The Betrayals(60)

Then I saw Emile coming down the corridor towards me.

Obviously, in the dark I didn’t see it was him immediately. It took me by surprise. I froze, I think. All right, all right, I probably jumped and screamed. At any rate, Emile was laughing as he grabbed my elbow and dragged me back to the stairs. ‘Calm down, calm down.’

‘Emile—’

‘Shut up!’ He pushed me ahead of him. I stumbled down the stairs, with his hands on my shoulders. I shouldn’t have let him shove me like that, but I wasn’t thinking properly. Finally we spilt out into the antechamber to the Lesser Hall and he let go of me. He was still giggling. ‘What were you doing up there, Martin?’

‘Me? What about you?’

‘Well, I know why I was there. But I’d be surprised if it was the same reason for you. Unless …’ He squinted at me. ‘No.’

‘Why, what were—’ Then I stopped. He smelt of sweat, something a bit more acrid, and a kind of rank sweetness. I’d noticed it as he bundled me down the stairs, but I only then realised what it meant. I said, ‘Whoa-ho, Emile. Who? One of the servants?’

He grinned. There was just enough moonlight to glint on his teeth. ‘Et in Arcadia ego,’ he said. ‘Sex, I mean, not death.’

I’m shocked. Stupidly shocked. That Emile would risk it here. That would be bringing the school into disrepute, if anything was. We all talk about it, sure, but actually doing it …

I thought I was such a man of the world, with my fumbles in the dark corners of Dad’s scrapyards, feeling superior because I could keep my own secrets. But this feels wrong. Playing the grand jeu in one room and fucking a servant in another … Sacrilege.

At the same time I can’t get it out of my head. I don’t mean Emile, specifically. But the spectre of it, the possibility. The idea that Montverre isn’t different, after all. That the whole fleshy, dangerous, messy business is within arm’s reach, in spite of the rules. We’re all as human here as anywhere else. If I wanted – if I dared …

Why should the grand jeu be separate from desire, anyway? It’s not always sordid.

And a good grand jeu breaks the rules, doesn’t it?

Third day of Vernal Term

Carfax is back. I was on my way to do some piano practice and saw him coming out of Magister Holt’s rooms. He’s arrived here two days late but he didn’t look as if he’d been told off. He didn’t see me; he walked away with a spring in his step and I didn’t call out to him.

Bloody typical. He doesn’t even turn up on the right day. But does he get hauled over the coals for it? No, he comes swaggering out of Magister Holt’s office like we should all be grateful he’s here. This whole vacation I’ve been remembering what he was like last term – that night when we ended up on the top of the Square Tower, for example – but no, it was all fake, wasn’t it? We were only putting up with each other. Making the best of a bad job.

Later

After dinner there was a knock on my door. It was Carfax. I suppose I guessed it would be.

‘What do you want, Carfax?’

There was a split second when I swear I saw his face fall. As if he’d been expecting us to be friends again. As if he thought we were friends. But it was gone almost as soon as it came. ‘Just wondered if you picked up my Hondius, last term,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d put it in my trunk, but I can’t find it.’

‘I have one of my own, thanks.’ I picked it up and waved it at him.

‘I didn’t mean deliberately.’

‘I haven’t got it.’

‘All right. Never mind.’ He paused, as if I might say something else. I didn’t. He nodded and turned to go.

‘You were late,’ I said. ‘I saw you come out of Magister Holt’s room. Didn’t look like he was worried. Let me guess: you don’t have to follow the rules, because you’re special.’

‘Don’t be stupid. I had to go and explain …’

‘What? What happened?’

He hesitated. ‘Nothing.’

‘Sure. Why would you turn up on the right day?’

He rolled his shoulders as if they were aching. ‘I … family business,’ he said at last. His eyes flickered to my face and away again.

‘Really? Did someone get hold of a box of—’

‘Please don’t—’ he said, at the same time. We both stopped, watching each other. ‘Please,’ he said again, in a strange low voice.

I didn’t answer. The clock chimed – it was later than I’d thought – but he didn’t give any sign of hearing it. He was still staring at me. I know I hadn’t imagined his tone of voice: pleading, almost. Appealing to my better nature. No, that makes it sound too like Mim. As if for once he was opening himself up, like someone dropping their foil in the middle of a bout, spreading their arms and standing still. Letting me hurt him if I wanted to. Believing that I would.

And then the moment had gone, and I hadn’t hurt him, and with a silent jolt we were on solid ground.

I scrabbled around for something to say. I almost asked him if his family had been pleased about our seventy, but something stopped me; suddenly I didn’t want him to think I was being snide. I really didn’t want him to think that. In the end I came up with, ‘Well, since you’re here … I was wondering what you made of the Bridges of K?nigsberg. I can’t see why it’s supposed to be so brilliant.’