The Betrayals(102)
She begins.
He can’t remember the last time he watched a grand jeu. Once or twice in the last few years he’s shown his face at a gala or a charity event, but he only ever sat through one movement at the most before slipping out into the bar for a drink with other Party members; his secretary knew to book him the seat next to the aisle. For the few minutes that he was in the crowded hall he’d hardly pay attention to the player – he saw Philidor’s last performance and can’t remember a single gesture – because he’d be subtly scanning faces, calculating who would be a useful person to know, who should be avoided if possible, and which fat old industrialist should be the recipient of Chryse?s’ charm that night. He thought of the grand jeu the way he’d think of a gramophone or a wireless: background, a mere irritant. So now – watching Magister Dryden, trying to concentrate … it’s a strange feeling, like taking up a book after years of refusing to read. He knows he’s missing nuances in her delivery that ten years ago he would have absorbed effortlessly. And his understanding and attention span are rusty, so that when he loses the thread of the first transition he spends the next few minutes trying to make sense of it, missing more and more, a vague panic rising. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to bring himself back into the present moment. But after that first slippery lapse, he relaxes. Magister Dryden is easy to watch; there’s an authority about her, a knowledge of her own strength, that won’t let anyone look away. Her performance is precise, but it has the fluency of passion; as she moves from a quiet, simple opening into something deeper, more complex, he can almost see the ideas hanging in the air. Around him there’s the rustle of paper as the others turn the page, more or less in synchrony.
And now she brings in the motif. He has always loved this moment, especially in the great classical games: when the elegance of the resultance, an exercise in restraint and seduction, gives way to something deeper, more human. He takes in a long breath, slow and silent, and around him he senses the audience sharing his anticipation. And she does it justice – holding a rest a beat longer than she ought to, conceding to them in silent complicity, before she makes the move. It’s clean and melodic, with a kind of rightness, setting off echoes and resonances like a song that he’s forgotten but once knew well. The musical element is Beethoven, the Tempest; and the maths is lovely too, letting order form out of disorder, underlined by fragments of poetry. Yes, it’s beautiful. She’s beautiful. But that sense of recognition rises, stronger now, and with it a sour, greasy taste. Nothing of him that doth fade …
He tries to sit still. But as she winds her way further into the maze of abstraction – with such clarity that he can almost see the thread of her thoughts – a scum of nausea washes into the back of his throat. He knows where this game is going; and it’s not because he knows Magister Dryden. It’s changed – sea-changed – but it can’t be coincidence. He remembers leaning over to Carfax and saying, ‘It’s overwhelming. You need to pull it back,’ and Carfax retorting, ‘Yes, well, storms often are.’ She’s edited it, but it’s the same grand jeu.
She’s stolen it.
He opens his programme. He’s clumsy, and Andersen shoots him a dirty look as the pages flap. Other people turn to look as he flips forward – it’s bad form, but he doesn’t care – to the middle movement, then, fumbling, to the dénouement and the conclusure. He has to blink to focus. He wants to be wrong. But he isn’t. It’s been transformed, but the bones of the grand jeu are the same, even down to his own suggestions. Those are pearls that were his eyes … I’ll drown my book … He shuts the programme harder than he means to, and the sound is as loud as a single clap. Magister Dryden doesn’t falter, but she heard. Another flush creeps over her face, like the sun shining through a single red window. Her gaze slides towards him and away, without settling. No wonder she didn’t want him here. The one person who might realise that she’s cheated.
How dare she? It should be Carfax standing here, performing that game. She has no right …
He swallows. He can’t do this. He digs his nails into the back of his neck, but he can’t make the pain last; it burns and fades, and even when he adjusts his grip and tries again, it blurs into a single hot ache. He must look like a madman, clutching his own vertebrae as if he’s afraid his head will fall off. He lowers his hand and knots his fingers in his lap. Magister Dryden glides into a graceful transition. Behind her, in his line of vision, even Dettler is sitting up straighter. She has them hanging on her every gesture: even if they still don’t think a woman should be Magister Ludi, they can’t look away. She’ll triumph. With Carfax’s game.
Breathe. He shuts his eyes and tries to think of something else. He shoves images into his mind’s eye like magic lantern slides: his old flat in town, Chryse?s asleep in pale sheets, Mim’s garden, the railway station, the top of the Square Tower under winter stars … But they flicker, insubstantial. If things had been different, it would have been Carfax in the terra. Unless it was Léo himself. In that other life, one of them would be Magister Ludi, one Magister Scholarium: which way round wouldn’t have mattered. They might have written the games together. One of them would be standing there, in command of the space.
Instead, Magister Dryden has taken – plagiarised … How dare she? It’s more Léo’s game than hers: all right, she’s edited it, but he was there when Carfax wrote it, he affected the direction it took, if it hadn’t been for him—