‘Hey!’
‘Well, help me! Don’t just sit there smirking—’ He threw another and another. I shielded my head with one arm and scrabbled for the nearest book. By that stage I was giggling. ‘You’re infuriating. You’re not even taking me seriously. Don’t do that—’ he said, and dodged as I shied it back at him.
‘You started it,’ I said, and went on pitching them at him.
‘Some of those are priceless – irreplaceable—’
‘Oh, stow it,’ I said. I tossed the last one at his head. He ducked. It flew past him and flopped into the corner, pages splayed. Something had come out of it, a bit of folded paper, and I crawled half off the bed to pick it up. It was a letter.
‘Give me that!’
He grabbed for it. I would have handed it over, but his tone was so intense I couldn’t resist holding it at arm’s length. ‘Why? Is it a love letter? Have you got a girl waiting for you at—’
He slapped me.
It hurt. Although possibly not as much as it would have done, if I hadn’t been so bloody shocked. I never thought, out of everyone I know, Carfax would turn violent. It didn’t even occur to me to hit him back. I offered the envelope and let him take it. He didn’t say anything. I swung my legs off his bed and got up to leave.
‘I’m sorry.’
I waved away his concern. I’ve been in worse fights. That day at the scrapyard, when they were poking fun at Dad, I came home with two black eyes and a split lip. A smack on the cheek wasn’t going to kill me.
He stepped between me and the door. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I really am sorry. I shouldn’t have …’
‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to hit people who’re taller than you?’ It was meant to be a joke, but it made him flinch. ‘It doesn’t matter, Carfax.’
‘The letter … it’s important. Private. That’s why I – I was afraid – I didn’t want—’
‘I didn’t read it,’ I said. I was so tired I was swaying. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that interesting.’
‘It—’ He hesitated. ‘It’s from my sister. She’s … not well.’
‘Let me past, will you?’
‘If anyone saw her letters … I think—’
‘Even me?’
‘Yes, even you. I don’t – I can’t …’ He stared at me. He was still clutching the letter. Suddenly he shoved it towards me. ‘All right. Go on, why not? What does it matter. Read it.’
His hand was shaking. He’d gone white. Maybe he’d shocked himself as much as me.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to. Thanks.’
A kind of spasm went over his face. He turned away and crossed to the window. He opened it, ripped the letter into tiny fragments and scattered them into the dark. Then he sat down on the bed. ‘Do you have sisters, Martin?’
‘No. I’m on my own.’
‘I shouldn’t be here. Sh-she needs me at home. She writes me letters telling me how unhappy she is. Sometimes they don’t even make sense. She’s alone there, going mad, while I …’ He drew in his breath. ‘I’m tired of lying, Martin.’
‘Lying to her? About what?’
He bowed his head and didn’t answer. I imagined fragments of paper whirling into the melting snow, sticking in the trees, the ink running. Gingerly I reached out and put my hand on his shoulder. I must have touched him before, but it was like the first time. And he went rigid. I felt like Midas: flesh turning to metal under my hand.
I bent my head to look at him, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. It was like a pause in the grand jeu – the rest between the resultance and the motif – those moments that Carfax holds almost too long when he plays, prolonging the silence until it’s unbearable. I could feel the next move, suspended, breathless. All it needed was for him to glance up. But he stayed utterly still.
I don’t know what he wanted, or what he was scared of. Neither of us spoke. I waited and waited, in case he’d pull away or turn to me, either, anything to break the silence. I was so sure that one way or another he’d show me what he was thinking.
He sat like a statue, until my fingers started to ache, and I began to wonder if I’d imagined the tension in the room. Then it was too late. I let go and left him to it.
Later
Lying? What is he lying about?
Fifth week, Wednesday
He said he was sorry. I didn’t know how to reply. I acted like I hadn’t heard. I was at my desk, going over the bit he’s still stuck on. It’s funny, his games are normally so perfect, structurally. But this one’s got a big disjunction in the middle section. I think that’s why it’s not working. No matter how much brilliant stuff he throws at it, there’s something missing, or something extra, or … I don’t know. He was pacing about behind me and I couldn’t concentrate. Then he said, ‘Sorry about hitting you.’
There was a bit of a pause. I kept on staring at his notes. That bloody porridge of classical and Artemonian. Can’t believe I’ve got used to it. I said, ‘How about an English contrevure?’
‘What?’
‘For this movement. An English contrevure. Look it up.’
I heard him grunt and flip through a book. ‘It’s not in the Snary.’
‘Try the index of the Theoric. I’ve seen it somewhere recently.’
He riffled more pages, and whistled. ‘An English contrevure … Hmmm. Interesting. You might be on to something.’
‘No need to sound so surprised.’ I’d come up with something he hadn’t heard of. Finally.
There was another silence. Eventually I looked round. He was standing right behind me. His hand was hovering over my shoulder. As I watched, his fingers curled into a fist and he lowered his arm. ‘There’s the bell,’ he said. ‘Give me a second to write that down. I’ll meet you downstairs.’
So that was that. His apology.
Sunday
This morning – not early, thank goodness – I got press-ganged into a couple of bouts with Felix and Jacob. Felix stood in my doorway and refused to go away until I came down to the Lesser Hall. Actually, in the end I enjoyed myself. And won, although I’m woefully out of practice. Afterwards we all sat around on the steps of the Lesser Hall, looking down into the valley. It was lovely, one of those early spring days when the snow’s melting and a warm wind’s blowing; every so often a spatter of freezing water would spray into our faces from the gutter overhead. It was me, Felix, Jacob, Paul, and Emile. There was the usual banter, jokes about the Magisters and one another, teasing about our prowess at the grand jeu, sex, etc. When they were trying to get a rise out of me, Felix was laughing the loudest, but at lunchtime when we all stood up to go he hung back a bit and asked me if I’d have a look at his game. ‘I’m too busy at the moment,’ I said. ‘What about Paul? What does he say?’
‘I haven’t asked him. I’m asking you. Come on, Martin, if I fail—’
‘No one fails, Felix. You might get a Third, but it’s not the end of the world.’
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Have a heart.’