When Léo wakes there’s a theme running through his head. For a second he can’t place it. It could be a dream: an elusive melody, a shape that broadens into something abstract, a fragment of poetry with the sting of a half-remembered association. He rollsover, squeezing his eyes shut as if he can retreat into sleep, but it’s no good. It echoes in his brain, exasperating, taunting him. Then, abruptly, he recognises it. The bloody Bridges of Königsberg. It mingles with the noise of a door banging and plates clattering in the kitchen below. That must have been what woke him; otherwise he’d have slept late, drowsing uneasily after a night of near-insomnia. He pulls the bedclothes more tightly round his shoulders, but now he’s awake he’s cold. The blankets arescratchy and thin, and the pillow feels damp to the touch. Last night the proprietor gave him a confidential smile as he said, ‘The Arnauld Suite, sir. I must say, it is an honour,’ and the maid looked at him sideways as she showed him the room, expecting him to be impressed by the draperies and the heavy gilt-framed portraits of grand jeu masters; but there are clusters of dark spots on the headboard where bedbugs are nesting in the cracks, and the mattress sags in the middle like a hammock. Every time he turned over in the night it jangled and creaked, and now there’s a spring digging into his ribs. At this moment, Chryseïs will be spread-eagled under Egyptian cotton sheets, taking up the whole of their bed. She’ll still be asleep, golden hair tangled, an errant smudge of eye-black smeared across her temple, while the curtains billow at the open French window and the scent of hot dust and traffic fumes mingles with the roses on the mantelpiece. Sometimes he feels like summer in the city will choke him, but right now, in this mildewed room, he’d give a year’s salary to be there, back in his old life. He drags his hands over his face, trying to wipe away the sticky feeling of not having slept properly, and sits up. The theme of the Bridges of Königsberg reasserts itself inhis head. It’s like a stuck record, the move between the melody and the first development of the Eulerian path, then back to that infuriating tune . . . Out of all the games to get into his head, it has to be one he can’t stand. He gets out of bed, pulls on his trousers and shirt, and rings for shaving water. ‘And coffee,’ he adds, as the maid bobs a curtsy and turns to leave. She swings back to him, so eager she almost stumbles, and he notices without caring that they’ve sent him the prettiest one. ‘Coffee first. Make sure it’s hot.’
‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Will there be anything else?’
‘No. Thank you.’ He sits down next to the window, his back to her. Churlish, but what does it matter? He’s not a politician anymore.
The coffee, when it arrives, is terrible – half chicory, half- burnt – but at least it’s nearly as hot as he likes it, hot enough to warm his hands through the cup. He sips it slowly, watching the sky change colour over the houses opposite. The sun hasn’t come up over the mountains yet, and the street outside is still dim, even though it’s almost eight o’clock. He should be at home, in his study, halfway through his second pot, absorbed in one of Dettler’s reports; it gives him an uneasy, itchy sensation, to be sitting here with nothing to do. He was buggered if he was going to trudge up the mountain at dawn, as if he were a student; yesterday he deliberately ordered the car for after lunch, but already he’s at a loss, shifting in his musty-smelling chair, wondering whether he’s hungry enough to ring for breakfast. How is he going to pass the hours? He winces; the question makes him think of Chryseïs, standing there on the balcony staring at him, the evening after his meeting with the Chancellor. ‘What am I going to do?’ she said, and he almost laughed at her predictability.
‘Have another Martini, I imagine,’ he said.
She hardly blinked. ‘While you’re away,’ she said. She fished in her glass with a scarlet-lacquered fingernail, drew out the tiny coilof orange peel and flicked it over her shoulder into the street. ‘What do you expect me to do?’
‘I’ll still be paying the rent on the flat.’ ‘You think I should stay here, alone?’
‘At least until you find someone better.’ It would have been kinder to say somewhere, but he wasn’t feeling kind. ‘You’ll be allright.’
‘Oh, thank you. I appreciate your concern.’ She tilted her head and stared at him, but for once he didn’t feel any answering spark, just weariness. ‘Jesus Christ, Léo! I can’t—’
‘I’ve told you not to say that.’
‘Oh, not that again. I’m hardly saying the rosary, am I? What are you going to do, report me to the Register?’ She pushed past him, knocking him with her elbow. She’d had her hair freshly marcelled, and a whiff of chemicals caught the back of his throat. ‘I can’t believe you fucked this up. I thought you were supposed to be the government’s golden boy. Didn’t the Old Man say you were—’
‘Apparently not.’
‘You bloody idiot, how could you? You’re a coward, that’s what it is – now that the Party’s in power, you can’t stand the pressure– completely spineless.’ She kicked viciously at the leg of the chaise longue. Liquid slopped out of her Martini glass and splashed on to her dress. ‘Shit! This is new.’
‘I’ll buy you another one.’ He crossed the room to the cocktail cabinet and poured himself a whisky. They’d run out of ice, but he didn’t ring for more.
‘You’d better. And pay the rest of the bill while you’re at it.’ Her voice cracked. She collapsed on to a chair. ‘Oh, look at me, dressedto the nines . . . I thought he was going to promote you – after Minister for Culture I thought, finally, he’s going to get something important. I got all ready to celebrate.’ ‘So celebrate.’ They stared at each other. Perhaps, if he’d said the right thing, she mighthave softened; but then, if she’d softened, he couldn’t have borne it.
She got up. She drank the last of her Martini in one go, and reached for her wrap. ‘Have a lovely holiday, Léo,’ she said, and left.
Now he tries to shrug off the memory. Of all the things he’s left behind, Chryseïs is the least of his worries. She’s better off than he is, yawning and sitting up in bed, pulling on her negligée and ringing for hot chocolate. She’ll be fine. And even if she weren’t, would he care that much? He turns away from the thought. A month ago, he’d imagined proposing to her: the breathless articles in society papers, the flash of an extravagant diamond on her left hand, the Old Man’s congratulations. Now . . .
There’s a tap on the door. It makes him jump; when the door opens he’s on his feet, and the maid flinches. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I thought I heard you say to come in.’
‘Of course. Yes. Thank you.’ He waits until she’s gone before he crosses to the washstand and splashes his face, blowing air out through his mouth until his heartbeat settles and water soaks his collar. He’s not afraid; there’s nothing to be afraid of. But sometimes moments catch him off guard: the unexpected knock, the car going too fast as he crosses the road, the glint of metal as a drunkard sways into his path and reaches languidly for a hip flask. Ever since the meeting with the Chancellor. Ever since the Chancellor looked at him with that expression, weighing up how much he was worth. He can still feel the chill of it; as though, halfway through a shooting party, a friend had swung his gun casually to point it into Léo’s face. And, a split second behind, the humiliation that he’d been such a bloody fool not to see it coming, to think it was all a friendly, civilised game . . . To have walked into the office a little nervous, of course – like being brought up in front of the Magister Scholarium – but sure that the Old Man would come round, only slightly disconcerted when it was the Chancellor and not the Old Man himself who was sitting behind the desk with Léo’s letter in front of him. ‘Ah, Léo,’ he said. ‘Thank you for coming. I trust I haven’t interrupted anything?’
‘I’m sure Dettler can manage without me for an hour.’ ‘Well, we must certainly hope so.’ He picked up the telephone. ‘Tea, please. Yes, two cups. Thank you. Sit down, Léo.’
He sat. The Chancellor folded his hands and bowed his head as if he was about to say a prayer. ‘Léo,’ he said, at last, ‘thank you for your letter. We all admire your passion and your energy, you know that. And it is in a young man’s nature to be forthright. So thank you for your honesty.’
‘As Minister for Culture, I felt it was only right to ask if I could talk things through with the Prime Minister before the Bill goes to the vote.’
‘Naturally. And he was very sorry he couldn’t be here today. I know he was very interested in your point of view. He asked me tosay that he admires your courage.’
Perhaps it was then that the first misgiving slid coldly down Léo’s spine.
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