by Martin Kohan
On exceptional occasions, two boys come into the toilet together during lesson time. By definition they cannot be from the same class, because no teacher would ever allow two pupils to leave the classroom at the same time (nor do they ever permit a boy and a girl to leave, even if they are going to different toilets, because that would mean they walked together unaccompanied along the school cloisters, and that is something to be prevented at all costs). If two pupils arrive together at the boys’ toilet it must be because by pure chance they asked to leave their classrooms at the same time. They meet either in the corridor or as they are going into the toilet; they may ignore each other and not say a word, or they might, even if they are not friends and hardly know each other, take advantage of their chance meeting to strike up a conversation.
Whenever this happens, María Teresa makes sure she listens to what the pupils say when they are alone, or think they are. Usually, they talk about their teachers (the ones giving them lessons at the time), either to complain or poke fun at them. They also sometimes talk dirty, in the typical male conversations that María Teresa is familiar with despite herself, because her brother used to speak like that on the telephone with his friends without lowering his voice. They say, for example, that the woman teacher who takes them for geography must not be getting a fuck, or not a proper one: María Teresa listens to everything, offended by their swearing, but also concerned at the feverish fantasies boys of that age have, the way they think these matters are so easy to spot, as if there were no such thing as privacy or discretion. Fortunately, it is not often that two boys enter together, because the likelihood is rare that the teachers will let pupils out simultaneously, especially since they do not permit anyone to leave during the first twenty minutes of a class (‘you’ve just had a break, you should have thought of it then’) or during the last twenty (‘restrain yourself, there’s a break soon’).
It occurs to María Teresa that when two boys are in the toilet together they are more likely to smoke, because in this kind of childish transgression there is a great degree of showing off: each of them wants to prove he is smarter than the other. Nothing of the sort ever happens, however, even when two of the pupils are in the toilet together. They may mention grotesque details of things they do or imagine, such obscene things María Teresa wipes them from her memory the moment she hears them, things that lead her to worry about the state of moral degeneration of boys that age. But, despite all her efforts, lighting a cigarette and smoking it is a breach of the rules she has still not encountered.
On afternoons when the invisible sky beyond the school walls is covered with dove- or stone-grey clouds, the light inside the school dims still further. These are days when there are storms, although in the classrooms there is no way of knowing if in the life of the city outside it is already raining or not. In the cloisters and classrooms it is as if night were falling. However, it does not always become dark enough for the caretakers to decide to switch on the electric lights. Sometimes the lessons take place in a heavy atmosphere of murky gloom. On days like these, the already inadequate light filtering through the high, frosted windows into the toilet becomes so faint that only outlines can be made out. This increases María Teresa’s sense that the boys’ toilet is a kind of refuge. And the cubicle in which she chooses to shut herself each time is a refuge within a refuge. Naturally, this is due mostly to the fact that she feels she is in a position of absolute control, while at the same time never forgetting the risks she is running. Even so, whenever she enters a cubicle, she feels the sense of protection of a real refuge. The reason is simple enough: as soon as she is in the toilet she feels good, whether or not she was having a good day beforehand, or whether or not she is likely to have one after she leaves.
On the days when there are lowering clouds and the sky is covered (which are very frequent at this time of the year and in this part of autumn), when twilight spreads to every corner of the school, María Teresa is doubly conscious of the feeling that by hiding in the toilet she is protecting herself. She could swear that on days like these, when what the eyes can make out is limited, she hears better and her sense of smell is sharper. The same is said of the blind, if such a comparison can be made: that being deprived of one of their senses, all the others become more acute.
In her corner of the cubicle in the boys’ toilet, María Teresa can hear every sound, even when they come from outside. It is a rainy day, and seems later than it really is (at three o’clock it seems like five o’clock, at four it is like six in the evening). She hears the swing doors creak, telling her someone is coming in. Yet the sounds that should follow are missing: footsteps inside the toilet, clothing being loosened, a sigh or a cough, breathing. None of this can be heard. María Teresa deduces that nobody came into the toilet, that what must have happened was that for some unknown reason a boy came to the toilet door, and then left. Left without coming in. She is busy pondering this when she hears the sound of the swing doors again, this time from the far end of the toilet. But it is not the usual sound, the rhythmic creak of the swing doors gradually subsiding, but a sound that starts, then suddenly stops. That can mean only one thing: that someone is holding the door, in order to look inside.
María Teresa thinks that whoever it may be will see there is nobody in the toilet and will disappear the way they came. She waits for this to happen, but the silence of the door being held extends longer than expected, which means the person checking that there is no-one in the toilet is taking great care over doing so. Just in case, she holds her breath. At last she hears the door being released: whoever was holding it has let go, so that it swings to and fro as it usually does. María Teresa sighs with relief, thinking the search must have concluded and that the person carrying it out has moved away.
Just at that moment, however, she hears footsteps close to her, inside the toilet. Unhurried steps, the feet coming down firmly with each stride: the steady walk of someone inspecting a place. They do not head straight for the urinals, as anyone who had come to urinate would do, nor for one of the cubicles, as anyone who had come for something else would. They do not aim for anywhere in particular, but walk round the toilet in an initial reconnoitre.
More than ever before, María Teresa anxiously checks the distance between the floor and the bottom of the cubicle door. The gap is wide enough for anyone who is looking to be able to spot a pair of feet. She cowers back to try to avoid this happening. She no longer minds pressing against the far wall, which is often splashed and dirty, or having to tread on the wet ceramic base with its black hole. None of this is as bad as being seen by someone looking under the cubicle door.
The footsteps move away. They sound firm once more as now they head for the urinals, but not to use them: it is clear that is not the point, but that this is another part of the close inspection. A few seconds later, the steps cross to the line of urinals at the opposite end of the toilet. When María Teresa hears them passing in front of her door, she instinctively stands on tiptoe, as though that would make them more invisible than two whole feet. If she could levitate, she would do so now: float in the air to avoid being seen by any eyes peering under the door. There is no need: the footsteps move on again. They reach the urinals on the other side. There is a pause, a very short one. The urinals are easy to check, all they require is a quick glance.
For no real reason, María Teresa is confident the inspection will end with this fleeting look at the urinals. That is her hope, but there is no substance to it. What could anyone be looking for only in that area, and not in the rest of the boys’ toilet? She does not know, has no idea. That is not what happens anyway. The footsteps leave the urinals and head towards the door of the first cubicle. It is closed, but not bolted, because there is no-one inside. A strong hand pushes it open so hard the door bounces off the side partition and returns more or less to its original position. The steps enter the cubicle, only to exit again after a brief moment. Then they move on to the second cubicle. Here, the door is open. One step i
s enough to get inside and give a quick glance to see there is nothing to report. The third cubicle also has its green door closed (closed, but not bolted). This time it is opened less violently, so there is no sound of wood crashing against the wall. This toilet is not clean. María Teresa knows that, because she looked in and rejected it before choosing the fourth cubicle, the one next to it, where she is now. It is not clean: all round the drain hole are pieces of thrown-away toilet paper and the traces of a rushed evacuation. There is a sort of groan, followed by a muttered curse. Whoever is complaining does what she herself did not do, what she could not have done without giving away her illicit presence. She hears the chain being pulled and the water flushing. The first noise is a metallic click, the second sounds like the speeded-up, abbreviated recording of a waterfall. The footsteps move out of the third cubicle. The fourth is bound to be next, because everything about the inspection is being done methodically. María Teresa is in the fourth cubicle. The green door is not only shut, it is bolted, because inside the fourth cubicle is the assistant of the third year class ten. Trembling, terrified, wishing she did not exist, unable to believe what is happening. The person inspecting does not know this. He knows the door is closed. He does not know it is bolted, but can see it is closed, because after a short detour the footsteps come to a halt right in front of it. The hand tries to push the door open, as with the previous ones. But nothing happens. The door does not open. The hand pushes more firmly, suspecting it might be stuck due to dried paint or swollen wood. But neither of these is the problem. The door does not move because it is locked, bolted. So the person inspecting the toilet now knows that in addition to being shut, the door is bolted. And he knows that the only explanation for this is that there must be someone inside. María Teresa feels the urge to urinate, this time out of fear.
13
Above all, no fuss. Discreet, gentle taps with the knuckles on the green door of the fourth cubicle. Nothing worse than to upset the poor boy who might have diarrhoea (only that could lead him not to wait until he got home) perching precariously over the hole with his trousers round his knees.
But there is no reply.
There are a further four or five knocks, still discreet but louder now. More urgent, demanding an answer. María Teresa cannot give one. She cannot even whisper a brief ‘occupied’, because she would have to say it in her female voice, or worse still, try to imitate a boy’s voice, which would only be bound to precipitate the disaster.
So she decides to remain completely silent. Perhaps that will save her. But it does not: against the silence she so stubbornly clings to another voice can be heard. A man’s voice, a voice not unknown to her.
—Name, year, and form.
María Teresa is dumb, remains dumb.
The voice insists, peremptory now.
—Name, year, and form.
María Teresa cannot reply. She says nothing.
The voice becomes harsher.
—Name! Year! Form!
The voice is so violent it only intimidates her still further. Silence is her only defence, her only hope. To stay silent, until the questioner grows tired and leaves the toilet. He might eventually think that on the other side of the bolted door there is simply a boy dying of shame to be caught with diarrhoea. If so, the voice will eventually give up and go away. For a brief moment, she hopes this is what is going to happen, because the voice stops asking questions and disappears.
This could be the outcome she so fervently desires. But it is not. It is exactly the opposite: a prelude, a gathering of momentum. The prelude to a totally unexpected event.
A brutal blow descends on the wooden door. It quakes, like a person punched in the stomach. It does not collapse or splinter, but reveals its essential fragility. The door is made of thin, light wood that is not very tough, and consists of vertical panels which bend with the blow and show the joins. There is a second thump, and this is enough to break it down. Strictly speaking, it is not the door that gives way, but the bolt. Not the wooden panels, but the badly screwed-in metal fitting and the steel bolt itself. This is completely torn off, snapped apart with a noise like something crunching. In a second, the flimsy mechanism is reduced to its basic elements: a strip of metal, a small steel bar, three screws (one was already missing).
The door opens.
It is as if it opens on its own, or gives that impression, because the blow merely shattered the bolt rather than opening the door. This opening happens independently, because the bolt is no longer there, and for this reason it occurs slowly, and takes a long time to be complete. The door swings back in slow motion, and the double revelation is equally slow. Inside, María Teresa’s blood runs cold when she sees Señor Biasutto’s unmistakable outline. Outside, Señor Biasutto clenches his teeth, peers in, and finally sees who it is.
The echo of his blows on the door has completely died away.
There is no sign of astonishment on Señor Biasutto’s tense face. There is no expression at all. But it must be astonishment, if not complete consternation, which at first prevents him from being able to utter a word. Several long seconds go by, with María Teresa trying hard not to burst into tears.
Señor Biasutto finally says something, barely opening his mouth.
—What are you doing here?
María Teresa struggles to hold back a knot of tears and saliva choking her.
—My job.
Señor Biasutto’s tiny black eyes open wider.
—Your job? What do you mean by that?
María Teresa cringes back still further against the filthy wall.
—Señor Biasutto, I am supervising the behaviour and respect for the regulations of the pupils at this school.
Señor Biasutto nods several times, as though he finally grasps what is going on, but the way he spreads both hands out by his sides suggests he has not really understood anything.
—What behaviour or respect for regulations could you possibly be supervising in here?
María Teresa no longer feels she is about to burst into tears. Señor Biasutto is at least giving her the chance to explain.
—You remember I once told you of my suspicions about pupils smoking at school?
—Yes, I remember.
—And since that kind of breach of the regulations is typical of rebellious boys, it was easy to conclude that the place where they committed this infraction was in their toilet.
—Very well …
—Well then, that is why I am here. I hide to see if I can catch anyone smoking.
Señor Biasutto thinks this over for a while.
—Here, among all the shit and piss?
María Teresa nods.
—Yes.
Señor Biasutto reconsiders his position. He does so mentally, but also physically: dropping his hands to his sides, he steps back a metre or two. This is his way of inviting María Teresa to come forward out of the stinking hole, but she is still too terrified to move.
—Come on, come out of there.
The lack of light in the toilet suddenly makes the scene less dramatic.
—Listen to me: come out now.
María Teresa staggers out of the cubicle as if she had spent three months in bed convalescing from some serious illness and this was the moment to get up and see if she still had any feeling in her legs.
—Come and wash your hands.
As soon as Señor Biasutto mentions her hands, she suddenly realises that all this time she has been clutching her pair of knickers. She has become so used to taking them off in the cubicle she does it every time she enters in. It is a plain white pair, with none of the frilly lace of some others she has. Señor Biasutto does not seem to have noticed anything; possibly he has not seen them, or perhaps thought they were something else. She takes advantage of him turning towards the wash-basins to stuff the knickers between her pullover and skirt. She is uncomfortable about not having anything on underneath, but there is no alternative. Señor Biasutto turns on one of the taps and encour
ages her to come over, as if this were a cold buffet at a party and he was inviting her to try a special delicacy. The running water combines with the dim light to create a sense of calm. Pushing up her sleeves to avoid getting them wet, María Teresa starts to wash her hands. She rubs the oval of soap until there are some suds, and afterwards carefully rinses her hands. Señor Biasutto watches this process carefully, as though she were a little girl at a mischievous age who might try to avoid washing, and he were her father making sure she did it properly.
Once she has finished it becomes obvious she has nowhere to dry her hands. There are no towels or paper rolls. To María Teresa’s relief, Señor Biasutto reacts with his customary gallantry, pulling a yellow handkerchief from the breast pocket of his dark blue jacket. Perfectly folded, the handkerchief matches his tie and socks (although she does not find out about the socks). He hands it to her, leaning forward slightly. She takes it with thanks. It is not made of cotton, but of silk or some synthetic fibre, which means it does not dry very well; in spite of this she feels truly grateful. She finishes drying her hands, or spreading the damp around a little, then gives the handkerchief back to Señor Biasutto. He refuses to accept it.
—That’s all right, you can keep it.
She is secretly delighted at the idea of keeping one of Señor Biasutto’s handkerchiefs. She refolds it into four and pushes it up her sleeve. The courtesies continue: Señor Biasutto steps forward again, but this time it is to hold open one of the swing doors for María Teresa.
—After you.
They walk almost alongside each other down the cloister leading to the assistants’ room. They do not speak. Señor Biasutto’s silence seems to stem from a pensive reflection on what he has seen; María Teresa, on the other hand, is still in the grip of fear. She would like him to say something more, something that she could clearly interpret as his verdict. But he does not deliver it. He does not say a word. He walks along, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the ground where he is about to step. His attitude is characteristic of somebody lost in thought, but María Teresa has no idea what he might be thinking.