The Betrayals(72)

Don’t fall for it. It’s too fucking late. But Emile’s right. I can see that. Carfax and I won’t ever be anything but rivals. He wants to beat me, that’s all. And the best way to do that is to reel me in. Fake a meeting of true minds when all he cares about is getting a higher mark than me. Of course he acts strangely around me. Of course he’s fed up of pretending.

It’s making me sick, the thought that he’s done it on purpose. That’s what Emile meant, wasn’t it? And if it’s true … Surely he’s not that cynical? He’s not that much of a shit. But I can’t trust him. I can’t let myself relax. I’ve got to stay on my guard. Pull back. Keep away.

Or lean in. Play him at his own game.

Later

I worked alone in the library for most of the day. Then I was all thick-headed and miserable, and it was another lovely evening, so I wandered outside for a little while, watching the sun drop behind the mountains. Then I got too cold and had to come in. I came back along the music corridor, jogging to warm myself up.

There was someone playing the cello in one of the practice rooms. The music was Bach, one of those restless mathematical preludes that hovers on the edge of melody. You can feel the beauty, the drive, but all the time the piece is containing it, there’s a sort of iron discipline that lets it shine through but won’t surrender to it. It made me stop in my tracks. Outside, above the courtyard, the sky was a perfect deep blue, the bluest blue you can imagine. There was a new moon, and the evening star, absolutely blazing. The prelude stumbled and started again.

I must have stood there for ten minutes, at least, listening to that prelude being played over and over. There’s a moment about halfway through – a low E, is it? – when it opens up, abruptly, into something different, something deep – it’s what you’ve been waiting for, without knowing … and every time it made the hairs on my arms stand up. Every time. I wanted it to go on for ever.

It didn’t, of course. Finally whoever-it-was was satisfied and went on to the allemande. I was going to walk past, but then the music broke off and I heard swearing.

I pushed open the door. Carfax was there, wrapped around his cello; I thought I’d recognised his voice. He looked round. The expression on his face made me stop in the doorway: as if he wanted me to come in but he didn’t want to say so. I said, ‘It’s you.’

‘As far as I know,’ he said.

I shut the door behind me. He gave me a long look and then started to play again. He’s pretty good; much better than I am at the piano. But he started getting notes wrong, more and more of them, until finally he lowered his bow and said, ‘What do you want?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. I didn’t know why I was there, except that I couldn’t avoid him for ever.

‘I’m practising.’

‘That’s all right.’

He raised his bow, sighed, and lowered it again. ‘Go away, will you? You’re putting me off.’

‘I was listening outside. It was good.’

He frowned, but he started to play again. At the end of the suite he sat back, stretching his neck to one side and then the other. ‘Better men than you would pay for that,’ he said.

‘It’s got an amazing tone.’

‘I should hope so. It’s a Stradivarius.’ He laughed, probably at me, and moved so that I could see the light falling on the cello. It was the colour of maple leaves, with a warm lustrous gleam. ‘The Auburn Mistress,’ he said. ‘It’s famous. You see the red varnish? Vernice rossa. It’s almost unique. No one’s entirely sure what it’s made of.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Nothing but the best for the de Courcys.’

‘We don’t have many heirlooms. I expect over the last century lots of things have got thrown against the wall. Or smashed. Or burnt,’ he added, with a glimmer of a smile.

‘If I said that, you’d hit me.’

He gave me a sidelong glance, and brushed the purfling with his knuckles, very gently. ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Why “mistress”?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe men love their mistresses more than their wives.’

‘If I owned that, I’m pretty sure I’d want to marry it.’ I leaned forward and touched the varnish. It was like oil. Utterly smooth. ‘I mean, wouldn’t you want your violins to be legitimate?’

He laughed and gave one string an affectionate twang. Then he looked up and into my eyes, and the smile died. Or rather, it sort of retreated; the warmth was still there, but there was something else in his face. And then he flushed. It was remarkable, like a red light shining on him.

I stared at him. For a second he held my gaze. Then I think he realised that he was blushing, because he got to his feet and fumbled the cello back into its case. It seemed to take an age. He glanced over his shoulder, as if he could sense me watching him, but he didn’t meet my eyes. I was only standing there, my hands in my pockets. As jokes go, it wasn’t exactly obscene; and he’d laughed, hadn’t he? And yet even his ears were scarlet. Somehow I was afraid I’d given myself away. I said, ‘What’s up, Carfax?’

‘Nothing.’

I opened my mouth to tease him, but something stopped me. He put the cello into its case and leant it against the wall. ‘I’ll see you later,’ he said. ‘Give me a knock after dinner.’