‘I’ll see. Put a copy under my door.’ He grinned, and I added, ‘I’m not promising anything. I’m working like a navvy myself. I don’t have time to help other people.’
I’m not sure he was listening, because he slapped me on the back and galloped off. I was about to follow him when Emile took hold of my elbow. ‘Liar,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘You’re helping Carfax, aren’t you? Every spare moment, it sounds like.’
I tried to shake him off. ‘You’re not jealous as well, are you?’
He laughed. ‘Certainly not. I’m only pointing out that you’re lying.’
‘What if I am? It’d be a waste of time helping Felix, you know that.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s definitely true.’ I went to move away but he still had hold of my arm. ‘One more thing,’ he went on, tilting his head at me as if I’d said something stupid in a lesson. ‘Don’t forget that time he parodied you in front of everyone. You do realise, don’t you, that Carfax is a ruthless bastard? Why do you think he’s suddenly friends with you? Because not only are you second in the class, you’re also apparently prepared to spend every waking hour with him, working on his game. It’s not because of your charm, you can bet.’
‘Leave me alone, Emile.’
‘He’s using you. Look at yourself, you’re all starry-eyed,’ he said, and released me, stepping back and spreading his arms. ‘Don’t fall for it, that’s all.’
It’s not true. We work on my game as much as Carfax’s. Don’t we?
Sunday again, sixth week
Early morning. I can’t sleep. I haven’t written for days because I didn’t want to think. I don’t want to admit it. I don’t want to write it down.
But: I have fallen for it, haven’t I?
For him.
I didn’t even notice it happening. Not really. Not till Emile looked at me that way, all knowing and slippery, as though he could see inside my head. I keep telling myself it’s because he’s got a mind like a sewer, and he can’t imagine that Carfax and I could genuinely be friends. But I’m kidding myself.
Carfax, for pity’s sake. A pathetic schoolboy crush on Carfax. What is wrong with me? This isn’t an opportunistic sure-why-not? like those other times in the scrapyard. Not a quick toss-off behind a pile of finials, while everyone else smokes a fag or goes for a brew. I want him. I’d risk expulsion for him. Would I? I think I would. If he’d turned round, that time I touched his shoulder, and … Shut up. SHUT UP. But all these nights we’ve spent playing the grand jeu, all the jokes and the ideas and the rush, being as happy as I think I could ever be … It’s all part of the same thing. The whole world, falling into place. All of myself, cock and balls and heart as well as brain. We play the grand jeu with our bodies too, don’t we?
(Essay question: ‘As with scatological, macabre or trivial concerns, there is no place for the erotic in the grand jeu; it ranks among the lowest of human impulses while the grand jeu celebrates the most elevated.’ Discuss. And hang it, I want to discuss it with Carfax.)
Don’t fall for it. It’s too fucking late. But Emile’s right. I can see that. Carfax and I won’t ever be anything but rivals. He wants to beat me, that’s all. And the best way to do that is to reel me in. Fake a meeting of true minds when all he cares about is getting a higher mark than me. Of course he acts strangely around me. Of course he’s fed up of pretending.
It’s making me sick, the thought that he’s done it on purpose. That’s what Emile meant, wasn’t it? And if it’s true … Surely he’s not that cynical? He’s not that much of a shit. But I can’t trust him. I can’t let myself relax. I’ve got to stay on my guard. Pull back. Keep away.
Or lean in. Play him at his own game.
Later
I worked alone in the library for most of the day. Then I was all thick-headed and miserable, and it was another lovely evening, so I wandered outside for a little while, watching the sun drop behind the mountains. Then I got too cold and had to come in. I came back along the music corridor, jogging to warm myself up.
There was someone playing the cello in one of the practice rooms. The music was Bach, one of those restless mathematical preludes that hovers on the edge of melody. You can feel the beauty, the drive, but all the time the piece is containing it, there’s a sort of iron discipline that lets it shine through but won’t surrender to it. It made me stop in my tracks. Outside, above the courtyard, the sky was a perfect deep blue, the bluest blue you can imagine. There was a new moon, and the evening star, absolutely blazing. The prelude stumbled and started again.
I must have stood there for ten minutes, at least, listening to that prelude being played over and over. There’s a moment about halfway through – a low E, is it? – when it opens up, abruptly, into something different, something deep – it’s what you’ve been waiting for, without knowing … and every time it made the hairs on my arms stand up. Every time. I wanted it to go on for ever.
It didn’t, of course. Finally whoever-it-was was satisfied and went on to the allemande. I was going to walk past, but then the music broke off and I heard swearing.
I pushed open the door. Carfax was there, wrapped around his cello; I thought I’d recognised his voice. He looked round. The expression on his face made me stop in the doorway: as if he wanted me to come in but he didn’t want to say so. I said, ‘It’s you.’
‘As far as I know,’ he said.
I shut the door behind me. He gave me a long look and then started to play again. He’s pretty good; much better than I am at the piano. But he started getting notes wrong, more and more of them, until finally he lowered his bow and said, ‘What do you want?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. I didn’t know why I was there, except that I couldn’t avoid him for ever.
‘I’m practising.’
‘That’s all right.’
He raised his bow, sighed, and lowered it again. ‘Go away, will you? You’re putting me off.’
‘I was listening outside. It was good.’
He frowned, but he started to play again. At the end of the suite he sat back, stretching his neck to one side and then the other. ‘Better men than you would pay for that,’ he said.
‘It’s got an amazing tone.’
‘I should hope so. It’s a Stradivarius.’ He laughed, probably at me, and moved so that I could see the light falling on the cello. It was the colour of maple leaves, with a warm lustrous gleam. ‘The Auburn Mistress,’ he said. ‘It’s famous. You see the red varnish? Vernice rossa. It’s almost unique. No one’s entirely sure what it’s made of.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Nothing but the best for the de Courcys.’
‘We don’t have many heirlooms. I expect over the last century lots of things have got thrown against the wall. Or smashed. Or burnt,’ he added, with a glimmer of a smile.
‘If I said that, you’d hit me.’
He gave me a sidelong glance, and brushed the purfling with his knuckles, very gently. ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’