The Betrayals(122)

Léo says slowly, ‘I was afraid, so I gave Emile what he wanted. It was cowardly. But I didn’t realise he’d use my letters to hurt you. Don’t you believe me?’

In a way it’s a relief that she doesn’t have to decide, that it doesn’t make a difference. ‘I’m leaving now,’ she says. ‘Goodbye, Léo.’

She doesn’t assume he will fight for her – doesn’t want him to – but all the same it registers like a bruise when all he says is, ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m not sure. The capital, probably. A hotel somewhere.’

‘Not back to your chateau to start a grand jeu?’ For a second she doesn’t know what he means, and then she remembers: a summer day, the cavernous space above the Great Hall, a moment when they might have touched. Her old fantasy-terror, of Montverre in ruins – and her old arrogance, to think that, whatever happened, the grand jeu would be enough.

‘I’m not twenty any more,’ she says, ‘neither of us is,’ and he winces. ‘And I sold the chateau.’

‘I see.’

‘Maybe I’ll see you again.’

‘Maybe …’ he says, and she doesn’t know if he’s agreeing or merely echoing what she’s said. Now he looks old. He glances at her and perhaps he sees something in her face, because all of a sudden he straightens his shoulders and the spark comes back into his eyes. He says, faintly self-mocking, ‘I don’t know what to do. If I can’t come with you.’

She holds his gaze, determined not to speak. It isn’t her problem to solve; it isn’t fair to ask her to imagine how much it will hurt, later, to know that he might have been at her side.

‘I’m still afraid,’ he says. After a moment he gives her a wry smile. ‘I can’t go back to politics, and even if I wanted to run my dad’s old scrapyard business, someone else is looking after that now. It’s going to be very empty … But not just that. After what I said to Emile, he’s got it in for me. He threatened me and I told him to do his worst. I’ll be lucky if I don’t have to leave the country.’

Doesn’t he know? But perhaps he’s been here all night, waiting, and the sound of the police bells didn’t reach this corridor … ‘Emile’s dead.’

‘What?’

‘It looks as though he fell. They found his body this morning. The police came.’

Léo’s expression doesn’t change, but she has the impression of things moving behind his eyes, like a whirlwind beyond a stone wall. ‘Are you sure?’

She doesn’t bother to answer that. ‘Did you say those things to anyone else?’

‘No,’ he says.

‘So you haven’t burnt your bridges,’ she says, and abruptly the theme of the Bridges of K?nigsberg asserts itself in her head, jaunty and smug and insoluble. She can remember how they laughed at it together, united in their dislike; how she used it to mimic the other scholars, and Léo begged her to stop, holding his sides. It brings a sudden ache into her throat, piercing and sharp-edged. After everything he’s done, he’s still the only person who’s seen her like that.

She catches her breath. ‘Goodbye, then.’

‘Goodbye.’ He gets to his feet, stumbling slightly as though the floor isn’t where he thought it would be. He leans towards her. But if she kisses him, she will never be able to leave. She steps back. It’s not enough, though: she can’t not look at him.

He holds her gaze. There is nothing on his face, no mask. If he can carry all of himself into a grand jeu this is what it will look like. It takes her breath away.

He says, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘No. Listen.’ He raises his hand to cut her off, a quick short movement like a reversed stramazon. That sense of the grand jeu comes and goes at the edge of her mind, like the sound of the sea. He bites his lower lip and steps towards the window. ‘You’re right. I was always jealous of you. Even when we were friends, I wanted to be better than you. I wanted to be more intelligent. I wanted the Gold Medal. When I submitted the Red game …’ He draws in a breath. ‘It was brilliant. But I knew they might hate it. If you’d won, then I would have been glad. Honestly. But … I took the risk, knowing that it might go wrong. I never admitted it to myself, that part of me wanted to beat you. Wanted to see you fail. Because I did love you. I still love you. But I can’t – get rid of …’ He clenches his fist over his breastbone, as if he’s dragging something out of his chest. ‘I’m sorry. I wanted to be the best. I did.’

There’s a silence. She wishes she didn’t understand, but she does. This is the game they have always played, full of desire and hostility, reflections and shadows. At least now he’s being honest.

‘I never even met your brother,’ he says, at last. ‘I’m sorry for your sake that he died. But to know you’re alive, you … Even if you leave like this, even if I never see you again. It wasn’t you that came back to life, it was me.’

He smiles at her. She smiles back. She can feel the walls of regret and loss closing in: but for now they’re in the space between them, still with room to breathe.

She says, ‘Be Magister Ludi.’