The Betrayals(57)

‘It was one of the most boring evenings of my life. Thanks for setting it up.’

Pirène gave him a little smile. ‘Politics, my dear boy. One of them was the father-in-law of one of my superiors. Or is it the other way round? Anyway, it can’t have done you any harm.’ He passed him a cup of coffee. Real coffee, not the watery chicory that even the Magisters seemed to drink at Montverre. The bitter-roasted flavour flooded over his tongue: real, familiar, disappointing. All that time at Montverre he’d been dreaming of it. Along with Martinis, foreign novels, brand-new bedsheets, smoky jazz clubs, brioches for breakfast, sex. There were still a few of those he hadn’t got round to. Would they all be equally anticlimactic?

‘By the way,’ he said, trying to be casual, knowing that Pirène wouldn’t be fooled, ‘you haven’t heard anything about Chryse?s, have you? My mistr— my ex-mistress. Apparently no one’s seen her for a while, and some snide old virago from the Ministry for Justice told me she was on the Register.’

Pirène reached for a box of chocolate fondants and held them out. ‘Oh, the blonde? No, afraid not. A lot of people are keeping to the shadows, these days.’

‘I see.’ Léo waved the box away. ‘But I’d know if she were on the Register?’

‘Well, you could find out, I expect. Did you ever see her papers?’

‘She would never have signed up. She’s not stupid.’

Pirène raised an eyebrow. ‘It depends,’ he said. ‘If her baptism was recorded, and she renewed her passport in the last couple of years … Oh come on, Léo, you know how these things work. It’s getting impossible to dodge. The amount of money in that budget, honestly.’ He sighed, plucked a fondant from the tray, popped it into his mouth and chewed, thoughtfully. ‘Wonder what the country would look like if the Old Man hadn’t gone to a Catholic school?’

Léo shrugged. It hardly mattered; one way or another, the Register existed, the Culture and Integrity Act had been passed, more Purity Laws were on their way. ‘Could you look into it for me? If she’s in difficulties …’

Pirène swallowed and dabbed at his mouth. ‘The less said, the better, I’d say.’

‘If she were to get picked up—’

‘Drop it.’ He shook his head. ‘I mean it, Léo.’

‘I’m worried.’

‘You can’t do anything. No one can. If she’s gone into hiding, it’s best not to draw attention to her. If she’s been picked up … well, you can’t help. Trust me.’ He gave Léo a long look.

‘Fine,’ Léo said, ‘I’ll ask Emile Fallon.’

‘Don’t be a bloody fool. Yes, I know you’ve been writing to him. Keep up the good work and you might get something out of it. There are rumours that you’re worming your way back, that the Old Man might be softening – that’s great – but only if you stop rocking the boat. Haven’t you learnt anything? Grow up, Léo.’ Pirène sat down, leaning back until his chair creaked. ‘You’re on your second chance, and that’s more than most people get. If you blow it, you might as well take out an expensive life insurance policy.’

Léo put his coffee cup on the table beside him. The room felt tiny, humid and smoke-stained. He could practically smell the pleas and letters and decayed hopes that were pressed inside Pirène’s files like flowers. ‘Thanks for the advice.’

‘Time was you wanted my advice.’

He stood up. ‘I have to go.’

Pirène scratched his head. A few flakes of dandruff fell on to his shoulders. ‘Léo …’

‘Yes, I understand. I have a train to catch, that’s all.’ He wanted to get out, but he paused in the doorway. ‘This wretched place,’ he said, ‘I don’t know how you stand it. It makes me glad I’m going back to Montverre. Getting away from all of this.’

‘A sanctuary, eh?’ There was a strange note in Pirène’s voice.

‘What?’

‘Don’t count on it, that’s all.’

Léo stared at him. Pirène got to his feet and started to collect the coffee cups, keeping his head down. Then he disappeared into the kitchen without a word.

Léo left: down the stairs, along the brown-and-cream corridor, past the bubble-glass windows that gave on to the typists’ hall and out into the street. The rain had stopped, but instead there was a chill mist that made him cough. He was carrying his case with him – Pirène had given it an amused look, as if he thought Léo was planning to move in – and he made his way to the station, grateful he didn’t have to return to his hotel.

She was safe, somewhere. Of course she was. She was Chryse?s, she was beautiful and clever and she could squeeze gold out of a stone. There was no need to worry. He wasn’t worried. For a fraction of a second he imagined her wandering the streets, clutching a suitcase, a hat pulled low over her face: but no, she’d be on board a boat to America or Ireland, or already in an Italian city. Still in diamonds and furs, no doubt. She’d always been one to wear her fortune.

But he’d never felt so useless. There was a weight in the pit of his stomach: fear and guilt, and the dragging sense that he’d failed. All that time, she’d wanted his protection as well as his money, and he hadn’t known. He sat in the bar beside the station waiting room, and ordered a whisky; it was still early, but he didn’t want to think. It helped, a little – he managed to stop thinking about Chryse?s – but instead he found himself staring out into the station concourse, idly noticing how it had transformed since he first lived in the city. He’d visited with Dad a few times, but when he arrived alone, girding himself for his new life, armed with nothing but the address of the Party’s Central Office, a stamped receipt from his new landlady (oh, that first flat above the milliner’s shop!) and a valise of new clothes (recommended by Dad’s tailor as ‘suitable for a politician’ and turning out to be anything but), his heart had sunk at the grime and poverty, the papered-over windows and streaked glass ceiling, the rust and beggars and stink of indeterminate sewage. It had reinforced his resolve: be part of changing things.