The Betrayals(63)

He must see the thought in her face – or something funny, anyway, because his mouth twitches; and as his expression broadens into a smile, she finds herself smiling back. Blast him. She crosses to the desk and leans past him, casually piling more papers on top of Imaginary Spaces so that even the narrow spine of his diary is hidden from view. ‘That’s kind of you,’ she said. ‘I never thought … that is, I imagined you’d be far too busy—’

‘I promised, didn’t I?’ His breath stirs the hair behind her ears.

‘Oh? I forgot.’ She has misjudged the distance between them, and as she straightens she brushes against his sleeve. He pulls back, but not as much as he should. ‘Perhaps I underestimated you,’ she says. It comes out more seriously than she intended.

‘Impossible.’ He grins.

She turns away. What is it? The long, long vacation, the days of nothing but snow and books and silence, the years of grand jeu and – yes – loneliness, the flash of warmth that for once someone has brought her a gift, something sweet— Or is it mere morbid sentimentality, brought on by his diary? Whatever it is, she doesn’t trust herself to look at him. ‘If you say so,’ she says. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me—’

He speaks over her. ‘Did you stay here all vacation?’

‘Yes. Actually, I’m trying to write an exam paper, so—’

‘I thought of you,’ he says, and the words silence her like a gag. ‘I went into town a few times,’ he goes on, oblivious. ‘That’s when I bought your sweets. But most of the holiday I was staying with my mother, up north. It was horribly dull. So I spent a lot of time working. That paper you lent me, the one comparing Philidor to Schoenberg – I wrestled with it for ages. Trying to understand why I didn’t understand it.’ He gives her an amused grimace. ‘My faculty for critical thinking is pretty rusty. Then I realised why it didn’t make sense.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes. Because it’s nonsense.’

‘You thought so?’ she says, tilting her head to one side. ‘That’s … interesting.’

‘You know it’s nonsense,’ he says. ‘You gave it to me deliberately. Admit it.’

She hesitates. But it’s too late. He laughs, and after a second she allows herself to join in. ‘I suppose it was a kind of test,’ she says.

And then he says, ‘You’re so like your brother.’

She stands very still. The air seems to crystallise around her, forming a layer of glass on her skin: the smallest movement might break it. Distantly – miraculously – her own voice says, ‘Yes?’

‘He’d do something like that. Try to trip me up. Dare me to call his bluff. It was his way of getting me to tell the truth …’ He swallows. ‘He taught me a lot.’

‘I’m not like him.’

‘Not in some ways, of course.’ He pauses, and she can almost see him counting the ways in which she’s different: female, older, uptight, plain, inferior. Alive. ‘But in others … He was a genius, you know. Really. The way he could play the grand jeu, the way he taught me to play it. I didn’t always understand – I was too young then, we both were – but … My word, he was talented. And … sly. Clever. He understood about games, I think. The way the whole of your life can be a game.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘All I’m saying …’ He falters to a stop. Clearly he expected her to be flattered by the comparison. It hasn’t occurred to him that her brother never made it into the third year at Montverre, and she is Magister Ludi. Then he raises his eyes and looks at her, and a trickle of fire runs down her backbone. Something has changed, in his face. He says, on an outrush of breath, ‘I did something terrible.’

She doesn’t answer.

‘It’s my fault he’s dead. Did you know that?’

She shakes her head; although what exactly she’s denying she isn’t sure. It is Martin’s fault. Almost as much as it’s hers.

He says, ‘If I could go back … I miss him. I—’

He stops, as if she’s interrupted him. But she hasn’t.

He goes on slowly, picking his words as if they’re footholds on a precipitous path. ‘I dream about him, all the time. But the last time I dreamt about him, I think I was also dreaming … about you.’

She tries to clear her throat. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘It was a good dream. You being here … my having met you … it feels …’ He bites his lip. All the irony, the charm, the urbane glint in his eyes has gone: now he’s simply telling the truth. She wants to reach out, take hold of him and rest her forehead against his; and she wants to slap his face so hard he never opens his mouth again. Can’t he see? ‘It’s as if—’

‘He’s dead,’ she says. ‘You can’t bring him back.’

‘I know that. Of course. I didn’t mean—’

‘I’m not him. You understand? I’m not Aimé.’

He nods. His jaw is set, and there are red blotches deepening around his hairline, as though she’s told him off. For God’s sake, it’s only the truth. But if it’s the truth, why does it hurt to have said it aloud? There’s a fierce ache stitching her throat and heart and gut together, tightening. And why is he looking at her like that, as if he can see how she feels?