The Betrayals(5)

‘A better phrase would be “taken aback”, I think.’ He waved a hand at the glinting array of china. ‘Please don’t stand on ceremony, young man. Help yourself to a cup of tea.’

Léo poured a cup of tea, added lemon, stirred it and raised it to his lips. Then he put the cup and saucer down, conscious of the tension in his wrist. How many times, sitting here with the Old Man, had he heard the tell-tale rattle of porcelain, as other men tried to master their shaking hands? But this was different; he was different. It was simple hospitality, surely. Not a test, not an ordeal. When he looked up the Chancellor was smiling at him.

‘Ah, Léo, my dear boy. Well, not really a boy – forgive me, the privilege of age … How old are you, remind me? Twenty-eight, twenty-nine?’

‘Thirty-two.’

‘Really? Well, never mind …’ He turned to look out of the window, idly tugging at the curtain-cord. ‘The point is, Léo,’ he said, ‘that your letter was rather unfortunate.’

He didn’t answer. For a vertiginous, dislocated moment he expected the Chancellor to draw the curtains across, as if someone had died.

‘To put it frankly … We are disappointed, Léo. You seemed to have such a promising career in front of you. We were confident in your abilities. Here is a young man, we thought, who can help bring the country into a new, prosperous, liberated era, who understands the Party’s vision, who will lead the next generation when we are too old to carry the burden any more … I thought you shared that dream, Léo.’

The past tense was like a needle, digging deeper and deeper. ‘I do, Chancellor – I absolutely share the Party’s ideals.’

‘And yet your letter suggests that you do not.’

‘Only this one particular – this one section of the Bill …’

‘You find the measures to be – what was your phrase? – “irrational and morally repugnant”, in fact.’

‘Did I? I don’t remember saying repug—’

‘Please – feel free – if you would like to refresh your memory.’ The Chancellor waved towards the desk. The letter was there, on the blotter, Léo’s signature a dark scrawl at the bottom. There was a pause.

Léo swallowed. His mouth had gone very dry. He shook his head. ‘I may have been slightly too emphatic, Chancellor. I apologise if I—’

‘No, no, dear boy.’ The Chancellor flicked his hand at the words. Léo almost saw them dropping to the carpet like dead flies. ‘Too late. I regret your impulsivity as much as anyone, but it serves no purpose to dwell on it.’ Finally he turned and met Léo’s eyes. It was the way Léo’s father looked at broken objects in his scrapyards, wondering whether they were worth the space they took up. ‘The question is,’ he said, ‘what do we do with you now?’

‘I – what? You mean—’

‘We cannot possibly have a cabinet minister who is lukewarm about our policies.’ The Chancellor frowned. ‘You are an astute politician, Léo, you must understand that.’

‘Hardly lukewarm.’

‘Please.’ He held up his hand. ‘I am as sorry as you are, believe me. As is the Old Man. But if we cannot trust you …’

‘Chancellor, please – I honestly don’t think—’

‘Be quiet.’ The bell of an ambulance clattered past, distantly. Léo’s mouth tasted bitter, but he didn’t trust himself to lift his cup of tea without spilling it. The Chancellor strode to the desk, picked up a piece of paper, and put it down on the low table in front of Léo. A letter. To whom it may concern … ‘Here is a letter of resignation.’ He put a fountain pen down next to it. ‘Be sensible, Léo. If you read it, you will find that we have made matters easy for you. In recognition of the work you have done for the Party. The Old Man is fond of you, you know. I think you will agree it is an elegant solution.’

He had to blink to make the words come into focus … honoured to have served … contribution to the Prime Minister’s vision … glorious prosperity, unity and purity … but others are better fitted … in my heart of hearts, I have always yearned … He looked up. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I would have thought it was fairly self-explanatory.’

‘You’re saying – you want me to say—’ He stopped, and looked again at the letter. ‘“I am proud to have done my best as Minister for Culture, but it is as a humble student of the grand jeu that I long to leave my mark.” What is this?’

The Chancellor sat down opposite him. He poured a cup of tea and tapped the spoon on the gilt edge of the cup with a brittle ting. ‘You were the only second-year ever to win a Gold Medal at Montverre, were you not?’

‘You know I was. Is that relevant?’ It sounded more belligerent than he meant it to.

‘You have played a very highly regarded part in the election of this government, Léo. But you were never cut out to be a politician – you repressed your personal wishes for as long as you could, in order to help bring about the greatest political success of this century – but you have never been able to forget the dream of going back to Montverre to study our national game – and now that the country’s future is assured, you finally have the opportunity … It is a touching story, the artist returning to his roots, fulfilling his vocation. Who knows, it’s possible you will be of use to us there.’