The Betrayals(124)
‘No one really knows. A servant found his body this morning.’ There’s a slight movement from Vouter – just a sideways glance, quickly quashed, but enough to make Dettler clear his throat and add, ‘The police have been and gone, but there’s no sign of foul play.’
In spite of himself, Léo says, ‘Emile would hardly have—’
Dettler says, ‘This place is a deathtrap. Old buildings, not properly maintained, no decent lighting. If anything I’m amazed there haven’t been more accidents.’
Vouter’s eyes slide to Léo and away again.
‘It merely goes to show what I’ve always said,’ Dettler goes on, more loudly. ‘We need a fresh start. Not some outdated monastery of a school, but a bright new future.’
‘But …’ Léo looks up to the top of the Square Tower. The battlements aren’t low enough to stumble over. Are they? ‘Do they think Emile was drunk?’
‘The police were entirely in agreement that it was an accident.’ Dettler gives him a long look. ‘Best not to dwell on it. Which is not to say it’s not a tragedy for us all.’
Vouter coughs and Guez flicks a spent match on to the tiles. Nobody is looking at anybody else. And abruptly Léo understands. Dettler wants it hushed up as quickly as possible. No awkward questions. Which means … was it convenient, or even deliberate? Léo’s been afraid of a shove in the dark, a poisoned fruit, a greased step, but perhaps after all it’s Emile who made too many enemies.
Tension grows between his shoulder blades. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘It’s a great loss for the Party.’ The shiny patch of damp on the tiles is beginning to evaporate. In another life, Emile would already be on the telephone to his office, with a few well-chosen words about Léo’s future, or summoning the police to conduct a thorough search for Charpentier. Instead, Léo can stand here with the others, and no one heard him say fuck the Party. Two lives saved, then. But mixed with the relief there’s a tiny, treacherous hint of regret.
‘Actually, Martin,’ Dettler says, ‘there’s something I want to speak to you about.’ He holds out his arm to usher Léo away from the others. ‘The Old Man has always had a soft spot for you, you know, even though there was that hiccup last summer … What are your plans for the next few years?’
‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead,’ Léo says.
‘How would you feel about being our new Magister Ludi? We’re thinking an interim contract to start with – all these automatic jobs-for-life are a farce – but maybe longer, if it went well.’
Here it is, his second chance; and now he has permission from Claire, he isn’t betraying her. Léo looks up. Above the Square Tower, a ragged cloud is being blown across the sky. It creates the illusion that the building is tipping over. Wisps peel away from the bulging white underbelly and dissolve. ‘That’s very unexpected. I’ve never considered …’
‘Fallon suggested you. Said you’d be ideal. New school, new blood, new start. We’ll be taking over the Cathedral buildings on the North Bank. Lovely place.’
A beat. ‘I thought – that is, isn’t Montverre staying—’
Dettler waves a dismissive hand. ‘I think after this we can make a very good case for new premises. Not to mention a new approach. There’s been some debate, but I think this will sway any dissenters. They’ve agreed a temporary closure, to let things calm down … Anyway, think about it. It would be good to have you back on board.’
He imagines himself in a cannibalised church on the side of the river. Montverre, transplanted alongside the new polytechnics that line the boulevard: Geography, Engineering, Science, Grand Jeu. Scholars in smart suits with slicked-back hair, Magisters in short gowns and trousers. But Magister Ludi, after all. Maybe that would be enough. ‘I’ll certainly think about it,’ he says.
‘Let’s meet up in town, tomorrow or the day after.’
‘Of course.’ A movement – above, to the left – catches Léo’s eye. There’s an archivist leaning out of one of the tall library windows, reaching for the shutter. He swings it shut and latches it. A few moments later he moves to the next window. One by one he closes the shutters. Inside, the library must be growing darker as the sunlight is cut off. But then, there won’t be anyone at the desks; no scholars, no visiting professors. Even the archivists will have shelved their ledgers and catalogues, packed the unsorted bequests away, and emptied their inkwells. All that’s left for them to do is the final housekeeping: dustsheets, locking up the valuables. If Charpentier is still here, what will happen to him? A temporary closure, Dettler said. But no one will be fooled; Montverre has never been closed, not even during the flu epidemic.
‘Well … good,’ Dettler says; and then, with a little shrug, he moves away.
Léo watches until the last window is shuttered. He has always assumed that the biggest danger to Montverre was fire. Someone splashing oil everywhere and setting it alight, cackling, like Carfax’s mad grandfather. One individual, one moment of crazy destruction. But it won’t be like that at all. Its breath will stop when the last person leaves; after that it’ll be a slow death, so gradual that the moment of no return will come and go, unremarked and unobserved. A death by mould and mice and the passage of time. Not dramatic. There won’t be a story to tell at the end of it, except of bureaucracy and inertia. And the battle, somehow, is lost, when Léo barely knew it had started.