School For Patriots

by Martin Kohan

  The school day ends without any repercussion. Nor is there any in the days that follow. María Teresa is relieved to find that Señor Biasutto has not taken any action against her. He has not made any report to the Head of Discipline, or worse still to the Deputy Headmaster. This must mean he does not disapprove of her initiative. He has done nothing; he has not sought any punishment. He would surely have done so without the slightest hesitation if he had thought it necessary. Judging him to be a completely upright man, María Teresa dismisses the idea he could have been lenient towards her: it would never even have occurred to him to cover or protect her. If he has not imposed any sanctions (which could have been anything from a verbal warning to dismissal) it must be because he does not openly disapprove of her actions.

  However, the situation he found her in was so ambiguous, so similar to what she was hoping for with the pupils: to catch them in flagrante, that she no longer feels she can continue with the task she has set herself. She does not go back into the boys’ toilet. Although Señor Biasutto did not openly disapprove, meaning perhaps he was giving his tacit approval, he did not encourage her when he saw what she was getting into (shit, he said, using male language) in order to carry out her duties as assistant even more effectively. Since that is how things stand, it seems to her only obvious to completely suspend her surveillance.

  She therefore returns to what was more strictly speaking her work routine. She spends more time in the assistants’ room. None of the others make any comment about this, doubtless because none of her colleagues are interested enough in her to note any difference. Of course, the school days are much duller. Life was never full of passion for her, but she now finds herself increasingly bored. The reason to get up each morning has disappeared, and this has had a serious effect on her state of mind. It is true, however, that it gives her the opportunity to see Señor Biasutto more frequently. The assistants’ supervisor works chiefly in the room where they all meet whilst teachers are taking lessons. María Teresa is now able to see and deal with him more often. Yet she senses he is more distant. She attributes this to the fact that the great hope she had regarding him no longer exists: to astound him by uncovering the pupils smoking on the sly at school. Her dream had been that this was what would truly consolidate their relationship. She now realises that since she has abandoned her close surveillance, this hope has evaporated. Furthermore, the other possibility she was looking forward to, that of meeting him again in a café after work, has also become more problematical. It is as though the first contact established between them at the end of their first encounter, which she sees as a bridge, had come crashing down, as a result of the episode in the boys’ toilet. There is no sign that Señor Biasutto might consider asking her to meet a second time. As the days go by, the faint echoes of their first meeting die away, and soon it will seem (if this is not already the case) that it never happened.

  Meanwhile, more postcards arrive from Francisco in Comodoro Rivadavia. There are two of them, showing aerial views: so high in the sky in fact that they must have been taken from an aircraft in flight. The sharp outline of the coast is visible against the sea and the dense blue of the waveless waters, so dark it is a kind of gun-metal blue (or oil blue, thinks María Teresa, even though she doubts if that is a real word or if she simply thinks that because she knows there are lots of oilfields in that region of Argentina). The sea looks quiet. It is not lively, like the beaches on cards from Mar del Plata, for example, which conjure up images of fun and leisure. No, it is quiet, and not because of the effects of the photograph: it is quiet and dark like secrets that will never be revealed. For his part, the brother no longer writes anything: he leaves the reverse side of the cards completely blank. Nothing is written there, not even his name.

  Developments at school during these days are as follows: the Head of Discipline has called all the assistants together to tell them that now more than ever they need to keep a sharp eye on the wearing of patriotic rosettes; Servelli laughed when Miss Pesotto had a sudden sneezing fit, and was given a double warning; Capelán has grown and Rubio has not, and therefore Rubio is at the front of the line-up of boys; Rubio has given no sign of using Marré as anything other than a point from which to take distance; Mr Roel is ill and will not be in for half a week, round-neck pullovers are forbidden, and this should be added to the regulations (until now it was taken for granted that all pullovers were V-necked); Costa’s ribbon fastening at the top of her blouse has snapped, and she is using this as an excuse to leave the top button undone and show her neck, something she is strictly forbidden to do; a last-minute power failure has prevented the recording of ‘Aurora’ being played, so that at the end of school the pupils have to sing the anthem a capella, leading to a great deal of tuneless singing and some hesitation over the words; Bosnic’s hair is too long and must be cut; Babenco was caught chewing gum; Dreiman ties her hair so low down it is almost as though it were loose, and should be warned; the blackboards in third year class ten have started to squeak when they are raised or lowered, and the janitor needs to be informed.

  Their free music lesson is taken up with a showing of a film related to their syllabus (a version of Mozart’s The Magic Flute). This makes it necessary to accompany the pupils to the small cinema in the basement. The basement makes María Teresa feel uneasy again, aware as she is of the secret tunnels leading off from there. Stories are told about them (it is impossible for there to be secret tunnels without stories being told): from nefarious excursions of priests at the adjacent church, to subterranean escapes during the English invasions of Buenos Aires at the beginning of the nineteenth century. There is also talk of a bombing plot that failed a few years earlier, although some say this plot never existed, and use the word ‘excuse’ to refute it. María Teresa does not know much about any of this: she knows there are priests who commit sins; she knows that the English invaders were valiantly repelled by throwing cauldrons of boiling water on them from the rooftops; she knows that a few years before now if you saw any suspicious package in the street, you had at all costs to avoid touching it. None of this is the source of her concern about the tunnels: it is their mere existence that troubles her. Not what might have happened in them, but the very fact that, beneath what is known and visible, there are passageways that are part of a realm that cannot be known or seen. Occasionally she is tempted to peer into one of them, although she would never actually dare enter them. This region of dank walls and rats frightens her, with a fear that struggles with the sense of mystery she finds attractive, but which in no way diminishes her unease.

  It is a long, slow-moving film. The pupils follow it closely. Just in case, from his sick bed Mr Roel has telephoned to warn them that one of the three questions they will have in their next music written test will refer to the film. María Teresa sporadically checks on the class’s behaviour. Everything seems to be as it should be, and the lesson ends without a hitch. When the lights come up again, it is like the end of a hypnosis session.

  The pupils line up to leave the room. They are not allowed out into the cloisters except in line and walking in an orderly fashion. María Teresa stands behind them, taking up the best position to see what they are doing without being seen. Because of this however, as the pupils file out of the cinema she is the last to see that Señor Biasutto is waiting in the doorway. There is no reason for her to be surprised that the supervisor should be there, and yet she is slightly shocked. When a class has a lesson outside their routine (which this film screening in the basement definitely is) it is normal for him to come and make sure there are no problems (there is a double purpose to this: on the one hand, his presence can be seen as support for whichever assistant is involved; on the other, it is his way of keeping an eye on that assistant: making sure that they are looking after things properly).

  —Everything all right?

  María Teresa replies without looking directly at him.

  —Yes, fine.

  —Is this a music lesson?

&
nbsp; —Yes, it’s their music class. Mr Roel is off sick.

  Señor Biasutto nods and falls in beside María Teresa. The pupils are even better-behaved now that the supervisor is with them. They climb the stairs more or less in step, then walk along the corridor without dragging their feet, something that is not easily achieved with these reluctant pupils.

  Although there are only a few minutes before the bell goes for break-time, the pupils of third year class ten enter their classroom. However still and silent they might be, they could not possibly stay out in the cloister while the rest of the school were in lessons. They walk in lined-up, first the girls, then the boys, and all sit down at their desks. There is no time for them to start anything. If they wanted to do anything, the time would be short. But it is long to spend it doing nothing: not talking or moving, staring into space at nothing in particular.

  María Teresa has to go straight into the classroom to stand in front of the class and make sure this absence of activity is respected. Just as she is about to do so, Señor Biasutto halts her by laying a finger or two on her forearm. She turns towards him, and sees him blink.

  —Any news about that idea of yours?

  Bewildered, María Teresa raises a hand to her mouth.

  —My idea?

  Señor Biasutto nods.

  —Yes. That idea about boys who smoke, who you are going to catch.

  María Teresa takes the question as a compliment. Her reply is nervous, but pleased.

  —No news as yet. Nothing for the moment.

  As she enters the classroom she is happy, although she is careful to conceal her change of mood from the pupils. She takes what Señor Biasutto has said to her for what it undoubtedly is: the authorization to continue her surveillance in the boys’ toilet; and the encouragement (clearly announced, if not emphasised) for her not to stop doing so.

  14

  And so she returns, as soon as she can, to take up her position in the cubicle. She has not missed many days. Only a few, in fact: three or four, although they passed by very slowly for her. For this reason, when she goes back to her post it is as though she were returning home or to her neighbourhood after being away on a lengthy journey (once, when she was a girl, after spending a month in a tiny village in Córdoba province, she found it hard to readjust to seeing traffic lights in the streets, and having a telephone at home). In the boys’ toilet she sees signs of her absence, as though not simply by being somewhere, but also by not being there we leave behind certain personal traces.

  Not for an instant does the possibility occur to her that the pupils may have been smoking in the toilet while she was not keeping an eye on it. It never even enters her head. In a reversal that she herself, if she were to think about it, would find illogical, María Teresa tends to believe breaking the rules in this way would be impossible if she, their personification, were not present. For her, it was not just her surveillance in the boys’ toilet that was suspended for a few days, but everything involved and springing from that initiative. All that world, a confused mixture of mischief, rebellion, and the restoration of order, is reborn specifically for her, and precisely because she is returning; it has even taken on an extra dimension, since from now on her presence will not be that of a mere assistant, but can count on the express approval of Señor Biasutto, the supervisor.

  Such is her enthusiasm when she slips back into the boys’ toilet for the first time that she is not in the least frustrated that no-one comes to use the facilities (either for their proper purpose or for illicit use), in the same way as when all this began. Now more than ever, reflecting on the interest that Señor Biasutto has shown, María Teresa is absolutely certain that if she is in the cubicle, sooner or later the pupils who smoke at school will come in and do so, and she will catch them red-handed.

  Something, however, does change in her behaviour after this brief hiatus. She no longer wants to relieve herself in this unsuitable place; nor does she, perhaps as a consequence, remove any of her clothes while she is in the cubicle. She only does the essential: she barricades herself in and keeps a lookout. She is determined to do nothing apart from be there and wait until the moment arrives for her to leap into action. She is not upset at this retreat. At most, it somewhat diminishes her, but she is not capable of seeing this about herself. Her thoughts are as restricted as she now is. She waits, nothing more than that. She does not get her hopes up with every boy who enters, and so is not constantly disappointed. She waits patiently, but not anxiously. Nothing is gained by expecting too much. No point rushing things. What has to happen will happen in due course.

  It is ten days before the start of winter, but Buenos Aires seems to have left behind all lingering traces of autumn. The weather is very cold. The school buildings were designed to provide sufficient shelter to make study possible, but nothing more: too much comfort would eventually lead to less concentration on learning. The use of gloves and scarves is permitted outside the school, provided they are blue in colour (the same blue as their pullovers, not any other sort), but they have to be taken off and put away before entering the premises. Wearing berets or woolly caps is forbidden both inside and outside the school, because they look untidy.

  The toilets are colder than the cloisters, and the cloisters colder than the classrooms. Today the pupils go out in turn into the inner quad, that is into the open air, to practise marching, because the commemoration of Manuel Belgrano, ex-pupil and creator of the national flag, is fast approaching. Mr Vivot shouts out instructions (leff, righ, leff, attenshun, at eeasse!) through a megaphone that gives everything a metallic echo. A cloud of condensation appears on the pupils’ lips, caused by the cold, or more exactly by the sudden contact of their warm breath with the cold air. Something similar happens in the toilet. Not in the cloisters, still less in the classrooms, but definitely in the toilets. Each puff of breath produces a hazy white cloud.

  María Teresa notices this phenomenon, which proves to her it really is cold and that it is not because she is not warmly enough dressed. Somebody enters the toilet, walking quickly. He does not head for the urinals, but comes directly towards the cubicles. And not to any of them, but straight to the only one that is shut, the one she is waiting in.

  There is a gentle tap on the door, like someone who wants to enter a bedroom where one person is asleep and another awake, and knocks so that the person awake will hear and the person asleep will not be woken. María Teresa hears the knock. Obviously she does not reply. As on the previous occasion, she withdraws to the far end of the cubicle. She does not reply, and has no intention of doing so.

  Knowing this, Señor Biasutto whispers.

  —Open up, María Teresa, it’s me.

  She draws back the bolt and opens the door. Señor Biasutto smiles at her, although she cannot interpret its meaning. Possibly she sees one of his nostrils palpitating. His hands are clasped again, this time in front of him.

  —Any developments?

  A routine check, as the doctors say. Señor Biasutto, supervisor of the school’s assistants, is inspecting the work of a member of the team he is in charge of.

  —Nothing for the moment, Señor Biasutto.

  Señor Biasutto makes a gesture, possibly with a finger, towards the interior of the cubicle. He is still smiling, but the movement is one of command.

  —For a woman, you make a good watchman.

  She does not entirely understand what he means by this, but it seems better to accept and agree rather than to ask him to explain.

  —I’m simply doing my duty.

  Señor Biasutto nods encouragingly, but almost at once his features crease in an unaccustomed frown, and his eyebrows start to twitch. Eventually, as though trying to recover from this sudden bout of anxiety, he smiles and shrugs his shoulders, rumpling his jacket. Then, his mind made up, without asking permission (there is no reason he should: he is the assistants’ supervisor, after all) he takes a step, so big it amounts to a long stride, until he is entirely inside the cubicle. María
Teresa thinks she should consider this as him coming to take over from her: she is convinced that Señor Biasutto is so committed to the investigation she is carrying out that he has come to replace her. She therefore makes to leave the cubicle and the toilet altogether, moving forward in a measured but determined way. With a simple push of the hand, Señor Biasutto shuts the door. Shuts it and immediately bolts it. Now both of them, she and he, María Teresa the class assistant and Señor Biasutto, her supervisor, are locked in the boys’ toilet. Obviously there is very little room for the two of them, even more so because neither of them wants to step on the lavatory itself, although this time it is not that dirty. There is no way they can avoid being squashed against each other. Señor Biasutto’s thin moustache, which she now sees more clearly than ever, appears to acquire a life of its own. She presses herself against the partition, but that proves as useless as it would be between the rows of books in a library or archive. The furthest she can get away from him is still far too close. Far from being tall, Señor Biasutto is quite the opposite. In fact, he may be no taller than she is, or only a little taller. Despite this, she now finds herself peering up at him. He smiles at her. When he does this, there is a shine to his lips which must come from saliva. His teeth are covered this time, she cannot see them. María Teresa attempts to return his smile, but finds herself unable to. If she could escape the paralysis born of fear she would probably cry rather than smile.

  She has no idea what is going to happen in here with Señor Biasutto. What she does realise in the midst of her confusion is that none of this has anything to do with trying to catch pupils breaking the school rules. It must be something else. María Teresa does not know what, but this much she does know. Señor Biasutto is as composed as ever: his smooth, brilliantined hair, straightened tie, shirt-collar without a single wrinkle, his jacket lapels immaculate; yet even so there is something dishevelled about him. María Teresa tries to calm down, repeating to herself what she already knows: that Señor Biasutto is the supervisor of the school’s assistants, that his reputation among his colleagues is of the highest, that he is a man of the world, and that, as she has herself discovered, he can behave as a perfect gentleman towards women. She thinks about all this, knows it to be true, and yet none of it reassures her.