by Inès Cagnati
My joy was so immense that I started pedaling like mad. There was nothing more to do but keep going straight ahead. I chanted a song in a very loud voice and rode my bike in zigzags. I was so happy. Before long, I fell again. I fall easily. My knee smarted and I could tell it was bleeding. I made sure my bike still worked. It did. It’s a good bicycle, very loyal.
Then I got going again, singing at the top of my lungs and watching all the lights draw nearer. I really wanted to cry.
8
AT LAST, I got there. Out of sheer joy, I came to a stop. I laid my bike down on the grass on the side of the road. I sat down under the streetlight. It’s the first streetlight. I’ve always loved it because it’s the first and because it seems lonelier than the others. It belongs neither entirely to the town nor to the country. It bends over passersby with its broad, yellow gaze. I like the other streetlights, too, of course, but I like this one best.
I sat down at its foot and stayed there awhile doing nothing but being there, in all that yellow light. I was tired. Really tired. Tired from everything, and from this cold. All the same, I felt good in this yellow light. I love light and sun. I would like to have always lived in light and sun. I live in the marshes surrounded by streams. That’s the way it is because that’s where I was born. I would have liked so much to have been born into light and sun.
After a moment I got back up and got on my bicycle again. I had to get back to the high school. I had no idea what time it was.
I paused for a moment to decide which way to go. Ordinarily I take small, deserted roads where nobody can see me riding by, at least, nobody from the high school. My bicycle is in such poor condition, with its missing headlamp, bell, and brakes, that the police might take it away from me. I would rather not make my bike run that risk. I like it a lot, my bicycle. That’s why I don’t ever want the police to run into us.
Still, after thinking it over, I decided to take the avenues. I wanted so much to see the windows of the stores and their little blinking Christmas lights. Besides, when you’ve done everything I’d just done, in the midst of all that cold, you definitely have the right to ride through the streets of town with your bicycle. You must have that right.
I rode slowly down the avenues. The stoplights were like a game to me. It was fun. I heard my bicycle whining louder than usual. It’s always that way. My bicycle doesn’t like the town, it isn’t used to it. Poor bicycle. I feel sorry for my bike when I can tell it’s so out of its element. The bike and I, we’re only at ease when we’re all alone.
Arriving on the bridge, I got off my bike. I stepped onto the sidewalk. I knelt at the parapet and looked into the water. The lights of the streetlamps on the bridge were reflected in long trembling columns. I like to watch the lights floating on the water. It’s like the water calls to them. I often think that if I threw myself into the water, into one of those columns of light, it would make a great cluster of stars. It would be pretty.
At home, the skies in August are filled with falling stars. That was a very long time ago. When I was little.
I walked slowly. I was in no hurry to get to the high school, now that I was almost there. There was nobody out, nobody at all. With all these useless lights, this desert, this silence pierced by the little cry of the dying salamander, I felt like I was moving through a world of the dead, where preparations for a furtive celebration by ghosts were underway.
Then I hurried up, because the fear was coming back. Nothing bad could happen to me on this light-drenched bridge. But I was starting to feel afraid. I felt like the high school was retreating deep into an unknown world, into which I would never gain entry again. Thinking like that makes me start suffocating, suffocating for real.
I don’t know why, but I remembered something I’d almost forgotten. Something I hardly ever think about.
I remembered the day when we were in a meadow, my mother and me, turning the hay. I remember the brightness of that day, crazy with sunshine and the scent of dried hay, of luminous heat. Maman and I were working quietly, not saying anything, both of us with our pitchforks. I think we were happy. Now I can’t be sure.
All of a sudden, Maman stopped and screamed. I ran towards her and saw. In the hay there were chicks torn to pieces. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen that. When my father mows the hay, if he comes across a brood of chicks he keeps going all the same, and the chicks who don’t have the time to run away are crushed or cut to pieces by the blade of the mower. So we’re used to it. But that day, it had just been too beautiful.
My mother gathered up the bits and pieces of the chicks, caked with dried blood, put them in her apron and went to throw them in the stream. I remember the silence and my mother crying. I was very little. Six years old maybe. That sun, and my mother crying. It stays with me.
I don’t know what came over me then. I’m often like this. I do crazy things and afterwards don’t understand why. I was still so little.
While my mother went to the stream to throw away the torn-up chicks, I took her pitchfork and buried it under a pile of hay, I guess its tines were sticking up. I swear it wasn’t on purpose. I was just so little, and didn’t understand anything about anything.
When I saw my mother’s foot all bloody, I didn’t scream or anything. I went quietly to the stream, leaving behind my mother and her wounded foot. I went down to the water through the clusters of wild hazels, into the velvety scent of mint and the water’s blue noise. I lay down beneath the surface. The water flowed over me as if I wasn’t there.
•
No sooner had I remembered that than the high school rose before me. I could have exploded with joy, I was so happy to see it. But no.
9
THE DOOR of the high school was locked. It’s always locked. That’s because of the concierge. If the door was open, he would have nothing to do. It has to be locked.
I rang and the door opened. It opens automatically. The concierge presses a button and it opens. That’s clever, I think. The concierge’s duties are limited to watching the bell and pressing the button. Since he opens the door for everybody, you might as well leave it open, or not even have a door, it seems to me. It would be exactly the same thing. Or you could set up a bell system that automatically activates the opening of the door without the concierge having to press his button, if you’re absolutely determined to have a locked door. But then, the concierge would have nothing to do; and as long as he’s there, you’ve got to find a use for him.
In reality, the concierge at the high school plays another role. He watches and screens the people who arrive. There’s a supervisor who does that, too. You’re screened twice. The concierge really likes this part of his job. I’m sure that’s the reason he likes working at the high school, in spite of that button he has to press all the time. He watches people pass through a little window that has a glass panel in it that he can raise or lower, like at the post office counter. When the girls go by, he doesn’t look just anywhere. That is, he doesn’t look at faces, eyes or hands, the things that are important to look at. He looks at bottoms. With his fat, red, shrimp’s eyes, he slowly watches every bottom that goes by. When he talks, he talks while staring at those bottoms, too. It’s disgusting.
This time, I was lucky because it wasn’t the concierge who let me in, but his daughter. She’s older than me. I don’t like her at all, but at least she doesn’t stare at people’s bottoms.
She’s a great big yellow spider, and she trailed me so closely with her eyes that I stopped and stared back at her. I hate it when people stare at me. At that point, she fled her post. That was the right thing to do. Concierges and their families should be done away with.
Back home, we don’t need a concierge to screen people who come visit. We don’t want to see anybody. Anybody. It’s that simple. Also, we’ve worked it so nobody dares come twice to the place we live, in the middle of the marshes.
In the past, people used to come. The mailman, the mayor, and the police, if we didn’t pay our taxes.
Sometimes ordinary people too, neighbors. It was kind of amazing that they figured out how to get to us. You’ve got to cross all the bridges and find the right trails through the marshes, the woods, and the sharp wild grasses, amid bird cries, avoiding wild animals, and in summer, leeches and water snakes. Those who finally make it through all that find a dry, small, stone-ridden mound. Our place.
The dog warns us of our rare visitors. None of our dogs likes strangers, and when our dogs bark, people don’t laugh. If the stranger persists and enters the yard of the house, it’s simple. He won’t find anyone. Of course, we’re there. But he won’t see us. He can call, shout even, all he likes, with this crazy dog leaping around him, he can sense that we’re there watching him, but where are we? We’re in the straw, in the ditches, in the trees. And by that time, the stranger is getting spooked by all those eyes, and the howling dog, and hotfoots it out of there, pursued by the barking. That’s when we come out of our hiding places and gather on the path to watch him run away. If he sees us, it doesn’t matter. He’s not coming back. And if he did come back, we’d go back into hiding. Now, thanks to us, nobody dares to come our way anymore. Besides, everyone hates us.
•
I went to the end of the courtyard to park my bicycle. There were no other bikes there. The girls have parents or friends who drive them to school, or else they take the school bus. Day students have mopeds or new bicycles.
I noticed that it was starting to snow. I was glad. As long as there’s no sun, let everything be white with snow. I like that a lot.
Before knocking on the door of the supervisor’s office, I took off my dead aunt’s raincoat. I’d only thought of it at the last minute. I’d been wearing it for so long that I’d almost forgotten it was on me. As I took it off, I realized why the concierge’s daughter had stared at me with her spider’s eyes. She must have been wondering what on earth I was wearing. Ordinarily I put on my dead aunt’s raincoat at the edge of town when I’m on my way home, and that’s where I take it off when I return. It bothered me a little that the concierge’s daughter had seen me dressed like that. She takes herself for the daughter of Jesus Christ, no less. That’s hardly the case. What is for certain is that her father looks at bottoms. Of course, that isn’t her fault.
I rolled up my raincoat into a tight bundle, stuck it under my arm and tried to look nonchalant as I knocked at the door of the supervisor on duty. “Yes!” said the supervisor.
By the tone of her voice I could tell she was not in a joking mood. No supervisor is ever in a joking mood. That’s how it is. If they felt like laughing, they wouldn’t be supervisors. I walked in. She said, “Your pass?” without even raising her eyes from her book. I could have been anyone and she would have said it the same: “Your pass?”
It’s awful.
I’d completely forgotten about the pass. I had the pass, but it wasn’t signed. I tried to come up with a lie, but nothing came to me, nothing at all. Usually, lying’s pretty easy for me. It’s the same old story. When it really counts, I go blank.
So I said, “I forgot to get it signed. At home . . .”
She raised her head and cut off my improvisation. Her head looked sinister. I don’t think I could have come up with anything else. She said, “Oh! It’s you, Galla! You’ve come back?”
That was idiotic. I said, “Yes.”
That was idiotic, but so was her question. She said, “You have it, the pass?”
I said, “Yes. It’s not signed. I forgot. At home . . .”
She said, “I know. Just sign it, then sign in on the register. That’ll be fine.”
Her voice was almost kind. If I’d had more time, it would have irritated me. But I had no time. I hurried to sign, afraid she would change her mind, which would lead to more talking. I thanked her quickly and headed for the door. She added, “Hurry if you want to eat. The meal has begun.”
“Yes,” I said. “Thanks,” and I quickly shut the door. Even on ordinary occasions, I hurry away from the supervisors and professors for fear they’ll start talking. Me, I don’t want anyone to talk to me or to ask me anything. Especially not at the high school. Here, when a professor or a supervisor speaks to the pupils, it’s always to give boring advice or to ask what we’re going to be when we grow up. How are we supposed to know? It’s obvious that nobody can know that ahead of time. Or else, they pry into your home life. And that I really can’t stand. When anyone asks me how things are at home, about my parents, all those sisters of mine, and our life, I walk away without saying a word. And if I do say anything, I make up lies, adding lots of details to make them sound true. When it comes down to it, people here shouldn’t be asking me what goes on at home. What happens at home is nobody’s business. Me, I never try to find out about other people’s lives. For the professors, it’s a mania. They are determined to get you to tell them things. Afterwards, they say you’re a case for social workers. They love it when people are social cases. You can tell which girls are social cases by the fact that people say their names in a whisper. It’s automatic. It’s all the same to me. I don’t want my name to be whispered. I don’t want anyone to talk to me or to talk about me.
•
I felt glad to have gotten somewhere, someplace warm, and to be about to eat. Glad, too, that the lie about the forgotten pass had worked. When I’m happy like that, I have to do something. On my bicycle I can sing, or do zigzags. Since I couldn’t sing at the top of my lungs in the hall, or do zigzags, I tried to slide on the tiles. I gave up quickly. My rubber boots wouldn’t slide and besides, my knee hurt a lot. So I took my rolled-up raincoat and threw it into the air, saying as loudly as possible, “So much the better. So much the better.”
That didn’t mean anything, of course, except that I was happy, and it was the only thing I could think of to say. I never come up with good ideas.
The third time, my raincoat came unrolled. I stopped throwing it in the air. I remembered that my green smock was in the pocket. Before rolling up my dead aunt’s raincoat again, I took out the smock and put it on. It was so crumpled that you’d think I’d balled it up into a pellet. It was terrible. I kept it on all the same, to de-crumple it. Besides, that way it looked less dirty.
I pushed open the glass door of the dining hall. I went in. It sounded subdued. Sunday nights are always sad, and people don’t feel much like talking. And, there aren’t all that many girls.
When I went in, all the girls turned and looked at me. Immediately, silence fell everywhere. It’s always the same. They’ve never gotten used to seeing me. Me neither, I can’t get used to seeing myself, even after all this time. All my joy faded. That was too bad, because I really had been happy to be back. Only, you can’t stay happy when you’re surrounded by silent faces, when you’ve got your dead aunt’s raincoat under your arm and you’re wearing a pathetic crumpled green smock. You can’t. So I let all my joy go away. I headed toward the table that wasn’t full. At the high school, you’ve got to fill the tables, and sometimes that means you have to eat with people who take away your appetite. Me, what I would like is to eat at a table by myself, all alone, far from everyone.
I sat down. The girls said, “Good evening.”
I replied, “Good evening.”
I was about to serve myself some cauliflower when the supervisor arrived. She said, “You’ve come back?”
I said again, “Yes.”
This was starting to get on my nerves. It was idiotic.
“We’ll bring you some soup and some ham,” the supervisor said.
“Yes,” I said.
She left again and I took some cauliflower. There was a lot left. The girls don’t like cauliflower much. I started to eat without looking at anyone. I was ravenously hungry. Nobody said a word. I started to get fed up with the silence and all the staring eyes. The whole meal went by that way. I didn’t dare eat my fill. That’s how I am.
I was glad when at last everyone got up from the table. I noticed that that great big red-headed string bean
Lydia was sitting next to me, when she said, displaying all her crowded teeth: “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I said.
I spoke automatically, without taking time to think. Usually I ignore her; she never talks to me except to say mean things. But that wasn’t a mean thing, at least, I don’t think it was. What’s sure is that I was so stunned that I didn’t think before I spoke. It’s too bad.
I was the last one to leave the dining hall. I took advantage of that to take two pieces of bread, putting one in each pocket of my green smock. I like bread. I planned to eat it before I went to bed, in the bathroom. I do that when I’m very hungry.
In the hall, I saw the two supervisors, the one from the door and the one from the dining hall, talking to each other. I was afraid. Maybe the office supervisor was displeased with the signatures I’d made on the pass and on the register, and was going to tell on me. I’d signed with a swirl of spirals, the way some people do. That’s not my real signature, but I couldn’t use my real one, because I always sign my leave passes myself. The supervisor would figure that out if she compared the signatures. Maybe I would be expelled from school. I wouldn’t want that to happen for anything in the world.
I pretended not to see the supervisors as I went by. I was so afraid. When I’m that afraid, I can hardly walk, my legs get all kinds of tics and tremors. My legs are awful. The supervisors didn’t say anything to me. I hurried to join the other girls at the foot of the staircase that leads to the study hall. The study supervisor had us climb the stairs. I was at the end of the line and she was behind me. I hate it when someone’s right behind me. Just as I was about to enter the study hall like everyone else, she called out to me. Immediately my legs started twitching. I turned abruptly to the supervisor. Enough of this. After all, it wasn’t my fault that I’d signed the pass. I was going to say so, but I didn’t have time because she said, “If you’d like to go to sleep right now, you may. You look exhausted.”
