Four by Four

by Sara Mesa

  The school counselor?

  “Marieta? Marieta is powerful?”

  He laughs at my surprise.

  “Marieta’s had a meteoric rise. She started at the colich as a young teacher three years ago and now look where she is. That’s no coincidence—she comes from the Oscheffen. So if you’re interested, Bedragare, forget it. She’s not the girl for you. She’s already occupied.”

  The Oscheffen? What the hell are the Oscheffen? A family of German aristocrats? A multinational appliance manufacturer? And what does he mean by Marieta being “occupied”? Occupied by what, by whom?

  I want to ask him all of this but feel I shouldn’t press. It seems more discreet to ask about my predecessor. What does Martínez know about him? Why was he on leave? Was he expected to return soon, or be out for a while?

  “No one’s told me anything,” I say.

  Martínez waves his hand, holding a bishop about to destroy my queen.

  “Don’t worry about it, Bedragare. Live in the moment, don’t ask questions. None of the things tormenting you are the least bit important.”

  He obviously doesn’t want to discuss the topic, either. He wins in a checkmate and immediately resets the board with a wink.

  “Another game?”

  He’s insatiable, that Martínez.

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 24TH

  I’ll admit it: sometimes even I forget what I did to get here. Only sometimes, but on those occasions I’m able to relax, as if I were convalescing after a long illness: good food, comfortable room, a reasonable, well-paid job, nice colleagues.

  And yet, I could be discovered at any point. I’m hanging on by a thread, and my conscience punishes me. Betrays me.

  And sometimes, reality knocks me over the head.

  Like today. I almost gave myself away in front of Sacra. I can’t stop replaying it.

  The assistant headmaster had called a meeting and I ran into her on the way. Sacra, as I’ve said, is fat and meddlesome, but she doesn’t seem a bad sort. Too fleshy, blunt, but friendly, fond of gossip, up for a chat, ready with a host of impertinent questions that—coming from her—somehow manage to sound completely natural.

  “Where did you work before coming here?” she asks.

  I had gone over the correct answer so many times that I unleash it too quickly. So quickly that she’s surprised. Her brow furrows.

  “When did you say you were at Vanter College?”

  “When …”

  I pretend to try to remember, but really I’m buying time. I start to get anxious and she seems to notice.

  “Eight, nine years ago.”

  “But I was there then.”

  I correct myself:

  “It may have been longer than that. I don’t really recall, I’ve taught at so many places.”

  She insists, dogged and smiling.

  “I worked there for twelve years. I would have seen you either way.”

  Luckily, we are already at the door to the assistant headmaster’s office. We drop the subject, but the look she gives me suggests she won’t easily forget.

  “The thing is, your name is familiar, Bedragare,” she whispers as we take our seats. “I recognized it the first time I heard it.”

  What a goddamn coincidence. Could this Sacra and my sister’s ex really have been colleagues at some boarding school years ago? If so, this woman will figure me out, I’m sure of it. She’ll have me by the balls.

  But she doesn’t say anything else, not a word. She just gives me another insinuating glance. An insinuation worse than any statement of fact.

  The meeting starts and the assistant headmaster narrows his eyes, examining me. I pull out my papers, cross my leg over my knee. I don’t know where to put my hands. I avert my eyes toward the Persian cat curled up in an armchair, apparently uninterested in moving any time soon.

  No one dares shoo him off.

  That cat has some kind of value, unquestionable and sacrosanct.

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 25TH

  This weekend is the last one of the month and the students have gone with their parents. The scholarship students stayed behind, of course. Their parents are always here anyway.

  I’ve been bored stiff the whole day.

  I correct compositions, watch TV, take a long nap, and walk the grounds, wondering if Señor J. is watching me from his window. For the first time, the mastiff allows me to pet her; a big accomplishment for me.

  Martínez suggests a game of chess.

  I’m not really in the mood, but I accept just for something to do.

  We play in the teachers’ lounge, which is almost always empty. There is a solid wooden table, upholstered chairs, a leather sofa marred by cat scratches, heavy drapes with metal holdbacks—all shrouded in the dusty, moth-eaten aura of unused spaces, no matter how often they’re cleaned.

  All the old cast-off pieces of furniture wind up there.

  We drink whiskey and play game after game, a bunch of times in an hour, ten or twelve matches. I get drunk right away. I’ve never been a good drinker.

  Martínez, on the other hand, is entirely composed. Red-faced but steady. He tells me he doesn’t know what he’d do without his whiskey. The only time he leaves the colich is to go for provisions. He confesses that he never has enough. The wine served at meals is terrible, he says, early grapes, acidic, intolerable wateriness. I don’t think it’s that bad, but I hold my tongue because Martínez has a way of speaking about everything with authority. He squints, as if trying to recollect something.

  “We did used to have good wine here, in the early days. But this place has gone downhill and the wine has only gotten worse. It’s always the same.”

  I don’t respond, but he must sense my doubt.

  “This colich isn’t even close to what it once was. They keep up appearances, yes, but I assure you: the truly powerful do not send their children here. Do you think they would let them mix with workers’ kids? Share a room and eat sticky pasta three times a week? Pretense, appearances, a lot of inglés and very little excellence … that’s all you’ll find here. Not even the teachers are anything special …” He checkmates me.

  Perhaps Martínez is right. I hadn’t stopped to think about it. He clearly expects a reply, an argument. What do you mean the teachers aren’t anything special? I am, I should protest. I should talk about my qualifications, my degrees, I should keep pretending just in case. Too drunk for that, I can only listen.

  He goes on, claiming that Wybrany prefers to hire second-rate staff: dependent, unbalanced, imperfect. Those are the adjectives he uses. Martínez is as relentless a speaker as he is a chess player and whiskey drinker. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and expounds on his idea: Wybrany would never recruit educators who were well qualified or prestigious. Too expensive. Too compromising.

  “Before you were hired, did they give you any sort of test, Bedragare?”

  No, of course they didn’t give me any sort of test. No test at all. My sister’s ex had filled out an application when the colich first opened. His name was on the list of substitutes. That was all. I suppose they simply reviewed the documentation I submitted. Nothing more. Now that I thought about it, it did seem strange.

  “Here, the classes and who teaches them are the least of their concerns. What matters is the sense that one belongs in the upper echelon. Whether that’s true or not is another question: the sense of belonging is what matters. And the teachers, clearly, do not belong at the top,” Martínez takes a drink and shakes his head.

  The sun sets. Seeing double, I walk through the gloom of the hallway to my room. Though my vision is blurry, I make out a figure at my door, hurrying to leave at my approach. She is slightly hunched, plump, her face wide and dark-skinned. She has big teeth and her eyes are enormous.

  I’d swear it’s the same woman who met me at the gate the day I arrived. I’m sure I’ve seen her elsewhere, cleaning or serving meals, but I never paid attention to her until now.

  “Excuse me,” she says, movi
ng to step around me.

  I try to stop her.

  “Wait.”

  I’m not sure what to do next. I want to apologize for the cups of urine that first day, but I can’t string the right words together. She looks up at me with a patient, bovine expression that actually kind of suits her.

  I decide not to mention them, and just ask her name.

  “Gabriela,” she says.

  “Do you always clean my room?”

  “Always, sir. Before you arrived, too.”

  “Then you know the other teacher, the one I’m subbing for.”

  “Yes, sir. García Medrano, sir. I know he got sick.”

  I want to ask her to stop calling me sir, to stop addressing me so formally, but don’t know how without being condescending.

  “What did he have?”

  I feel like I’m on the verge of getting the truth, or some valuable information at the very least. But Gabriela doesn’t reveal much.

  “That I don’t know, sir, but I do hope he gets better soon. He was a good man.”

  I notice that she talks about him as if he were already dead. Her expression is serious and I would even say she seems to be directly affected by the situation. She’s pensive, and adds:

  “But it’s also good that you’re here now, sir. Everything has its positive side.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” I say, and we stand in awkward silence.

  I want to keep her there a little longer.

  “Do you have children here?”

  She answers quickly, firmly.

  “I did, yes. A daughter, sir. Valentina. She left two years ago. She lives in Cárdenas now.”

  I tell her that I would have liked to have met Valentina, that I would have liked for her to have been my student, but it rings false and she can tell.

  I let her go.

  SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 26TH

  I had an erotic dream about Gabriela. I woke up wet and confused.

  Why Gabriela? She isn’t attractive, at least not to my taste.

  Is it because she makes my bed, scrubs my toilet? The eroticism of power, which I’ve never experienced before now?

  I can’t control my dreams. I shouldn’t feel guilty, but I do. Outside the window, everything looks hazier than usual. Am I losing my vision? Isn’t blindness a divine punishment?

  My students haven’t written about any erotic dreams in their compositions. Except that little flirt Irene, who continues to make veiled suggestions: “We were sharing an ice cream. You held the cone and I licked the scoop …”

  I have a long day ahead of me and I can’t shake this feeling. I’ll go look for Martínez, see if he can distract me.

  (…)

  Sunday is over, thank god. Monotonous, too solitary. I didn’t see anyone in the dining hall. I couldn’t find Martínez, either. Maybe he went out for whiskey, or maybe he simply didn’t want to answer the door when I knocked.

  Obviously, I didn’t insist.

  The hallways were deserted. The colich seemed more isolated than usual. I heard some far-off cries, a shout of desperation that vanished in the air after several seconds.

  I went back to my room and called my sister. I wasn’t in the mood to listen to her, but I had to keep my promise. She must have been waiting for my call; she picked up on the first ring.

  She’s upset, she tells me everything in a rush. The city is ready to blow, she says. Gangs of rabble-rousers control the streets. It’s very dangerous. It makes sense, I say. People are fed up, raising hell is the only way they have to protest.

  “Fed up?” she says. “I’m fed up with so much robbery, so much broken glass, so much shouting, the police patrols, the assaults, the rock-throwing, the impunity.”

  This conversation bores me. It’s always the same: complaint after complaint after complaint, laments piling up amid the most absolute indolence. I tell her my first month’s salary will be in her account soon.

  She perks up: money is always an excellent reason to face reality.

  As we talk, I look out the window at the grounds, the impressive lecture hall covered in ivy, the playing fields surrounded by security fences. I think I see the assistant headmaster in the distance, holding something in his arms. Probably that hateful Persian. He walks toward his house at a fast clip. I watch as he grows smaller and disappears.

  It’s evening. The nice cars begin to arrive at the gate. The children are back. Beams from headlights crisscross the courtyard and gravel crunches under tires. The parents don’t get out of their cars: it’s late, and it isn’t necessary. I imagine them kissing their children, hugging them inside their Mercedes, their Porsches, their Volkswagens, repeating the monthly speech by rote: take care of yourself, study hard, call me sometime, eat well.

  The boys and girls step out of the cars, gym bags on their shoulders, an air of weary satisfaction. They hurry down the path, driven by the cold, calling to one another. The boys slap each other on the back, the girls give kisses. Back in their uniforms, hale and hearty. Their figures are blurry, clouded by the distance, but I can almost make out their profiles. Ignacio’s limp, the Goon’s bulk. Beautiful Berta, swinging her hips.

  My sister hung up a while ago. I stand with the phone pressed to my ear until I feel a chill—a chill deep in my bones—and I sit down to write.

  Gabriela didn’t clean today.

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 27TH

  I made the bed and left my room neater than usual before leaving this morning. When I met her, Gabriela looked exhausted. There are lots of little doors like mine, and each one opens to a room that needs to be cleaned.

  Besides, I still have that strange guilty feeling.

  And I see Gabriela everywhere now.

  Not Gabriela, exactly, but her kind.

  Shy, dark faces that whisper among themselves but never interrupt us. Figures that are both almost invisible and constantly present: in the dining hall, on the grounds, up and down the hallways of the lecture building with their mops, pink uniforms buttoned to the neck.

  There are men, too. Señor J.’s chauffeur, the security guards, the maintenance man, the porter. All dressed in blue or black with a servile, puppyish expression.

  Like a god with his creations, I feel compelled to give each one a name.

  I ask Martínez at breakfast and he points them out to me.

  “That’s Gabi. That’s Tato. And that woman over there is Merche.”

  He stops and laughs.

  “What the hell is going on with you? You don’t even know the names of your students and you want to know about these people?”

  “I met the one of the cleaning ladies. She looked worn out.”

  “Bedragare,” he says. “They’re very lucky to be here. Don’t forget it.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

  “Their kids are here, too. You know that, right?”

  “Oh, yes, the assistant headmaster told me at the first meeting. They repeat it every chance they get.”

  “So, what’s the problem?”

  Problem? I don’t see any problem. Martínez has it wrong. It’s my simple recognition of members of the same species, that’s all. And the guilt I feel when Gabriela calls me “sir” and then I rail her in my dreams. Nothing that Martínez is likely to understand. I’m certainly not one to deny that they’re privileged to work here, safe from the chaos outside. Like me. Like Martínez himself.

  I look at him. “When it comes down to it, you and I are lucky, too, aren’t we?”

  He pats me on the back.

  “Lucky? You think so?”

  Stuffing himself with rolls and jam, he gives me his view of things:

  “We are fortunate, Bedragare. The more mediocre one is, the deeper the hole he finds himself in, the more grateful he’ll be when he’s rescued. Our natural destiny would be miserable. And yet, here we are, enjoying breakfast in a top-notch institution.”

  He laughs as he speaks. I’m not sure how to respond.

  “Are you being ironic,
Martínez?” I ask after a moment.

  “Look, Bedragare. I’ll tell you something that’ll make you reconsider your idea of irony.” He takes a breath. “Would you believe me if I told you that the very last thing in the world I want is to retire? Retire? What for? What do I have to go back to? I’ve spent decades of my life here. Ever since my wife died. What would I do without Anita? In a world I no longer recognize as my own? I don’t know what it’s like outside, but I do know it’s changed too much. I’m not prepared to adapt; I don’t have the strength. Everything is simpler for me here. When I’m called to a meeting, I go, pretend to be serious, shuffle papers. That’s all they require of me. Don’t you realize? What do you think I’d have to do to make it on the outside? Can you even imagine? Am I young enough, strong enough for that? Do I have the wherewithal?”

  Martínez has stopped eating. He’s been looking in the distance as he speaks, his eyes narrowed, a grimace of disgust dancing on his lips. He turns to face me.

  “So tell me, where’s the irony in that? This colich is the best thing that’s happened to me. You’re lucky to be here, too. Believe me. Irony? Good Lord … can’t you get this into your head?”

  I’m dumbfounded. No doubt about it, Martínez dumbfounds me.

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 29TH

  Bad day today, bad day.

  I had trouble with Ignacio in third period. I’ve never been in such a situation and wasn’t sure how to respond. So I improvised. Disgracefully, it seems. I’m now convinced I’m a laughingstock.

  It all started when a student—a shy, scattered boy—got up in the middle of class and tearfully approached my desk. The other boys carried on with their compositions without a peep. He stood before me, dripping snot, hiccupping, reluctant to speak.

  I confess I felt more discomfort than pity. This student, one of the scholarship kids, is physically quite repulsive: greasy skin, reedy voice, the straight, limp, adolescent mustache of someone who’s never shaved. In short, the kind of person I prefer to keep at arm’s length whenever possible.