“Worried? Whatever for?”
She hastily says exactly what I predicted: they’ve been hearing from me less and less since my divorce. I haven’t accepted any of their dinner invitations. I haven’t been back to the club. If anyone calls me to meet up one on one, I always make excuses. As a result of which: they think I’m not OK, that something’s wrong. As a further result of which: they’re worried about me.
“Well, you know what splitting up is like, Teresa. It’s rough going. I was married to David for many years. I need time to think, reorganize my life. We just signed the divorce papers a few days ago.”
She keeps interrupting me with comments of her own: “You can’t just brood about things—maybe you need to get out, distract yourself.” But when I mention signing the divorce papers, her ears prick up and she asks, “How did it go? Did you two talk? Was it hostile? Did he show up alone? Did you show up alone?”
Naturally, she can’t go back to the group without some good gossip. Her maneuvering reminds me of the money changers in the temple. I remember when I learned about them in school. The Old Testament was extraordinarily violent, full of fornication, revenge, passion, and parents willing to slit their children’s throats in God’s name. In fact, I found God utterly terrifying. At night I would dream about Him and wake up crying and screaming for Papá. The poor man would rush in in his pajamas; he never let my grandmother come instead. When I told him that God was appearing in my dreams and wanted to kill me, he dismissed it: “That’s nun nonsense. One of these days I’m going to march over to that school of yours and tell them to stop stuffing your head full of garbage. Go back to sleep. I have to be up early tomorrow.” He’d go back to bed, a little irritated at having been woken up, and I’d lie there, still a mess, not knowing whether God truly had all the destructive power the Bible attributed to him or if it was just one of Mother Rodríguez’s fantasies.
The New Testament was much less terrifying, though there were a few scenes I had my doubts about. For example, Jesus driving the money changers from the temple. Why did he have to be so mean to people who were just trying to make a living? After all, my father was also a sort of businessman, and I couldn’t understand Jesus’s reaction. It was only after David left me that I understood. Money changers are those people who want to go where nobody’s invited them, who’re always inquiring, speculating, poking their fingers into the wound and sniffing at the blood. And now poor Teresa, impoverished in some fundamental way, made it even clearer. Now not only did I understand Jesus’s anger at the temple, but I also felt it myself. I pictured myself brandishing a whip, knocking over the stalls full of knickknacks: false friendship, false empathy, false affection. I wanted to shout, “My life is a sacred temple that none has permission to enter!”
Of course I repressed my desire to pummel Teresa with a sofa cushion. It would have been ridiculous and, most compellingly, I didn’t feel like explaining to her why I was doing it; she never would have understood.
“Not at all, it was just a formality. There was no tension between us. We’re all civilized people, right?”
I sense the frustration in every inch of her vexed skin. I assume the third degree is over, that she’s finally going to release her prey and move on. But I’m wrong. As in any good show, she’s left the bombshell number for the end.
“I’m thrilled things are going so well for you, Irene. Actually, I also came by to let you know . . . well, you know how people are. Always talking and sticking their noses where they don’t belong. People are saying you’ve been going out partying with Genoveva Bernat. No, hang on, listen: I don’t have anything against Genoveva. Everybody’s got the right to live their own life and do their own thing. But you know what Genoveva’s like, and you hear things about her. She has a pretty bad reputation. I don’t care either way, but I wouldn’t like to see you end up getting hurt because of that friendship. No one in our group would be able to forgive ourselves if we didn’t warn you that she’s—how can I put it?—a little dodgy. I thought you should know.”
“OK.”
I’d never noticed how Teresa talks before. She sounds common, like a grocery store cashier. Do I talk like that too? Probably. I wasn’t aware, but seeing it from the outside . . . The farther you get from a landscape, the more perspective you have in surveying it. All the women in my social circle talk like that: a mix of lofty words and slangy expressions heard on the street. That way we sound more modern. It’s too late to change my vocabulary, but moving away from my social circle is already progress. Anyway, how should I react to her concern for my reputation? It would be the perfect time to tell her to go to hell and never come back, not her or anybody else from the group. But I don’t feel like it. My Christ-like hissy fit at the money changers has passed (hissy fit is one of those terms that grocery store cashiers use), and I’d rather say something neutral to get her out of here.
“Oh, thank you, Teresa, I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your concern! But actually I’ve only gone out a couple of times with Genoveva, who’s a hoot . . . So as for getting close enough for it to hurt me . . . you can rest easy—I know full well what Genoveva’s like. I’m not a child.”
“I know, but you’ve always been so sheltered: your father, your husband, our circle of friends . . . ”
I briskly stand up. I’m tossing her out, but doing so in such a way that it’s as if she were following me somewhere wonderful. I laugh, cluck, get tangled in a bizarre spiel about how happy I am that she came to see me, that her daughters are so brilliant, that our friends are doing well. I finish up with a string of vague promises: I’ll call you soon, I’ll drop by the club one of these days. All this time I’ve been herding her toward the door, and at last she leaves.
Is it true what she said, that I’ve always been sheltered? I don’t know. The life I was living was fine—a little boring, now that I think about it, but fine. I don’t want to think. I’m going to pour myself a whiskey and watch an episode of one those new American TV shows that are supposed to be real works of art.
* * *
Sandra’s attitude this morning is particularly depressing. She wakes me up before she leaves for work. She chirps like a bird and hops around the room, also like a bird. She insists we have breakfast together, so I stagger out of bed and go to the kitchen with her. She’s made coffee and toast. It’s the big day. Such excitement. I’m going to be meeting with Mr. Contreras at eleven for the job interview. Seeing the way Sandra’s acting, you might think I was going to meet President Obama so he could name me secretary of state. She’s nervous, but trying to seem merely excited. It’s a horrible strategy. With every look she’s telling me, “The world is your oyster, kid, slurp it down. The job will be yours because you’re the best. Convince Contreras of that. Grab him by the lapels and tell him, ‘This job is mine. You’re going to be blown away when you see what a good teacher I am. I’ll bring prestige to your crappy school with my mere presence. You’ll see.’” I’ve read that sort of thing in a self-help book or an article from the Sunday supplement: “How to Face Life with Confidence,” “Striding toward Success.” Total garbage. I’d rather Sandra treated me like an old-fashioned mother whose son is about to take a tough exam: “Eat a big breakfast, sweetie. Everything comes out better on a full stomach.” But no, she’s chosen the modern route. She desperately wants them to give me this job because I’d be getting it thanks to her intervention, and that would give her a certain amount of power over me. No, that’s an appalling idea. Truth is, she’s anxious for them to give me the job because living with me under the current circumstances must be unbearable. I’ve tried not to take my mental state out on her, but without success. Losing a job may not be such a big deal, objectively speaking, but I haven’t been able to bounce back from the blow. Buts and more buts. I listen patiently to the words of encouragement she lobs in my direction before rushing off because she’s late for work.
Once I was alone in th
e house, things improved a little. I took a long, luxurious shower. I made another cup of coffee. I left the house dressed in my standard clothes, though I did comb my hair carefully so it wouldn’t be all messy for the interview. I walked instead of taking the bus, and it was only ten-thirty when I got to the school. I went into a little bar where the upperclassmen probably meet up after classes let out. I ordered a beer to bolster my self-confidence. Maybe there’s no call to be so snide about self-help books—they’re actually pretty rational. The advice they give may be obvious, but they’re written for people who aren’t very sophisticated, to help show them what they need to do. I’m not unsophisticated, so I don’t need to read them to figure these things out. But that doesn’t mean their suggestions are all garbage. It’s true, you shouldn’t let a bad situation get you down. You do need to be aware of your own worth—and I am a good teacher. I may not have passed the certification exam or gotten fantastic grades in school, but I’m a good teacher. I’m interested in the subject. I take my students seriously. My classrooms have always been a respectful environment, which the kids appreciate. I’m not stuck in my ways. I update my knowledge from time to time, not just by reading books but also in pedagogical terms. I’ve seen a lot of my colleagues get so burned out on teaching that they couldn’t care less whether or not their students learn. Not me. It’s my calling. It doesn’t matter that it’s an Opus Dei school—that job is going to be mine. I can’t take the risk of letting these months of despondency intrude on the interview and make me look weak. I may have lost my job, but the economic crisis was to blame there, not me.
I knocked back the beer, which tasted bitter at that time of morning, and walked across the street. Ready for success.
The school has wonderful facilities. Seeing the students moving through the halls, I feel a sort of euphoria: this is the world I belong to. Soon I’ll be back in it again, with new rolls of students under my tutelage. I’ll appear on their weekly schedules: Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Spanish literature.
Mr. Contreras keeps me waiting only fifteen minutes. He appears through a doorway and waves me into his office. He’s the head teacher, not the principal, but all important matters go through him, including the hiring of new teachers. His desk is immaculate. My CV is the only paper resting on it. He gazes at it a second.
“Oh, yes, I remember you! Tell me, Javier, what can you offer the children at our institution?”
I tell him about my experience, how much I love teaching. I explain what it seems to me literature’s role is in shaping young people. Modestly, I list my strengths as a teacher. Contreras listens, solemn and attentive. When I’ve finished my spiel, he looks at my CV, looks at me, and asks, “Is what it says here true—you just taught review courses?”
“Yes. I wasn’t a full-time teacher.”
Suddenly he looks like one of his molars has started aching.
“Of course, but when you’re not a full-time teacher, you don’t have clear responsibilities: you don’t have to give grades, assess students’ progress in class . . . ”
I’m caught off guard, uncertain how to respond. I find I have no goddamn desire to argue with this guy. I shrug my shoulders.
“As you say, that’s on my CV.”
“Well, it’s not automatically grounds for rejection. We want to do things right, talk with each candidate. So tell me, Javier, how are you doing faith-wise?”
“Pardon? What do you mean?”
“Do you believe in God?”
“I’m agnostic,” I say like an idiot.
When he hears that, it’s not his molars that are aching, but his heart.
“Oh, don’t tell me that! It’s so sad! If someone is an atheist, that’s a tragedy, of course—but there’s the possibility of escape. But agnosticism, being comfortable with not wanting to know God . . . It pains me, because with just a little effort one could find faith. But you have to want it, of course.”
“I suppose that puts me completely out of the running for the position.”
“I wasn’t thinking about the position just now, Javier. I was thinking about you.”
“I’m fine, Mr. Contreras, don’t worry about me,” I say politely.
He, also politely, jots down some notes on my CV.
“All right, Javier. We’ll let you know once the staff makes a decision. There are a number of other candidates. We’ll write to you at your personal address.”
He gets up, smiles, accompanies me to the door of his office, shakes my hand. I’m such an idiot—I don’t make a stink, don’t tell him to go to hell or say anything that might make him the least bit uncomfortable. I’m as eager to get out of there as he is to see me go.
I go back to the same bar. I have another beer, which tastes wonderful this time. I think back to when I explained Miau, one of Pérez Galdós’s novels, to my students. The protagonist is an aging, out-of-work civil servant who trudges from office to office begging for a new job until everybody’s sick of him. That’s me, I think. Then a positive thought leaps out in my defense: I’d never have been able to teach in a school like that. It’s a den of dogmatists, a dangerous place. If I started there, I’d just end up quitting later, after having endured any number of unpleasant experiences. At least the nuns never asked me if I believed in God.
Sandra calls. I tell her the interview was a disaster and I’m certain they won’t offer me the job. She doesn’t ask any questions. She just says, “I’ll see you later.”
At home that night, I’m anxious about her return, as if I’ve done something wrong. I ponder how to tell her what happened in a way that makes me come off looking like I’m in the right, freed of any suspicion. But then I wonder what the hell I’m doing, cowering and shrunken, terrified of the boss’s ire. No, if Sandra comes at me even a little bit, I’m going to lash out at her and accuse her of wasting my time, making me hang my hopes on false dreams. They gave me that job interview to make her friend happy, but they had no intention of hiring me. Not a chance.
I’m assaulted by the memory of my father, one of the few I still have of him. We were out fishing when, there under the clear water, I spotted a huge fish swimming toward us at top speed. I shouted to alert my father, and he started casting out the hook in its path, over and over, but the fish kept going, unfazed. “He’s so useless!” I thought grumpily. “Always catching tiny fish, and now when the opportunity comes along . . . ” But it wasn’t true—the fish was just passing through, and there was never the slightest chance it would bite. I was unfair to my father, though not too much—in the end, he was just a dumbass for whom opportunities for success never came along. As evidence, consider that not long after that fishing expedition, he totaled his car in an accident and crossed to the other side, taking my mother with him. Epitaph: here lies a dumbass, almost as big a dumbass as me.
Waiting for Sandra at home, I realize I feel profoundly humiliated. I really don’t feel like seeing her. I know she’s not going to scold me—she’s going to start crying. I don’t want to hear her say what I know she will: “I’m really sorry, baby, but don’t worry, another opportunity will come along.” She hasn’t figured out that there are no opportunities for me. I put on a jacket and head outside. I look for a bar. I’ve got my cell phone in my pocket in case she calls. “I’ll be back late.” Sitting at the bar, I order a gin and tonic. I sip it slowly. I’m feeling better. I pick up the phone and look through my saved calls. There it is. I press the button.
“Iván?”
“Shit, man, I can’t believe it’s you! Hey, teach! What’s up?”
“What’s happening with that job you mentioned? Does your offer still stand?”
“The job with the show?”
“Of course, what else?”
“Oh, shit, of course it does! Yeah! This makes me really happy, man. You’ve got some balls. I’ll let Mariano know right now. I swear you won’t regret this, man. I’ll t
ake care of everything. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I keep drinking, filled with a sense of peace. There’s nothing for me to worry about now. Tomorrow when I wake up, it will be the first day of my new life.
* * *
It’s not trial by fire, but it’s pretty close. There are mirrors in the dressing room, and I go over to the closest one. Iván is like a dog obsessed with its owner—he trails after me wherever I go and refuses to leave my side. I find his chatter unsettling:
“You look awesome, man! But they’ve put you lower down on the totem pole: you used to be a teacher, and now you’re playing a student.”
Yeah, the guy’s not bad. He may not think so, but the school uniform looks great on him. This is the hardest moment. You might expect the hardest moment would be when you go on stage and they throw you to the lions, but it’s actually right now—I know what I’m talking about—when you see yourself in your costume and realize you look like a total ass. I hope the guy doesn’t go chickenshit and back out, because I put in a word for him with Mariano, and that guy doesn’t give anyone a break. He’d have a cow. Now I’ve got to provide moral and psychological support, the way you do to athletes before the competition. I can take care of that on my own. I could have been a psychologist if it had been in the cards, if I’d gone to college. I’ve got to get him to notice the other guys so he can see he’s not alone, playing the fool dressed in a school smock with his legs exposed.
Naked Men Page 9
