It’s changed since he was last here. When Holt was Magister Ludi the walls were covered in diagrams and charts and grand jeu scores: but as Léo looks round there’s nothing on them but austere planes of moonlight. The notation graph has gone. Even the blackboard is wiped clean. He runs his hand along the shelf below it to feel the thick softness of chalk dust on his fingertips.
Then, without knowing why, he goes down the aisle to the desk beside the window and sits down. It’s the same desk, his desk: the same nick beside the inkwell, the same scars and dents, the same L carved into the top. He touches it, like a blind man trying to read, and his heart gives a thud. He remembers scratching an old pen-nib into the wood, one lesson early in Vernal Term of his first year, anticipating two hours of boredom while they critiqued other people’s sketches for grands jeux. He had his head down, listening with half an ear to Carfax summarising his ouverture. Carfax’s games were always clever – and flashy, as well – but Léo was determined not to show any interest; when he’d presented his own sketch a few days before, Carfax had watched with insolent attention, suggesting improvement after improvement with overstated courtesy until Magister Holt sighed and said, ‘Perhaps … someone else …?’ Léo knew he wouldn’t be able to retaliate in kind – Carfax was the top of the class, week after week – but at least he could pretend complete indifference. And later, when they were at dinner, there would be a joke or a snide comment to be made, another opportunity to balance the score. He drove the point of the nib across the grain of the wood, deepening the bottom line of the L. On the dais, Carfax cleared his throat and said, ‘So I’ve decided to focus on the first development of the musical theme, and the transition into the lyric element …’
Léo kept his pen moving, scraping splinters out of the groove he’d made. In a moment it would be clear enough to last for years, and he could move on to the E.
‘So with that overview, we have the introduction of the first theme: the potato.’
Léo looked up. Felix caught his eye and gave a tiny, bemused shrug; other scholars were repressing smiles. Carfax had noticed their reaction – you could see that from the way his eyes swept across the room – but his composure didn’t flicker. He used his notes to gesture, with the insouciant authority that set Léo’s teeth on edge. ‘We begin with an exploration of musical notation as both itself and an almost literal pictogram: that is, the semibreve acts as a kind of pun, providing both the melody and a portrait of the potato. Thus—’ He demonstrated the musical theme: a single dull thump of a note, repeated. It was like something heavy falling into a bucket. For a few bars everyone sat silent, watching him; and then the first snort came from Dupont in the back row. It set off a ripple of smothered amusement. Carfax tilted his head, with a tiny acknowledgement.
It was then that Léo realised Carfax was doing it deliberately. He leant forward, his pen loose between his fingers.
‘I’ve used that melody’ – Carfax paused for the tiny incredulous giggle from Emile, as if he knew it was coming – ‘that melody as a cantus firmus. For the elaboration, I have composed a baroque variation.’ He consulted his notes and turned to the blackboard to sketch the movement. ‘While maintaining a continuo for the theme, I’ve indulged in some compositional extravagance—’ He broke off, adding diacritics to the structure. Then he stood back to assess what he’d written, as if for a moment he’d forgotten that the rest of the class was there. Léo frowned. Carfax’s game was absurd, grotesque, completely unlike his usual style: and yet he was surveying it as if it was the best thing he’d ever done.
‘Now – following the classic structure, I introduce the mathematical proposition – a combination of lyric poetry and an allusion to the philosophical tension between integers and the looming infinite.’
Léo couldn’t concentrate on what Carfax was saying. He stared at the elaboration of the musical theme on the blackboard. It was familiar, somehow. Not that he had ever seen it before – he would have remembered that – but the style, the shape … His own game had been called the New World – had there been something about potatoes? Maybe he’d read something similar, when he was doing his research. It seemed unlikely, but he couldn’t deny the twist of recognition in his gut.
‘One potato,’ Carfax said, ‘two potato, three potato, four – five potato, six potato, seven potato, more …’
This time everyone laughed. From his seat in the corner, Magister Holt said, ‘Gentlemen …’
Léo narrowed his eyes. He ignored the joke. There was something … It was a standard structure, the sort of development he used himself – so what was it …? He leant forward, wrestling with a complex knot of notation, and caught sight of Emile glancing at him. There was something in his expression that Léo couldn’t read. He mouthed, ‘What?’
Emile shook his head and turned back to face the front of the room. After a moment he sent another curious look over his shoulder. Felix and Jacob were nudging each other, and almost everyone was smirking. Carfax said, ‘… as demonstrated here, in the transition,’ and another wave of mirth broke over the room. Léo rolled his eyes and slumped in his chair, folding his arms. He wasn’t going to laugh; he wasn’t impressed. He kept his eyes half-closed, staring at Carfax with deliberate blankness. Carfax held his gaze, and smiled. Léo raised an eyebrow and let his eyes drift past Carfax, back to the blackboard, trying to show his contempt in his expression.
He felt his face go slack, as he realised.
It was his own game.
No, not his game. But close enough. With his habits, his structure, his style – all of them skewed, caricatured but recognisable, the whole thing a vicious parody of his New World. A high piercing note rang in his ears. He shut his eyes. When he opened them again the game was still there, still monstrous, still sickeningly familiar. Was he imagining it? No. It had the same architecture as the New World – as all his games, for God’s sake – and every detail was as precise as a needle-prick. He jerked in his seat, mastering the impulse to twist round to check if anyone was watching him; if they were, he couldn’t let them see his face … He clenched his jaw. The singing in his ears intensified, drowning out Carfax’s voice.
He sat very still. There was nothing he could do but try not to attract attention. Perhaps no one else had realised – please, let no one else have realised … Had Emile’s look been pity? Waves of heat went over him. Sweat crawled down his scalp and soaked into his collar. There was a piercing pain in the base of his thumb; he looked down and saw that he’d driven the grimy pen-nib into the flesh, so deep he’d drawn blood. He spread his hands flat on the desk and looked down at them, and after a while a bubble of red oozed out from under his palm. Carfax’s voice came and went in his ears while the class murmured and chuckled. He told himself that they didn’t know, they weren’t laughing at him; but they were, whether they knew it or not.
The class fell silent. He looked up, in spite of himself. Carfax had finished. He held Léo’s gaze, a long level look of victory. No one moved or spoke; they might have been the only two people in the room. Then, although Carfax hadn’t performed a whole game, he gave the low, graceful bow of fermeture.