Mostly, his attempts not to think about her have been successful. That Sunday afternoon in the library, after she left, he was too dazed to do anything but sit and stare into space; he didn’t realise he was gritting his teeth until he staggered to his feet at the sound of the clock chiming, and felt the tension like a metal band around his temples. He couldn’t eat; he couldn’t sleep that night, either, but he lay in bed watching the stars come and go in the black sky, like blown drifts of sand. And the next day, passing Magister Dryden in the corridor, he was in control enough not to stare, although he wanted to. How had he not realised? He should have seen the resemblance. Maybe he did see it; but he thought it was because he was back at Montverre, a sly trick of the brain. After Carfax died, Léo saw him everywhere – walking down the street, gesturing to a waiter in a restaurant, laughing outside the scrapyard gates in a collarless shirt and flat cap. He learnt not to react, not to flinch or say Carfax’s name or even stare too long. If he had to see ghosts, at least he’d keep it to himself. That was years ago, and it hadn’t happened for a long time; but when he saw Magister Dryden that night in the corridor it was the same sick welter, the world lurching backwards on its spin as though his mind was betraying him again … If only someone else had mentioned it, if only she hadn’t told him herself. He winces at the recollection of her expression – pity, how dare she – and the way he didn’t have the presence of mind to do anything but look at her. That face.
Even later, he didn’t let himself examine his feelings too closely. But the next time he replied to Emile, he found himself writing: She is, of course, isolated and, one assumes, lonely. Her politics – as one might expect from a woman who has apparently never encountered real life in any of its manifestations – are liberal and soft, resisting change and clarity, based on a sort of kindly instinct which doesn’t stand up to scrutiny. Surprising, given her abrasive manner, but I suppose this is merely an example of feminine contradictions! Of all the Magisters, I’d guess that she is the most opposed to the Party, but perhaps more because of misplaced idealism than self-interest. Her influence is small, I suspect, but it might be enough to prove awkward if the Council were not whole-heartedly supportive of any new measures. I can’t comment on her skills as a teacher – the scholars murmur about being taught by a female, and one can’t exactly blame them, given her lack of formal education, but otherwise seem content enough to concede her authority. In fairness I should mention that she does have a certain charisma. He put down his pen before he wrote another sentence that he’d have to cross out. It was all true; so why did belittling her make him queasily triumphant, as if he’d squashed a mosquito? He folded the paper and shoved it into the envelope without bothering to sign off. His eyes went to the past papers on the desk, the mimeographed slip of essay questions on top. Time to get back to work. But all that afternoon he had a sense of someone at his shoulder, a censorious ghost that disappeared when he looked at it head-on.
Was that the week that Emile sent the bottles of brandy? He can’t remember. He let them gather dust in the corner of his bedroom, and spent hours tracing the motif of the Four Seasons in the light of the Broken Seam hypothesis. He didn’t exactly promise himself not to mention the Magister Ludi again, but the next time he wrote his letter was taken up with a slight that had been related to him, indignantly, by the Magister Cartae, and a nasty incident with the Christian scholar – Charpentier, is it? – in the first year. He even went to the Magister’s door, planning to thank her for the book she’d left in his pigeonhole; but he decided against it at the last moment. He despised himself for wanting to go crawling to her, to appease his own conscience. She’d look at him with a transparent surprise that he thought she’d care … When he woke at night (the bloody clock!) he could see her face, and Carfax’s, two faces that were somehow only one. Had Carfax ever mentioned her? What would he think now, seeing her and Léo together? But there were no answers, and that way madness lay. He made himself get up and study the Broken Seam hypothesis until he was too tired to see straight. The grand jeu was nothing if not a shield.
But he’s leaving tomorrow for the vacation, and suddenly life is prickling in his bones like pins and needles. He doesn’t know what made him pick up one of the bottles of brandy; but he’s standing in front of the Magister Ludi’s door with it in his hand, the glass faintly slick against his palm. This time he doesn’t give himself time to think before he knocks.
There’s a pause before she says, ‘Come in,’ as if she knows who it is.
He opens the door. She’s sitting at her desk, her face turned to him but her pen still poised above the page as if she’s mid-thought. When she sees who it is, she slides a sheet of paper down over her work; although he could have sworn the page was blank.
‘Yes?’
‘Am I disturbing you?’
‘You should have thought about that before you knocked.’
‘Yes, I suppose I should.’
She sighs and screws the cap on to her pen. ‘How can I be of assistance, Mr Martin?’
He has prepared himself for this, but all the same it stings. He isn’t an importunate first-year, for goodness’ sake. He puts the bottle he’s holding on the corner of her desk. ‘I brought you this. To say thank you.’
She blinks. All at once he wants to snatch up the inappropriate bottle, with its foreign label and red wax seal, and leave the room without a backward glance. Or dash it against the wall and leave her picking splinters of green glass off her white robe. But if politics has taught him anything, it’s how to hide humiliation.
‘How kind,’ she says at last.
‘A friend of mine sent it. It’s good. French. I thought perhaps …’ If she were her brother she – he – would reach out for it, scrutinise its provenance and nod, trying not to show his pleasure. And then he’d glance at Léo, at his work, and finally with a reluctant grin he’d rock back on the legs of his chair, casting about for something to drink from.
But she doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t. Léo pushes his hands into his pockets. ‘Well, never mind. I thought you were allowed.’
‘I am allowed,’ she says.
‘Good.’ A silence. ‘I’ll leave you to your work.’ He turns to go.
‘Thank you,’ she says, a moment before he gets to the door. ‘I didn’t expect … I haven’t done anything for you, Mr Martin. I dug out a few past papers. You don’t have to give me expensive brandy.’
‘I know. Of course. But I … they were … I enjoyed working on them. You seemed to have spent a great deal of time finding interesting questions, suggesting further reading …’ It takes an effort to smile at her. ‘I’m grateful, that’s all.’
‘I’m a teacher, Mr Martin. I’d do the same for any scholar.’
‘And any scholar should be grateful.’ He tilts his head, in a half-ironic hint at a bow. Ah, this insistence that she has done nothing to be thanked for, that he is pathetic to see any hint of goodwill in her actions … He could hit her. The thought shocks him; he has never hit a woman in his life, and never wanted to before. ‘It’s nothing. I apologise if it seems excessive. I can understand – well, living here, like this, as you do …’ He gestures to the room, the dusty austerity, the snow outside, with casual disdain. ‘But honestly, it’s a trifle. It’s not even terribly good. If I gave a bottle of that stuff to my mistress she’d drop it off the balcony into the street.’