‘What? Why?’
An expression slides on and off Emile’s face like water, too quick to read. Then he blows a smoke ring towards the ceiling and says, ‘Come to my rooms later. I mean it.’
‘I have an article to write.’
‘You’ll regret it if you don’t.’ He smiles, as though it softens the words. Then he turns and walks away – not towards the refectory, but the other direction – before Léo has time to answer.
He leaves it as late as he can, but he’s too restless to resist. It’s either Emile or staying alone in his room thinking about Claire; and right now a bit of Party gossip might be a relief. He tries to ignore the mosquito-sting of his vanity when he knocks at Emile’s door like a scholar who’s been summoned by a Magister.
‘Martin,’ Emile calls. ‘Come in. Have a drink.’
The room is larger than Léo’s. It’s bright and warm with the honeyed breath of candles; light gleams on a white tablecloth and the bulbs of wineglasses, and one wall is covered with a dusty-looking hanging. There’s no bed, but then Emile said rooms, plural, didn’t he? So much for the Magister Domus insisting that Léo’s room under the clock was the only one available for guests.
Emile waves him to a chair. ‘Sit down, sit down. How was dinner? Brandy?’
‘Thank you.’ He takes it and sits, pushing aside a dirty plate with a napkin crumpled in its centre. Several people have had their dinner around this table. He remembers noticing that two of the Magisters weren’t in the refectory. So Emile is playing host, now, is he? Is that why he’s here, to ingratiate himself? ‘You asked me to come here. What did you want?’
Emile’s eyebrow goes up. ‘Manners, dear boy. You’re not Magister Scholarium yet, you know.’
He doesn’t pay attention to that. He reaches for the box of cigarettes across the table; when he takes one Emile strikes a match and leans forward to light it for him. Reluctantly he says, ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome. It’s good to see you, you know.’ There’s a pause. Emile smiles. ‘By the way, I’ve left the Ministry for Information. Did you hear? I’m in your old department now.’
‘I see.’ The news squeezes his gut like a fist. Is Emile in his old office? Do the secretaries giggle and bat their eyelashes at him, or the aides straighten their ties when he walks into the room? ‘Congratulations.’
‘There may be some more changes there soon. Dettler has never been up to the job. You were a hard act to follow.’
‘Thanks.’
Emile leans back in his chair. ‘What’s the matter, Léo?’
‘Nothing.’ The tastes of tobacco and brandy scald his tongue. He taps his cigarette on the rim of an abandoned wineglass, although it’s hardly burnt down. ‘You said I’d regret not coming to see you. So what’s up?’
‘Oh, Léo …’ Emile laughs, but it doesn’t take away the mockery. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. Honestly, did you imagine …? I wanted to catch up, that’s all. Get your impressions of Montverre face to face.’ He looks away, brushing a bit of ash from his trouser leg. ‘I feel for you, Léo, getting shoved back into this bloody place.’
‘It hasn’t been so bad,’ Léo says, but he isn’t sure Emile hears him.
‘Personally, I’d go mad.’ There’s a pause. Emile takes a gulp of brandy, throwing his head back with uncharacteristic abandon. He’s staring out of the window at the dark outline of the Square Tower against the night sky, visible behind the reflected candles. It’s never occurred to Léo before that Emile had any strong feelings about Montverre, let alone this deep hatred; and perhaps, after all, he’s mistaken, because Emile turns smoothly and refills both their glasses. ‘It takes one back to the days of one’s youth, doesn’t it? Worse for you, I imagine. Had you met our Magister Ludi before you came here?’
‘What?’ The blood rushes to his face and his heart at once. He doesn’t want to talk about Claire. He’ll betray himself. ‘No. When would I have met her?’
‘Oh, I wondered if … You were Carfax’s friend. Close.’
Léo shakes his head. He must have been the only person in the world not to know that she was Carfax’s sister, and a de Courcy; but then, he spent all those years trying not to think about Montverre, turning the page of the newspaper whenever he saw it mentioned.
‘Ah well. I hadn’t either. I’ll have to get to know her better after the Midsummer Game.’ He sips his brandy daintily, as if it was his first glass. ‘She gave me quite a turn when I saw her at the window. Nothing like her photo in the Gambit, but then I suppose they were trying to make her look pretty. Uncanny, isn’t it?’
There’s something about Emile’s tone that sets his teeth on edge. ‘What is?’
‘Don’t be disingenuous, Léo.’ Emile runs a finger through a candle flame; tiny flares of smoke curl upwards like diacritics. ‘How are you two getting on, by the way? You haven’t said much about her in your more recent letters. Has your dislike mellowed?’
‘Somewhat.’
‘As I remember, your dislike of Carfax mellowed significantly.’
Léo’s thighs twitch, telling him to get to his feet; but that might give him away. He drinks, and drinks again, dipping his nose into the glass. The brandy makes his lips tingle. He’s lost his tolerance for alcohol. ‘Tell me more about your new job,’ he says.
‘Oh, it’s planning, mainly. Strategy, implications, all that sort of thing. Not much actual culture, but that suits me … I have a finger in a few different pies.’ Emile pushes the brandy bottle towards him, sliding it across the tablecloth. ‘Consulting.’
‘About this place?’
‘Well – partly. The Chancellor is wondering how we can make the grand jeu pay its way.’ There’s a pause, a change in Emile’s voice. ‘We’ll see. It depends. If I can make some progress while I’m here …’ He smiles, a complicit, sly smile that seems to include Léo in the joke: but there’s no joke that Léo knows of, only this odd sudden silence. Abruptly he’s aware of the empty wine bottles and dripping candles, the grease on the stained tablecloth. The alcoholic bonhomie drains away, leaving a gritty tidemark around the inside of his skull.
He hears himself say, ‘What are you doing here, Emile? You’re early for the Midsummer Game.’
‘My goodness. I’m sensing that you’d rather I was somewhere else.’
He doesn’t answer. He watches Emile’s smile waver and reset.
‘Well, dear boy, I wanted to get a sense of the school in its natural state. Be a fly on the wall, as it were. Not that your letters haven’t been extremely useful.’
‘My letters? That was all … gossip and parish notices.’
‘Don’t be so modest. Some of them were very articulate. Tomorrow you must tell me more about the Magister Ludi. Did she really say that the Party were … I can’t remember the exact phrase. Parasites? Thugs?’
‘No.’
‘Oh. Then am I mistaken?’