The Betrayals Page 7

  Léo sat through the rest of the lesson without moving. The furious heat of humiliation burnt through his body, leaving a dull inertia; he said nothing about Matthieu’s game, even though he could see quite clearly what was wrong with it. It didn’t matter, when the thought of his own games made him feel sick. If only Carfax hadn’t got it right … After a long time he looked up to see Felix standing over him, and the classroom half empty. ‘Come on, Martin, I’m starving. Poor old Matthieu, what an act to follow. Who would’ve thought Carfax had a sense of humour? Amazing. Magister Holt didn’t look too pleased, though, did he?’ Felix peered into his face. ‘Are you all right? You look like you’re going to throw up.’

  ‘Fine,’ Léo said. ‘I’m fine.’ At least Felix hadn’t spotted it; but then, Felix was never the sharpest observer in the room.

  ‘I don’t know why he didn’t let us discuss it. I’ve never seen a comic game, it was fantastic. We could’ve had some real arguments about that – you know, the place of laughter in worship, the – who was it, who said laughter is what distinguishes men from beasts? Was it Socrates?’

  ‘Aristotle.’ Léo got to his feet. ‘He said we laugh at people we feel superior to.’ He pushed past Felix and out of the classroom. He wove through the current of people in the corridor until he reached the bottleneck at the top of the stairs; then he had to slow down, resisting the urge to shove. The group in front of him were laughing. Behind him, Felix was saying something, but he didn’t look back.

  ‘Hey – Martin – where are you going?’

  He turned aside, ducked into the lavatories and stumbled into a cubicle. He had time to slam the door and slide the bolt across. Then he vomited.

  He raises his head, blinking away the memory. It was a long time ago. It’s absurd that he still remembers the taste of bile and the splash of freezing water on his face. And the way he strode into the refectory a few minutes before the end of lunch, glanced at the smouldering damp fire in the hearth and said, ‘Hey, de Courcy, can’t you find a couple of books to throw on that?’ He grimaces, and somehow the grimace turns into a long shuddering exhalation, not quite a laugh. It’s loud in the moonlit classroom, and it brings him back to himself. He rubs his thumb over the L on the desk. He doesn’t know if he wants to erase it or finish his name. It doesn’t matter now; he can’t do either.

  For days afterwards he dreamt of killing Carfax. He found the idea coming back to him again and again: some silent poison, or – no – a pillow held over Carfax’s face. There would be pleading, then a spasm of terror, a final gasp – or maybe flailing hands, if the pillow made gasping impossible – and then Léo would walk out, shut Carfax’s door gently behind him and stand in the corridor brushing non-existent dust off his sleeves, smiling to himself. It was easy to imagine: so childish, so like the villain of a melodrama, so satisfying. No retribution, no guilt: only that orgasmic moment of power, and then he could walk away. It comes back to him now so vividly it sends a shiver down his spine, as if it really happened. Abruptly he stands up, stumbles to the dais, and turns back to face the rows of empty desks. Carfax’s desk was the other side of the room, next to the aisle. He looks at it now: or rather, at the emptiness where Carfax would be. How many times did he stand here, meeting Carfax’s eyes? And hating, wishing him dead?

  He jabs his thumbnail into the base of his thumb, where there’s still a tiny scar. It was stupid of him to come up here, especially when he hasn’t slept. He has to pull himself together. If he goes on like this he’ll have a nervous breakdown. Carfax is long gone; there’s nothing to be gained in thinking about him.

  He goes out into the corridor. He’s clumsy when he picks the lamp up and he nearly drops it. He fumbles, steadies it and puts it back carefully on the windowsill; then immediately has to bend over, trembling, trying to get the breath back into his lungs. What’s happening to him? If he wanted to burn himself alive …

  ‘Who’s there?’

  He jolts upright. There’s a slim figure at the end of the corridor. ‘It’s me – Léo Martin.’

  ‘Martin? What on earth are you doing up here?’

  His vision steadies. White gown, bare head, a rope of dark hair falling over one shoulder. Magister Dryden – of course – with her plain square face, the narrow shoulders and hips … Of all the people in the school, the one he least wants to see him like this. She’s not wearing those thick bottle-glass spectacles, and it makes her look quite different; in the jumping, treacherous lamplight he almost thought—

  He shrugs. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  She doesn’t reply. A wave of intense fatigue goes through him. He could be at home now, in bed with Chryseïs; if he was lonely he could pull her into his arms, bury his face in the space at the base of her neck while she muttered and went back to sleep. Instead he’s in a chilly stone corridor, staring at this plain lanky woman who thinks she owns the place. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, too weary to defend himself. ‘I’ll go back to my rooms.’ He picks up the lamp with both hands.

  ‘Were you meeting someone?’

  ‘What?’ It takes him a second to understand, and then he can’t believe what she’s suggesting. ‘No. Of course not. There’s nothing up here but the classrooms.’

  She crosses her arms over her chest. ‘So? What are you doing here, then?’

  ‘I – I was – it’s been a long time, I wanted to see if …’ He shakes his head. ‘Look, what’s the problem? I haven’t touched anything.’

  ‘You can’t wander about like this.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She opens her mouth, but she doesn’t answer immediately. She runs her plait through her hand, letting it whisper against her skin. At last she says, ‘Has it changed?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The school. Since you were here.’

  ‘I—’ He stares at her and she glances away. He’d never met her before he came back here, and yet … No. He’s never known anyone called Dryden. He’s so tired that his brain is playing tricks on him. He tightens his grip on the base of the lamp. ‘In some ways. Hardly any of the Magisters are the same.’

  ‘There was an influenza epidemic here, a few years before I was elected.’

  ‘Yes. I heard about that. A very bad business,’ he adds, with a politician’s automatic gravity. Not that he cared much, at the time: Montverre seemed so far away that the list of deaths was no more than a number.

  She twists the rope of her hair, pulling it forward so that it lies across her cheek. In this light, her face could be anyone’s: especially now, with her eyes turned away, her gaze searching the window as if she can see beyond their reflections in the glass. ‘What was it like?’ she says. ‘When you were here before?’

  ‘It was—’ He stops. His head is spinning and his throat is tight. He’s done enough remembering tonight. He shrugs. ‘Much the same as when you were here, I imagine.’

  There’s a fractional pause; then she says, ‘What?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry.’ He turns aside, stuttering.

  ‘Sorry? What for?’ There’s a strange, warning note in her voice.

  ‘I forgot I was talking to – that you didn’t come here – that you’re a—’ What’s wrong with him? He’s blethering.

  ‘You’re sorry I’m a woman?’ She laughs, shortly.

  He opens his mouth, on the verge of saying, Yes, exactly. It’s true; she shouldn’t be here at all, let alone Magister Ludi. He can still remember the day she was elected, and the aide who brought him the Beacon, grimacing as he put it down on Léo’s desk. ‘What a balls-up,’ he’d said. ‘Goes to show Montverre can’t be trusted to run its own affairs.’ When Léo put down his pen and dragged the paper closer to read the headline, the aide added, ‘At least we didn’t get a crosser or a Commie. The Minister did something right. But honestly, we should’ve stepped in before they got to that shortlist. Blind submissions, give me strength! Everyone knows what that’s supposed to mean. Next time …’ Léo stared at that blurry photo, furious. How could they
have let it happen? Someone who hadn’t even studied at Montverre, chosen faute de mieux, because the others were even more unelectable. He could have thrown something.

  But he doesn’t say so; partly because he’s too tired, and partly because his own promotion came soon afterwards, when the Minister for Culture stepped down. He takes a breath. ‘It’s unusual, in the world of the grand jeu. How did you even learn to play?’

  ‘My family. I lived with my cousins for a while, in England. They were good players.’

  ‘They must have been.’ He smiles. ‘Do you ever wonder what your games would be like if you’d been a man?’

  ‘No.’

  He waits, but she doesn’t say anything else. ‘No,’ he says, eventually. ‘Well. It’s a waste of time to speculate, I suppose.’ Something makes him glance at the door to the classroom, and the rank of frosted windows. He can just make out the milky pallor of moonlight on the other side. ‘I dare say it wouldn’t have suited you here, anyway. It’s very competitive. A lot of ambition, rivalry, and so on. Not a suitable place for a woman. That is, I’m sure you do a very good job as Magister Ludi.’

  ‘Good night, Mr Martin,’ she says, turning away. ‘Please return to your rooms without waking anyone, won’t you?’

  He watches her go. She doesn’t have a lamp, but she knows her way. She brushes the wall with her fingertips as she turns the corner towards the staircase. He catches himself thinking that she’s doing it deliberately, to show that Montverre is hers, and clenches his jaw. He shouldn’t let her get under his skin – she’s only a woman, why should he care if she loathes him? – but she’s not like any other woman he knows. It’s as if she’s forgotten who she’s supposed to be; and he can’t help being drawn into her world, where he’s not only alien but inferior. Perhaps she would have fitted in as a scholar, after all.

  He leaves it a long time before he follows her down the stairs and into the Magisters’ wing. There’s no sign of her. He’s glad. He goes back to his rooms without pausing. The clock strikes three as he walks along the corridor. When he finally gets to his bedroom he’s too cold to undress. He crawls under the blankets as he is, in shirt and trousers, and within seconds he’s asleep.

  7

  Fifth day of Serotine Term

  I was too fed up to write yesterday, but I suppose I should explain – if only for when this is consulted for my biography (working title: Léonard Martin: the Life and Times of the Youngest Magister Ludi).

  So. Yesterday. After meditation I went to the library – I’ve been looking at the Oxford, Paul said the other day that it ‘reeks of histrionic Christ-worship’ but it seems OK to me – and stayed there until dinner time. I was crossing the courtyard to the refectory when I saw Emile and Dupont coming out of the classroom wing. Emile called my name and beckoned me over. ‘Have you seen?’ he said. ‘Did it come as a shock?’

  I said, ‘Seen what?’

  They exchanged a look. A smirk, I should say. Dupont jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘It’s on the noticeboard,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ It was too early for the first week’s marks to be out. ‘Have I – has someone been kicked out?’ I had a tiny moment of panic in case the school had found out about some of the stuff I did over the summer. I’ve never heard of anyone being sacked for lack of chastity off the premises, but technically bringing the school into disrepute is a sackable offence.

  ‘Don’t worry, dear boy,’ Emile said, ‘it’s nothing like that.’ He swapped another glance with Dupont and tittered.

  I didn’t pause long enough to give him a dirty look. I walked with speed but dignity into the scholars’ wing and broke into a run as soon as I was out of sight. There was a crowd in front of the noticeboard, and when I got there Felix turned round. He was grinning, but when he saw me his face changed and he looked at me like a vet who was about to shoot my dog. ‘What’s up?’ I said. ‘Has something happened?’ My only thought by then was that the government had fallen, or something like that, but there was something too personal in the way Felix was attempting a sympathetic expression.

  ‘Have a look,’ he said, and pushed someone aside so I could get close enough to see.

  Second-Year Pairings for Joint Games. The first time I read it, it didn’t make sense; then it did. I felt my heart start to thud as I read down the list, until I got to my name. But I’d known what it would say from the moment I saw the title, written out in Magister Holt’s neat block capitals and underlined in red.

  LÉONARD MARTIN & AIMÉ CARFAX DE COURCY.

  Someone said, ‘But – they’ve never assigned partners before! I was supposed to be with Mirabeau …’

  I couldn’t speak. I stared at the list. Most people had been averaged out – Felix was with Paul, Emile was with Jacob – which meant it was even worse that Carfax and I had been put together.

  Felix said, ‘At least you two will be top of the class. You’ll walk it.’

  I didn’t deign to answer that. I would rather be with anyone – anyone, Felix and Jacob included – than Carfax. And I may sound self-absorbed, but this whole thing is clearly about me (well, us). Magister Holt has got some kind of bee in his bonnet about our ‘unfriendly rivalry’ and thinks this is a good way to make us work together. Damn him. I can’t even go to the Magister Scholarium, because I know what he’d say: you’re here to learn, trust the Magister Ludi, put aside personal differences, the game is after all an act of worship, blah blah blah.

  At dinner it was all anyone could talk about. Everyone was sympathising with me, which should have made me feel a bit better – at least no one else likes Carfax, either – but didn’t. And Carfax was nowhere to be seen.

  It’s hard enough to write a joint game at all, but with someone you can’t bloody stand—

  Later

  Well, that was perfect timing.

  As I was writing that last sentence there was a knock at the door. When I opened it Carfax was standing there. He sort of blenched when he saw me, as if he thought I was going to hit him. Apparently he thinks I’m a psychopath as well as an idiot.

  He said, ‘Have you seen the notice about joint games?’

  I said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right.’

  I started to close the door. He said, ‘Is there any chance we can talk about this like grown-ups?’

  ‘What do you want to talk about?’

  ‘Well – what sort of game we want to play. How we want to work together.’ He pushed the door further open so that I had to step backwards. ‘Look … let’s make this as easy as possible, all right? Let’s write the game and move on.’

  I didn’t want to agree with him but in fact he was right. ‘Fine.’

  ‘We don’t have to be friends.’

  ‘Just as well,’ I said. ‘You don’t have friends, do you, Carfax? You only have inferiors and enemies.’

  ‘At least we’re not enemies, then.’ He gave me that look, as if he’s inside my head and faintly amused by what he can see.

  ‘Very fucking funny,’ I said, and shut the door on him. This time he didn’t stop me, but a second later he knocked again. I didn’t open up. ‘Go away.’

  ‘We’ve got a free class tomorrow after Historiae. Come to my room and we can talk through some ideas.’

  ‘Your ideas?’

  ‘Any ideas.’ I heard him add something obscene under his breath. ‘Do you have a better plan?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, still without opening the door. ‘Let’s do this by correspondence. Write it all down and put it in my pigeonhole. I’ll do the same for you. That way we never even have to speak to each other.’

  He said, ‘Perfect.’ I couldn’t tell whether he was being sarcastic or not, but he didn’t say anything else and when I opened the door he’d gone.

  So I guess that’s the way we’ll do it, then. Obviously it involves a certain amount of effort – I was going to write, unnecessary effort: but frankly anything that means I don’t have to look at his face is worth every moment.

&
nbsp; You know, what I hate most about him is the person he makes me into.

  Seventh day of Serotine Term

  Just got back from leaving my notes for the joint game in Carfax’s pigeonhole. I’ve been thinking about surrealism and dreams – something weird and disjointed, a kind of beautiful monstrosity – Shakespeare, Purcell, ‘a change came o’er the spirit of my dream’, a recurring motif that develops into something else … I don’t know, all very vague ideas at the moment. Different from my usual stuff where I plot it all precisely and make sure everything is clever and harmonious … I have to admit I’m thinking about how to do ‘authentic’, because I really want to do well this term. It galls me to try to placate Magister Holt, especially now, but I imagine it’s the politic thing to do. (Curse him.) Anyway, I reckon it could work. Assuming Carfax doesn’t deliberately sabotage it or insist we do something deadly dull. No doubt he’ll come up with some complex, esoteric idea about maths and music to make me sweat. All served up with the usual de Courcy arrogance, and technically perfect, of course. (Curse him, too.)

  On my way back I came past Jacob’s room. He was loitering outside, looking helplessly from side to side as if he was trying to cross a busy road. As soon as he saw me he called, ‘Martin! Come in here,’ and steered me into his bedroom. (I thought about making some crack about most people buying me a drink first, but didn’t.) ‘Listen!’ he said, and hissed at me when I started to ask what we were listening for, so we stood there in silence for a couple of minutes. ‘Can you hear it?’

  ‘Hear what, Jacob?’

  ‘The crying!’

  I listened again. ‘Er, no,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, bugger,’ he said, ‘it’s stopped. It did this last time.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. His cap was standing up like a mushroom, and he’d got ink stains on his face. ‘Are you having a funny turn? Do you want me to call the Magister Domus?’