But there is no protecting Charpentier from the other scholars, who are even now distancing themselves, refusing to meet his eyes; she would only make things worse. And part of her resents him for reminding her that she’s an outsider too, that she knows full well how cruel Montverre can be.
The silence has gone on too long. She raps on the surface of the desk, dragging her mind back to her beginning-of-term speech. The old rhetorical question: ‘What is the grand jeu, gentlemen?’ Then a pause, of course. As if she expects one of them to reply … ‘I find it hard to believe that no one can tell me,’ she says. ‘You’ve done well in the examinations. You’ve passed your vivas. Anyone?’ And she pauses again, just enough to make them shift in their seats.
‘Good,’ she says. ‘I’m glad that none of you is under the illusion that you can define, or even explain, the grand jeu. That is a good place to start. In the meantime, let us consider the things that it is not. It is not music.’ She counts on her fingers. ‘It is not maths, or science, or poetry. It is not art. It is not fiction. It is not performance. It is not even, strictly speaking, a game.’ By now she is fluent again, the words so familiar she hardly has to concentrate. ‘In your time at Montverre you will study all these things, and more; but they are merely aspects, elements, of what constitutes the grand jeu. You may make something of all of these things that is not a grand jeu, and equally a grand jeu may have none of them at all. There is only one possible way to answer the question, what is the grand jeu? And that, gentlemen, is by playing it. That is what you will study with me, in this classroom.’ She leans against the desk. ‘This term you will sketch a game every two weeks, and play and critique one another’s games; at the end of Vernal Term you will write one full-length game each as well as taking your preliminary examinations. Please remember that everything you learn in every other class is for the grand jeu; this class must and shall be your highest priority. And—’
There’s a movement on the other side of the frosted windows that let in light from the corridor. A figure is outside, at arm’s-length from the door: the brownish silhouette of a man in a suit, no gown. Léo Martin. He is waiting there. Listening.
She takes a step towards the door, ready to fling it open and confront him; but before she reaches it he’s gone, sliding away. Footsteps click along the passage.
What was she saying? She can’t remember. She has lost her train of thought entirely. She turns carefully towards the blackboard, conscious of the scholars’ eyes on her. Five more seconds of silence and they will realise. Her armpits are damp, her mouth dry. She is afraid; and suddenly the realisation makes her angry.
‘Gentlemen,’ she says, without thinking, ‘if you are here to be a great player of the grand jeu … you should leave now.’
A couple of scholars swap a glance; one frowns, another crosses his arms.
‘If you are here,’ she says, ‘to win the Gold Medal. If you are here because you want your face on the cover of the Gambit. If you are here’ – she pauses, and her hand goes to the headband of her cap – ‘because you want to be standing here, in my place, as Magister Ludi … you would do better to walk out of that door, and find another route to success.’ She shakes her head. She has never said this before, but the words are there waiting, like a game she can play without notes. ‘Or you may even have lower ambitions. You may be here because you want to go into the Civil Service, or because your father was here before you, or because you want to boast about being an alumnus of Montverre, or keep up with intellectual conversations with business acquaintances over a glass of port. You may think that the grand jeu is our “national game” and that therefore it is simply one more accomplishment to master, a creditable hobby for when you re-enter the real world. You may think that, because you have won a place here, you are being rewarded. That learning the grand jeu is some kind of prize.’ She takes a breath. ‘But you would be wrong. The grand jeu has nothing to do with glory. It is a vocation, gentlemen. It is harder and lonelier than you can imagine, and the higher you go the colder it will be.’ Almost to herself, she goes on, ‘The grand jeu is not a game. It is the opposite of a game. It is our way of paying attention to something outside ourselves. And what is outside ourselves – whatever truly exists – is the divine. We remake the world so that we can submit to it; and what we encounter, in the act of playing the grand jeu, is the truth.’
Someone fidgets in the back row, scraping a shoe against the floor.
She smiles. ‘You don’t understand now,’ she says, ‘and you will understand less and less … It is very easy to start on the path. But be wary; because at the end of it is God.’
6: Léo
The clock strikes two. Léo hisses through his teeth into his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut as if he can will himself into unconsciousness. Then he rolls over, swings his legs out of bed and stands up, abandoning the attempt to sleep. Eventually, maybe, he will get used to this room below the clock tower; but for now he jerks awake every hour when the bell chimes, and passes the days in a haze of sleeplessness. A few days ago he asked the Magister Domus to move him, but he only shook his head and said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Martin.’
‘You don’t understand,’ Léo said. ‘I can’t stay in that room. I can’t sleep.’
The Magister Domus smiled. He wasn’t the same Magister Domus who had been there ten years ago, when Léo was a scholar; this one was plump and younger, with a placid look on his face that made Léo want to take him by the collar and shake him. ‘You don’t understand, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘We don’t have any other rooms suitable for a guest.’
‘I’ll sleep in a cell, I don’t care.’
‘I’m sorry. Those are the only rooms we can offer you.’
Léo stared at him. In his office, he would have sacked someone for a flat refusal, especially if it came with a smile; here, he felt his own helplessness, as if suddenly his fingers had decided not to button up his flies. ‘If it’s a question of money …?’
‘Not at all. It’s an honour to offer you our hospitality,’ the Magister said. ‘I’m very sorry not to be able to help.’ He nodded, with deliberate courtesy. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me … I must hurry, the clock has to be wound every morning. It’s never run down in two hundred years.’
Léo watched him go, feeling queasy and murderous. He was too used to having enemies to mistake hostility when he saw it; but to encounter it here, at Montverre, when they should have been grateful to have him … He straightened his tie, as if someone was watching, and walked down the corridor back to his rooms with his hands in his pockets, whistling the tune of a risqué ballad.
Now he crosses to the washstand and splashes his face until the grit washes out of the corners of his eyes. He pulls on a shirt and trousers. He fumbles for a match and strikes it, squinting at the flare of the flame, and then lights the lamp. If he reads, eventually he’ll fall asleep. But he’s long since finished the detective novel he bought at the station. He picks up the lamp and takes it out into the corridor before he remembers that the library will be shut for the night; but he can’t bring himself to go back to his room. Instead he goes down the staircase into the little cloister that joins the clock tower to the Magisters’ building. Summer is over: out here the night air is chilly and has the clean, sharp scent of autumn coming, with winter on its tail. He pushes the heavy door open and turns right, past the Magisters’ Entrance, past the music rooms and offices, up the spiral staircase, and into the wider passage of the scholars’ wing. The Square Tower houses the scholars’ cells; he turns in the other direction, towards the classrooms. He has only been up here once since he arrived, one morning when he was pacing the corridor and paused outside the grand jeu classroom to listen. Now he walks to the classroom door, puts his hand on the doorknob, and hesitates. He’s half afraid that he’ll open the door on a silent class, turning to look at him with vacant eyes. The image sends a shiver down his back. It’s the lack of sleep, and the lamplight, sowing shadows in the corners of the corridor. If he walks away it’ll be cowardice, or hysteria. He throws the door open with a kind of daring flourish: and of course the room is empty, quiet, the moonlight spilling through the windows so strongly he can see every outline, every desk and chair. There’s no need for the lamp; he puts it down on the windowsill in the corridor, and goes into the classroom without it.