Four by Four

by Sara Mesa

  We talked and laughed, conducted by Martínez’s baton. I only participated indirectly. I watched Ledesma, who had isolated himself in a corner. His baleful eyes met no one else’s, not even mine. He barely ate. His fork came and went, empty, from plate to mouth, mouth to plate. He didn’t seem conscious of what he was doing.

  He was the first to get up and leave the dining hall, muttering an inaudible goodbye.

  I was also tempted to leave but Martínez sat down, elbowing me in the ribs.

  “I can’t believe you’re such a moron,” he said. “Are you really going to pass up this chance?”

  I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “What chance?”

  “You’re blind, Bedragare. Sacra will do anything you want.”

  Sacra? I watched her, colossal and smiling, tucking into dessert. The suggestion was shocking. What did he mean? What did he know about Sacra? What were they up to? Had they been talking about me? Did they have some kind of relationship?

  I answered him rudely.

  “Why don’t you screw her yourself?”

  I immediately felt compelled to apologize, but he laughed and grabbed my arm.

  “You think I haven’t?”

  Sacra looked over and stared at the both of us. In all likelihood, she had heard our conversation, but wasn’t affected by either our obscenity or contempt. Her little friend Consu looked amused, as well. She was laughing, her mouth stained with whipped cream. Like a ridiculous child. This plotting was repulsive. Were they making fun of me?

  I feigned indifference and stayed a bit longer at the table.

  When I stood to leave, Sacra got up, too, and suggested we take a little stroll. I told her I was too tired for a walk.

  She smiled and said loudly:

  “Ay, Isidro. You’re always blowing me off … even though we’ve been colleagues before. Didn’t you tell them? Didn’t you all know?”

  She turned to them.

  “Did you know that Isidro and I were at the same school a few years ago? A different colich. Vanter College, isn’t that right, Isidro? Even though he seems so timid, such a newbie … he actually has a great resume.”

  She continued to smile, slyly watching me from the corner of her eye. She didn’t even seem annoyed; she simply enjoyed backing me into a corner. I didn’t know what to do. Argue? Explain? How best to stop her? I opted to keep silent.

  I saw the others sitting there, watching us, understanding all of it. I returned to my room as soon as I could. I was dizzy. Sacra’s words echoed in my head.

  I had definitely drunk more than I should have.

  (…)

  But there was one surprise left. I hadn’t been in bed ten minutes when someone knocked softly on my door. Two little taps, then silence. I opened warily. It was Gabriela. She wouldn’t meet my eye. She carried a plastic bag under her arm.

  She explained that they were García Medrano’s papers.

  “I brought them for you, sir. Maybe they’ll help.”

  “But what are they? And why do you have them?”

  She gestured vaguely. She seemed in a hurry. She said she was in a rush, she had to go. She had only brought them in case I wanted to take a look. They weren’t important.

  Confused, I thanked her and took the papers.

  I stood watching as she made her way down the hall, the papers in my hand and my head still spinning from the booze. Had she been a vision? No, no: I was holding the papers of someone who was apparently a secret around here. Someone about whom it was better to keep quiet, at least. Tangible, legible papers. Perhaps I could write a novel about this, after all. A mystery novel. A thriller.

  I went back inside and lay down to read. I had to reread the pages several times, and I don’t think I can chalk up their incomprehensibility to being drunk.

  Twelve pages total. It appears to be the outline for a story, or maybe an essay. A mix of typed and handwritten pages. The action, which is confusing, takes place in an imaginary city with a brutal, medieval way of life based on trading. Little girls locked in cells appear obsessively throughout the text. Heroes and mercenaries, too. The handwriting is tight, tense. Lots of words are crossed out, the paper stained with drips of coffee and olive oil.

  I don’t think I can decipher all this.

  (…)

  I call my sister that night. Everything is still the same: her nerves are frayed, the city is unraveling. The money is in her account, the joint account she shared with her ex and which she now manages alone, fortunately. There isn’t much else to talk about. I want to get off the phone quickly; I tell her I’m exhausted. It isn’t a lie. She’s tired, too. We don’t say much. Short, veiled sentences.

  It could be that in times like this, communication is impossible.

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 11TH

  Things are going even worse for me, now that I’ve kicked off a new phase of classes that include syntactic analysis, literary chronologies, and other such nonsense. I’m more of an imposter than ever, in this profession which is not my own.

  The students are inquisitive, they’re interested, turning their minds to grammatical trif les, paying such close attention that I contradict myself, make mistakes.

  I keep the answer keys under my desk, but it’s no use: the class outwits me every time.

  Ignacio appears to have risen from the ashes. He decides which flank to attack from and asks me precisely what I don’t know. He watches very carefully as I answer and doesn’t say a single word. His look throws me off balance. I stutter, stumble over my words. The boys all laugh, except for him; he even tells them to shut up, pretending to follow my explanation with attention.

  For her part, Irene glowers at me. Provocatively, despite her drooping eyelid. I look away, but she’s always there, eyes riveted, regulating the other girls’ giggles and whispers.

  The wretches complete their worksheets quickly, free of mistakes. I soon run out of exercises to give them and have to improvise other activities, which are neither interesting nor clever.

  They take notes and demand more, insatiable, animal, hungry for my humiliation. They know it’s all I have to give them.

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 13TH

  Today in last period, a bird smashed into the window and dropped heavily to the grass. The noise brought the class to a halt. We went to the window to see. The bird was badly injured, its neck snapped, beak half-open. We couldn’t tell if it was still alive. We shut the windows, not so much to avoid witnessing the creature’s agony, but to keep out the freezing wind that infiltrated the classroom.

  We resumed the day’s exercises, but my chest was tight with anguish.

  Later, I saw the mastiff with the bird in her mouth.

  She looked pleased with her prey.

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 14TH

  “Tell me, what do García Medrano’s papers mean?”

  I’ve run into Gabriela in the hallway and use the opportunity to ask her. She leans on the mop before answering. She bites her lip and this expression would make her look youthful, if it weren’t for the bags under her eyes and her dull, washed out skin.

  “I don’t know what they mean, sir. I started to read them and I didn’t understand a thing.”

  “I’m not surprised, they’re incomprehensible … but why did you have them?”

  She glances around before speaking. The hallway is deserted and none of the security cameras are pointed in our direction.

  “I took them from his room when he went away. I had the feeling that if I didn’t, someone else would.”

  “And you held on to them? That’s very loyal of you, Gabriela. Why did you give them to me? Do you want me to keep them?”

  “No, sir. It’s because I don’t think he’s going to come back.”

  I take a breath. In another time, this piece of news would have made me happy. Now, I’m not so sure.

  “You don’t think he’s ever coming back?”

  “I don’t, sir.”

  “Why? Why is that, Gabri
ela?”

  “I don’t know, sir. My intuition. But you can’t say anything to anyone.”

  “Say what? That you think he’s gone for good?”

  “No, sir. I mean, yes, that too, sir. But I was referring to the papers. No one can know that you have those papers.”

  “Why not? Is there something bad in them?”

  “No, sir. Nothing bad. It’s just that … they’re nobody’s business.”

  She looks down at the floor and I know there’s no point in continuing. She won’t say anything else, at least not today. She looks wrecked, more resigned than sad, perhaps. As I turn back to my door, she makes a small gesture with her hand. I stop.

  “Did you understand any of it, sir?”

  “Did I understand any of what?”

  “The papers.”

  “I told you I didn’t, Gabriela. I think they’re the start of something that was left unfinished. That’s all.”

  “So no, then?”

  “No.”

  She looks disappointed. This is intriguing. Maybe she hoped for some kind of answer, a cracking of a code that had tormented her. I can’t give her the satisfaction. I feel an enormous sense of pity. Clumsily, I say:

  “Is there something I can do to help, Gabriela?”

  She looks at me with faint surprise.

  “No, sir. I’m fine, sir. I have everything I need.”

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 15TH

  I went out for a walk this evening. After all, walking is the only thing I do that isn’t imposed on me; my small, insignificant act of freedom. Not even Martínez—elated over his new haul of booze—could make me change my plans.

  I preferred to be alone.

  Maybe that was a mistake.

  It was bitter cold. Frost had accumulated, glittering on the grass. Even the mastiff was reluctant to join me. Mist puffed from her enormous muzzle as she sheltered under the portico at the building’s entrance. She watched me pass, unfazed.

  I rounded the paddleball courts and continued down the dirt path that led to the opposite wing of the colich. From there, I followed the border fence again, walking the length of it for a long time, as the evening darkness deepened.

  I’d never gone so far.

  I stepped carefully, watching my feet like an inmate pacing a prison yard. That was when I saw the hole in the fence, low to the ground but wide enough to crawl through. Almost without thinking, I crossed to the other side, dragging my coat through the mud.

  The smell of the woods hit me immediately.

  I moved deeper still, pine needles crackling on the damp earth with my every step. I heard a faint rustling, rodents scurrying or nearby insects, dry pinecones skittering on the ground as I passed. The air was incredibly pure. The solitude, unsettling. It should have been pleasant but wasn’t. A cold breeze whirled through the trees and struck me plain in the chest. I felt dizzy, my surroundings were blurred, smudged. I staggered in the direction of the thicket.

  I walked for a long time. The sun would set soon but I’d heard the sound of running water and needed to see where it was coming from. I moved deeper into the trees, obsessed, blind, until a tawny owl flew right in front of my face, bringing me to my senses.

  I was suddenly aware that I could get lost.

  I turned back, reaching the fence at last. Desperate, I started to inspect it, looking for the hole again. Darkness distorted the shape of things, and it took me longer than expected to find the gap. Once I did, I passed through and returned to the path, relieved.

  The colich looked familiar, safe.

  Night had fallen but I could still see the shapes of the buildings, lit by large floodlights. Even with my poor eyesight, I could make them out.

  That’s how I know I wasn’t mistaken.

  Marieta was on the assistant headmaster’s porch. He was holding her, and she let him. They didn’t see me. They couldn’t have, even if they looked straight at me. I was in the shadows, and they were lit dimly by the light that spilled through the open door onto the threshold. The contrast would have blinded them.

  My stomach turned.

  I should have fled from what I was seeing, but I was paralyzed. I watched, squinting to see better, to overcome the vertigo. Their embrace was clumsy and artificial. Lecherous, and lustful, too. He fondled her and she swayed gently against him. They looked like they were in a hurry.

  I was hot, all of a sudden. Sweating like a pig, overcome with frustration and resentment.

  He pulled her inside the house and closed the door. I waited several minutes more, rooted as if by magnetic force. I heard a whine at my side. It was the mastiff. The dog seemed to be waiting for me to take action. Her brown eyes looked at me, questioningly.

  But I didn’t know what to do.

  I struck her hard and she fled with a whimper.

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 16TH

  The hours tick by and I’m locked in my room. I read García Medrano’s papers again, his words echoing in my brain, a suggestion of something I’d seen before but not quite understood.

  FOUR BY FOUR. Her little world. The girl takes another walk around, goes to bed, gets up. Waits.

  Sometimes they open the door. It’s usually to leave her food, good food served on plastic plates with small plastic utensils …

  Like the girl in the story, I’ll eat in here today. Confined to my cell.

  I don’t have the strength to speak to anyone.

  I had always known it would be impossible to win Marieta’s affections.

  I’m not even sure that it matters. She’s too twisted, too rigid for me. I don’t know how to explain it.

  But it’s proof, evidence rubbed in my face, that there is no such thing as uncontaminated love.

  Marieta must have overcome her distaste for the assistant headmaster, selling herself to him. I can’t accept that she’s actually attracted to him. They barter with love, with desire. Their minds have adapted to fit that blueprint; they deform their natural impulses and make them monstrous.

  Ceding to power, power expands: one plus one is always one more.

  The rest of us are left out of this equation.

  We add nothing. We take nothing away.

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 17TH

  I expected it would be a tiresome, unsurprising Sunday, but that wasn’t the case: instead, Crazy Lola turned up out of the blue. I have no idea how she found out I was here. My sister was under strict instructions not to tell her anything, no matter what. But somehow, she’d figured it out.

  I was dozing in my room when the phone rang. On the other end of the line, the same voice that usually summons me said simply:

  “You have a visitor, Señor Bedragare.”

  Her tone was pointed, the way she pronounced the end of señor. I feared the worst. I rushed out, poorly dressed. And even though the worst wasn’t waiting for me in the lobby, I wasn’t happy with what I saw.

  Crazy Lola, with a wicked look in her eye. She was leaning against the wall and biting her lip as if to hold back laughter. She looked good: her hair pulled back, her eyes made up, a tight, revealing knit dress.

  “What are you doing here?” I sputtered.

  She smiled. “What do you think? I came to see you.”

  “But who told you, who …”

  I grabbed her arm and we went out onto the grounds. I thought fewer people would see us there, but the boys were playing soccer on one side of the wall, the girls and their volleyball net on the other. They watched us with curiosity, whispering and giggling.

  Crazy Lola was gorgeous, as usual, but I sensed her uneven steps, the psychological instability that tainted everything—even the way she walked.

  I asked her again. She didn’t answer. She silenced me, throwing herself at me and planting a kiss on my lips.

  “Lola, behave yourself,” I said.

  She laughed.

  We sat on a bench under a trellis. I couldn’t get her to say how she’d gotten there: she doesn’t have a car, not even a driver’s license. I also co
uldn’t ascertain why she was here. I gripped her shoulders, looked her in the eye, and spoke as if lecturing a small child:

  “You don’t want me to lose this job, right?”

  The question annoyed her. She stopped laughing and made a face. How could she make me lose my job? Was she not good enough for me? Was I embarrassed of her?

  “We’re through, Lola. You know that.”

  It sounded like something out of a telenovela, but it was true. Let’s remember, she was the one who threw me out on the street.

  What did she want now? To act like nothing had happened?

  She talked and I had no idea what the hell she was saying. She was offering me a new life, a renewed life, something like that—revived, she said—but didn’t provide any details.

  Was she trying to get back together, now that she knew I finally had a job? Was I no longer useless to her, a “piece of shit wannabe writer”? As she teased apart her tangled argument, waving her small ring-covered hands in feigned frivolity, nibbling on a lock of hair like a girl on a pinup poster, Martínez appeared out of nowhere.

  I had to pretend. I said she was a friend and he looked her up and down appreciatively. Would she be staying for lunch? he asked. We could take his car and go to a nearby inn on the road to Cárdenas that he knew well. Good wine, good food, he vehemently described.

  “No, no, no,” I babbled. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?” Crazy Lola asked. “I would really like that.”

  “Because it’s late,” I interrupted. “I have things to do. I don’t like surprises.”

  “Oh, but I love being surprised! Let’s go! Please!”

  Martínez followed our conversation closely. Eyes shining and spit gathering in the corners of his mouth. Crazy Lola was worked up, she clapped her hands, showed her excitement.