The Betrayals(34)

‘You’d better go,’ he said. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

I said, ‘I thought this was work. I’m certainly not here to enjoy myself.’

He shot me a glance. I glared back at him, daring him to say something snide about my Lady Macbeth impression. He didn’t. Not aloud, anyway.

I scraped up my notes. ‘You’re right. We both have better things to do.’ One of his pages was on top and I dropped it on the floor. ‘Work up the de Moivre theme for tomorrow. I’ll have a look at some of the text.’

He blinked. You have to give him credit for realising that he couldn’t take exception to my tone, given how he’d spoken to me. ‘All right,’ he said.

‘Good.’

There was a sort of tense pause while we tried to work out who was backing down. (For the record, it was him.) Then I left and slammed the door on him.

It’s dinner time. I’d better go.

Beginning of fifth week, Serotine Term

Where was I? Oh yes. We were making progress. Still are, actually.

Yesterday evening we worked straight through from meditation to past midnight. Halfway through dinner I caught sight of Felix and wondered why he was looking at me oddly; later I realised that it was because Carfax and I were sitting together, thrashing out one of the bits of counterpoint. It’s true that I’d never choose to sit with him normally, but it didn’t make sense to break off our conversation. We’re at that stage where everything is fermenting so fast you have to keep siphoning off the top, or it’ll all overflow and be lost. I didn’t realise what a joint game would be like; even though it’s Carfax, it’s exciting – more exciting, I think, than writing a grand jeu on my own. Less lonely. And there are those moments when something uncanny happens, something else steps into the space between us, and we’re both left marvelling at a move neither of us would ever play. I love the way the game is held together by the music – Carfax’s music, I have to admit he’s a much better musician than I am – and the way that gives us more freedom, not less. I can let him look after the structure, and add my own harmonies and ideas … It’s funny, his style is classical and clean, so I don’t understand why he makes me feel more exuberant, more daring. Maybe I’m trying to outdo him. I love it when I add a move to something he thinks is already finished, and pass it back to him, thinking: take that. Especially when he pretends to bang his head on the desk or gives me a filthy look.

It’s bloody hard, though. He was right, we’re mad to be trying it. I keep waking up in the middle of the night, imagining the Magisters’ Remarks: This subject is an audacious and indeed distressing choice for second-year scholars, since what might otherwise have appeared confidence is necessarily exposed as the grossest (and most unfounded) arrogance … Or maybe, even if we stick with the themes, we should take out the Christian stuff? It works, and Magister Holt wouldn’t mark us down for that, but it might be frowned on by some of the others … Argh. It’s driving me off my onion. My only consolation is that if they slate it, at least Carfax will get the same mark.

Felix keeps asking what we’re working on. He was quite persistent this morning, and I don’t know why it gave me such satisfaction to tell him it was none of his business. It might have been something to do with the way he sank down next to me at breakfast, as if he was my best friend. (Best friend! Ugh, it’s like schoolgirls.) I stood up to leave quite soon after that, as I had to go to the library to look up a bit of Webster, and he gave me a very funny look. ‘You and Carfax,’ he said. ‘Are you …?’

‘What?’

‘You still hate him, right?’

His voice carried. I saw Emile turn his head, and Pierre.

‘Of course I do,’ I said. I suppose I misjudged my voice, because suddenly the noise in the hall dipped. Carfax was at the end of the far table, with a book; he glanced up and met my eyes for a fraction of a second.

Later

I am pathetic. I couldn’t sleep. I kept lying awake, thinking about what I’d said. It kept going round in my head. In the end I got up, slung my robe on over my pyjamas, and went and knocked for him.

When he came to the door he didn’t say anything. He stood there with raised eyebrows and waited.

I said, ‘Listen … Carfax … this evening …’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘When I said to Felix that I still – um, that I hated you …’

‘Yes?’

I didn’t say anything – I hoped he’d just get the message – but he was determined not to help me out. Finally I managed, ‘It was stupid. I shouldn’t have said it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, because …’ I trailed off.

‘What makes you think I care that you hate me?’

I was too tired to think properly. ‘I don’t hate you,’ I said. ‘I mean, occasionally I do, obviously. But mostly I don’t.’

‘How kind.’

‘Forget it.’ I turned away. I don’t know what I’d been trying to achieve. Of course he wasn’t going to admit that he cared a toss. I started to walk away.

Then, abruptly, he said, ‘Don’t worry, Martin. It’s all right.’ I glanced back at him. He had that glint in his eye that isn’t quite warmth. We may not like each other, but it almost feels as though we understand each other better than anyone else in the world. He took his hand off the door-frame and made a mocking gesture of resemblance that ended with his hand on his heart. ‘I only hate you occasionally, too.’