There was a muttering group of scholars in front of the noticeboard. Paul looked round and said to me, ‘They haven’t put the marks up yet.’
‘What? Why?’
Paul shrugged. Freddie said, ‘Because they’re cold-blooded bastards,’ with real venom. His father promised him a motor car for New Year if he got more than fifty. Funny how it’s always the hopeless cases who get offered bribes. Maybe that’s why; if Dad had promised me the same he’d have had to cough up last term.
‘They’re still debating,’ Emile said. ‘I walked past the Capitulum on my way here.’
‘Past the Capitulum? To get here? Where were you, the servants’ quarters?’
I’d been joking, but Emile gave me a strange look. Someone (Jacob, I think) said, ‘Well, they’ll have to put them up soon. Won’t they? Before we go home?’
‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘I’m going to dinner.’ I wasn’t remotely hungry, but I wasn’t going to stand there mithering like an aristocrat in the queue for the guillotine. So I stalked off. Some of the others came with me, and we all made a point of talking and laughing as if we couldn’t care less.
It wasn’t until halfway through dinner (I have no idea what I ate, or if I ate anything) that Felix came rushing into the refectory and announced, ‘They’re up!’
And then he caught my eye, and said, ‘Well done.’
Seventy.
Seventy. A distinction. The nearest mark to us was Emile and Paul, and that was sixty-two.
I can’t remember what Felix said, or getting to my feet, or walking out. I was in front of the noticeboard, and our names were at the top of the page.
Aimé Carfax de Courcy and Léonard Martin, Danse Macabre, 70.
People were behind me. Someone swore, someone said, ‘Oh come on, we deserved more than that!’ and someone else said, ‘Phew, I was sure we’d completely messed it up …’ I let the current push me to one side and leant against the wall, still reeling. Seventy. I can’t remember anyone getting higher than sixty-five, not even Carfax.
After a while Emile came and stood next to me, watching the huddle of people in front of the noticeboard slowly dwindle. ‘You must be pleased,’ he said. ‘Bet that’s why they were late putting it up. Must’ve been contentious. A distinction for two second-years.’
I didn’t meet his eyes. ‘It’s not bad.’
He glanced at me. ‘What’s the matter? Would you rather have got a bare pass, like Felix and Freddie?’
‘No.’
‘You’re not annoyed because you have to share it with Carfax? You’ve got a year and a half to beat him, Léo. Make the most of this, why don’t you?’
I couldn’t look at him. I was afraid that if I did, I’d start to laugh, and not be able to stop. Or, worse, start to cry. I’d been so scared of failing. Of having to face Carfax, thinking I’d let him down. I said, ‘Yes, you’re right.’
‘How’s he taking it? Insufferable, I suppose?’
‘I don’t know.’ I hadn’t seen him. He wasn’t at dinner, and he wasn’t here. And I thought I had self-control …
I reached past Pierre and Thomas, who were the last people left in front of the noticeboard, and ripped the paper off its drawing pin. By the time they reacted I was already running towards the stairs; I heard their protests fading behind me, and Emile laughing.
It took Carfax ages to answer his door. When he finally said I could come in, he was sitting on his trunk, his arms crossed, as if I was bothering him. ‘Martin,’ he said. ‘What is it? I’m packing.’
I didn’t point out that he’d clearly finished. I held up the piece of paper and said, ‘I thought you’d want to know.’
I saw him resist the reflex to leap to his feet. He tipped his head back and said, ‘So?’
‘I thought it was all right, our game,’ I said. ‘But I guess we misjudged it.’
He stood up and plucked the page out of my hand. I waited for him to laugh. He sat down without saying anything, folding himself carefully into the chair as if he was afraid of breaking a bone. He rested his elbows on the desk and put his head in his hands.
‘Carfax? I was joking.’
He said, in a muffled voice, ‘Piss off, will you?’
‘I was only …’
‘I know.’ He raised his head. His eyes were wet and red. I don’t know why it felt so indecent; hadn’t I been on the edge of crying myself? ‘It was hilarious, Martin. Now leave me alone.’
I opened my mouth to argue. We’d got a distinction, for pity’s sake, and he was behaving like I’d murdered his grandmother. What a family of lunatics. But then he hid his face again and I think he was trying not to cry.
I didn’t know what to do. I thought about walking out. He’d told me to go, hadn’t he? But it seemed inhuman. So I stood there, helpless. I tried to pat his shoulder but he shook me off. Actually, I knew how he felt. All these weeks … Maybe that was why I stayed. Finally I sat down on the end of the bed, at arm’s length.
Slowly he managed to get hold of himself; I couldn’t see his expression but his breathing got steadier. He sat up straight and said, ‘You absolute weasel, Martin,’ but this time it was without rancour.
‘I had no idea – it was just a joke.’
‘I’m exhausted, that’s all.’ He blew out air, shaking his head. He peered at the piece of paper. ‘Seventy. Was it really that good?’
‘Better.’
He laughed. We both laughed. I think I was only an inch away from crying, too.
‘I could do with a drink,’ I said. ‘They should’ve given us wine tonight, not the day we had to hand it in.’ I could’ve bitten my tongue as soon as I said it, remembering what had happened, but Carfax didn’t blink.
‘If only we knew where they kept it,’ he said.
‘I can’t believe you don’t. How many generations of your family have come here? Surely by now it should be a family secret, handed down from father to son?’
He shook his head, with a crooked smile. ‘Nope. My father died before he could hand me anything.’
‘Right.’ After a second I added, ‘Sorry.’
He didn’t answer. It occurs to me now that he was taken aback; he must have expected me to say something snide. He picked up the page and ran his finger down the marks, but I don’t think he was actually reading them. The clock struck nine; I hadn’t realised it was so late.
‘Well,’ Carfax said, ‘thanks for letting me know, anyway. About the marks.’
‘Sure.’ I got to my feet.
‘Good night, Martin.’
‘Good night.’
I went out into the corridor and shut the door behind me.
But I couldn’t walk away. I don’t know why. Seventy! I hated the thought of just going to bed, as if nothing had happened. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. What’s the point of a triumph if you behave like it’s nothing? Carfax was the only one who knew how I felt, who knew how hard we’d worked. So I went back into his room without knocking. He spun round – he was in his shirtsleeves, he must’ve been getting undressed – and dived for his gown. As he dragged it over his head, he said, ‘Martin, what do you think you’re—’