The Betrayals(95)

Can’t we go back …? he’d said, and she said, No.

The dinner bell rings. He clutches at the distraction. Hurriedly he tidies his desk and straightens his tie. Then he runs down the stairs to the main library, and stops dead.

Emile.

It takes him by surprise, so he almost trips up. His head has been so full of Claire and Carfax that he’d almost forgotten that Emile had arrived. He catches himself on the banister. Emile turns, and smiles. ‘Léo,’ he says. He’s holding a book, flicking through the pages. ‘Good to see you.’

‘Emile.’ He regains his balance. ‘Thanks for keeping in touch.’

‘Not at all. My pleasure.’

‘And for sending …’ He gestures. ‘The parcels.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Emile inclines his head. ‘My dear chap, it wasn’t charity. You earnt them.’

The letters. When Emile was miles away, it was easier to rationalise them; now, face to face, he feels the humiliation of it. He’s been so obedient, so useful. A servant. Frightened into compliance. He says, ‘I didn’t realise you were coming.’

‘I must say it brings back memories, doesn’t it?’ Emile puts down the book he’s holding and turns to take in the bookshelves and the empty desks. Of course, the Gold Medal was announced today: no one is studying tonight. He inhales theatrically. ‘Ah, the smell of youth and scholarship!’ He slides a hand neatly into his pocket and gets out his cigarette case.

The bell stops ringing. ‘Well then,’ Léo says, ‘shall we …?’ He starts to move towards the door.

‘Drop in on me later, won’t you?’ Emile says. ‘They’ve been very kind and found me a small suite above the Lesser Hall. Do come. I have some excellent brandy.’

‘I don’t think—’

‘No, I insist.’ He puts a cigarette between his lips and gets a box of matches out of his pocket. He lights his cigarette and flicks the match sideways without checking that it’s extinguished. It lands under one of the desks. He takes a long drag and blows smoke into the air.

Léo stifles the urge to crouch down to check it’s gone out. For a second he’s reminded, unpleasantly, of himself when he first got here, flicking matches in the Magisters’ courtyard. Now he understands how Claire felt. ‘You can’t smoke in here.’ He says it loudly, but the librarian at the far end of the room stays hunched over his ledger, studiously not noticing.

Emile laughs. ‘Well, I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.’

‘The books …’

‘Relax. The most valuable ones have been taken off the shelves, I believe.’

‘What? Why?’

An expression slides on and off Emile’s face like water, too quick to read. Then he blows a smoke ring towards the ceiling and says, ‘Come to my rooms later. I mean it.’

‘I have an article to write.’

‘You’ll regret it if you don’t.’ He smiles, as though it softens the words. Then he turns and walks away – not towards the refectory, but the other direction – before Léo has time to answer.

He leaves it as late as he can, but he’s too restless to resist. It’s either Emile or staying alone in his room thinking about Claire; and right now a bit of Party gossip might be a relief. He tries to ignore the mosquito-sting of his vanity when he knocks at Emile’s door like a scholar who’s been summoned by a Magister.

‘Martin,’ Emile calls. ‘Come in. Have a drink.’

The room is larger than Léo’s. It’s bright and warm with the honeyed breath of candles; light gleams on a white tablecloth and the bulbs of wineglasses, and one wall is covered with a dusty-looking hanging. There’s no bed, but then Emile said rooms, plural, didn’t he? So much for the Magister Domus insisting that Léo’s room under the clock was the only one available for guests.

Emile waves him to a chair. ‘Sit down, sit down. How was dinner? Brandy?’

‘Thank you.’ He takes it and sits, pushing aside a dirty plate with a napkin crumpled in its centre. Several people have had their dinner around this table. He remembers noticing that two of the Magisters weren’t in the refectory. So Emile is playing host, now, is he? Is that why he’s here, to ingratiate himself? ‘You asked me to come here. What did you want?’

Emile’s eyebrow goes up. ‘Manners, dear boy. You’re not Magister Scholarium yet, you know.’

He doesn’t pay attention to that. He reaches for the box of cigarettes across the table; when he takes one Emile strikes a match and leans forward to light it for him. Reluctantly he says, ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome. It’s good to see you, you know.’ There’s a pause. Emile smiles. ‘By the way, I’ve left the Ministry for Information. Did you hear? I’m in your old department now.’

‘I see.’ The news squeezes his gut like a fist. Is Emile in his old office? Do the secretaries giggle and bat their eyelashes at him, or the aides straighten their ties when he walks into the room? ‘Congratulations.’

‘There may be some more changes there soon. Dettler has never been up to the job. You were a hard act to follow.’

‘Thanks.’

Emile leans back in his chair. ‘What’s the matter, Léo?’