A second later he remembers, with the same sort of jerk as when he makes an idiotic mistake in a report, or trips drunkenly on a kerb, that it’s a joint game: so it will be filed under Carfax’s name, too, with Carfax’s rough notes and the Magisters’ Remarks. There’s no need to be histrionic. Some fool has probably put both copies into the same folder. He slides his finger back along the shelf. 2.1926.4, 2.1926.5 … Yes. DE COURCY, Aimé Carfax, c. MARTIN Léonard, Danse Macabre. His stomach twists a little. He tastes ersatz coffee on the back of his tongue.
But this file is empty too. Or, rather, it has two sheets of Magisters’ Remarks, and nothing else. Not even Carfax’s roughs. They were beautiful in their way, strong-boned and intricate, as if all his ideas came out fully formed; Léo could swear he remembers Carfax handing them in with his fair copy, his ironic murmur as they left Magister Holt’s office together, ‘Alea iacta est …’ Now he stares at the Magisters’ Remarks, but although phrases rise to the surface he hardly sees them. A new freedom … departure from classical simplicity … energy, a sort of serious hilarity … But where on earth is the game itself? Automatically he reaches for the next folder along. It’s JANSEN, Pierre, Circles and Triangles. He flips through the files on either side: nothing.
He goes back to the card index. There is nearly an entire drawer for DE COURCY; a couple of entries run on to five or six cards. But Carfax isn’t there.
He shuts the drawer with a thud and stands staring into space, frowning.
He didn’t come to the archives to look at his own games; still less, to pore over Carfax’s. But this … He should check again, or ask an archivist; but he already knows it wouldn’t be any good. Carfax is gone. Wiped out of the archive as if … He thinks, suddenly, of the Party photographs, the early ones, with rows of young men grinning, clustered around the Old Man outside beer houses. Or the picture that was taken after the first election, on the steps of the Capitol. The version that hangs in the Old Man’s office has fewer faces in it than it used to. But Carfax’s games? It doesn’t make sense. And it isn’t the same. It’s only the games, not Carfax himself; his name is still there, the empty files … And what is there in those games that anyone would want to erase? Only the Magisters have access to the archive, and which of them would care?
He gnaws on a fingernail, tasting soap. Rain runs in columns down the window, splitting and rejoining like some arcane graph. He can’t bear to admit defeat, but what can he do? It’s as though he’s staring at a blank wall, waiting for a door to appear. It doesn’t. And finding Carfax’s games wouldn’t bring him back from the dead. It would make it worse, even. He shuts his eyes, imagining how it would feel to see that handwriting again. Pain, like breathing into a cracked ribcage. A scratched eyeball. Stupid to long for it.
When he shifts his weight something crackles in his pocket. He pulls out his letters, uncrumples Chryseïs’ bill and folds it neatly into four before throwing it into the nearest wastepaper basket. He opens Mim’s letter and skims it. The usual. He forgets it as soon as he drops it on top of the bill. He opens the Party circular, watching the patterns of water on the windowpane, and glances at it as he leans over to put it in the rubbish too.
It isn’t a circular. It’s handwritten, and the writing is … Perhaps it is familiar, after all; it sets off an elusive tingle of recognition. Perhaps it’s only because he was thinking about Carfax, and ten years ago – but no. He knows it. Dear Léo … He flips it over to the signature. Yours affectionately, Emile Fallon. He hasn’t seen Emile’s handwriting since – for years. It leaves a strange taste in his mouth. Why is Emile writing to him?
… In a way I envy you. The Ministry has never been so dull. I’m contemplating a change, maybe to the Ministry for Culture – but don’t worry, I have no intention of stepping into your old job. You’re too much to live up to, as Dettler is fast finding out. Think he must have been blinded by the office and the pretty secretary (she really is, isn’t she?) and didn’t realise there was any responsibility attached. Only a matter of time before he goes, I imagine.
Funny how your name still comes up in conversation. I do my best to mention you when I can, of course; otherwise people forget so quickly. Out of sight, out of mind. How are you getting on at Montverre? I’d be fascinated to hear what you make of the place now. I’ve been told the atmosphere has changed a lot. Do be careful, won’t you? Since the Arts budget was cut, I expect the place will be starting to crumble. You don’t want to slip on the stairs.
Oh, and if you need anything, let me know. Books, music, magazines, and so on. Anything I can do to help. You can pay me back when you’re out of exile …
Léo clenches his jaw, folds the letter and puts his hand over it. He can almost feel the words crawling under his palm like ants. It seems chatty, but it isn’t, of course.
The doctored photograph in the Old Man’s office flashes again into his head, but this time the absences are sharper, more glaring. Will his own face disappear from the front row? Has it already? First his face from a picture, then his name from the records, his body … He looks down and sees that he’s gripping the edge of the desk, fingers splayed. He’s getting morbid; it’s the solitude, the boredom, this bloody place … The Bridges of Königsberg rings in his ears like tinnitus.
He picks up his pen and unscrews the cap. He’s trying not to think; trying not to despise himself for his own cowardice. He finds a piece of paper.
My dear Emile, he writes. Thank you so much for your letter.
10
Fourth week of Serotine Term
(lost count of the days)
I know, I haven’t written for ages. I skipped Factorum this afternoon to catch up on sleep, which is why I have the energy to write this. I shouldn’t, really, I have a past paper to do for tomorrow (‘To what extent did the Pythagorean School of the sixth century BCE prefigure the modern study of the grand jeu?’) but the thought of it makes me want to bash my head against the wall. It’ll only get harder and harder the later I leave it, so obviously I’m procrastinating.
The joint game, though, is coming along. At least I think it is. Don’t get me wrong, I still think Carfax is an arrogant toad. We spent a whole evening last week bickering about our theme: he wanted something mathematical that we could use to explore other ideas (i.e. classical structure, utterly static and boring – imagine the offspring of an encyclopaedia and an abacus) and I wanted something bigger, more ambitious, which made him screw up his face like I’d proposed jumping off the roof of the Square Tower. I pushed my ideas about dreams and storms, but he refused point-blank. He kept saying, ‘We have to start with something true, something real,’ and I kept saying, ‘Don’t be so bloody difficult, Carfax, it’s all real, reality is real.’ We got stuck like that for ages, as if the wind had changed mid-conversation, until suddenly for no reason he raised his hand to shut me up. I nearly lost my temper then. He scribbled something on a bit of paper and pushed it towards me. I swear if it had been in Artemonian I would’ve punched him, and risked being expelled for it, but it was maths.