by Sara Mesa
Ignacio is poised to transform. In that fateful moment of adolescence when everything could change with a single word or gesture. Each day might be critical.
The Headmaster wants to be part of that process.
When the boy is at his side, he’s overcome with a strange feeling of contentment. He makes a habit of bringing him to his office now and then.
“Oh Gerasim, my Gerasim,” he greets him.
The Headmaster reclines in his armchair, asks him to read from a newspaper or book. He closes his eyes as Ignacio recites. Sometimes he dozes off, even snores once in a while. Sometimes, as compensation, the Headmaster gives him gifts. Small, valuable objects that don’t make the other children jealous, but which they will steal, nonetheless: a feather, a magnifying glass, small wooden carvings, trading cards, a compass, gifts from another time that return the Headmaster to his own childhood.
He calls him Gerasim. Ignacio doesn’t know why, but neither does he dare to ask. He doesn’t understand any of what’s going on; he listens to the Headmaster speak, his brief, metaphysical digressions about the world. Ignacio thinks maybe this is all okay, he folds himself up at the Headmaster’s feet like a little dog and lets him gently stroke his head. He isn’t the protector Ignacio was seeking, but he resigns himself to the idea.
One day, the Headmaster tries to explain.
“There’s a book, a very famous Russian book, that tells the story of a rich man who becomes ill and is about to die. This man had everything in life: money, power, fame, a lovely family, splendid home. But in his illness, he begins to feel very alone. He becomes aware that his life has been nothing more than decoration, a meaningless pastiche. Now that he’s sick, no one can stand to see him twisting in pain; nobody wants to hear his complaints or cries. Not his family, not even his best friends. It’s a terrible story,” he concludes. “A man is dying and is alone.”
He pauses. Ignacio hangs on his words but doesn’t understand. They sit in silence for several minutes. Only the ticking of the wall clock is heard, the distant voices of the boys playing paddleball. The Headmaster continues, smiling weakly now.
“The man can only be soothed by resting his feet on the shoulders of a young, healthy servant, the only one who doesn’t feign compassion, but truly feels it.”
He stops speaking and observes Ignacio closely.
“And then what happens?”
“What happens? It doesn’t matter what happens. His servant provides relief. The man doesn’t want to see anyone else, not even his children. That’s what happens.”
“But does he die?”
“Of course he dies.”
Ignacio feels slightly disappointed. The story sounds too simple to be in such a famous book. A sick man. A man in terrible pain who only feels better when he puts his feet on the shoulders of his servant. A rich man dies. That’s all.
Why has the Headmaster told him this story? He thinks that maybe he’s trying to establish a comparison, but he’s not a servant, he isn’t strong, he doesn’t feel compassion—real or fake—for the Headmaster, who—it goes without saying—has never put his feet on Ignacio’s shoulders. He stammers:
“Are you sick, sir?”
The Headmaster stares at him. His eyes shine, deep in their purple, flabby sockets. He nods softly, slowly.
“Yes, my dear Gerasim. I am very sick.”
THE ANNIVERSARY
He’s wearing different clothes—the formal uniform with large commemorative pins, and instead of a polo, the white shirt with starched cuffs—but the same whispers follow him. Muffled laughter, insults, pinches that hurt more than punches.
Marina’s father has polished the floor. Ignacio sees himself reflected in the tiles, his faceless silhouette more attractive, less damning somehow.
Héctor’s height rises before him, a few meters ahead. He laughs casually with the others and no longer looks at Ignacio at all.
Ignacio passes the table of scholarship students, a reflection of Wybrany’s circular justice, and notices the empty chair. Just nineteen of the seats are taken, nineteen Specials. The empty chair fills his eyes, distracting him.
Where could she be, the girl they expelled? He only vaguely remembers her, an older girl, dark, intense, the memory so blurry he can’t even make something up about her absence.
There’s no more time for distractions. The Goon pinches him again, twisting his arm. Ignacio stiffens and walks, sits down at his bench. He takes up as little space as possible.
The Booty has been up on the stage for some time, watching them come in, overseeing how they distribute themselves in the room. Her dress shimmers. She seethes with impatience. Ignacio knows that she always opens the ceremony, but he’s never seen it, he’s only been told.
This is the first Wybrany anniversary celebration Ignacio has attended.
He looks at the portrait of Mr. Wybrany and tries to feel impressed. The Pole, with his furrowed brow and haughty solemnity, reminds him vaguely of the Headmaster, who now enters the room, nods to the Booty, and settles into the armchair of honor, his giant, hairy hands on the armrests.
The Booty clears her throat, calls for silence several times, sips water from a bottle, ahems. She composes herself and waits.
Then she speaks. She speaks of the unseen through what can be seen. Ignacio believes in telepathy and senses that the Booty is using language like a riverbed to transmit subterranean messages. She isn’t saying what she seems to say: it’s something else, more threatening, less clear. At times it appears she refers to the situation with the absent Special; other times, he thinks she’s referring to him, or to his transformation into Gerasim.
He can feel the Advisor’s stare trained on the back of his head, the Advisor who blames him for being beaten and not reporting it. On the other hand, the Headmaster doesn’t seem to have even registered his presence, which saddens him. Does Gerasim disappear in the crowd?
And there is the rival teacher, in tight black satin, her hair done up. Héctor turns to greet her, makes a forward gesture with his hand. She pretends not to notice, but Ignacio sees her tense.
Everything that happens in the colich happens without words. Ignacio covers his ears and it doesn’t make any difference.
The rumors spread and the Booty mentions them without mentioning them. Ignacio attempts to cast a psychic web over Héctor, who sits with his legs wide and back hunched. Ignacio sees how the girls watch him from a distance.
Yes, Héctor is handsome.
The fact of Héctor’s beauty and the threat posed by the girls have never been so obvious. Ignacio thought it would only be the teacher, at first. But here are the girls, taking turns showing themselves off. There will always be more girls, even if they expel a Special now and then.
Like a gas, an air of mourning seeps through the room. Ignacio doesn’t know whether it’s his own disenchantment or something outside of him, something that pertains to others, something he doesn’t know.
Even the portrait hanging behind the Headmaster appears to change its expression, to go completely blank. The Headmaster doesn’t even react as the Booty lists the year’s challenges one by one, how they were resolved, and how much good morale is required to overcome problems with perseverance, dignity, and determination. Ignacio feels trapped by the Booty’s words, paralyzed by the look the Advisor gives him, by the looks the girls give Héctor, the looks Héctor gives the teacher but not him.
And he feels afraid, insecure, he almost wishes they would twist his arm again, give him physical pain, real pain, to hold on to.
The Booty concludes her speech. The Headmaster rises, thanks her, says a few words. And the dance begins.
VOMIT
I know Valen throws up at night. I’ve seen her do it in secret, after gorging on all the leftovers she can get her hands on.
Valen wants to be thin, but she’s incapable of breaking the cycle.
Cristi and Marina make fun of her constantly, torpedo her with insults. A hail of words, fattyflabbyballofgrease, and othe
rs, said like that, all at once.
I also think Valen should lose weight, so sometimes I add to their insults.
It’s her mother’s fault, her mother who cleans at Wybrany and helps out in the kitchen. She takes food and brings it to our dorm at night. She says it’s for all of us.
Cristi claims Valen’s mother is a gypsy, that’s why she steals, because she doesn’t know anything other than stealing.
Valen gets anxious if any of us take the bag, just to see what’s inside and maybe swipe something we know she especially wants.
She’s so impatient for the food that she shrieks, twists around, tries to hit us or throw the nearest object. Then, as she devours the food, she placates us, smiles, wants to share the bounty.
All of this amused me in the beginning. But now I prefer to go out for a run while the others torture each other.
Once I’m outside, thoughts of Valen’s insatiability fade away. The cravings, insults, jabs. That no longer interests me.
Lux crouches on the porch. He’s grown very quickly, but he’s still a matted, big-headed cub. He runs when I try to catch him. He’s right not to trust me. The cat only deigns to be held by him, who fondles it all day.
The Advisor and his pet.
This makes me think of Teeny. I stop in front of her window and whistle. She looks out and is at my side in a flash, clinging to my leg.
She came without her coat, shivering and hopping the whole time.
“What’s up, Teeny?”
Nothing, nothing’s up, nothing’s ever up. Teeny is the most boring person in the world. She gives me a damp, beseeching look from behind her glasses. The same look, always.
Mid-March and she still has a cold. I take her by the arm and lead her to the fence. The woods, dark and fragrant, extend on the other side.
I stop and listen to the hoot of the screech owl flying overhead.
“You won’t try again, will you?” she quavers.
“No.”
The mastiff Cayetana trots over to us, the most useless watchdog ever. I scratch her ears and bury my fingers in her scruff. Teeny backs away. She’s frightened.
I think about whether or not she’ll keep my secret.
“The Advisor promised to bring me to Cárdenas one day. It’s been a month and he still hasn’t,” I say at last.
Teeny smiles, looks away, says nothing.
“What are you laughing at?” I say. “It’s not funny.”
She coughs to hide her smile. I can tell she doesn’t know what to do. Even as a confidant, she isn’t any use to me.
“I wasn’t laughing.”
Then she goes quiet, waiting, sidelined, as the mastiff licks my hand.
“I should do something to make him keep his promise,” I say.
“Do it,” she whispers.
“It’s something bad. Should I do something bad to make him keep his promise?”
She hesitates.
“No. Not something bad.”
She doesn’t know how to change the subject. She pretends to stumble so I’ll help her up.
I pity her.
I walk her back to her room, the austere building, shadowed in ivy. It’s curfew.
Back in our brightly painted ward, I pass the bathrooms on my way to bed. There’s Valen on her knees, bent over the toilet.
She doesn’t see me. I clear my throat but she doesn’t hear me either; her retching drowns me out. I watch her for a moment and that’s when—like a revelation—I finally decide to act.
ENCOUNTERS
The Booty walks, her hips swinging with fury. But she’s smug, too, and ready for her visit.
She’s on her way to the Headmaster’s office, a flutter in her chest. Her breathing is ragged, lips dry.
The Headmaster is expecting her and she’s running late. That lateness weighs on her and she practically runs down the hallway, holding her skirt in her hands.
But suddenly, glimpsed through a window, the evasive figure of the Advisor leaving the brightly colored dorm with a weary stride and Lux in his arms.
The Booty turns, walks back the way she came. She enters the garden and confronts him.
The Advisor, caught off guard, stops and looks at her in surprise.
He mumbles an explanation. She knows he’s lying.
She speaks to him, then, about the limits of his role, appropriate places, the need to keep up appearances.
“I can’t believe I have to bring this up with you.”
He defends himself. His work takes up his entire day, he performs as needed. He isn’t a bureaucrat, calling it a day at three on the dot. He doesn’t want to be. He points to Lux and argues:
“I’m trying pet therapy. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“But it’s nighttime,” the Booty says. Then, shouting: “Don’t you see? It’s nighttime!”
Her back is rigid, her eyes flash, and she’s almost forgotten about the Headmaster’s office.
She’s not aware that her incursion into battle is futile.
She’s not aware that in every strategic game, a weaker piece is always available for disposal, nor that the greatest weakness lies in one’s ignorance of being weak.
SUBMISSION
Ignacio, on the bench. He stares at his knees as the others dribble, shoot, pass, head, spit, and curse under their breath, because even in soccer, swearing is forbidden at Wybrany.
The gym teacher follows his lesson plans, sticking to the basics: physical education, discipline over the body and mind, a bit of tennis, golf, swimming. But he has permission to organize scrimmages on Saturday afternoons for interested students. Ignacio went because he saw Héctor was going. He trailed behind him, doubtful and slow, until Héctor turned around.
“Hey, you signing up?”
Yes, Ignacio was signing up, he was signing up to ride the bench because he’s not good enough, not strong enough, totally lacking in skill.
The times when he gets subbed in, he does his best, dragging himself through the minutes, praying that no one passes him the ball, ashamed that they never do.
He watches Héctor, who plays intelligently, zigzagging so smoothly, skating on the field. Ignacio squints in concentration, attempts to open telepathic channels.
Héctor has the ball. He dribbles around two players and breaks away, but Iván comes at him from the side, leg outstretched, and both trip and tumble on the wet grass, a spinning windmill of shirts and skins.
Even in the tumult, Héctor’s shaved head shines.
Ignacio widens his eyes to see them better. They get up, pat each other, but Héctor is limping. Hand holding his calf, a grimace in the sunshine.
They go to him, circle around him. It’s not serious.
Héctor comes off the field, passing Ignacio and looking at him. Ignacio gets ready to sub in, bouncing on his toes, swinging his arms, feeling his heart beat, out of control.
Was it his telepathy that caused Héctor’s injury? Was this what he wanted?
He feels guilty. A usurper. He plays badly, out of respect for Héctor and because he knows no other way.
They lose and everyone blames him. Iván gives him a shove and he staggers, but doesn’t fall.
Do the others know what he did? That it’s his fault?
He runs to the locker room and locks himself in a stall, his throat burning with fury and shame. Then, three light knocks on the metal door. Héctor’s cleats appear below the stall, muddied, laces loose, the large feet he knows so well. The feet of a man, of a hero.
Ignacio opens the door and they look at each other. Héctor smiles, enters, shuts the door behind him. He doesn’t break his gaze.
They can hear muffled shouts from the field, laughter, Cayetana’s bark, the dog driven so insane by the ball that she has to be tied up during games.
A faucet has been left on and water drips and drips, splashing in the ceramic sink.
The sun is so strong they can almost feel it inside the stall. A glint on the metal cistern, the sheen on the t
iled wall revealing marks from the moisture.
Héctor gives him a light slap on the back of his neck and Ignacio knows that he’s complicit.
Héctor pulls down his shorts. Ignacio’s neck is stiff from not looking down, a self-imposed prohibition.
Héctor’s voice. Hoarse, urgent:
“Suck my dick.”
A few seconds pass, just a few seconds, and Ignacio bends.
The smacking of his saliva, now, as well as the water, still dripping in the sink, the wet slap of water, an almost joyful song that marks his rhythm, and Ignacio feels sheltered by the metal doors, where no one sees him, no one replaces him, he suddenly has a starring role, the others are on the outside.
A VISIT
The Booty rarely receives visits from parents, except when formalizing a student’s enrollment. That’s the Advisor’s arena. But Teeny’s mother insists, and her insistence could become a threat if left unsatisfied.
This small, refined woman has power, lots of power, in addition to a daughter she must defend and push to the front, with the other girls.
She smoothes her skirt, sits down, rejecting the offer of tea. Then she speaks:
“She tells me she’s always with the … scholarship girls.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that. We’re strong proponents of integration,” the Booty says.
“Don’t misunderstand me. I have no problem with that. It’s one of the school’s greatest merits. But I do wonder: why her?”
“She’s free to choose her own friendships. We respect her choices.”
Teeny’s mother shifts in her chair. She arches her brows, laces and unlaces her fingers. Her voice changes:
“That girl … the one who planned the escape … do you happen to think she’s good company for my daughter?”
“Celia? Oh, Celia, she’s not a bad girl. She received a scholarship because of her high IQ. She doesn’t have parents. Or rather, she has quite the undesirable mother, shall we say. Celia represents a big accomplishment for the college. Someone like her could never have attained the kind of education we’re giving her. She’s the clearest embodiment of our project: our elevated, open humanism. Why does it bother you that your daughter spends time with Celia?”