The Betrayals(50)

He opens his mouth. But he can’t bring himself to answer. He nods, once, and reaches again for the door handle.

‘No, that’s not true,’ she says suddenly, and he hears her getting to her feet. ‘They were all Finals questions, actually. I am glad you liked them. It’s only that …’

Slowly he turns back to her. She is standing beside the window, staring out into the banked snow. From here he can only see the side of her face, her temple and cheek, the corner of her lips. She looks painfully like Carfax. It’s funny how his features are different, transplanted into a female face. She has the same wide mouth and cheekbones, strong jaw, narrow eyes: but where he was handsome, she is plain. She must be the same height as he was, or almost: and again, where he was a good height for a man, she is gawky, for a woman. Where Carfax is dead, she’s alive. It’s like a parody, the universe’s vicious joke.

For an instant he waits for her to finish her sentence. Will it be an apology, of sorts? Then he realises that she isn’t going to. He wants to leave and slam the door on her silence. But then she shoots him a swift, jerky glance, as though she’s been trying to resist the impulse. That’s how he’s been looking and not-looking at her, these last few weeks.

‘Well,’ he says, ‘you obviously know me better than you realise.’ For some reason that makes her bite her lip. ‘I can imagine the conclusions you’ve come to. “Must try harder”. “Generally inauthentic”. Or “overly reliant on integral transitions”.’

‘Not integral transitions,’ she says, frowning, ‘so much as text loops. You always – that is, it might help you to focus more on maths and music. Science, even. You resist the abstract, and it weighs you down.’

He stares at her. For a second, with the light behind her, she could be Carfax’s ghost. ‘All right,’ he says, not knowing whether to laugh. ‘Fair enough. If I still played seriously, I’d take your advice. As it is …’

‘What did you make of the last essay, by the way?’

He can remember the title word for word: ‘A grand jeu is a kind of web made of abstractions. It glitters, it seduces; but its beauty is essentially functional – indeed, predatory – and its aim is to draw down the divine into a human trap.’ But when he read it, he couldn’t concentrate on the question: instead he saw again the spider’s web that was strung across the path, that first pre-dawn morning when he’d walked up the mountain to Montverre. He remembered sweeping it aside, breaking the threads and bubbles of light, and Carfax’s stifled protest. It was beautiful, but it was in the way; and he’d wanted to be first. He still wanted it.

She shifts her weight, and he realises that he’s been standing in silence for a long moment.

‘It was interesting,’ he says. ‘Amadé de Courcy was one of your ancestors, I assume? I think I’ve heard of him … Perhaps he’s right. Or perhaps it’s the other way round, and the grand jeu is a divine trap in which to catch humanity. Like love.’

Too late he anticipates her voice, pronouncing judgement on him: the clipped way she said rather facile, a few moments ago. But she’s looking at him with a crease between her brows, as if she’s trying to put a name to a face. A strange shiver goes down his back.

Then she smiles. ‘Very neat,’ she says. ‘Do you really believe that? Or is it a gimmick?’

‘Never mind.’

‘Games,’ she says, very softly. ‘That’s what you’re good at, isn’t it? And somehow you ended up trying to play the one game that – isn’t.’

‘The grand jeu?’

She doesn’t answer. Again – appallingly – he feels the itch to hit her. Who does she think she is, telling him about himself? The Delphic oracle? His game is one thing, but pronouncing on his whole life … She has the same taut authority that Carfax had – say what you like, but he was clever, he was observant – only in her it’s arrogance. She’s a woman, she doesn’t know him, she has no right … He came in here to be charming, to thank her and leave again; and her spikes and prickles have snagged all his silky intentions into a hopeless knot. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘thank you again. And goodbye. I’m leaving tomorrow.’

‘Leaving?’ Her voice is breathy: with relief or regret? No, he’s flattering himself. Relief, without doubt. She must have thought he was staying here for the vacation.

‘Yes. I know there are a few days left before the end of term, but I’ve been invited to address a local group of grand jeu amateurs in Montverre-les-Bains, so …’ He knows how it’ll be, paunchy Party members frowning at him through a jovial alcoholic haze, while he tries to shoe-horn games into official policy like mutilated feet into glass slippers. It’ll be excruciating. His old colleague Pirène sent him tacit sympathy along with the invitation; they both knew he wasn’t in a position to refuse. ‘It’s easier to stay in a hotel there, before I go home. To my mother’s house, that is.’

‘I see.’

‘So … I hope you have a very happy New Year.’

She nods. She goes on nodding. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘And you too, Mr Martin.’ She sounds distant, preoccupied.

‘Goodbye, then.’ He realises that he’s waiting for her to dismiss him.