‘There was an influenza epidemic here, a few years before I was elected.’
‘Yes. I heard about that. A very bad business,’ he adds, with a politician’s automatic gravity. Not that he cared much, at the time: Montverre seemed so far away that the list of deaths was no more than a number.
She twists the rope of her hair, pulling it forward so that it lies across her cheek. In this light, her face could be anyone’s: especially now, with her eyes turned away, her gaze searching the window as if she can see beyond their reflections in the glass. ‘What was it like?’ she says. ‘When you were here before?’
‘It was—’ He stops. His head is spinning and his throat is tight. He’s done enough remembering tonight. He shrugs. ‘Much the same as when you were here, I imagine.’
There’s a fractional pause; then she says, ‘What?’
‘No. I’m sorry.’ He turns aside, stuttering.
‘Sorry? What for?’ There’s a strange, warning note in her voice.
‘I forgot I was talking to – that you didn’t come here – that you’re a—’ What’s wrong with him? He’s blethering.
‘You’re sorry I’m a woman?’ She laughs, shortly.
He opens his mouth, on the verge of saying, Yes, exactly. It’s true; she shouldn’t be here at all, let alone Magister Ludi. He can still remember the day she was elected, and the aide who brought him the Beacon, grimacing as he put it down on Léo’s desk. ‘What a balls-up,’ he’d said. ‘Goes to show Montverre can’t be trusted to run its own affairs.’ When Léo put down his pen and dragged the paper closer to read the headline, the aide added, ‘At least we didn’t get a crosser or a Commie. The Minister did something right. But honestly, we should’ve stepped in before they got to that shortlist. Blind submissions, give me strength! Everyone knows what that’s supposed to mean. Next time …’ Léo stared at that blurry photo, furious. How could they have let it happen? Someone who hadn’t even studied at Montverre, chosen faute de mieux, because the others were even more unelectable. He could have thrown something.
But he doesn’t say so; partly because he’s too tired, and partly because his own promotion came soon afterwards, when the Minister for Culture stepped down. He takes a breath. ‘It’s unusual, in the world of the grand jeu. How did you even learn to play?’
‘My family. I lived with my cousins for a while, in England. They were good players.’
‘They must have been.’ He smiles. ‘Do you ever wonder what your games would be like if you’d been a man?’
‘No.’
He waits, but she doesn’t say anything else. ‘No,’ he says, eventually. ‘Well. It’s a waste of time to speculate, I suppose.’ Something makes him glance at the door to the classroom, and the rank of frosted windows. He can just make out the milky pallor of moonlight on the other side. ‘I dare say it wouldn’t have suited you here, anyway. It’s very competitive. A lot of ambition, rivalry, and so on. Not a suitable place for a woman. That is, I’m sure you do a very good job as Magister Ludi.’
‘Good night, Mr Martin,’ she says, turning away. ‘Please return to your rooms without waking anyone, won’t you?’
He watches her go. She doesn’t have a lamp, but she knows her way. She brushes the wall with her fingertips as she turns the corner towards the staircase. He catches himself thinking that she’s doing it deliberately, to show that Montverre is hers, and clenches his jaw. He shouldn’t let her get under his skin – she’s only a woman, why should he care if she loathes him? – but she’s not like any other woman he knows. It’s as if she’s forgotten who she’s supposed to be; and he can’t help being drawn into her world, where he’s not only alien but inferior. Perhaps she would have fitted in as a scholar, after all.
He leaves it a long time before he follows her down the stairs and into the Magisters’ wing. There’s no sign of her. He’s glad. He goes back to his rooms without pausing. The clock strikes three as he walks along the corridor. When he finally gets to his bedroom he’s too cold to undress. He crawls under the blankets as he is, in shirt and trousers, and within seconds he’s asleep.
7
Fifth day of Serotine Term
I was too fed up to write yesterday, but I suppose I should explain – if only for when this is consulted for my biography (working title: Léonard Martin: the Life and Times of the Youngest Magister Ludi).
So. Yesterday. After meditation I went to the library – I’ve been looking at the Oxford, Paul said the other day that it ‘reeks of histrionic Christ-worship’ but it seems OK to me – and stayed there until dinner time. I was crossing the courtyard to the refectory when I saw Emile and Dupont coming out of the classroom wing. Emile called my name and beckoned me over. ‘Have you seen?’ he said. ‘Did it come as a shock?’
I said, ‘Seen what?’
They exchanged a look. A smirk, I should say. Dupont jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘It’s on the noticeboard,’ he said.
‘What?’ It was too early for the first week’s marks to be out. ‘Have I – has someone been kicked out?’ I had a tiny moment of panic in case the school had found out about some of the stuff I did over the summer. I’ve never heard of anyone being sacked for lack of chastity off the premises, but technically bringing the school into disrepute is a sackable offence.
‘Don’t worry, dear boy,’ Emile said, ‘it’s nothing like that.’ He swapped another glance with Dupont and tittered.
I didn’t pause long enough to give him a dirty look. I walked with speed but dignity into the scholars’ wing and broke into a run as soon as I was out of sight. There was a crowd in front of the noticeboard, and when I got there Felix turned round. He was grinning, but when he saw me his face changed and he looked at me like a vet who was about to shoot my dog. ‘What’s up?’ I said. ‘Has something happened?’ My only thought by then was that the government had fallen, or something like that, but there was something too personal in the way Felix was attempting a sympathetic expression.
‘Have a look,’ he said, and pushed someone aside so I could get close enough to see.
Second-Year Pairings for Joint Games. The first time I read it, it didn’t make sense; then it did. I felt my heart start to thud as I read down the list, until I got to my name. But I’d known what it would say from the moment I saw the title, written out in Magister Holt’s neat block capitals and underlined in red.
LÉONARD MARTIN & AIMÉ CARFAX DE COURCY.
Someone said, ‘But – they’ve never assigned partners before! I was supposed to be with Mirabeau …’
I couldn’t speak. I stared at the list. Most people had been averaged out – Felix was with Paul, Emile was with Jacob – which meant it was even worse that Carfax and I had been put together.
Felix said, ‘At least you two will be top of the class. You’ll walk it.’
I didn’t deign to answer that. I would rather be with anyone – anyone, Felix and Jacob included – than Carfax. And I may sound self-absorbed, but this whole thing is clearly about me (well, us). Magister Holt has got some kind of bee in his bonnet about our ‘unfriendly rivalry’ and thinks this is a good way to make us work together. Damn him. I can’t even go to the Magister Scholarium, because I know what he’d say: you’re here to learn, trust the Magister Ludi, put aside personal differences, the game is after all an act of worship, blah blah blah.