The past tense was like a needle, digging deeper and deeper. ‘I do, Chancellor – I absolutely share the Party’s ideals.’
‘And yet your letter suggests that you do not.’
‘Only this one particular – this one section of the Bill …’
‘You find the measures to be – what was your phrase? – “irrational and morally repugnant”, in fact.’
‘Did I? I don’t remember saying repug—’
‘Please – feel free – if you would like to refresh your memory.’ The Chancellor waved towards the desk. The letter was there, on the blotter, Léo’s signature a dark scrawl at the bottom. There was a pause.
Léo swallowed. His mouth had gone very dry. He shook his head. ‘I may have been slightly too emphatic, Chancellor. I apologise if I—’
‘No, no, dear boy.’ The Chancellor flicked his hand at the words. Léo almost saw them dropping to the carpet like dead flies. ‘Too late. I regret your impulsivity as much as anyone, but it serves no purpose to dwell on it.’ Finally he turned and met Léo’s eyes. It was the way Léo’s father looked at broken objects in his scrapyards, wondering whether they were worth the space they took up. ‘The question is,’ he said, ‘what do we do with you now?’
‘I – what? You mean—’
‘We cannot possibly have a cabinet minister who is lukewarm about our policies.’ The Chancellor frowned. ‘You are an astute politician, Léo, you must understand that.’
‘Hardly lukewarm.’
‘Please.’ He held up his hand. ‘I am as sorry as you are, believe me. As is the Old Man. But if we cannot trust you …’
‘Chancellor, please – I honestly don’t think—’
‘Be quiet.’ The bell of an ambulance clattered past, distantly. Léo’s mouth tasted bitter, but he didn’t trust himself to lift his cup of tea without spilling it. The Chancellor strode to the desk, picked up a piece of paper, and put it down on the low table in front of Léo. A letter. To whom it may concern … ‘Here is a letter of resignation.’ He put a fountain pen down next to it. ‘Be sensible, Léo. If you read it, you will find that we have made matters easy for you. In recognition of the work you have done for the Party. The Old Man is fond of you, you know. I think you will agree it is an elegant solution.’
He had to blink to make the words come into focus … honoured to have served … contribution to the Prime Minister’s vision … glorious prosperity, unity and purity … but others are better fitted … in my heart of hearts, I have always yearned … He looked up. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I would have thought it was fairly self-explanatory.’
‘You’re saying – you want me to say—’ He stopped, and looked again at the letter. ‘“I am proud to have done my best as Minister for Culture, but it is as a humble student of the grand jeu that I long to leave my mark.” What is this?’
The Chancellor sat down opposite him. He poured a cup of tea and tapped the spoon on the gilt edge of the cup with a brittle ting. ‘You were the only second-year ever to win a Gold Medal at Montverre, were you not?’
‘You know I was. Is that relevant?’ It sounded more belligerent than he meant it to.
‘You have played a very highly regarded part in the election of this government, Léo. But you were never cut out to be a politician – you repressed your personal wishes for as long as you could, in order to help bring about the greatest political success of this century – but you have never been able to forget the dream of going back to Montverre to study our national game – and now that the country’s future is assured, you finally have the opportunity … It is a touching story, the artist returning to his roots, fulfilling his vocation. Who knows, it’s possible you will be of use to us there.’
‘But I don’t—’
The Chancellor put his teacup down. It was a smooth movement, almost casual; and yet it made Léo flinch. ‘Either you are being deliberately obtuse,’ he said, ‘or you are a complete simpleton. Which, until yesterday, I would have sworn you were not.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know how much more clearly I can put this.’
Léo heard himself say, ‘Perhaps in words of one syllable.’
The Chancellor raised his eyebrows. ‘You have a very easy choice. Either you sign this letter, tell the papers the same story, and retire to Montverre for as long as we deem it necessary, or the Prime Minister will be forced to deal with you more … forcefully.’
‘You mean someone will find me in a ditch with my throat cut?’ It came out as a joke. But it sat unanswered in the silence, solid and monstrous, until he realised it hadn’t been a joke at all. He fumbled to get the cap off the fountain pen and signed the letter without reading the rest of it. His signature was hardly recognisable. Underneath the first copy was another. He paused, without looking up. ‘There are two of these.’
‘One is for you to keep. For future reference. We’ll see about arrangements for Montverre – it’ll be a few weeks, I imagine. Your resignation will be formally accepted then. In the meantime, Dettler will carry out your duties.’ The Chancellor took a sip of tea. ‘It goes without saying that you won’t attempt to interfere with the progress of the Bill.’
‘I see.’ He hesitated. Then he put the lid back on the pen, focusing on his fingers as if only his eyes could tell him what they were doing. ‘Chancellor … please believe that I had no intention—’
The Chancellor got to his feet. ‘I don’t think I need keep you any longer.’
Léo folded the second copy of the letter and put it in his jacket pocket, next to his heart. Then he stood up, too. Somewhere a phone was ringing, a secretary was typing, the business of state was rolling on. It was as if he’d taken his hands off a keyboard and heard the music continue. He straightened his tie. ‘Well … thank you, Chancellor. If we don’t see each other again, good luck with government.’
‘Thank you, Léo. I hope our paths will cross again, eventually.’ The Chancellor made his way to the desk and sat down, reaching for his address book. ‘Good afternoon, Léo. From now on, if I were you, I would be very, very careful.’
Léo shut the door behind him. The secretary – Sarah – glanced up at him and then quickly down again. He smiled at her, but she kept her head down, scribbling something in a notebook; when he walked past her desk he saw over her shoulder that it was a tangle of meaningless lines, not even shorthand.
He came out onto the landing. Two civil servants climbed the stairs, halfway through a conversation: ‘… measures only reflect the times,’ the first said, and broke off to nod at him. Automatically he nodded back; then, with a jolt, he saw that the second, lagging a little behind, was Emile Fallon. It was too late to duck away. Instead he said, ‘Emile, long time no see, how are you? I’m afraid I must dash,’ all in one tight breath.
‘Ah, Minister,’ Emile said, ‘yes, indeed, let’s catch up soon,’ twisting mid-step to give Léo a sliding smile as he passed. There was something worse than straightforward malice in his face: irony, maybe, or – oh God, worst of all – compassion. Clearly news of Léo’s resignation had already spread to the Ministry for Information. Léo waited for them to disappear through the door opposite, holding his own smile in place as if it was a physical test.