I found myself at the far end of the building, in a bitterly cold storeroom. The snow had drifted up against the window so it was hard to see anything clearly, but there were piles of planks and boards against one wall, and a dried-up palette resting on a backless chair. I started opening cupboards at random. I found some old tubes of oil paint. They were stiff but still soft. I got one of the bits of wood and squeezed a blob of red paint on to it. First I was only seeing if the colour had stayed fresh, but then I began to spread it out – with anything I could find, an old bit of rag, the end of a stiffened brush, my hands … And then I added other tints, different shades of orange and crimson and burgundy, seeing if I could make the red redder. I covered the whole panel with it. I must have looked like a kid, kneeling on the floor, smearing the colour right to the edges. Later I found flecks of dried scarlet in my hair.
I lost track of time. It was only when I heard the bell that I came back to reality. I was covered in paint and dust. The panel was a mess of hot colours. Study of an Executioner’s Block. Here and there the grain of the wood still showed through, but in other places the colour was as thick and shiny as blood. I’d left handprints in it, the shapes where it had oozed between my fingers. It was paint and wood, flesh and oil and pigment. It was real. It was the exact opposite of a grand jeu.
I’m making it sound like something mystical. It wasn’t. It was childish, like scrawling on a wall. Wanting to leave my mark. Change something. But the thought of it makes me happy. It’s stupid. Right now, sitting here, the memory makes my heart lift. I made it. Me. Something honest.
When I got up, I thought I heard someone in the room beyond, hurrying away. It was probably nothing. But I couldn’t shake off the conviction that someone had been watching me.
One week, five days to go
I am so tired. At prep school they used to play a game where you had to let someone stroke the inside of your forearm a thousand times. I know, it sounds indecent. But after a while it was unbearable. Felt like your skin was coming off. Too much of anything drives you crazy. I’ve spent so long in the library with Carfax – or in his room, or mine, or in empty classrooms, wherever, doesn’t matter – that it’s taken off a layer of skin. Everything he does gets to me. Last night we were talking through the last movement of the Danse Macabre, arguing about whether the transition out of the melody works. I think it’s limp, that that sort of fading-to-nothing is cowardly and predictable. He thinks it’s the only option, that going out with a bang is vulgar. Frankly I’d rather a bit of melodrama than be bored. But anyway, so we were debating it (with some heat) when I stood up to show him what I meant. As if I was performing it. And the bastard started to smirk.
I asked him what he was laughing at, and he leant back in his chair and said, ‘What’s your instrument? It’s the piano, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must play it like a typewriter.’
I glared at him. Thank goodness our music practicals are one to one with the Magister, or he’d be parodying my touch as well as my grand jeu style. But he didn’t apologise; he didn’t even blink. He said, ‘Do that bit again.’
‘What?’
He drew a little spiral in the air. ‘That last bit you did. Show me.’
‘Why?’
‘Please.’
I clenched my jaw. I was tempted to walk out, but I realised I was being childish. And he had a sort of considering look on his face, like he was paying attention to the point I was trying to make. I said, ‘All right. Look – if it stays the way it is, it’s like a sort of dying marionette—’
‘It’s a Danse Macabre. Dying marionettes are entirely appropriate.’
‘No, I mean …’ I repeated the gesture. ‘See? It makes me look like a—’
‘That’s because of the way you’re doing it. It’s got to be smooth. Easy. Not like you’re trying to swat a mosquito.’
‘Look—’
‘Let me.’ He stood up. ‘You’ve got to imagine resistance. Like everyone’s attention is on you, and it’s thick, like cream. Relish it. Even if it’s only me, watching you.’
‘Don’t tell me how to—’
‘It’s all wrong. Your arms. The rest of you, too, actually. You’re more than your brain, Martin.’ He looked me up and down and chuckled. ‘Listen – do that gesture again – only this time …’ He reached out and put his palm against my wrist. ‘Feel the weight of it.’
I didn’t move. His hand was hot, bony, like – oh I don’t know what it was like, it was just his hand. A hand, that’s all. But I’d never been so conscious that my skin was the only thing separating me from the universe. I wasn’t thinking about the grand jeu.
I said, ‘Let go of me.’
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Don’t go dead, I want to show you—’
‘Get off!’ I jerked away. He staggered – maybe I was a bit violent – and suddenly his face was slack and shocked. ‘Who do you think you are, Carfax? You’re not the fucking Magister Ludi yet.’
‘I only …’ He stopped. We stared at each other.
‘When I want tips on my technique, I’ll ask. Till then, keep your sweaty hands off me.’ I don’t know why I was so angry. His wide eyes, his sleeves rucked up, the sound of his breath. His telling me what to do. My wanting to let him.
He started to say something else and bit his lip. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said, after a pause. ‘There must be a more inventive way to end it.’
I went back to the desk. Our notes had stopped making sense. I wanted to reflect his tone back to him, but I couldn’t. For once I didn’t want to think about the grand jeu, or any other kind of game.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘The bloody thing’s nearly finished. It doesn’t have to be perfect.’
‘Léo,’ he said, and stopped.
‘I’ve got to go,’ I said, and went.
One week, four days
He apologised, late last night. ‘I forgot myself,’ he said. ‘It won’t happen again.’ I didn’t know how to reply. By the time I’d got over my surprise he’d gone.
Seven days
A week to go till we hand it in, and it’ll be over. I can’t wait.
Two days to go
I think it’s a dead loss. The Danse Macabre. All this work and it’s rubbish. I can’t even see it any more.
Handing-in day
That’s it. It’s done.
Later
I hardly slept at all last night. We finished our fair copies at past midnight, and swapped to proofread and correct. By the end, my copy must have had as much of Carfax’s handwriting on it as mine. Then we went to bed, but my head wouldn’t stop spinning. Finally I dropped off, but I jolted awake at five, convinced I’d left out the main theme. After that I had to get up. I took the opportunity to have a long solitary wash and shave, and came down to breakfast feeling almost human.
Everyone looked exhausted. It was like the day after a battle: we were all dark-eyed and gaunt and stubbly (except for me, obviously, and Carfax, who clearly thinks a bit of stubble is some kind of abomination). The table was covered in files. We were all contorting ourselves, trying to keep butter and crumbs away from them while keeping them within arm’s reach. (Because, after all, if we left them in our rooms they might spontaneously combust. Or someone might steal them, which I suppose is more likely.) When the bell rang we all stampeded for the office. I ended up at the back, too tired to fight, and Carfax and I went in together. We didn’t say much to each other. Not surprising, given that we’ve been talking non-stop for weeks. When we came out, finally empty-handed, he grinned at me. I started to grin back, until I realised he was probably looking happy because he knows he never has to speak to me again.