The Betrayals(71)

There was a bit of a pause. I kept on staring at his notes. That bloody porridge of classical and Artemonian. Can’t believe I’ve got used to it. I said, ‘How about an English contrevure?’

‘What?’

‘For this movement. An English contrevure. Look it up.’

I heard him grunt and flip through a book. ‘It’s not in the Snary.’

‘Try the index of the Theoric. I’ve seen it somewhere recently.’

He riffled more pages, and whistled. ‘An English contrevure … Hmmm. Interesting. You might be on to something.’

‘No need to sound so surprised.’ I’d come up with something he hadn’t heard of. Finally.

There was another silence. Eventually I looked round. He was standing right behind me. His hand was hovering over my shoulder. As I watched, his fingers curled into a fist and he lowered his arm. ‘There’s the bell,’ he said. ‘Give me a second to write that down. I’ll meet you downstairs.’

So that was that. His apology.

Sunday

This morning – not early, thank goodness – I got press-ganged into a couple of bouts with Felix and Jacob. Felix stood in my doorway and refused to go away until I came down to the Lesser Hall. Actually, in the end I enjoyed myself. And won, although I’m woefully out of practice. Afterwards we all sat around on the steps of the Lesser Hall, looking down into the valley. It was lovely, one of those early spring days when the snow’s melting and a warm wind’s blowing; every so often a spatter of freezing water would spray into our faces from the gutter overhead. It was me, Felix, Jacob, Paul, and Emile. There was the usual banter, jokes about the Magisters and one another, teasing about our prowess at the grand jeu, sex, etc. When they were trying to get a rise out of me, Felix was laughing the loudest, but at lunchtime when we all stood up to go he hung back a bit and asked me if I’d have a look at his game. ‘I’m too busy at the moment,’ I said. ‘What about Paul? What does he say?’

‘I haven’t asked him. I’m asking you. Come on, Martin, if I fail—’

‘No one fails, Felix. You might get a Third, but it’s not the end of the world.’

‘Please,’ he said. ‘Have a heart.’

‘I’ll see. Put a copy under my door.’ He grinned, and I added, ‘I’m not promising anything. I’m working like a navvy myself. I don’t have time to help other people.’

I’m not sure he was listening, because he slapped me on the back and galloped off. I was about to follow him when Emile took hold of my elbow. ‘Liar,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘You’re helping Carfax, aren’t you? Every spare moment, it sounds like.’

I tried to shake him off. ‘You’re not jealous as well, are you?’

He laughed. ‘Certainly not. I’m only pointing out that you’re lying.’

‘What if I am? It’d be a waste of time helping Felix, you know that.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s definitely true.’ I went to move away but he still had hold of my arm. ‘One more thing,’ he went on, tilting his head at me as if I’d said something stupid in a lesson. ‘Don’t forget that time he parodied you in front of everyone. You do realise, don’t you, that Carfax is a ruthless bastard? Why do you think he’s suddenly friends with you? Because not only are you second in the class, you’re also apparently prepared to spend every waking hour with him, working on his game. It’s not because of your charm, you can bet.’

‘Leave me alone, Emile.’

‘He’s using you. Look at yourself, you’re all starry-eyed,’ he said, and released me, stepping back and spreading his arms. ‘Don’t fall for it, that’s all.’

It’s not true. We work on my game as much as Carfax’s. Don’t we?

Sunday again, sixth week

Early morning. I can’t sleep. I haven’t written for days because I didn’t want to think. I don’t want to admit it. I don’t want to write it down.

But: I have fallen for it, haven’t I?

For him.

I didn’t even notice it happening. Not really. Not till Emile looked at me that way, all knowing and slippery, as though he could see inside my head. I keep telling myself it’s because he’s got a mind like a sewer, and he can’t imagine that Carfax and I could genuinely be friends. But I’m kidding myself.

Carfax, for pity’s sake. A pathetic schoolboy crush on Carfax. What is wrong with me? This isn’t an opportunistic sure-why-not? like those other times in the scrapyard. Not a quick toss-off behind a pile of finials, while everyone else smokes a fag or goes for a brew. I want him. I’d risk expulsion for him. Would I? I think I would. If he’d turned round, that time I touched his shoulder, and … Shut up. SHUT UP. But all these nights we’ve spent playing the grand jeu, all the jokes and the ideas and the rush, being as happy as I think I could ever be … It’s all part of the same thing. The whole world, falling into place. All of myself, cock and balls and heart as well as brain. We play the grand jeu with our bodies too, don’t we?

(Essay question: ‘As with scatological, macabre or trivial concerns, there is no place for the erotic in the grand jeu; it ranks among the lowest of human impulses while the grand jeu celebrates the most elevated.’ Discuss. And hang it, I want to discuss it with Carfax.)