squinted. ‘I can’t see anything.’ Then he did.

  A cobweb. It was huge, a billowing sail of silver, glinting and flickering as the breeze tugged it back and forth, stretching right across the path. Trembling on every intersection were tiny beads of dew: sparkling blue where the light from the sky caught them, dim and star-ridden in the shadows. Léo stared, full of a strange rush of elation and melancholy that was like home-sickness for somewhere he’d never been. It was the feeling he got when he watched a perfect grand jeu – and this was as symmetrical and intricate as a game, a perfect classical game. He wanted to have discovered it himself; if this other boy hadn’t been here …

  He stepped forward – felt the infinitesimal cling of threads on his face – and through. A broken shred of gauze clung to his sleeve.

  ‘Didn’t you see? You tore right through – there was a spider’s web.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, picking the grey strands off his coat. ‘Right. Is that what you were gaping at?’

  ‘It was beautiful,’ the other scholar said, as if it was an accusation.

  Léo shrugged. ‘I have to get going,’ he said, and jerked his chin towards the path that led upwards. ‘I guess I’ll see you around.’

  He felt the scholar stare after him. But what else was he supposed to do? The cobweb had been across the whole path; someone would have ripped it down eventually. He refused to let it bother him. He was on his way up to the school, and he was going to be first.

  And in the excitement of going through the gates and crossing the famous threshold he almost forgot about that encounter. Then later, when he was trying to find his way from the scholars’ corridor down to the dining hall, Felix had bounded towards him, hand outstretched, and said, all in one breath, ‘Are you new too? I’m Felix Weber, I’m lost, this place is a maze, let’s try this way,’ and they turned down a new passage as a door opened further along. There, heavy-eyed and dishevelled, was the young man he’d met on the path. Automatically Léo’s eyes went to the name above the door. Aimé Carfax de Courcy. ‘It’s you,’ he said, stupidly. ‘Hello.’

  ‘I’m Felix Weber,
’ Felix said. ‘We’re going to find something to eat. Are you a first-year too?’

  He glanced at Léo, and then nodded. ‘Carfax,’ he said.

  ‘Carfax de Courcy?’ Léo said, pointing to the neat white-painted lettering. ‘De Courcy, as in, the Lunatic of London Library?’

  ‘Edmund Dundale de Courcy was my grandfather.’

  Léo whistled through his teeth. A perverse bolt of envy went through him. What wouldn’t he have given to be here by birthright, not just exam results? He grinned, trying to conceal it. ‘Well, I hope the porters frisked you for matches.’

  Carfax looked at him, unsmiling. Without a word he pushed past them both and disappeared round the corner.

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’ Léo said. He’d only been trying to be funny; surely no one should be that sensitive about something that happened decades ago? ‘It was a joke.’

  ‘Obviously inherited the crazy strain,’ Felix said, and caught his eye. They both started to laugh at the same time, Felix with a high yelping giggle that echoed off the walls.

  But it was true, Léo thinks now. Wasn’t it? The signs were bloody obvious, even then.

  He opens his eyes. The sudden brightness is dazzling; he blinks and wipes away automatic tears. After a moment the bleached wavering shapes settle into houses and trees.

  He catches a movement at the edge of his vision. A man moves backwards into a patch of shade; a second later he drops to one knee and fumbles with his shoelaces. But although his head is bent, his eyes keep flicking back to Léo. He stays where he is for an improbably long time before he gets to his feet and lights a cigarette. The smoke drifts along the path, greyish in the sunshine.

  A watcher. It shouldn’t come as a surprise. But somehow it does, a sick shock of outrage rising in Léo’s belly. He wants to shout or throw a stone, as though the man’s a vulture he can scare away. He clenches his jaw. Stupid. Childish. Of course they’d send someone to follow him; of course they want to be sure he goes to Montverre. Possibly it’s a kind of courtesy to have let him spot the surveillance: or a warning. Do as you’re told. Otherwise there are steep cliffs and treacherous paths … He holds on to the fury, because he knows that underneath he’s afraid; and when he turns and walks down the path to the village – passing so close he nearly knocks the cigarette to the ground – it’s the other man who flinches, and he’s glad.

  He orders the car for an hour earlier. He has lunch in the hotel restaurant, looking out at the slope of the village, watching the rising trail of steam as the next train puffs into the station and away again. More first-years pour into the streets as he sips bad coffee and brandy. At last the clock chimes, and he pays his bill and makes his way out to the car. The chauffeur has already loaded his suitcases. He gets in and shuts his eyes. The road up the mountain is as steep and bumpy as he remembered. A tune goes round and round in his head, almost but not quite keeping time with the potholes. The Bridges of Königsberg, again. He opens his eyes and looks out of the window, trying to distract himself, but the game has taken hold of him and won’t go away. The bloody tune, the move into the Eulerian path, the mathematical proof, the sweep of Prussian history … It’s ungainly, awkward, and he’s always hated it. It’s the most overrated game ever played. As they drive up the final bend and come within sight of the gates, it reaches a crescendo. The chauffeur gets out of the car and knocks on the porters’ door to ask them to open the gates, and Léo gets out too, suddenly desperate for some fresh air. The music sings in his ears. He turns to look back the way they came, down towards the valley, the forest and the scattered waterfalls, the road disappearing out of sight. It’s almost the view he had from his cell when he was a scholar. The air is thinner up here and it’s hard to breathe.

  The gates open. The chauffeur says, ‘Excuse me, sir,’ and gets back into the driving seat.

  The tune pauses, and resumes with a new venom. Léo stays where he is. In a moment he’ll turn and smile at the gatekeeper, allow one of the servants to take him to his quarters, show himself to be charming and humble and achingly enthusiastic about the grand jeu. But this is his last moment of freedom, and he wants to make it last.

  Then he realises why, out of all the games in the world, it’s the Bridges of Königsberg that’s got stuck in his head. It’s not only his subconscious making him a snide present of a game he’s always despised. It’s because of the theme of the game: the impossible problem, the way it brings you back to the same bridges over and over, the way you never escape.

  3: the Magister Ludi

  She is standing at a window in the middle corridor, looking out over the courtyard at the Great Hall, letting the breeze cool her damp forehead and neck. She pushes one finger under the band of her cap, wishing she could take it off, irritated by the hot weight of her hair. Her undershirt is sticking to her. She has been working in the classroom behind her, enjoying the last quiet day before term begins, the calm away from the laughter and noise of the scholars, but the sweltering sun has finally driven her out. She puts her notes down on the windowsill and draws a long breath. The air that plays round her has a faint, delightful chill in it. On this side, in the shade, you can smell autumn coming.

  The clock chimes two. Then, droning underneath the bell, there’s the slow crescendo of an engine. At first, she thinks it must be the bus, struggling up the road with the first-years’ trunks; but the note is too smooth, with a deep rumble in it like a cello. She turns her head to listen. The wind sings a descant in the slates of the roof. She puts her elbows on the sill and leans out to look.

  The gate opens, and the sound sends a bird skirling up from the flagstones in a flash of wings. A couple of third-years – she recognises Collins from his walk, cocky as always, which means the other must be Muller – stop in the doorway of the refectory to watch. Then, slow as a drop of crude oil, a car rolls into view. It purrs to a halt outside the Magisters’ Entrance, and a man in a cap gets out, opens the trunk, and drags a leather-strapped suitcase to the door. He dumps it there, goes back to the car and brings out two more.

  She blows air out between her teeth. Where are the porters? Or the gatekeeper? There should be someone already hurrying up to explain that scholars are not allowed more than one medium-sized trunk, and that on no account may a car drive in to the school itself – that the violation of the environs of the Schola Ludi is grounds for immediate expulsion – that use of the Magisters’ Entrance is only for—

  The gatekeeper comes out of the lodge. He can’t miss the chauffeur, and that ostentatious pile of luggage blocking the Magisters’ Entrance; but he doesn’t say anything. Instead he pauses and waits for another man, leading him into the courtyard with a sweeping gesture of welcome. ‘… changed too much,’ she hears him say, the breeze scattering his words. The man behind him emerges into the space and looks round. He’s wearing a tan suit and fedora that looks out of place – absurd, in fact. Even from this angle she can make out the width of his lapels and the eau de Nil handkerchief in his pocket. ‘Like going back in time … the old place …’ she hears now, as he tilts his head back to take in the height of the Great Hall; then he swivels slowly, as if he’s absorbing the grandeur of the buildings. For an instant he looks straight up at where she’s standing. She catches sight of his face.

  For a moment she thinks she’s mistaken. She holds on to the sill, so still she’s hardly breathing.

  His gaze slides over her. The gatekeeper says something and he laughs, pushing his hands into his pockets. They saunter to the Magisters’ Entrance. The chauffeur tips his cap to them both, and gets back into the car. He turns it in a wide half-circle and drives out through the gate. No one closes it behind him. Collins and Muller cross to the middle of the courtyard and stare admiringly after the car as it goes down the road. The noise of its engine fades as Collins says, ‘… kill to have one like that.’

  She draws back from the window. She looks down at herself. Her cuffs are grimy. There’s an ink stain on her thumb. Her heart is beat
ing so hard the rest of her feels unreal: she could be floating in space, a ghost with a thundering pulse.

  She doesn’t know how long she stands there. When she looks out of the window again the courtyard is empty. Someone, finally, has shut the gate. The suitcases outside the Magisters’ Entrance have disappeared.

  She picks up her notes. Distantly she remembers writing them, but the ideas have lost their clarity; it’s like seeing them through a cloud of dust. All she can do now is try to find her way through to cleaner air. Her heartbeat has eased and some of the feeling has come back into her fingers and toes, but she still can’t quite catch her breath. She pauses, staring out at the courtyard, chewing her lower lip. Then she turns and begins to walk down the corridor, rapidly, as if she doesn’t want to have time to think.

  The Magister Scholarium is at his desk. He looks up when she opens the door, startled, as if it wasn’t his voice that told her to come in. ‘Ah,’ he says, ‘Magister Dryden. Do …’ He points at a chair, but she’s already sat down. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I saw—’ She sees his eyebrows go up. She takes a deep breath, folds her hands in her lap, and starts again. ‘Excuse me, Magister … A moment ago I was looking out of the window from the top corridor, and I saw a car drive in. And I thought I saw Léonard Martin getting out. He had quite a lot of luggage with him.’ She is trying so hard to keep her voice low that she sounds like an automaton.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ the Magister Scholarium says. ‘Yes, indeed. I’ve been meaning to have a word with you about that.’ He glances down at the page in front of him, hesitates and puts the lid on his fountain pen. ‘You’re quite right, it was Mr Martin you saw. He’s going to be staying with us for a little while. To study the grand jeu. I wondered whether you could possibly—’

  ‘Staying with us? Here?’