“These indeed seem,” he says. He rubs his sienna-colored beard. “For they are actions that a man might play. But I have that within which passeth show, these but the trappings and the suits of woe.”
The students applaud, and he gives a modest half bow.
“So,” he says. “What do we think about Hamlet’s relationship with Claudius?”
The yellow leaf tentatively says it’s interesting how it’s Gertrude that Hamlet listens to, not Claudius, when he finally concedes to staying in Denmark instead of going away to college. (Where was Hamlet going, again? He quickly twists his head around, consulting the notebook on the grass behind him: Wittenberg.) “Good point,” he says. “Notice Hamlet’s concern with appearances versus reality. This says a lot about his relationship with Claudius. That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain.” He scratches his hand, feels something wet. One of the bites is leaking clear liquid from the center—it’s gotten bigger, now the size of a fifty-peso coin. Was that the same size as a nickel? How big were nickels, again? He lets his hand drop, flopping toward his leg.
“O that this too too solid flesh would melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew!” he says to the wide-eyed fern, who’s been trying to hold back laughter all morning and will likely giggle later with the twigs during lunch break. He keeps going, voice steady: “How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on’t, ah fie! ’Tis an unweeded garden that grows to seed.” He makes a mental note to rearrange the desks: The fern and twigs are getting too cliquey anyway, sitting next to one another all the time like that. It’ll be good to shake things up a bit, make them interact with different social groups. Keep them on their toes.
“Pay attention,” he says sharply to the river stones, who are getting distracted by a shiny black beetle crawling across the sand, “to the motifs of rank and grossness. This kind of language will keep popping up again and again. Things rotting, not being right. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark. Some of you might even want to consider it as a potential essay topic. Yes, there will be essays,” he says, voice rising over the chorus of moans from the leaves, who are inevitably the most inclined to complain. “We’ll get to those next class. Any other questions?”
He stands there. Waiting. But nobody has anything to say this time. Even the branches overhead are silent, barely rustling in the faintest of breezes.
At times like this, it’s hard not to let the camera zoom out, see what it really looks like. A row of sticks and stones on the ground. Twigs, leaves, painstakingly arranged to look neat and ordered. An emaciated man, white spots on his nails, brittle teeth, sunken cheekbones like thumbprints in clay. Pacing by the river, waving his arms around, ranting and rambling to thin air.
A person might think that there was something wrong, seeing somebody behave like that. A person might even be worried.
“All right, then,” he says loudly, and this time it’s hard to keep his voice from trembling. “Have a great lunch.”
—
Lunch is rice and lentils with a surprise: a long, stringy piece of fried tripe. As he raises the fork toward his mouth, Pollo says, “We’ll be leaving soon.”
He looks down at the backs of his hands. The insect bites are in patterns like Pangaea, slowly splitting apart into separate continents. One has a tiny sliver of raw, exposed skin in the bull’s-eye center, bright red and shiny.
Pollo’s still talking. “It’s true. To the main camp in Meta. Orders from el comandante himself.”
Despite himself he looks up at Pollo, who’s chewing on the inside of his cheek like a cow. He’s never seen el comandante in person, but of course he knows who he is—they all do. There’s a photograph of him somewhere in the Semana magazine from 2005: a troop surrounded by dense rain forest, somewhere in the department of Meta or Vichada or maybe even here in Guaviare. Green-brown fatigues, Castro-style hats. El comandante in the center: the youngest, the blondest, and the only one grinning from ear to ear. His face is vaguely familiar in a way that can’t be placed, like trying to remember a scene from a film watched long ago during childhood. Blond hair under black beret, the dirty, scorched yellow of el comandante a striking contrast to the shiny rows of sweaty black skulls surrounding him.
He swallows hard and puts his hand in his lap. “I don’t believe you,” he says.
Pollo’s eyebrows shoot up in exaggerated surprise. “Julisa!” he shouts. “El profe thinks we’re lying!”
“Of course he does,” she says, crouching over a bucket of sudsy water. Her hair tie today is a sparkly pink, a disturbingly bright color amid the mud of the camp. The acne bumps by her jawline also look pink today, rather than their usual flaming red. She shoves the pan she’s been washing in the bucket and straightens up. “He loves us too much to leave.”
“No.” Too good to be true—what’s the translation? Don’t get my hopes up—how does the correct grammar go? How could he have lived here for fifteen years and still not know the correct way to say things? He settles for gently touching his bites one at a time, his fingers tap-dancing across his wrists. It’s hard to tell if his skin is wet or cold.
“We’re not lying, profe,” Pollo says. “Why would we lie? We’re trying to help you. We’re telling you things you ought to know.”
Julisa wipes her hands on the back of her sweatpants. As she passes by the table, she says, “You’ll like the new camp, profe. There’ll be lots of sticks.”
He looks sharply at her. Her mouth is twisting—a smile? She keeps walking toward the tents without looking back at him, not once.
Actually, the insect bites aren’t like a split-up Pangaea. More like buttons on a highly futuristic computer board. He touches the reddest and blotchiest one, near his thumb knuckle. This one—for blowing up the world. That one—for deploying defenses. For calling in reinforcements, playing warnings over the loudspeaker. Women and children first.
Dinner is rice and potato slices. Pollo gives him an extra-big serving, “to make you fat and strong!”
“Why, am I going somewhere?” In the background César lets out one of his giggles.
“Yes,” Pollo says, the edges of his lips quivering. Is he actually smiling too? “For a long, hard walk.”
The potatoes are cooked well too: soft and white and crumbly, instead of hard in the middle like usual. He cleans the plate with his index finger, which he then licks like a little kid eating an ice cream cone.
The ransom—maybe the school finally paid it.
(If he’s not strict with himself, these kinds of thoughts will sneak in.)
International pressure. Scandalized parents. Fund-raising among the students. Media circus.
(Careful. Careful.)
Or maybe he has a great-uncle somewhere. Someone he’s never heard of before, living in Utah or Nevada, with an enormous trust fund. Someone who’d fall into the category of loving, dedicated relative as opposed to estranged, fucked-up alcoholic. Somehow they’ve managed to get in touch with the Red Cross, the CIA, the FBI, some other random international agency. His head whirs with the possibilities, each forming a distinct picture in his mind. Maybe—maybe—maybe—
When Julisa takes him to the shed, he brazenly asks what day they’ll be leaving. “Soon,” she says, keys rattling as she removes them from her pocket. “Everything’s arranged.”
“Because you said so?” he says, and to his surprise Julisa actually laughs, an abrupt sound that she quickly covers up with her hand, like she’s an embarrassed schoolchild caught in the act.
That night, he only comes up with a few notes for Act II. He lies down on the bare plank bed and waits for César’s flashlight to shine through the cracks of his shed during the hourly check. Instead of scratching his bites, he clenches and unclenches his fists as though he’s cupping a live creature—a broken baby bird, a fluttering insect—letting it take quick gasps of air.
—
For Halloween he treats them to a screening of the first Alien movie. Of co
urse it’s the tree who has to snidely ask, But what about Hamlet, Mr. B? as he struggles to set up the DVD player (i.e., place the notebook on a dry patch of ground within everyone’s field of vision). We’re still on Act I—aren’t we going to fall behind? When do we get to start Act II?
“Glad you asked,” he says coldly, flipping open to a blank notebook page that will represent the flickering blue screen. “If you guys prefer, I can take this right back to Ms. Márquez’s room. That way, world history class can watch The Mummy, and we can talk about examples of iambic pentameter instead. How does that sound?”
He smiles as the rocks and leaves hiss.
He gives a brief lecture before pressing play, surprising himself by how talkative he is speaking without notes, the words bursting out of him as he bounces on his heels, furiously scratching his hand.
“Pay attention,” he says, stalking past the river stones, “to the visual motif of bodily fluids. To the theme of maternity. The body versus the mechanical. Please notice,” he says to the tree, who’s still looking a little sullen, “how vital elements of the plot are left unexplained. What is the giant spaceship? Where did it come from; why are the aliens there? Who is the famous Space Jockey, frozen in his piloting seat for all time? Is it a flaw,” he says, spinning around to face the respectfully silent sticks, “that the film leaves essential questions unanswered? Can we, as the audience, accept certain elements of mystery, or is it unforgivably frustrating?”
The film is a big hit. A yellow leaf comments during the wrap-up discussion that the director is really into wetness. “Great observation—the dripping acid blood, the water on the ship.” The leaf with freckle-like dark spots says it’s interesting how the ship’s computer is called Mother. “You bitch,” it quotes, and everyone giggles nervously, the swear word hanging in the air. The sticks are excited by the role of the Company and its attempts to acquire the alien as a biological weapon. “Yes—the glories of unrestrained capitalism. You’ll learn all about that in college, assuming the Marxists here don’t get you first.” He can’t help but laugh hysterically, and the students look at one another, frowning. Keep it together, Mr. B. Don’t get all weird on us now.
He gobbles down lunch as fast as he can, rice and potato chunks (hard in the middle this time, but that’s okay), scrapes his plate clean. The bite on his hand is now surrounded by dozens of tiny red dots, like a photograph of new galaxies forming. He tentatively touches them, jerks away from the deep stinging pain. He can feel Julisa staring after him as he rises and heads back toward the river, but he doesn’t care at this point. Let her stare! To hell with scheduling! He needs to rest up for his long, hard walk. Movie marathon all afternoon!
They’re all thrilled to see him again. Mr. B, you’re back! Yay! You’re the best! You’re our favoritest teacher in eighth grade! “You mean favorite,” he says, loading the sequel. “Happy Halloween, everyone.”
Everybody cheers when Aliens’ title screen comes up, and they keep cheering throughout: for the marines, for the epic scenes of aliens getting dramatically shot to bits, for Ripley kicking the alien mother’s butt in her mechanical body armor. Alien 3 he almost doesn’t bother playing, but fuck it—Ripley’s role as the only woman in a male penal colony will provide potentially interesting fodder for a discussion on gender. Alien: Resurrection he doesn’t dare mention; it’s best if they remain unaware of its existence. He lets them sit on the floor, the couples with one’s head in the other’s lap, allows them to use their bunched-up sweaters and backpacks for pillows. He graciously gives them permission to eat popcorn, mango Popsicles, chicken-flavored potato chips, scattering crumbs all over the tiled floors for the janitors to sweep up later. The girls braid one another’s hair; the boys jiggle their legs as much as they want. On the edge of the classroom, a boy with dirty-blond hair sits with his legs sticking straight out in front of him. A girl with a long black braid bends over his shoe, writing something on it with a Liquid Paper pen. He stares at them both, brow furrowing, as though he’s witnessing something important, a key moment he ought to remember (What were their names again? Who were they, exactly?), but then he’s distracted by the surrounding cries, the high-pitched whoops of his other students as they touch his arm, tug at his shirt: Mr. B, this is the best Halloween ever!
Later, eating vanilla cake and ice cream he’s brought in specially from the famous French bakery in Unicentro, they all agree that Alien 3 is irrelevant, undone by its horrible third-act chase scene (It reminded me of a Marilyn Manson video, Katrina says, tugging at her earrings like the typical Goody Two-shoes she is, and everyone nods with wide eyes, as though the devil himself were mentioned). Stephanie Lansky comments that the first Alien film is more like classic horror, as opposed to an action flick. “Excellent observation, Stephanie,” he says, and she flips her long hair over her shoulders, letting it fall down her back. Alien is the clear favorite among the three; Sebastián excitedly praises the scene where the marines shoot the shit out of those sons of bitches.
“Watch your language,” he says, but overall he’s pleased. He glances again at the blond boy; the girl with the black braid is still hunched over his shoe, pressing down the Liquid Paper pen. What year did he teach them? Why can’t he remember? Something deep inside his hand is throbbing, like the core of a volcano, hidden under layers of muscle and tissue, causing goosebumps to prickle all over his arms and neck.
“But perhaps,” he says loudly, “where the films fall short is in their contemplation of the aliens themselves—what are we to make of them?” He smiles at the sight of their furiously scribbling pencils, their rapidly flipping pages. Their intense, attentive expressions, which are nothing like Pollo’s vacant stare, Julisa’s gaudy hair bands and puffy acne, César’s crazed smile. “What exactly is their ultimate motivation? Is their goal to just colonize as many worlds as possible, to keep spreading and reproducing through all corners of Earth, the universe, the galaxy?” A quick glimpse is all it takes to see it: The tiny sliver of raw, exposed skin in the bite’s center has spread, expanding toward his wrist, peeling upward like lichen on a tree trunk. “What are they trying to do? What in the end do they even want?” With their fatigues. Their berets. With their long, slow jungle marches, slipping and sliding through the mud. “To just take, take, take as much as they can, as fast as they can? Too bad for anybody innocent who gets in their way? Too bad for people who only came to this godforsaken, goddamn country in the first place out of some misguided idea to help and make a difference, and because the salary on the brochure at the career fair looked good, and God knows I’m now going to regret that decision for the rest of my life?”
The blond boy isn’t paying attention; he’s blowing on the Liquid Paper message on his shoe so that it dries quicker, and the black-haired girl is brushing the tip of her braid against her lips. “Excuse me,” he says, turning to address them. (When did they graduate? Why didn’t he keep in touch with more of his students after they moved on to ninth grade?) “Do you think,” he says, “that you could please be respectful, even for a moment? I live here fifteen years, learn the language, the dances, remember to always carry small change with me, and this is what I get? What the hell do they want from me? What exactly are they trying to achieve? You are not,” he says to the blond boy, grabbing him by the shoulders and yanking him roughly away from the black-haired girl, “following instructions right now!”
The voice comes from behind, speaking loud and clear: “What are you doing?”
He doesn’t have enough self-control to turn around slowly. Instead he spins with the frenzied energy of the guilty, of somebody caught red-handed. Julisa stares at him, eyes blinking, rubbery mouth slack. He lets his clenched fists open, and the crumpled leaves and snapped twigs fall to the ground. Nothing more than jungle trash.
Julisa takes a step forward. She reaches down and picks up a twig, holding it in her palms like she’s cradling it. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she was about to start rocking it, lullaby-style
. “Oh!” she says in a worried tone he’s never heard her use before. “You hurt this one.”
He stares at her. Still looking at the stick, she slowly closes her open hands into a fist.
“You need,” she says, and this time the steeliness in her voice has returned, “to come back to camp.”
—
Even from a distance he can see César with both hands behind his back, holding something. “Go inside,” Julisa says, pointing to the shed. She and César follow, and once he’s sitting on the plank bed, César lets the object drop.
It’s a chain. César bends over and starts wrapping it around his ankle.
“What is this?” he says as César jerks at the links, tightening it.
“We’re chaining you.”
“Why?”
“Orders.”
Even Pollo has shown up by now, lingering outside the doorway. He’s never realized until now how smooth Pollo’s skin is, practically baby-faced, like a brand-new brick of panela sugar before it gets scarred with knife cuts. Julisa, meanwhile, looks chipped, her cheeks pockmarked by acne scars, red bumps dotting her jawline. She’s wearing a purple hair band today, which glitters with fake gemstones. The kind of thing an eight-year-old girl would wear; something not even a high schooler would be caught dead in. Middle school, even.
“What,” he says in English, “the fuck.”
“Only Spanish here!” César shouts, working the padlock through chain links. It’s the same kind you’d use to chain a big dog, with a clip at the end to attach to a collar.
“What did I do?” he says when César finally stands up. His ankle is wrapped up tight. “Why the punishment?” Penitencia—did he use the right word? It’s the one the students always chant during Trivia Wars, when the opposite team finally loses: penitencia, penitencia! A singsongy term, a word for children.
The Lucky Ones Page 4