The Betrayals(73)

I was standing in front of the door. He waited for me to move. I took a step back, but not enough, so he stepped towards me and still couldn’t get past. We wavered in the doorway for a second, our faces close together, in a kind of absurd dance. And then … his gaze flickered. His look skimmed my face, my mouth, and came back to my eyes. It hardly took a fraction of a second, and then he barged past me, clipping me with his shoulder.

But it was enough. That something else in his expression … It was there. I’m certain of it.

I started to laugh when he’d gone. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I had to bend over and put my hands on my knees, breathing hard, until finally I got myself under control.

What if I’m making it up? What if that look didn’t mean anything, what if it was just his manner? Arrogance? Sheer irritation, because I wouldn’t move out of his way? I’ve only now realised how I feel about him – so what if I’m only seeing what I want to see? The more I think about it the less sure I am. But I was sure. When it happened, I knew. And now, if I shut my eyes and remember … Yes. I’m not mistaken. That blush, that long look, his clumsy hands when he tried to put his cello away. How he reacts when I touch him. He may not realise, mind you – any more than I did, till Emile said his piece – but it’s there. It has to be. Which means …

No. We can’t. It’s too dangerous. Even if we were careful.

I can’t sleep. My stomach is churning. What am I going to do?

And I can’t help thinking: if it’s true, if I’m right … then I’ve won, after all. Haven’t I?

Chapter 22





23: Léo


Something has given him the squits. He’s lucky that the nearest lavatory is a small single one, meant for the Magisters, but all the same he curses as he stumbles between toilet and bed, sweating. The clock, which he’d almost got used to, rings through his dreams, making him dizzy. The servant who banks up his fire brings him water, too, and asks if he wants anything to eat; but the thought of it makes him curl up, knees to his chest, trying to quell the twinges in his gut. Later, when he falls into an uneasy sleep, the same servant’s there in his dreams: only now she’s transformed into the laundress who died years ago, the one who threw herself off the Square Tower when he was in his second year … Carfax is there, too, and Magister Dryden, and his father, and Emile, and Mim, and Chryse?s, and Pirène, and that friend Léo made in the first year of the Party who turned out to be a leftist and got killed in a brawl … All of them, as if everyone he’s ever known is crowding around his bed, sly and reproachful. He can’t bear it. He lights a lamp – striking four matches before he manages to keep one burning – to keep the dark at bay. The mess in his room wavers as the shadows bob and dip: books, dirty clothes on the floor, parcels spilling their contents. There are chocolate bars, packets of tea and cigarettes, shaving soap, some new razor blades … A pile of cheap blue-backed novels, none of them in translation, none of them worth reading. Those were from Emile, keeping him abreast of cultural developments, with a malicious note telling him how much the Party’s new imprint needs a better editor-in-chief. The place looks like a looter’s headquarters. Sometimes he wonders whether he’ll drown in it all, like something out of a cautionary tale. The walls will creep inwards, and the tide of luxuries will rise … No, that’s the fever talking. He drifts, empty and exhausted. The window blazes and dims, the sunlight jumps from one section of the floor to another like a flea, then crawls under the bed and dies. When his mind is clear again the lamp is burning low, and the sky outside is spread thickly with stars. He’s lost track of time: has he been ill for one day or two? At least now he knows perfectly well who he is, and where, and that he’s alone. Alone, and ravenous. Gingerly he gets out of bed, wrinkling his nose at the sharp febrile scent of his sweat. He reaches for his watch, but of course he hasn’t wound it. Is it evening, or night? He might be in time for dinner, if he’s lucky. Soup and a glass of wine. Bread and butter. His mouth fills with saliva. He drags on some trousers and a shirt and jumper. His legs feel spongy, but his stomach gripes have stopped and he’s not giddy any more. He makes it to the door and out into the passage without having to lean against the wall.

But dinner is over. He isn’t sure where to go. Perhaps the Magister Domus would be able to help; or perhaps – since the Magister Domus takes great pleasure in refusing Léo’s requests – he should go to the kitchens and see if he can scrounge something.

As he steps out into the courtyard he tilts his face up to the stars. The Milky Way is like butter. He stands there breathing, trying not to think. The clock strikes; he isn’t counting, but it goes on for longer than seems plausible. It must be midnight. The door of the library opens, and two figures come out. One of them is a grey-robed librarian, ushering out a slim figure in white. Magister Dryden. ‘I’m sorry, Magister,’ he’s saying, ‘but the rules are quite straightforward, and I … Next time, if you let me know in advance—’

‘There’s no need to apologise,’ she says. Her voice is very clear in the still air.

‘It’s just that there must be at least two people in the building at all times.’

‘In case someone takes it into his head to burn it down. I know.’