School For Patriots Read online

  Señor Biasutto did not show much interest in her proposal, and does not know she is busy pursuing it. However, María Teresa is well aware that if she can find positive evidence of the irregularities which so far are mere supposition, the chief assistant will not merely be pleased, but grateful towards her. He seems particularly busy these days: perhaps that is why he has not said anything to her. Even so, when they meet in the corridor or in the assistants’ room, he always makes a point of gesturing towards her. This is usually a rather vague wave of the hand, but it appears to show appreciation or deference, or at the very least that he has not forgotten the special conversation they had a few days earlier.

  It is a time when great emphasis is being put on school work. There is a lot to do throughout the school day, because there is a sense that without this strenuous effort, things could go awry. And there is nothing more valued at the school than routine. Free periods, for example, generally tolerated as an accidental emergency, are now completely ruled out. Usually, the schoolteachers are never absent. Stories are told of all those who came to give their classes despite being ill or convalescent, or only hours after having suffered the irreparable loss of a loved one, because they preferred to miss a check-up or a funeral rather than miss school. In spite of this, and because every rule must have its exception, very occasionally a teacher does not turn up. Of course, he or she has to inform the school in good time, and this is always done with genuine remorse, but their absence inevitably means there are free periods in the timetable. Behaviour in these free classes is governed by the same rules as during the seventh hours, although the assistants always claim that these free classes are not free time. The Deputy Headmaster, who is in charge of timetabling, has brought in a change regarding any such free periods (a change designed to ensure normality is maintained, to be sure that nothing disturbs the sovereign call of study). Whenever a teacher is going to be absent, it is his or her responsibility to inform the assistants of the affected classes not only of their absence but also to supply them with work that the pupils can get on with during the periods which, despite everything, are still called free. The assistants are responsible for handing out this work, making sure the pupils do it, and then taking it in and later sending it to the absent teacher.

  María Teresa has to sit at the teacher’s desk up on the platform for third year class ten, because Mr Cano, their history teacher, is not going to be in today. She has to cover two periods: the fifth and six, the last in the school day. For the first time, María Teresa uses the double blackboard she has so often stared at, which, thanks to a system that for some reason reminds her of the theatre world, allows one board to rise while the other drops, and vice versa. She rubs hesitantly with the board-duster to erase a two-sided equation that apparently left all the pupils baffled in the previous lesson. Mr Cano, who in recent classes had been teaching about the Punic Wars, has left work to be done in case he is absent. It is an exercise in analyzing and discussing historical quotations.

  At first, the chalk dust hovering in the air after María Teresa has rubbed the board clean makes it a little hard to read what she is writing. She begins: ‘Read the following quotations carefully. Then comment on them and relate them to each other.’ She coughs or clears her throat, then explains that there are twelve quotes, which she is going to dictate to them. She does so with the same methodical slowness as she patrols the cloisters during break-time. Even so, there is always someone who is slow at writing and asks her to wait. Or someone who does not catch the last words she says, and wants her to repeat them.

  The first quote Mr Cano has left and which María Teresa is now dictating to the third year class ten pupils is from Sun Tzu. Before reading it out loud, she turns and writes on the blackboard, printing so that it is more legible: ‘Sun Tzu. The Art of War.’ Then she starts to dictate: ‘The essence of martial arts is discretion.’ She pauses, then repeats: ‘The essence … of martial … arts … is discretion.’ Next quotation: ‘Deception is a weapon of war.’ A pause, then: ‘Deception … is a weapon … of war.’ Third quotation, linked to the previous one: ‘Bear in mind that your enemies also employ deception.’ She pauses. Repeats: ‘Bear in mind … your enemies … also employ … deception.’ Fourth quotation.

  ‘Is this still Sun Tzu?’

  ‘Yes, Valenzuela. Until I tell to you the contrary, the quotations all come from The Art of War by Sun Tzu. Fourth quotation: ‘Do not harass a desperate enemy.’ She pauses, repeats: ‘Do not … harass … a desperate … enemy.’ Fifth quote: ‘Total victory is not having to fight a battle.’ Pause, repetition: ‘Total victory … is not … having to fight … a battle.’

  All the quotes so far are from Sun Tzu. Now María Teresa turns to the blackboard again and writes directly beneath what she wrote before: ‘Niccolo Machiavelli: On the Art of War.’ She dictates the sixth quote, the first from Machiavelli: ‘What keeps an army united is the fame of its general.’ She pauses. Then repeats slowly: ‘What keeps … an army … united … is the fame … of its general.’ Seventh quote, the second from Machiavelli: ‘One must try not to push the enemy into a desperate position.’ A pause. She says again: ‘One must try … not to push … the enemy … into a … desperate position.’ Now for the third author. María Teresa writes on the blackboard: Karl von Clausewitz: On War. Eighth quote, the first from Clausewitz.

  —Wait, please.

  Eighth quotation, the first from Clausewitz. ‘War is the province of chance.’ A pause, then she says again: ‘War … is the … province … of chance.’

  —Could you repeat that?

  —No. You can copy it from your neighbour afterwards.

  Ninth quote, also from Clausewitz. She dictates: ‘War implies uncertainty.’ She pauses, repeats: ‘War … implies … uncertainty.’ Tenth quotation. Third and last from Clausewitz. ‘In many wars action takes up the lesser amount of time, and inaction the greater part.’ She pauses. Repeats: ‘In many wars … action takes up … the lesser amount … of time … and inaction … the greater part.’ María Teresa could use the pulleys (which so remind her of backstage at the theatre) to make sure that the part of the blackboard she now has to write on is at chest-level, but instead she bends down. And it is from this awkward position that she writes (her handwriting rather more shaky because she has to stretch) the quote from the last writer on the list: Mao Tse Tung: Military Writings. Then she dictates the eleventh quote: ‘All those who participate in a war must free themselves from their usual habits and become used to war.’ María Teresa pauses, then repeats: ‘All those … who participate … in a war … must free themselves … from their usual habits … and become used … to war.’ Finally she dictates the last quote for their work, which is by the same author: ‘We admit that the phenomenon of war is the riskiest and offers less certainty than any other social phenomenon.’ A pause. She repeats: ‘We admit … that the … phenomenon … of war … is the riskiest … and offers … less certainty … than any other … social … phenomenon.’

  María Teresa leaves the sheet of paper with the quotations prepared by Mr Cano on the desk. Everything the pupils need has been written on the blackboard.

  —Any questions?

  None.

  —No questions?

  None.

  —Very good. Now get on with it.

  The pupils lower their heads and start writing. Some sit there, pens between their teeth, waiting to find the words to express their ideas. María Teresa watches them all, but her mind wanders. It is the last lesson of the day.

  The next postcard they receive from Francisco is sent from Azul. It looks as if he bought this one himself. He must have got it new, but its edges are already worn, as if someone had used it as a bookmark in a bulky novel, although it is more likely that nobody ever used it for this or any other purpose, and that the slight crease and fold at its corners are simply due to the card having been kept for so long in the metal rack of a village shop, handled and finally rejected by a whole series of t
ravelling salesmen, longdistance bus drivers, or supply teachers. The picture on the front must be of the main square in Azul. In its centre is the obligatory statue of General José de San Martín perched on his horse, arm raised from his shoulder, finger raised from his hand, pointing towards the far horizon. The edges of the photograph show rows of exuberant flowers, their colours retouched to make the photo more attractive. María Teresa is already prepared to find no more than a few words written by her brother. This time, however, there is nothing: he has not written a thing. Nothing apart from his first name, his signature: Francisco.

  No-one at the school knows María Teresa has a brother. There is of course no reason why they should, since in addition to the usual discretion shown at work, she adds a personal shyness and reserve. In the assistants’ room she follows other people’s conversations, but herself says little, and what she does come out with are usually nothing more than polite stock phrases (How terrible! Who would have thought it! I can’t believe it! God forbid!) At break-time, the assistants are on their own so that they can patrol a wider area, and therefore do not talk to each other. In addition, María Teresa is now making it her duty to visit the sector of the toilets that most of the others try to avoid. She is determined to keep up her furtive supervision. She repeatedly lingers there, although she is careful not to show any particular concern. For the moment, she has not found any proof. The smell from the toilets is still that of bleach, in which predominates what she takes to be ammonia, or occasionally a dense but odourless atmosphere.

  To make things worse, with the approach of winter the weather in Buenos Aires has been turning colder, and the sudden gusts of wind in the streets have given her a stubborn cold. She is forced always to take a handkerchief with her, discreetly concealed between the tight sleeve of her black pullover and the white cuffs of her blouse, which she uses to blow her nose time and again. She blows so hard she can feel her ears pop, but even so her nostrils almost immediately become congested again, and are never really clear. As a result, she cannot smell properly: she is sure that lots of subtleties escape her. Even so, she reassures herself that the scent of tobacco, if it existed, would not escape her, even at a distance.

  The comings and goings in the toilets are very odd, although María Teresa only notices this now that she is keeping a close watch on them. Some pupils go to the toilet every break-time; a few even enter more than once in the same break. Some others never visit them: they seem not to need to. Some spend several minutes inside, obviously because they are in great need; others come and go so quickly that María Teresa is left wondering how these boys can possibly relieve themselves in so short a time, although like everyone else she is well aware that it is not so complicated for boys as for girls, and that there is no need, a posteriori, for the same amount of hygiene. As she walks past the swing doors she hears boys’ voices inside, but she does not want to hear things, she wants to smell them. Even so, every time she goes by she does hear things (she does not want to see either, or to look, yet sometimes her eyes wander of their own accord through the double doors, where almost against her will she catches sight of flashes of legs, fleeting backs, hands in movement). María Teresa can make out the sound of voices, and conversations: apparently boys do not behave in the same way as girls when they go to the toilet. Girls talk before and after they relieve themselves, but during the act itself they prefer to be on their own, thinking their own thoughts, and renouncing the existence of everyone else. María Teresa imagines that boys on the other hand are involved in a strange mixture of intimacy and social life: she has the impression that they do not interrupt their conversations while they are doing whatever they have to do, and can even laugh at a joke another boy has made, or allow their companion to clap them on the back in a friendly way, or even look each other in the face as they would in a normal conversation. It is only now, since she has begun her patrols, that this crosses María Teresa’s mind; until now her thoughts about this kind of thing were very different, or more exactly, she never thought about it.

  5

  The Head of Discipline has called an inspection. It is important to hold one (without prior warning, of course) every so often, because however much effort is put into creating and upholding values, behaviour tends to become lax. These inspections have two main focal points: hair and stockings. Every assistant is well aware of the regulations in both these cases. However, it is one thing to know what the regulation says, quite another to make sure they are being followed sufficiently strictly. The girls have to wear their hair up, in plaits or a pony tail. It must be kept in place with hair-slides and a blue hairband. Fringes are not permitted (although not openly stated, it is generally believed that a clear brow is a sign of intelligence). The boys must have short hair: this means it must be above the ears, and must be the width of two normalsized fingers above the collar. All pupils’ stockings must be blue and made of nylon. It is easy to check that the girls meet this requirement, because they wear jumpers and skirts, so that their stockings are clearly visible. In the boys’ case, it is more difficult, particularly when their thick, grey trousers reach down to their black moccasin shoes. In order for the inspection to be carried out, they have to stretch one leg forward, then the other, each time lifting the leg of their trouser a little way. This manoeuvre requires a certain delicacy, which naturally the boys hate. María Teresa walks down the line of pupils formed up in the quad: they have already stepped apart and are standing to attention. All the girls’ stockings, without exception, conform to the regulations. They are blue, made of nylon, and properly pulled up. Then it is the boys’ turn. María Teresa has to bend down a little further to get a good look. She knows she has to pay attention: the boys realise their socks are not so visible, and so are more likely to break the rule. Take Calcagno, for example. His socks are blue, as they should be, but they are made of towelling rather than nylon. They are tennis socks, of a make showing a penguin dancing. María Teresa reprimands Calcagno, but does not punish him. She writes his name down in her register and warns him that the following day she will look to make sure his socks are the right kind. Calcagno promises to do as required, and the inspection continues. As she approaches Baragli, María Teresa has an uneasy feeling. She does not know exactly why, whether she will find him wearing red socks or what, but she feels a clear sense of foreboding. She looks down, and Baragli’s socks are as they should be. Blue, made of nylon. But as he shows them to her, Baragli pulls his trouser legs up too far, revealing to María Teresa’s close gaze not his shiny shoes or his regulation socks, but part of his leg, a strip of pale shin veined with dark lines of hair. He shows her this, makes sure she sees it; she has bent down so far she cannot now avoid the shocking detail of his bare skin. Baragli draws his first foot back, and immediately pushes the other one forward. María Teresa has still not recovered, a buzzing in her ears leaves her stunned, she can sense her cheeks growing heavier and turning pink. The other leg: Baragli stretches it out, and she is still bending forward: he is not going to show her his sock, his scrupulous submission to the school rules. No, it is his leg, his shin, that Baragli is showing her, his male leg, his male hairs, a strip of skin exposed between the grey of the trouser turn-up and the blue of his sock. This time the trouser leg is raised even higher; more skin, more of his shinbone showing. María Teresa has turned red, and she knows it. She straightens up but still feels slightly giddy and confused. Baragli looks at her, frozen in the same attitude, with his sock and above it that skin, the skin with its blemishes. She can see every last detail, school regulations state that stockings must be blue and made of nylon, and Baragli has clearly fulfilled that requirement, María Teresa feels dizzy and has a buzzing sound in her ears, or perhaps it is the ringing sound that makes her feel dizzy; she does not feel well.

  —Very good, Baragli. Get back in line.

  She continues the inspection, head reeling. If any of the pupils made a glaring mistake, such as black or sky-blue stockings, she would not fail to notice
it, but she is not sure if she would be able to spot anything more subtle, like Calcagno and his blue stockings made of towelling or cotton instead of nylon. She inspects the others as quickly as possible, wanting to get it over with: she does not feel at all well. She cannot be certain, but she thinks that beneath her blouse she has suddenly broken out into an untimely sweat. She is gradually feeling better, but only slowly. Her dizziness is slowly disappearing, and so is the buzzing noise. Her perspiration is drying off. She reaches Valenzuela, who is the last in the line. He is wearing grey socks, and when María Teresa reprimands him, her voice is no longer trembling.

  —Your socks, Valenzuela.

  —Yes, Miss.

  —They’re grey, Valenzuela.

  —Yes, Miss.

  —They are supposed to be blue, Valenzuela.

  —Yes, Miss. The thing is, I had a problem.

  —What problem, Valenzuela?

  —The spin dryer at home broke, Miss.

  —What happens in your home does not interest me, Valenzuela. Your socks are meant to be blue.

  —Yes, Miss.

  —Make sure they are, tomorrow.

  —Yes, Miss.

  —Not grey, blue.

  —Yes, Miss.

  —Tomorrow.

  —Yes, Miss.

  —Without fail.

  María Teresa notes his name down on her register. She has already written: ‘Calcagno: towelling socks.’ Underneath she writes: ‘Valenzuela: grey socks.’