Four by Four

by Sara Mesa

  Celia speaks like never before, quickly, stumbling over her words. She’d never felt the need to be understood, just the need to talk, but now that her time is almost up she wants to say everything as clearly as she can.

  The new students enter, the first years, boys and girls eleven, twelve years old. Their parents sit proudly, watching them with relief, with the feeling that they’ve done what is right, they’ve sacrificed for them, bankrupted themselves if necessary.

  These kinds of conversations abound, filling the air with long, resonant words: sacrifice, transformation, well-being, security, investment.

  Summer is just beginning: yellowing grass, muffled cricket song from the woods. Chairs have been arranged in the garden and huge sun umbrellas shade the guests.

  The new arrivals run around like little children, leaving prints of crushed grass with every step.

  No one reprimands them. It’s a special day. An exception has been granted.

  The children look happy, but apprehensive. They’ll be leaving their parents for some time, which perhaps means forever.

  Some mothers cry, the fathers’ chins tremble, but their decision is firm. They know that the future depends on this separation.

  The tall poplars and Eastern hemlocks surrounding Wybrany oversee the farewells, impassive. There’s barely a breeze and the air is stifling, the customary stillness of summer.

  Night falls, the speeches end, and the Specials’ mothers—decked out in well-starched aprons and bonnets—serve cocktails and a light, healthy supper composed primarily of vegetables and cheeses. The other mothers wear sleeveless dresses, the fathers wear their jackets, and the Booty strolls among them, feeling beautiful on this night.

  The Headmaster mingles as well, but sparingly, never breaching the boundary that keeps him removed from the rest.

  At the edge of the gathering, Celia and Teeny aren’t eating, aren’t drinking. The Advisor watches them from afar as he feeds Lux thin slices of smoked salt cod. He isn’t yet aware, doesn’t yet know, and so is relaxed as he watches them. Contented, even.

  The girls sit on the grass, illuminated by a solar-powered lamppost that spills faint bluish light over them, as if they’d been briefly dipped in diluted ink.

  Celia is telling her about another party. There were two more men, and she was the draw. The Advisor enjoyed himself even before he participated. Teeny chews her lip. She understands.

  It’s hard for Teeny to speak, but she dares to, at last. So quietly that Celia has to ask her to repeat herself.

  “Can’t you say no?” she repeats.

  Celia laughs, her teeth tinged by the light. A deep belly laugh.

  “I’m not even sure whether I like it or not!”

  Celia stands and smoothes her dress, shedding little blades of grass. Teeny doesn’t like seeing her laugh, not this time. She stands up next to her, close to Celia’s body.

  “You don’t mean that,” she says.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I don’t know what I’m going to do. But I have to leave.”

  Celia tries not to cry. She doesn’t want the Advisor to see that.

  “Will you go back to your mother?”

  “No, somewhere else. I’m not sure where.”

  “So you’re leaving me alone, then?” Teeny says.

  Celia stares. She doesn’t try to console her. She wouldn’t know how. She could tell her that she’ll find another friend, she could tell her that Valen needs help, that she knows how to listen. She could tell her that there’s always the mastiff, that she should get over her fear of the dog. She could lie to her once, many times, but she doesn’t say a word.

  They simply stand there for a moment, motionless, and watch the shadow of a boy walking away, one of the new kids, still small, skinny. He looks out of place, walking by himself, with a little limp. He seems to be looking for a secluded place to sit, fleeing some taunt, a shove.

  A woman, his mother, calls to him:

  “Ignacio!”

  The shadow turns.

  The cry of a screech owl swoops over them. Celia lifts her head and listens. She hears its message.

  THE SEAT

  The new school year has just begun and her seat is empty. It’s been empty all week, almost since the first day of class, and the blank space is an accusation. Teeny knows that Celia isn’t sick, the others all know it, too. But no one asks, no one says a word.

  French class is about to begin when the door opens and the Booty stalks in, asking permission as she makes her way through the rows of desks without waiting for an answer. She stands at the podium, smoothes her blouse, observes the girls, and speaks.

  She doesn’t talk about Celia, but she makes it clear that an absence is always a response to something. And she makes it especially clear that this is a permanent absence.

  She employs the usual symbols—caged birds, weeds that hinder the nourishment of rosebushes, clouds that block the sun: a whole apparatus of lifeless nature she navigates with ease. And yet there is a tremor behind her words. An anxious fury, and this is strange.

  The girls whisper, handing the words between them under their breath. A hum spreads like a net through the classroom.

  Expulsion. They expelled her.

  Only Teeny looks straight ahead. She doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t receive or pass on the rumors. Her empty eyes betray no confusion, just a hint of powerlessness. The Booty doesn’t look at her, nor does the French teacher. No one pays her any attention, no one is worried. She never guessed anything before and she’s not a threat now, either.

  “What do you think she did?”

  “I saw it coming.”

  “Took them long enough.”

  “I feel bad for her.”

  “But when did it happen?”

  Those words sound and swell as the Booty takes her leave and stomps from the room with an angry, exaggerated swagger. The teacher calls for quiet but the conversations rumble in the background, even though the class goes on in spite of it all, conjugations, prepositions, le vocabulaire …

  They ask Teeny:

  “What happened? You must know something. Tell us.”

  It’s dawned on them that she could have information, but Teeny doesn’t speak, Teeny never speaks. And certainly not in the middle of class.

  Like always, she looks back at them with damp eyes. Like always, she blows her nose and remains silent.

  “NEVER MORE THAN TWO HUNDRED”

  The questions continue after class, and spill over into the following days, all kinds of indirect, sinuous questions. Teeny is stubborn in her silence. Not because she doesn’t want to talk but because she doesn’t know what she should say, or how.

  It’s a serious problem, the Booty thinks as she observes the Advisor, who these days walks around the colich with a smile frozen on his face.

  The Booty only thinks about this occasionally. Not when she’s naked, balancing on high heels before the Headmaster. But a half hour later, dressed again in her tailored suit, legs crossed, she confronts him.

  He dismisses her concerns.

  “The best way to avoid chaos is by controlling it: lock it up in a pen and feed it separately,” he says.

  He tells her there are too many girls in the world. The absence of one of them is not that important. There are still more urgent affairs they must attend to. A new student application has been submitted, he explains, though the school year is already underway.

  “The boy was held back,” the Booty says after hearing the details. “We never planned to allow for this type of admission.”

  “He’s the son of a government minister. We don’t have a say.”

  “An ex-minister,” she says. “He was removed two months ago.”

  “Ex is just a prefix. Two letters don’t mean a thing. You’re too rigid.”

  “If we don’t stem the tide, Wybrany will be filled with exceptions. The rules clearly establish that repeating students will not be admitted. And that the number of pla
ces must always be fixed.”

  “The rules aren’t inviolable. We made them, they didn’t come from the heavens. And besides, there is an opening at present.”

  The Booty widens her eyes, blinks.

  “Celia? This boy would take the place of a girl, a Special?”

  “Not her place. But her number, yes. The total count won’t change. That’s what you want, isn’t it? When they ask how many students we have, we can always give a round figure. Never more than two hundred, that’s your motto.”

  Yes, that’s her motto. They study the application, the handwriting that slants slightly to the left, running outside the boxes on the forms. The boy’s name is Héctor, a hero’s name. He’ll join the group of first years.

  He’ll just be a New Kid among the new kids; no one will notice anything.

  A meeting is scheduled with his parents right away.

  PART TWO

  A SUBSTITUTE’S DIARY

  SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 12TH

  I arrived at the colich yesterday. By the time I’d finally found it, night had fallen. I confess: I’m a terrible driver, especially on unfamiliar roads. I made my first mistake at the detour on the highway and had to turn around and start over. Later, I drove down a dirt road through a pine tree forest. I drove slowly, uncertainly. I switched on my high beams, blinding a few rabbits. I heard the cry of a bird. I don’t know which kind.

  I finally reached the end of the road, hungry and disoriented.

  My disconcertion was compounded by the total darkness. Apparently, everyone here turns in early. Silhouettes of stone buildings stood among the shadows. Not as large as I would have expected, but ornate and pretentious, like from another time.

  I was met at the gate by a woman wearing an apron, her head bowed. She seemed to expect me because she didn’t ask for my name or reason for being there. She simply murmured follow me and led me to my room in a stone dormitory building on the left side of the property.

  The room is spare but comfortable enough. Double bed, mounted TV, desk with a swivel chair, prints of contemporary art on the wall. I tried the internet connection and it seemed to work fine. I considered taking a shower, but I didn’t know where to find the bathroom and the woman in the apron disappeared without giving me any instructions. I put my clothes in the closet and got into bed, still dressed and without any dinner.

  Unusual for me, I fell fast asleep.

  I can’t quite remember it today, but I had a strange dream that kept me engrossed the whole night.

  I was awoken this morning by the ringing of a telephone I hadn’t noticed on the nightstand yesterday. A cordial female voice summons me to a meeting in one hour. A welcome meeting, she specifies. I look at the clock. It’s only 8 a.m, and a Sunday, too. The sun has barely risen. I can see a well-tended garden through the window with tall hedges, the vestiges of the night’s fog.

  I realize I will have to adapt to a different schedule.

  I’ve peered into the hallway and seen other doors just like mine, but none appear to be to a bathroom. I have no idea where to wash up, do my business. I’ve been forced to urinate in a plastic bottle, which I’ve stashed behind the nightstand. I’ve wiped the sleep from my eyes with a tissue and now I write as I wait for the meeting.

  I’ll know more soon.

  (…)

  I met Señor J. and I still don’t know what to make of him. The headmaster of the colich looks more like a shareholder than a head of school. It’s hard to explain, but there’s something in his air, like a smug businessman instead of someone responsible for educating the young. A self-satisfied, relaxed man: pleasant expression, deep, confident voice, a graying goatee he strokes now and then.

  From behind round glasses, he gives me a look that could be either kind or condescending. He shakes my hand and welcomes me enthusiastically. I’m suddenly put at ease.

  The assistant headmaster is also at the meeting. Skinny and pale with dark circles under his eyes, he’s submissive to Señor J., eager to please. No firm handshake from him, just a limp and noncommittal grasp. He smiles broadly, showing long, yellowed teeth. He’s friendly, but it’s an awkward friendliness. Fixed eyes, stiff expression. I couldn’t tell whether he liked me or not.

  Our conversation is brief. I have the impression they both think I know all about the school already, or maybe they don’t want to bore me with superfluous explanations early on. They limit themselves to giving me precise instructions. The assistant headmaster gives me a folder with my student files, the notebook of the teacher I’m replacing, a copy of my contract, and a flash drive.

  “You start tomorrow,” he adds.

  I go ahead and ask what happened to the teacher on leave. I need to calculate how long I’ll be able to work here, but I don’t want to seem rude, so I murmur the question. The assistant headmaster makes a slight, evasive gesture with his hand; I’m not even sure he’s heard me.

  Things being what they are, I don’t press.

  Then Señor J. opens one of the large windows, offers me a cigar (which I turn down) and smokes leisurely, leaning against the wall. It’s obvious he’s scrutinizing me, but I’m not intimidated.

  I would have happily accepted a coffee. The sun has risen fully and I still haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. I worry my stomach is growling. I worry about my bad breath and whether they’ve noticed it.

  What should I do? Ask them where I could get some breakfast around here? What I have to do to take a shower? Brush my teeth? What I finally do: stand up, thank them, say goodbye, and leave, closing the door behind me. I have the urge to press my ear against the door. Are they discussing me? Or is bringing a new teacher on board just another part of the routine?

  I return to my room and put all the material I’ve received in its place. Then I wait without knowing what for. I wait a good long while. I don’t keep track of the time. Maybe an hour, maybe two.

  I write in this journal.

  My hunger pangs grow stronger, the colich fills with sounds. I still haven’t eaten. Fortunately, there are more plastic cups in my room. I pee in another one and hide it with the first, which has already started to stink.

  Through the window, I see several students heading out to play sports. Impeccable, tidy boys bursting with health, running down the fields with their shiny hair, cheering each other on. Farther away, I make out a group of girls accompanied by a huge, cinnamoncolored dog. I can’t see anything else, given both the distance and my nearsightedness.

  At the moment, I feel isolated. Isolated and sad.

  (…)

  I’m not sure what I should be doing. Spending the whole day in my room looks bad, but neither does it seem appropriate to introduce myself to colleagues in my current state: disheveled, stomach growling. Besides, wandering around to suss out the situation could look suspicious. And unquestionably, the last thing I want to do is raise suspicion.

  Nevertheless, I opt to head out and investigate anyway.

  I come across an enormous dining hall with different areas separated by adjustable panels. A sign at the entrance details the menu and hours of operation. Breakfast is finished, but thankfully there are just two hours before lunch. Feeling encouraged, I continue my rounds, killing time. I have the good fortune of finding the student restrooms.

  Finally, release.

  I explore the hallways, relieved at last, most likely retracing my steps unintentionally.

  I exchange hellos with several people, but we don’t introduce ourselves.

  I don’t encounter many people in general; typical Sunday atmosphere at a boarding school. The students who aren’t out on the playing fields must be in their rooms, resting or studying. They aren’t with their parents. This weekend, the assistant headmaster informed me, is not a visiting weekend.

  I eat lunch alone in the section reserved for teachers. I’m served by two aged—but not old—and very quiet women. The meal is exquisite: cream of vegetable soup, smoked ham, the marinated dogfish so typical in this part of the cou
ntry.

  I return to my room. Someone has made the bed and taken the two cups of urine. I’m embarrassed, but glad for the fresh air. I lie down and fall asleep immediately. Two or three hours must pass.

  When I wake up, I start reviewing the student files. The teacher’s notebook is awash in hasty, untidy notations—crossings-out, scribbles, grease stains. Anxious handwriting compiles details of complete or incomplete exercises, papers submitted, exam grades, opinions, problems, quibbles along the lines of didn’t turn in his homework yesterday, needs to improve spelling, could do better.

  The work seems routine and not very exciting. Just what I need.

  I call to have dinner brought to my room. This way, I can look busy. When the staff member arrives with my dinner, there’s hardly any room on the table for the tray. He hesitates a moment before setting it on a bench. As soon as he’s gone, I stack the papers over on one side and eat while watching TV. Then I pee in a cup and get back in bed.

  I can’t sleep. I obviously slept too much during the day. I try to read but I can’t concentrate. The pages give off an unsettling scent of mothballs; the words dance, leap over each other. My head is spinning, my eyes sting. I’m writing this with dinner’s leftovers piled in front of me.

  My body is starting to smell. The urine next to the nightstand is polluting the air.

  I need to bathe immediately.

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 13TH

  I had a sudden revelation. Like I said, I was feeling dirty and desolate, tapping my fingers on the table, when my eyes came to rest on the little side door of a built-in closet.

  A built-in closet, I thought. But no.

  It was a bathroom, complete with shower stall, sink, and toilet. A whole bathroom, all for me.

  I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.

  In fairness, the door is almost invisible—white on white—the crack barely noticeable. But there’s a whole world hidden behind it: clean towels, bath products, hair dryer mounted on the wall.

  I showered, shaved, and brushed my teeth. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.