School For Patriots Page 3
At this, the Deputy Headmaster pauses. There is complete silence beneath school walls that are as dense as its history.
—Does anyone have any queries?
Nobody has any queries. Just in case, the Deputy Headmaster cups the smooth outline of his pallid chin in his hand, waiting for possible questions. What he expects is not that there will be any, but that there will be none. And nobody asks a question.
—No queries then. Perfect. Follow your instructions and have a good afternoon.
Third year class ten has Latin as the last period of the day. They are trying to scan some lines of verse: in a reluctant, uncoordinated chorus they stumble over rhythms in that essential but long-dead tongue. Their Latin master Mr Schulz beats the stresses with two fingers on the edge of his wooden desk, but this help either does not get through or is insufficient. Straight lines mean long syllables, cupped ones are short, but even though the rules for reading Latin verse out loud seem simple enough, there is no way that the tuneless chanting of the third year class ten pupils is going to sound harmonious. Listening to them out in the corridor, María Teresa is once again reminded of going to morning mass at the Villa del Parque church as a young girl. The distressing sound has something of the Gregorian chant about it, but completely misses the meaning of the verses: none of them, and perhaps not even Mr Schulz, realises that somewhere in the thick of all this is Dido, and that Aeneas is searching for Dido, and that Aeneas is being written by Virgil, Mecenas is directing Virgil, and Mecenas himself is being controlled by Augustus, Emperor of Rome.
The bell goes for the end of lessons. Before they can leave, however, it is time for the lowering of the national flag. Strictly speaking, those doing this are the sixth-year pupils, already lined up in the central quad. Although the others – those in first, second, third, fourth and fifth years – stay in their classrooms and so are not directly involved in the ceremony, they know it is taking place, and this knowledge means that to some extent they are also taking part in the solemn act. The loudspeakers which play classical music during break times are now broadcasting the national anthem ‘Aurora’. Standing to attention beside their desks, looking straight ahead at the assistants gazing back at them, every pupil in the school sings:
—This is the flag! Of my homeland! Born of the sun! That God has given me! It is the flag! Of my homeland! Born of the sun! That God has given me!
Today they are not leaving by the exit on to Calle Bolívar. Señor Biasutto coordinates his team of assistants, who in turn have already given instructions to the pupils so that this unusual procedure can be executed properly. In third year class ten, María Teresa manages to conceal her nervousness. Standing in the classroom doorway, she awaits orders. The classes file out one by one. Forms seven, eight, nine: finally it is her turn.
—All of you, follow me, Señor Biasutto instructs them.
To begin with, they take the usual route inside the school. Until they reach the big marble staircase leading down to the ground floor, nothing is any different to normal. But once they have left this behind – a procedure which demands they keep strictly in line – instead of carrying straight on and heading for the main entrance, they turn once again and reach the stairs leading down to the basement. These stairs are narrower and less well-lit, and until now María Teresa has never had to take them. The basement houses the gym, music room, the school canteen, as well as the swimming pool and a small cinema. Rumour has it that somewhere down here, perhaps beyond the gym, or in a passageway leading off from the cinema, there are secret tunnels that date back to the colonial era, when the National School was still the Royal School of San Carlos. The tunnels apparently led first to San Ignacio Church, and then on to the Plaza Mayor fortress, or as it is today, to the presidential palace at the far end of Plaza de Mayo.
When her group reaches the basement, María Teresa feels a certain apprehension. Even though this low-ceilinged world is only slightly gloomier than the rest of the cloisters and annexes, when she tries to make out where the tunnels might begin she has the sense of something sinister. Señor Biasutto’s voice snaps her out of her troubled thoughts.
—Quickly, down this way.
The door out on to Calle Moreno is small and scarcely noticeable in the greyish wall of which it is part. Perhaps it is secret as well, like the hidden tunnels that give rise to so much speculation. In fact, it is never opened or used, except on rare occasions like today.
—Until tomorrow, ladies and gentlemen.
The pupils launch themselves into the street like parachutists falling from an aeroplane: scared but aware there is no going back. They will do as they are told: leave the area without stopping, but without rushing either. They will go home. Once their tasks for the day have been completed, the assistants will also go home. At half-past six in the evening, they fetch their belongings and hasten to leave the school. It is only then, when she realises they will all have to return to the basement, that María Teresa understands that the instructions the Deputy Head gave, and which they faithfully passed on to the pupils, also affect and include them. She also has to leave by the side door on to Calle Moreno. She also cannot take the metro where she normally gets it. She also will hurry (but without running) towards Avenida 9 de Julio. There she also will take the first bus that comes, even if she will then have to get off and change to another that goes to her home. She does not know either what exactly is going on, although she behaves with the determination of someone who does. She has no real inkling.
The street looks calm. Too calm, in fact: that is what is odd about it. This is the rush hour, and yet here, right in the heart of Buenos Aires, only one or two vehicles pass her by. The pedestrians seem to María Teresa to have just emerged from cellars, as if they were scurrying from one shelter to another along the streets of a city under attack from the air. They are taking advantage of an all-clear, but still have a stunned look on their faces. Of course, María Teresa might have the same expression on her face, but she cannot see herself. If she had to distinguish a sign that hinted at what was happening, she would be unable to do so. Yet there can be no doubt that the sky above the city has darkened, that as night approaches a heavy pall has fallen. Impossible to tell precisely where this sense of foreboding comes from, but it is as palpable as the air itself.
María Teresa finally reaches Avenida 9 de Julio. She wonders if it can be true that it is the widest avenue in the world. She looks left and right, trying to spot a bus she can catch. When she looks right, she sees the Obelisk, and this reminds her of the postcard her brother sent. Remembering that image leaves her thinking of him.
3
Servelli repeats his well-known habit, that of bursting out laughing for no reason at all; but this time he does so at the worst possible moment. This inane laughter, which so delights his companions, and has to be reprimanded, is due either to nerves, to a wish to seem guileless, or to the fact that he is always slow to understand jokes or sarcastic comments. It is a laugh which usually provokes more mocking guffaws from his classmates. This time, however, the circumstances are so obviously awkward that the laugh explodes and subsides all on its own, foundering in a general atmosphere of scandalized silence.
The Head of Discipline is going round all the afternoon classes to say a few words to every pupil. When he comes into the room, they should all stand up and stand quietly to attention by the side of their desks. They also do this when a teacher comes in, but then they sit down again for the start of the lesson, whereas now they have to stay on their feet, eyes to the front and arms by their sides, until such time as the Head of Discipline has finished speaking and taken his leave of the classroom.
His words are few, but carefully chosen and delivered with an emphasis that lends them conviction. They refer to what the National School of Buenos Aires means to the history of the Republic of Argentina, and consequently what it means to be a pupil there. They refer to the past: the school’s foundation in the year 1778 by Viceroy Vértiz (the second viceroy
of what were then the United Provinces of the Río de la Plata), the man who became known to posterity as the Viceroy of the Enlightenment (partly because he inaugurated the first street lighting in Buenos Aires, and partly because he established the pillars of Enlightenment belief, such as the Royal School of San Carlos). The Head of Discipline goes on to outline a brief roll-call of famous former pupils from the era when the school was known as the School of Moral Sciences, among whom undoubtedly the most illustrious was one of the nation’s founding fathers, Manuel Belgrano, member of the 1810 independence junta, victor at the battles of Salta and Tucumán, and, inspired by its clear blue skies, the creator of the flag of Argentina. The school, he reminds them, was successfully refounded in 1863, now to be known as the National School, thanks to the foresight of Bartolomé Mitre, another founding father of the nation; the first president of modern-day Argentina, an outstanding soldier, a considerable historian, a born journalist and a practised translator. Mitre founded the nation, but also the newspaper La Nación, the written history of the nation, and the National School. Later still, towards 1880, the school was the cradle for the most brilliant generation in the history of Argentina, as revealed by Miguel Cané is his now classic Juvenilia: yet again, the school played a decisive role in the unfolding consolidation of the Argentinian state.
The Head of Discipline declares that in this short overview he has clearly demonstrated that the history of the fatherland and the history of the school are one and the same. This demonstration leads to the inevitable conclusion that each and every pupil at the school (from the mere fact of being one) is uniquely committed to being a patriot, more so than any other Argentinian (those Argentinians, he stresses, who are worthy of the birthright). When the fatherland calls, the most rapid, most reliable response will come from the pupils of this school.
—I want you to reflect on this. Especially at this moment.
With this, the Head of Discipline concludes his remarks. He takes his leave, and is about to step out of the classroom. He has crossed the threshold, but is not yet completely outside, so that he is still part of whatever happens in the class. And what happens is unthinkable, something that should never have occurred: for no reason whatsoever, inanely, Servelli bursts out laughing. A short, hollow laugh. There is no malice to it, and yet it is clear and perfectly audible. The Head of Disicpline halts in the doorway. For a brief moment, he stands stock still. His back is to the class, but doubtless his eyebrow is twitching furiously. For one second, he does not move. This is not a moment’s hesitation, but one of disbelief. Immediately afterwards, the Head of Discipline turns, retraces his steps, comes back into the room. He steps up onto the platform at the front once more, from where he has a clear view of the entire class. He folds his hands behind his back. His middle finger is shaking. Not even the sound of creaking floorboards can be heard. The Head of Discipline demands:
—Who was it?
No-one replies. His mouth sets in a grim line. He nods repeatedly, as though he is beginning to understand something that leaves him unmoved.
—I want the person responsible to speak up.
The tic in his eyebrow leads him to give an involuntary blink, undermining his stern expression. No-one admits responsibility.
—Whoever knows who it was, speak now.
The Head of Discipline’s neck twists; his teeth seem to be searching for something in his mouth. Nobody says a word. They all know it was Servelli, because he is the one who laughs when nobody else does. But none of them says a thing. María Teresa is very close to the Head of Discipline, also facing the class, although she is not on the platform. She is confused: she also knows that the pupil who laughed was Servelli. She wonders what she should do: speak up or not? There is no time for hesitation: if she is going to say something, she has to do so straightaway. She does not know what to do. On the one hand she is afraid (quite rightly) that if she stays quiet the pupils will take her silence for complicity, because they know that she knows. So she should declare at once: ‘It was Servelli.’ On the other, she senses that what the Head of Discipline wants is not simply to discover who laughed, but something far beyond that: he wants the culprit to confess, or one of his classmates to tell on him. For this to happen, María Teresa would do best to keep out of it. When the Head of Discipline asks who it was, when the Head of Discipline wants to know if any of them knows who it was, he is not including her among those he is addressing. She is the assistant for third year class ten, not one of the pupils. In order to maintain this vital distinction, she has to stay completely silent. And so this is what she does, partly because she has decided to say nothing, and partly because she is still hesitating when the Head of Discipline decides he has waited long enough, and takes action:
—Third year class ten will receive a collective punishment. You are all to stay behind for the seventh hour for the whole week.
There are six periods of classes each day, and each period lasts forty minutes. With the three breaks, this makes up the five hours that the afternoon session lasts: from ten minutes past one when school starts, to ten minutes past six, when it finishes. However, for either pedagogical or disciplinary reasons, the school authorities can add an extra hour, the seventh hour. In these cases, the pupils have to remain at school until close to seven in the evening. By this time, the building is empty, or almost, and the unmistakable air of desolation only adds to the sense of punishment. The echo of distant footsteps can be heard, and there is clear evidence that in the streets outside night is falling or has already fallen. During this seventh hour, the pupils have to remain in their classrooms, seated at their desks. They are not permitted to talk, or to do anything that is not school work. They may study if they wish, but if they do not want to do so, they cannot do anything else.
—This is not a free period, ladies and gentlemen.
Nor may they pass each other notes, chew gum, undo their uniforms in any way, or play any kind of game, even on their own.
—This is not a reward. It is not break-time, it is a punishment.
The seventh hour is also difficult for the assistants, precisely because nothing at all happens, and it is this nothing they have to oversee. María Teresa is now sitting in the teachers’ chair, up on the platform, looking directly at the class. The pupils are still and silent: most of them are doing nothing. They do not yet have any written work to hand in, so that although the pupils should always be able to find something to complete or at least make progress with, they have no pressing deadlines. A few of them are reading, or chewing the end of a pen as they puzzle over an equation they are unlikely to solve. Several others are simply staring into space, letting the time go by. Depending on the point of view, the punishment of this seventh hour consists either of having to spend more time studying in school, or as having to put up with the passage of time: watching time go by, and nothing else.
María Teresa is making sure that none of the pupils are finding ways to enjoy the seventh hour.
—What are you doing, Valentinis?
—Reading, Miss.
—I can see that, Valentinis. I want to know what you’re reading. Is it a magazine?
—I’m reading about music, Miss.
—Is it something Mr Roel gave you?
—No, Miss.
—Do you mean to say that what you are reading has nothing to do with your music lesson?
—No, Miss.
—Put it away then.
One problem of the seventh hour is that whereas the pupils can choose to either get on with something or simply sit staring at nothing until seven o’clock comes round, even if they would like to, the assistants are unable to do anything apart from sit and watch. María Teresa takes her time studying the pupils’ faces (if there is one thing she has, it is time). She considers Capelán, for instance: the fluttering of his hands or fingers on Marré’s shoulder is repeated whenever they line up and step apart; she would love to be able to discover in his features (as the great nineteenth-century scienti
sts aspired to do) a principle of either innocence or guilt that would settle the matter so that she did not have to continue keeping an eye on him. After this, she concentrates on Servelli. He is the one to blame for the fact that all his classmates have been punished and are still here, in detention and bored beyond belief, and yet she can detect nothing in his expression or behaviour that betrays any sign of remorse. Next she studies Cascardo: the book he is reading apparently requires so much effort that his ears are suddenly glowing red. They look as if they are about to catch fire. She gazes at other faces, most of which are blank, then starts the process over again. As long as there are no interruptions or changes to this exercise of her powers of observation, María Teresa intends to continue with it until it is close enough to seven o’clock for her to stop. She does not expect any shocks. And yet the assistant, who is the one meant to observe, suddenly senses that she herself is being observed. At first she cannot discover who it is, but she is certain it is happening, because that is how these things are; she raises her eyes, determined to find out which eyes are fixed on her. And the person staring at her from his desk is none other than Baragli. Yes, Baragli is staring straight at her, although his look could also be one of complete boredom. That is how María Teresa would like to see it, although there is something (she cannot be sure what) that niggles her. She would like to see it as nothing more than a blank look, a harmless lapse, the lazy indolence of having nothing whatsoever to do. She would like to interpret it in this way, yet there is something that stops her. She is not sure what exactly. She cannot decide whether it is sarcasm, or worse still, lust, because if it were either of these she could intervene decisively and put an immediate stop to it (no matter that it is impossible to interpret the meaning of a look precisely: her word would be enough, and there could be no room for appeal). No, Baragli is not mocking her; nor is he, strictly speaking, giving her a male look; and yet María Teresa is convinced his gaze is not entirely innocent. He is not trying to provoke her: if she were to react, that would be going too far. It is plain though that Baraglia is staring at her too much, for too long, and in too fixed a way. He is doing so in such a subtle manner, however, that if accused he could claim he was simply staring into space, not looking at anything in particular, at the blackboard, the wall, or the ceiling, that strictly speaking he was staring straight ahead, which was no offence, and that it was not his fault that she happened to be directly in front of him. María Teresa is aware of these possibilities, and so decides to do nothing. She tries to look at something else, at other faces, or to stare vaguely at the back wall in the same way as they, the pupils, are expected to gaze at the front one, but eyes that are staring at you possess an irresistible attraction (as History of Art students well know), and so sooner or later she finds herself glancing in Baragli’s direction once more. Baragli is still staring at her. María Teresa lowers her gaze a fraction: not to move away from Baragli, but to observe his mouth. She discovers what she suspected: the start of a highly disturbing smile. If it were a proper laugh, or even a full smile, if there were a clear signal at the corners of his mouth, it would be easy for her to step in, take action, punish Baragli and declare the matter closed. But she cannot take steps against a gesture that does not yet exist. Which is about to exist, which she can intuit and even predict, but which does not yet exist. There is nothing she can do except wait. Wait until it is almost seven o’clock. Finally that moment arrives, and the seventh hour is over.