The Betrayals(6)
‘But I don’t—’
The Chancellor put his teacup down. It was a smooth movement, almost casual; and yet it made Léo flinch. ‘Either you are being deliberately obtuse,’ he said, ‘or you are a complete simpleton. Which, until yesterday, I would have sworn you were not.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know how much more clearly I can put this.’
Léo heard himself say, ‘Perhaps in words of one syllable.’
The Chancellor raised his eyebrows. ‘You have a very easy choice. Either you sign this letter, tell the papers the same story, and retire to Montverre for as long as we deem it necessary, or the Prime Minister will be forced to deal with you more … forcefully.’
‘You mean someone will find me in a ditch with my throat cut?’ It came out as a joke. But it sat unanswered in the silence, solid and monstrous, until he realised it hadn’t been a joke at all. He fumbled to get the cap off the fountain pen and signed the letter without reading the rest of it. His signature was hardly recognisable. Underneath the first copy was another. He paused, without looking up. ‘There are two of these.’
‘One is for you to keep. For future reference. We’ll see about arrangements for Montverre – it’ll be a few weeks, I imagine. Your resignation will be formally accepted then. In the meantime, Dettler will carry out your duties.’ The Chancellor took a sip of tea. ‘It goes without saying that you won’t attempt to interfere with the progress of the Bill.’
‘I see.’ He hesitated. Then he put the lid back on the pen, focusing on his fingers as if only his eyes could tell him what they were doing. ‘Chancellor … please believe that I had no intention—’
The Chancellor got to his feet. ‘I don’t think I need keep you any longer.’
Léo folded the second copy of the letter and put it in his jacket pocket, next to his heart. Then he stood up, too. Somewhere a phone was ringing, a secretary was typing, the business of state was rolling on. It was as if he’d taken his hands off a keyboard and heard the music continue. He straightened his tie. ‘Well … thank you, Chancellor. If we don’t see each other again, good luck with government.’
‘Thank you, Léo. I hope our paths will cross again, eventually.’ The Chancellor made his way to the desk and sat down, reaching for his address book. ‘Good afternoon, Léo. From now on, if I were you, I would be very, very careful.’
Léo shut the door behind him. The secretary – Sarah – glanced up at him and then quickly down again. He smiled at her, but she kept her head down, scribbling something in a notebook; when he walked past her desk he saw over her shoulder that it was a tangle of meaningless lines, not even shorthand.
He came out onto the landing. Two civil servants climbed the stairs, halfway through a conversation: ‘… measures only reflect the times,’ the first said, and broke off to nod at him. Automatically he nodded back; then, with a jolt, he saw that the second, lagging a little behind, was Emile Fallon. It was too late to duck away. Instead he said, ‘Emile, long time no see, how are you? I’m afraid I must dash,’ all in one tight breath.
‘Ah, Minister,’ Emile said, ‘yes, indeed, let’s catch up soon,’ twisting mid-step to give Léo a sliding smile as he passed. There was something worse than straightforward malice in his face: irony, maybe, or – oh God, worst of all – compassion. Clearly news of Léo’s resignation had already spread to the Ministry for Information. Léo waited for them to disappear through the door opposite, holding his own smile in place as if it was a physical test.
He was alone. Cadaverous portraits of statesmen watched him impassively from the walls. The dark carpet muffled every sound; he might have gone deaf. He leant against the wall; then he slid down into a crouch, his blood singing in his ears, nausea wringing sweat from every pore. His chest hurt. The air made a faint rasping sound as it went in and out of his lungs. He shut his eyes.
Slowly the sickness eased. He pushed himself back to his feet and placed one hand on the wall, fighting for balance. If anyone saw him like this, if the Chancellor emerged or Emile came back … He stood up straight, wiped his face on his sleeve and smoothed his hair. Now only his damp collar could give him away, and it was a warm day; he would walk past the girl in the lobby downstairs and she wouldn’t look twice. He could pretend that nothing had happened – that, in fact, he had sent in his resignation, explained himself to the Chancellor, and been set free. He almost believed it himself.
But when he got to the half-landing, something made him look back. There on the wallpaper, almost black on the green pattern, was a dark smear: the mark his sweaty hand had left, as he tried not to throw up.
He shaves and puts on his jacket and tie, and orders more coffee. The maid offers him breakfast, but he can’t bring himself to accept. By the time he’s drunk the coffee the sun has cleared the houses and is shining into the street. Warmth creeps along the floor, reaching out for him. He can’t sit here all morning. He walks to the railway station and buys a paperback novel from the bookstall. There’s a line of porters waiting for the first train; the third-and second-years must have gone up last week, a few days apart, and today it’s the first-years’ turn to flood the town for a night. The train arrives as the bookseller gives Léo his change. He pauses, squeezing the coins in his hand, watching the young men pile excitedly on to the platform. There are a few families, too – bluestocking sisters, proud mamas, mulish younger brothers – who’ve come along to give their clever boys a good send-off, and get a few days of mountain air while they’re at it. They’re not allowed up to the school, of course, and they probably won’t even be awake to wave goodbye tomorrow when the new scholars slog up the path at dawn. ‘Oh – how lovely,’ a woman calls to her son, staring across the valley towards Montverre-les-Bains. She points at the Roman bath-house in the distance. ‘That must be it …’