The Betrayals(19)

It was then that Léo realised Carfax was doing it deliberately. He leant forward, his pen loose between his fingers.

‘I’ve used that melody’ – Carfax paused for the tiny incredulous giggle from Emile, as if he knew it was coming – ‘that melody as a cantus firmus. For the elaboration, I have composed a baroque variation.’ He consulted his notes and turned to the blackboard to sketch the movement. ‘While maintaining a continuo for the theme, I’ve indulged in some compositional extravagance—’ He broke off, adding diacritics to the structure. Then he stood back to assess what he’d written, as if for a moment he’d forgotten that the rest of the class was there. Léo frowned. Carfax’s game was absurd, grotesque, completely unlike his usual style: and yet he was surveying it as if it was the best thing he’d ever done.

‘Now – following the classic structure, I introduce the mathematical proposition – a combination of lyric poetry and an allusion to the philosophical tension between integers and the looming infinite.’

Léo couldn’t concentrate on what Carfax was saying. He stared at the elaboration of the musical theme on the blackboard. It was familiar, somehow. Not that he had ever seen it before – he would have remembered that – but the style, the shape … His own game had been called the New World – had there been something about potatoes? Maybe he’d read something similar, when he was doing his research. It seemed unlikely, but he couldn’t deny the twist of recognition in his gut.

‘One potato,’ Carfax said, ‘two potato, three potato, four – five potato, six potato, seven potato, more …’

This time everyone laughed. From his seat in the corner, Magister Holt said, ‘Gentlemen …’

Léo narrowed his eyes. He ignored the joke. There was something … It was a standard structure, the sort of development he used himself – so what was it …? He leant forward, wrestling with a complex knot of notation, and caught sight of Emile glancing at him. There was something in his expression that Léo couldn’t read. He mouthed, ‘What?’

Emile shook his head and turned back to face the front of the room. After a moment he sent another curious look over his shoulder. Felix and Jacob were nudging each other, and almost everyone was smirking. Carfax said, ‘… as demonstrated here, in the transition,’ and another wave of mirth broke over the room. Léo rolled his eyes and slumped in his chair, folding his arms. He wasn’t going to laugh; he wasn’t impressed. He kept his eyes half-closed, staring at Carfax with deliberate blankness. Carfax held his gaze, and smiled. Léo raised an eyebrow and let his eyes drift past Carfax, back to the blackboard, trying to show his contempt in his expression.

He felt his face go slack, as he realised.

It was his own game.

No, not his game. But close enough. With his habits, his structure, his style – all of them skewed, caricatured but recognisable, the whole thing a vicious parody of his New World. A high piercing note rang in his ears. He shut his eyes. When he opened them again the game was still there, still monstrous, still sickeningly familiar. Was he imagining it? No. It had the same architecture as the New World – as all his games, for God’s sake – and every detail was as precise as a needle-prick. He jerked in his seat, mastering the impulse to twist round to check if anyone was watching him; if they were, he couldn’t let them see his face … He clenched his jaw. The singing in his ears intensified, drowning out Carfax’s voice.

He sat very still. There was nothing he could do but try not to attract attention. Perhaps no one else had realised – please, let no one else have realised … Had Emile’s look been pity? Waves of heat went over him. Sweat crawled down his scalp and soaked into his collar. There was a piercing pain in the base of his thumb; he looked down and saw that he’d driven the grimy pen-nib into the flesh, so deep he’d drawn blood. He spread his hands flat on the desk and looked down at them, and after a while a bubble of red oozed out from under his palm. Carfax’s voice came and went in his ears while the class murmured and chuckled. He told himself that they didn’t know, they weren’t laughing at him; but they were, whether they knew it or not.

The class fell silent. He looked up, in spite of himself. Carfax had finished. He held Léo’s gaze, a long level look of victory. No one moved or spoke; they might have been the only two people in the room. Then, although Carfax hadn’t performed a whole game, he gave the low, graceful bow of fermeture.

The class applauded. It was only for a second or two – stifled quickly, amid laughter, when Magister Holt raised his hand to cut them off – but there was appreciation in the sound, even a whistle from Dupont. Léo heard it in his bones like thunder: applause, when even the best games at Montverre ended in silence. Carfax put his hand on his heart, like an actor. ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ he said.

Magister Holt stood up. ‘Thank you, Mr de Courcy,’ he said. ‘I think I will discuss this game with you privately after class. Please sit down.’ He walked to the dais and consulted his list. He ignored the mutter of confusion. ‘Mr Matthieu, I believe …’

Carfax bent his head, collected his notes and went to his desk. There was a flush on his face, and a hint of a private, triumphant smile. His hands had been steady all the way through his presentation, but Léo saw them tremble as he drew up his chair and sat down. Someone leant across and said, ‘That was brilliant,’ but Carfax seemed not to hear.