The Betrayals(9)

The gates open. The chauffeur says, ‘Excuse me, sir,’ and gets back into the driving seat.

The tune pauses, and resumes with a new venom. Léo stays where he is. In a moment he’ll turn and smile at the gatekeeper, allow one of the servants to take him to his quarters, show himself to be charming and humble and achingly enthusiastic about the grand jeu. But this is his last moment of freedom, and he wants to make it last.

Then he realises why, out of all the games in the world, it’s the Bridges of K?nigsberg that’s got stuck in his head. It’s not only his subconscious making him a snide present of a game he’s always despised. It’s because of the theme of the game: the impossible problem, the way it brings you back to the same bridges over and over, the way you never escape.





3: the Magister Ludi


She is standing at a window in the middle corridor, looking out over the courtyard at the Great Hall, letting the breeze cool her damp forehead and neck. She pushes one finger under the band of her cap, wishing she could take it off, irritated by the hot weight of her hair. Her undershirt is sticking to her. She has been working in the classroom behind her, enjoying the last quiet day before term begins, the calm away from the laughter and noise of the scholars, but the sweltering sun has finally driven her out. She puts her notes down on the windowsill and draws a long breath. The air that plays round her has a faint, delightful chill in it. On this side, in the shade, you can smell autumn coming.

The clock chimes two. Then, droning underneath the bell, there’s the slow crescendo of an engine. At first, she thinks it must be the bus, struggling up the road with the first-years’ trunks; but the note is too smooth, with a deep rumble in it like a cello. She turns her head to listen. The wind sings a descant in the slates of the roof. She puts her elbows on the sill and leans out to look.

The gate opens, and the sound sends a bird skirling up from the flagstones in a flash of wings. A couple of third-years – she recognises Collins from his walk, cocky as always, which means the other must be Muller – stop in the doorway of the refectory to watch. Then, slow as a drop of crude oil, a car rolls into view. It purrs to a halt outside the Magisters’ Entrance, and a man in a cap gets out, opens the trunk, and drags a leather-strapped suitcase to the door. He dumps it there, goes back to the car and brings out two more.

She blows air out between her teeth. Where are the porters? Or the gatekeeper? There should be someone already hurrying up to explain that scholars are not allowed more than one medium-sized trunk, and that on no account may a car drive in to the school itself – that the violation of the environs of the Schola Ludi is grounds for immediate expulsion – that use of the Magisters’ Entrance is only for—

The gatekeeper comes out of the lodge. He can’t miss the chauffeur, and that ostentatious pile of luggage blocking the Magisters’ Entrance; but he doesn’t say anything. Instead he pauses and waits for another man, leading him into the courtyard with a sweeping gesture of welcome. ‘… changed too much,’ she hears him say, the breeze scattering his words. The man behind him emerges into the space and looks round. He’s wearing a tan suit and fedora that looks out of place – absurd, in fact. Even from this angle she can make out the width of his lapels and the eau de Nil handkerchief in his pocket. ‘Like going back in time … the old place …’ she hears now, as he tilts his head back to take in the height of the Great Hall; then he swivels slowly, as if he’s absorbing the grandeur of the buildings. For an instant he looks straight up at where she’s standing. She catches sight of his face.

For a moment she thinks she’s mistaken. She holds on to the sill, so still she’s hardly breathing.

His gaze slides over her. The gatekeeper says something and he laughs, pushing his hands into his pockets. They saunter to the Magisters’ Entrance. The chauffeur tips his cap to them both, and gets back into the car. He turns it in a wide half-circle and drives out through the gate. No one closes it behind him. Collins and Muller cross to the middle of the courtyard and stare admiringly after the car as it goes down the road. The noise of its engine fades as Collins says, ‘… kill to have one like that.’

She draws back from the window. She looks down at herself. Her cuffs are grimy. There’s an ink stain on her thumb. Her heart is beating so hard the rest of her feels unreal: she could be floating in space, a ghost with a thundering pulse.

She doesn’t know how long she stands there. When she looks out of the window again the courtyard is empty. Someone, finally, has shut the gate. The suitcases outside the Magisters’ Entrance have disappeared.

She picks up her notes. Distantly she remembers writing them, but the ideas have lost their clarity; it’s like seeing them through a cloud of dust. All she can do now is try to find her way through to cleaner air. Her heartbeat has eased and some of the feeling has come back into her fingers and toes, but she still can’t quite catch her breath. She pauses, staring out at the courtyard, chewing her lower lip. Then she turns and begins to walk down the corridor, rapidly, as if she doesn’t want to have time to think.

The Magister Scholarium is at his desk. He looks up when she opens the door, startled, as if it wasn’t his voice that told her to come in. ‘Ah,’ he says, ‘Magister Dryden. Do …’ He points at a chair, but she’s already sat down. ‘How can I help you?’