Four by Four

by Sara Mesa

  He faltered, but finally whispered that Ignacio was harassing him.

  In the back row, Ignacio was diligently writing on his sheet of paper.

  “How is he harassing you?” I asked.

  He won’t come out with it. In his sweaty hands, he holds a crumpled paper with writing on it.

  “Give that to me,” I said.

  Suck my dick after class, you little bitch.

  That’s what it said.

  I didn’t know how to react. The boy was somewhat calmer. He watched me hesitate.

  I walked through a sea of whispers back to Ignacio’s desk. I showed him the paper. Ignacio read it carefully.

  “It wasn’t me,” he said at last. “That’s not my handwriting. Look.”

  I compared it to the writing on his paper and confirmed he was right: the handwriting was different. I considered this, probably longer than was necessary. The boy started to cry again at the front of the room. The others sniggered. I was compelled to take swift action.

  “It isn’t Ignacio’s handwriting.”

  “He wrote that himself and now he’s trying to blame me. Look, sir,” Ignacio rushed to add.

  He hands me the scholarship student’s notebook. It was true: the same spotty ink, big dots over the i, round, childish letters.

  I searched for an explanation. Forgery, I concluded.

  “It’s not hard to fake somebody’s handwriting, Ignacio,” I said.

  Ignacio jumped to his feet and stood staring at me, his face inches from my neck. I could practically hear a growl rising from his insides. The class went silent, expectant. The boy at the front of the room had stopped crying.

  “Get out,” I said. “Get out of this class.”

  The boys looked shocked, all of them. What? Was it not acceptable to kick out a disobedient student?

  Ignacio didn’t move.

  I persisted in spite of my doubts, repeating the order several times. I told him to go talk the assistant headmaster immediately. He would take my side, I was sure. I would tell him everything.

  Ignacio slowly left the classroom, casting a grim, intimidating look over his shoulder. Every one of his movements was a threat.

  I was shaken. Impossible to finish class normally, now.

  The boys turned in their assignments, which were more poorly written than usual: lines crossed out, the edges of the pages creased. They hadn’t even bothered to finish them. Surely they had sensed my qualms, my doubts.

  Ignacio didn’t return during the whole period.

  (…)

  The assistant headmaster was waiting for me in the dining hall. He motioned for me to sit beside him. His tone was one of affectionate concern, but he wore a clear look of disapproval. He chewed anxiously, eager to lecture me. I avoided looking at him when he spoke.

  “I didn’t know what to do,” I argued. “The kids are usually so well-behaved. This incident completely caught me off guard.”

  He observed me, his fork suspended in the air.

  “Ignacio didn’t do anything.”

  “What do you mean he didn’t?”

  “He assured me that he didn’t do anything. That boy tried to pin the blame on him for no reason. Schoolboy feuds; nothing serious. You needn’t have made such a scene.”

  “Such a scene?”

  “Throwing a student out of class! My God, when has this happened at Wybrany? Don’t try telling me that they do it in public schools, that’s no excuse. Or to be more precise, that’s exactly why we don’t do it here.”

  I was perplexed. I swallowed.

  “So he won’t be punished?”

  “Who won’t be punished? We’re not in favor of punishment here. We prefer to educate, teach respect for rules. We mediate conflicts. We must find out what’s going on between those two, talk to them. The students are splendid children; this will soon be sorted out, don’t you worry. No one is sucking anybody off around here, you can be sure of that.”

  I blush.

  “But,” I say. “Ignacio isn’t going to respect me.”

  “Why wouldn’t he? Ignacio is a good boy. He has his quirks, that’s all. He had problems when he was young and his self-esteem is low because of his limp. His parents tended to be overprotective, which has resulted in certain … interpersonal difficulties. But he’s a splendid boy, I assure you.”

  Then he glanced around and, lowering his voice, mentioned Señor J.

  “He’s always been very close to the boy. Ignacio is a kind of personal wager, a challenge. Ignacio was so very … weak, in the beginning. You wouldn’t have recognized him. I will say that, from my point of view, he is excessively sheltered. But the headmaster must know what he’s doing, and why. I don’t involve myself in his personal affairs.”

  This allusion was disconcerting. What are you saying, I wanted to ask, but the question stuck in my throat. Softy stopped looking at me and returned to his meal.

  We ate in silence. I noticed the other teachers watching us. Maybe they knew what had happened and were talking about it, judging me. I thought I saw Sacra gave me a wink. Ledesma avoided my eye.

  Before he stood, the assistant headmaster gave me a parting piece of advice:

  “Ask for help when you need it, Bedragare. You still have a lot to learn.”

  Naturally I have a lot to learn. I still don’t understand what I’m expected to do when two students fight, especially if one is a scholarship student. I don’t understand why certain students are afforded special protections that also serve the protector, nor the innuendos everyone sows about everyone else. The truth is, as time goes on, I understand less and less.

  (…)

  I run into Gabriela in the hallway on my way back to my room. She’s hunched over the mop, enveloped in the funk of bleach and floor polish. Sweat beads on her forehead. Even though she looks exhausted, I want to tell her what happened. I need to get it out.

  “You know, sir, this kind of thing happens in schools all the time. I’m surprised that you’re shocked. You must’ve seen it before.”

  I bluff.

  “Oh, sure. I’m sure I’ve seen it before. But how can I put this? I didn’t expect it at this sort of colich, Gabriela. Everything is so regulated, so disciplined. The words on that note …”

  She looks up at me with bloodshot eyes.

  “Bad things happen everywhere. You ought to know, sir.”

  Then she moves away in silence, her wearied body vanishing in the shadows.

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 30TH

  I had a terrible dream last night. I dreamt I was going blind. Crushed by darkness, surrounded by ravenous shadows, I stretched my hands out into the void.

  I woke up, heart racing, blinking in the pitch black. I felt around for the light switch and checked the clock: it was only 5 a.m. I thought I had lost my vision, that I was losing it by the minute. I spent two agonizing hours opening and closing my eyes, diagnosing myself until I finally fell asleep again. When the alarm went off, I didn’t hear it.

  Late for class.

  As I ran down the hallway, I had the sensation that everything was blurrier, less defined. I lost my sense of clarity a long time ago. The world seems like a work of fiction; the things that happen are like projections on a movie screen. They flicker before me and I have nothing to do with them. I can’t change—or even understand—them.

  They happen right before my eyes, nothing more.

  (…)

  Ignacio is leaning calmly against the classroom doorway, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred the day before. When he walks by me on the way to his seat, he stares and slows his step. The students are all transfixed by this scene, all except for the boy on scholarship. He sits in the corner, completely motionless.

  The air is charged with expectation. The boys sit, their heads cocked, feeling me out, interrogating me in silence. I don’t know what to tell them.

  Later, Marieta approaches me at the entrance to the dining hall. She looks like she has something urgent to say. Blinkin
g nervously, she blurts out:

  “I have to speak with you. We need to meet.”

  An ultimatum. I suppose she wants to talk about what happened yesterday, or rebuke me for arriving late to my classes. I search her eyes. Metallic gray, cold and distant.

  I ask why.

  “To discuss your pedagogical methods.”

  My methods? What methods? I don’t follow any method, except that of survival. I don’t say that, obviously. In fact, I lead her to believe that I’m very much interested in hearing her advice.

  “It’s come to my attention that you take a rather … peculiar approach to your classes,” she explains. “Perhaps you need a bit of guidance. Remember, Wybrany parents are demanding. You have to offer high quality, innovative instruction. That’s what is expected of us at Wybrany. You can never be too careful.”

  She’s pretty when she talks like this. The slighty jutting upper lip, the straight little white teeth. I fake interest, nod my head, I’m all ears.

  She checks her planner, flips through the pages with a commanding index finger. We can meet on Monday, she says, next Monday at five.

  Plenty of time, but I don’t have a clue how to prepare myself.

  Deepening unease, that’s the sense this appointment gives me.

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 2ND

  Another weekend at the colich. I spend a lot of time in front of the window. The wind sweeps over the lawn, a trash can rolls away downhill. Storm clouds build in the distance. We’ve hardly seen the sun in days.

  This week of classes wore me out. My free time in the afternoon doesn’t compensate for the stress of every morning, the continual shifting between pretense and mockery, appearance and uncertainty.

  The boys make fun of me, there’s not a doubt in my mind.

  And led by Irene, the girls do too.

  They seemed so well behaved in the beginning, such splendid kids. Sure, you would glimpse a hint of suspicion or snideness now and then, nothing consequential. It all seemed so simple. I read what I wrote before: I’ve realized that being a teacher is easy, in the end. You walk into class, decide what they have to do, and then they do it.

  I tried to believe in those words, to convince myself that my own feelings of guilt have led me to imagine their mistrust. But it isn’t true.

  Things are happening around me that I can’t grasp. My head is ready to burst, overflow.

  Maybe I’m getting sick.

  I remember Gabriela’s “bad things,” which apparently do happen everywhere.

  (…)

  I stop by the teachers’ lounge in the afternoon to see if Martínez is around.

  I find the room unusually animated. Half a dozen teachers are playing cards. Martínez plays with them. Barely glancing up when he sees me, he hollers a greeting:

  “Welcome, Bedragare! Join us!”

  On one side, Ledesma is shuffling his cards listlessly. Hernández and Prieto—two teachers who look like twins and go everywhere together—are also in attendance, along with fat Sacra and a woman named Consu, the scholarship students’ tutor.

  I settle in at the table.

  Martínez is euphoric, almost unbearably so. He pats everyone on the thigh, even the women, with a familiarity that seems out of place. He drinks whiskey from a silver flask and wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

  We play several hands. He wins every time, but Sacra’s not far behind. Excessive and enthusiastic, she shouts and jumps up with every hand. I can see she makes Ledesma uncomfortable.

  Lux observes us intently from the couch in the corner.

  Martínez finishes his whiskey, stands, and heads toward me, a look of delight on his ruddy face.

  “Now Bedragare will battle me in a chess duel. I’ll get the board and a little something to celebrate with,” he winks, shaking the flask.

  He leaves with a slam of the door. I’m not in the mood to play along.

  I sit down with Ledesma, who strokes his mustache, distracted.

  Ledesma is a good-looking guy, with a sad, oblivious air and the moody expressiveness of his thick eyebrows. He interests me all of a sudden.

  I give him a wink.

  “Martínez is in rare form today.”

  “Yes,” he says.

  That’s all.

  I smile, unsure what to say next. I can see Sacra watching me, blinking. Lux stretches himself awake, arching his back. Silence. I suddenly feel hot, a warmth dragging me into apathy and stupor. What am I doing here? Maybe the world is coming apart and I’ve yet to notice.

  I decide to leave before Martínez gets back.

  Ledesma catches up to me outside.

  “Do you mind if I join you a minute?” he asks.

  Of course not, I smile. The request is unexpected, and welcome. Together we walk to the edge of the woods.

  Ledesma is an odd character. He hangs on the metal fence and stares at the horizon in silence. All my attempts at conversation fail.

  All except one. I ask him about García Medrano and his reaction is surprising.

  “Did I know him? Of course I knew him!”

  Wind swirls around us. The mastiff comes and licks my hand. All at once it’s too cinematic. Something is obviously going on here.

  “What was he sick with? Why is he on leave?”

  “Oh, nobody knows. Didn’t the assistant headmaster tell you?”

  “The assistant headmaster? No, he hasn’t told me a thing. He’s always very pleasant, too pleasant, but honestly, I don’t think he approves of me,” I admit.

  “Don’t worry, he doesn’t approve of anyone.”

  “Señor J. didn’t tell me anything, either. I thought those two were thick as thieves, but I’ve begun to notice some differences in opinion. The assistant headmaster made some strange insinuations about Señor J. that I’m not sure I understood correctly.”

  “Señor J. and the assistant headmaster can’t stand each other. I’m glad you figured it out so quickly. With regard to the insinuations, they all could make them. Plenty of matters that are best kept secret. The thing is to pretend you don’t notice.”

  “I don’t know, Ledesma. It hasn’t been easy, figuring these things out.”

  Ledesma lifts his gloomy eyes to the sky.

  “The assistant headmaster is in his position because of his connections. He even got rid of the previous assistant headmistress, a woman who had been here since the founding of the colich.”

  “And Señor J. allowed that? I assume he’s equally powerful …”

  I think of what Martínez said about his stocks, his lobbies, his political positions.

  “Yes, he’s very powerful. But he’s also lazy. Sometimes, two powers are needed to balance each other. Those two in particular maintain a certain equilibrium, based in transactions.”

  My head feels warm.

  “Transactions? What kinds of transactions?”

  He arches his brow.

  I’m tired of everyone speaking in code all the time. The mastiff is still going in circles around us, just like our stalled conversation. It’s cold and I’m starting to feel dizzy.

  “Look, Ledesma, if you know something and want to tell me, great. And if you don’t know anything or don’t want to tell me, that’s also fine. But don’t treat me like an idiot.”

  He lowers his eyes and says quietly:

  “I don’t know any more than what I’ve told you. I’m sorry.”

  I make a conciliatory gesture. At the end of the day, I prefer his reticence to Martínez’s excess.

  We head back. A group of boys is playing soccer on the lawn. Splendid boys overcoming the adverse weather conditions, as Softy would say.

  I just want to go to bed.

  Ledesma stops at the entrance to the building and looks at me closely.

  “Gabriela was the person who knew García Medrano best. I imagine you know who she is. One of the cleaning ladies. She’ll be able to tell you more about what happened.”

  I see Martínez waiting for me impatiently, motionin
g on the other side of the window. He roars with raucous laughter, calls to us, holds up the chessboard to entice me.

  I go inside and play two games just to shut him up. He beats me in two minutes, one per game.

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 3RD

  I needed to see Gabriela but wasn’t sure how to run into her casually.

  She’s elusive. She keeps to the shadows: she’s become accustomed to being invisible, which is her escape.

  I’d noticed that on the weekends she comes to clean my room as soon as I leave. How she is aware of my comings and goings, I don’t know, but in order to draw her in, I set my trap like a spider and pretend to go out for a walk.

  I put on my jacket and grab my umbrella. I turn down the path that runs through the arbor and out toward the playing fields. I walk a little farther, counting the minutes, and when I think I’ve given her enough time, I turn back.

  I was dead on. As I open the door, I see her with her back to me, scrubbing the sink with a scouring pad.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I thought you wouldn’t be back for a while.”

  “No need to apologize,” I say. “You’re cleaning things I get dirty. I’m the one who should apologize.”

  She straightens, brushing her hair from her face.

  “But this is my job, sir.”

  “Do you like your job?”

  “Yes, I do, sir.”

  “Isn’t it hard on you, cleaning all day?”

  “No, sir. I don’t know anything else. It was hard when I worked in the city. They didn’t pay well. I didn’t have a break. But here, it’s different. There are lots of us and we take shifts. It isn’t that much work.”

  “And your children are safe here.”

  She nods silently.

  “You had your daughter here,” I add. “Mixing with the crème de la crème, a valuable education at no cost. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. Our children are very well-off here.”

  She’s toeing the official line. I search her eyes for acquiescence, or fear, but all I see is an astonishing emptiness, perhaps slight surprise at my questions.