He turns his head and sees her. He smiles politely, welcoming her, as if she’s the one who’s intruding. For a few seconds she is frozen, not quite believing that he is here, with his tobacco smoke and his despicable newspaper.
‘Put that out!’
He blinks. ‘What?’
She points at the cigarette. The muscles in her arm are as tight as wires. ‘You’re not allowed to smoke here. Put it out.’
‘I—’ He hesitates. ‘Why?’
‘It’s against the rules.’
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘but why? I’m outside. What harm is one cigarette going to do? There aren’t any scholars here to see me.’ He blows smoke into the blue sky, as if he’s inviting her to watch it evanesce. ‘Unless you’re afraid I’ll corrupt you,’ he adds, laughing. Of course, laughing.
‘There are priceless books here,’ she says. Her voice grates in her ears. ‘There is a library which – if someone were careless with a naked flame, a spark—’
‘On the other side of the school,’ he says. ‘Not in this cloister.’
She draws in her breath. There are flickering lights at the edge of her mind’s eye, the image of thousands of matches scattered across a stone floor. ‘Don’t you have a healthy fear of being burnt to death in your bed? You of all people—’ She wants to shame him, to throw his endless, merciless jokes back in his face; but that would mean admitting to having read his diary.
His eyes narrow. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘It doesn’t matter, Mr Martin. Put out your cigarette. Now.’
He holds her gaze. Something hardens in his face. He says, ‘Perhaps if you said please.’
She grabs his arm and before he has time to react she has reached across his body and plucked the cigarette from between his fingers. She dashes it to the ground and grinds it out with the toe of her shoe, and then they are staring at each other. She is so angry it’s difficult to breathe. Even though she has let go of him, she can feel the warmth of his body, the sturdy flesh-and-bone of his arm; the sensation is so strong that she wipes her hand on her gown. She is shaking.
He says, ‘What on earth …?’
He is looking at her as though she is hysterical. Is she? She wants to cover her face, but it’s too late. Instead she bows her head and fusses with her cuffs until her fingers are steady and the heat has left her cheeks. She says, at last, ‘While you’re here, Mr Martin, you must obey the rules. This isn’t a holiday camp.’
‘You’re telling me.’ A new angle of light falls on his face as he turns his head, and for the first time she notices the dark circles under his eyes, the gaunter cheekbones. The fine-veined flush of good living he had on arrival has faded, but there’s a pallid tinge around his mouth that doesn’t look any healthier. He hasn’t shaved, and it gives his jaw a gritty, silvery look.
‘Mr Martin,’ she says. ‘You’ve chosen to be here. If it doesn’t suit you, why don’t you leave?’
He fiddles with the matchbox, pushing it open and shut.
‘You’re not actually studying the grand jeu, are you?’ When he doesn’t answer she shakes her head. ‘This is a sacred place. If you want to sit and read the paper, go somewhere else.’
He glances up at her. ‘Where do you suggest?’
‘Go back to government,’ she says. ‘Go back to the Party. Draft more Purity Laws. Exile more Christians.’ She gestures at the paper. ‘That’s what you do, isn’t it? Burning Bibles, burning churches … Go back to that.’
He takes out a match and strikes it. The flame hisses and dies. ‘I can’t.’
‘Really? Why not?’ There’s a silence. He throws the spent match aside, into the flowerbed. She wants to pick it up and press the hot end into his skin. ‘You think I don’t know why you’re here?’ she says, fighting to keep her voice under control. ‘The Party wants to take over Montverre, or to close it down. You’re a spy. You’re here to give orders to the Magister Scholarium. Well, I can’t stop you. But don’t imagine you’re welcome. You’re not part of this place, and you never will be.’
He pauses, his head bent, another virgin match ready in his fingers.
‘Today we agreed that next year no Christians will be admitted. I expect that makes you happy, doesn’t it?’
‘No,’ he says. Suddenly his voice has an edge to it; as if for once he’s telling the truth.
‘Oh? Well, at least you must think it’s a step in the right direction.’
‘For goodness’ sake!’ He’s on his feet, turning on her, the matches and their box scattered in the soil underneath the bench. ‘I’m not part of the Party any more. I’m stuck in this blasted place because they don’t want me back.’ He grimaces, as if he’s said too much, but after an instant he goes on. ‘You really want to know why I’m here? I tried to water down the Culture and Integrity Bill. I thought it was going too far. That’s why they sacked me. I’m here in disgrace.’
‘Going too far?’ she echoes, trying to cling to her advantage, but it comes out sounding thin and petty.
He shoots a look at her. ‘I don’t see you packing your bags in protest.’
‘That’s unfair – I did my best—’
‘As did I.’ He scuffs his heel at the matches on the ground, driving them deeper into the soil. ‘Unfortunately, our best isn’t much good, is it?’
There’s a silence. She tips up her face to the sky. Her head is spinning. Perhaps he’s lying, but she doesn’t know why he’d bother; it’s not as if he cares what she thinks of him. Why would he?
He sits down. After a moment he picks a match and the empty box out of the earth and lights another cigarette.
‘You might as well work on the grand jeu,’ she says. ‘While you’re here.’
He raises one shoulder, without looking at her.
‘You were a promising player, once.’ Now he does flash a glance at her. She stoops and brushes her hand along the top of the hedge, releasing the scent of box. ‘I’ve – I heard that your Gold Medal game wasn’t bad.’
‘Thank you.’ She can’t tell whether he’s being sarcastic.
‘If you put your mind to it, you might write something – good.’ It sticks in her teeth, the word: but it’s true.
‘How kind.’
‘This is Montverre. It’s a waste to be here and—’
‘Yes, it’s a waste! You think I don’t know that? It’s a prison.’
She folds her arms. ‘Then do your time.’
He blinks. After an instant a reluctant half-smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
‘By all means,’ she says, ‘leave as soon as you are able. In the meantime – write a game. Study. You may tell the librarians that I said you could look at the archives.’
A silence. ‘Are you trying to keep me out of mischief?’
‘Ideally.’ And for a second, swift and elusive as a breath of wind, there’s warmth between them. Not as much as a smile, but a kind of … complicity. She turns away, disgusted with herself. The smell of tobacco is half nauseating, half seductive. When was the last time she smoked? A memory catches her off guard: wide night sky, endless stars, a voice laughing in her ear. She shakes it away. That life has gone. She’s here, now, in the autumn sunshine, with a man she doesn’t know. ‘I must go,’ she says, and immediately despises herself. She doesn’t have to make excuses to him.