We had wine with dinner. (Second-years only.) It’s been so long since I had a proper drink that it went straight to my head. I was sitting between Felix and Emile. They were in high spirits, and it should’ve been natural to mess about and make jokes. But it wasn’t. It felt like an act. It was like I’d been on a long sea-journey: part of me was still reeling, struggling to remember how to walk on dry land. I couldn’t concentrate. My mind kept going to the Danse Macabre, tinkering with it in my head, thinking of things to say to Carfax. Then I’d remember that it was done and handed in. After a while they noticed, and started teasing me. That feeling of being in a foreign country, again.
Carfax turned up late, after we’d had the soup. I think he was hoping he’d be able to sit down unobserved, but the only free seat was halfway down our table, a couple of spaces from Felix. He hesitated, as if he was hoping for a better offer. Of course some wag made a snide comment about choosing from a set of one, and then there was an ironic cheer when he clambered over the bench to sit down. It wasn’t exactly unfriendly – we would have done it to anyone – but Carfax takes it all so bloody personally. If he could take it like a good sport it’d die down, but he doesn’t, he goes all white and hard-faced. It’s like he never went to school as a child. Maybe he didn’t.
After that first glance I didn’t look at him. I was talking to Paul about his joint game – sounds good, better than ours, so I was badgering him, hoping he’d reveal some enormous flaw that would set my mind at rest – and didn’t let my gaze wander in Carfax’s direction for a second. Now I wish I hadn’t, because I don’t know if he was trying to catch my eye. Although, let’s face it, why would he? We don’t have anything to talk about, now the game’s done.
Then someone poured half a carafe of wine over him.
I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know whether it was an accident. It probably was. We were all fooling around, weren’t we? There was a smash of pottery on the floor and a burst of noise, and when I looked round Carfax was on his feet with a big wet stain down the front of his gown. It didn’t show up all that much against the black, but his collar was red, and his hair and face were dripping. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. People at other tables craned over to see what was going on. Someone said, ‘Oh. Ah. Oops.’
There was a silence. Not complete silence, but enough to hear what wasn’t being said. Carfax shook himself and spattered drops on the floor.
‘Accident, old chap,’ the same voice said. It was Freddie, I think. He sounded drunk. Or stupid. ‘Never mind.’
Carfax went on standing there. I didn’t understand why, and then I did. He was expecting an apology. I wanted to stand up and shout at him not to be an idiot, that the longer he stood there the worse it was going to look. I took a sip from my glass and had to force myself to swallow.
‘Was that the last …?’ Freddie reached across a couple of people for another carafe, but when he tilted it over his glass nothing came out. ‘Oh dear, what a shame,’ he said to himself, and then to Carfax: ‘Come over here and drip in my glass, will you?’
Carfax said, ‘You stupid shit.’
People looked round. Thank goodness it was the table closest to the door; the Magisters at the High Table hadn’t noticed.
‘There’s no need to be like that,’ Freddie said. ‘I mean, you got more than your fair share. You can suck your gown.’
There was a split-second pause; then someone gave a huge snort of laughter. And then we were all joining in – Freddie braying, other people choking and clutching their ribs, even Emile giggling helplessly. It was the image, I suppose: Carfax bundling his gown into his mouth, his eyes bulging, drips running down his chin … Or the words, and Freddie’s innocuous tone, and the way what he really meant by ‘your gown’ was clearly ‘my cock’.
It was sheer bad luck, I think, that Carfax happened to look at me.
‘Fine,’ he said. He fumbled with his gown, pulled it over his head, and dropped it on the table on top of Freddie’s plate of food. The fabric of his shirt was purple and clinging to his shoulders. ‘You suck it, Freddie,’ he said. ‘And the rest of you can kiss my arse.’ This time his voice did carry to the High Table. I saw Magister Holt look up with a frown, and the Magister Motuum blinked heavily. For a moment I thought they’d tell him to leave, and my heart gave a lurch. But he was already stalking out of the hall.
There were three seconds of relative silence. Then someone said, with perfect, Montverre-trained timing, ‘Oooooh, who stole his mammy’s tit?’
He must have heard, even outside in the corridor. And he must have heard the burst of laughter. It didn’t last that long, and after it died down we were a little more subdued, as if after all some of it had been bravado; but that roar of exclusion, of amusement at his expense … It made it abundantly clear that he’s never going to fit in. If he would join in the laugh once. Or pretend he didn’t care …
I got up a few minutes later. Emile raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Dicky tummy,’ I said. ‘Working this hard has completely ruined my digestion.’ Felix started to argue, so I added, ‘Trust me, you really don’t want me to stay.’
I went up to my room, but I didn’t go in. I walked along to Carfax’s cell, and raised my hand to knock. But I couldn’t. There was a strip of light under the door. Maybe he’d heard me approach, because I saw a shadow cross it and then stay still, as if he was on the other side, listening. I still didn’t knock, though. I stood there for a long time. I tried to imagine what I’d say to him, but all the words were flat and empty. And even if I dredged up some kind of excuse or consolation, I knew how he’d react: disdain, contempt, faint bewilderment. He probably hadn’t even noticed that I’d smirked along with the others. And then I remembered how he’d made the others laugh at me, last year, and how he never apologised for that.
Now the game’s handed in, we’re back to where we were. We were civilised adults, doing a job that had to be done. We’re not friends.
I thought I’d be triumphant, tonight. Full of relief. Euphoric. But I feel terrible.
Chapter 13
14: Léo
A few days before the end of term Léo finds himself in the Magister’s corridor. He hasn’t planned it; he doesn’t know where it’s sprung from, this sudden heart-quickening impulse. The last couple of weeks have slipped through his hands like a string of leaden beads, each day too heavy to hold but gone in an instant, followed by the next. It’s easy to be numb, absorbed in intellectual pursuits, essays, the games and theses and reading lists that the Magister – true to her word – has been leaving in his pigeonhole. This is how he felt in his third year here, as a scholar. The Gold Medal meant nothing, as though it had gone to someone else: now he was numb, conscientious, stoical. Nothing happened, nothing hurt. Or not much. He made his way carefully through the treacherous landscapes of his mind, treading lightly, avoiding the quicksand. The grand jeu was a path, that was all, and he kept his gaze on his feet. Now he’s doing the same thing. He navigates between the archive, and the library, and the refectory, and his cell, without pausing. He answers Emile’s letters mechanically, refusing to reread them. Every envelope, safely sent off, buys a week of safety, another week of not having to glance behind when a servant comes too close, or keep a brown glass bottle of emetic beside his bed, or check his pillow for needles. It’s worth it. And in a peculiar way it gives him something to think about: how to explain the intricate animosity between the Magister Cartae and the Magister Motuum, or the Magister Scholarium’s tacit avoidance of politics, or the bubbling over-confidence of the scholars who’ve got family in the Party? At meals he glances from face to face, letting his attention flit from one conversation to another. It’s like trying to see the currents in clear water. He’s good at it. It keeps his mind off the other things: the ache of missing the Ministry, the physical strength it takes not to turn his head and gaze at the Magister Ludi …