by B. TRAVEN
After a while the boys began horsing around again, trying to see which of them could stand on his head the longest. Don Gabriel was now having his breakfast.
“And now these filthy beans are only half cooked,” he said to his wife. “Damn it all, if you can’t cook, what did you marry for? Your mother’s another fine customer—has nothing and knows nothing and squanders all she gets from don Manuel. He has all my sympathy for being your father. The tortillas are cold and taste like straw. Some life this. What have I done to be mixed up with a family like yours? Your brother Sixto is nothing but a common thief. There’s not a girl safe from him either. Strike me blind if they don’t stand him up against a wall one of these days and shoot the bum.”
“Leave my family out of it, do you hear?” his wife screamed back at him. “Your family’s known far and wide. They’ve nothing in front and still less behind, and more debts than lice. I only wish I’d listened to a good mother’s advice. She warned me against you from the first. God knows how right she was. Your mother isn’t fit to sweep the floor for her. I’d better have hanged myself than had anything to do with a cur like you.” With this she sat down in a corner and began to howl.
Don Gabriel slapped the tortilla he had in his hand down on his plate in a rage and, rushing out the door, snatched up a stick and hurled it with all his might into the mob of romping boys.
“Haven’t I told you a hundred times not to shout like that? I’ll flog every one of you, and quick too!”
Some of the boys ran off to the village crying out as they went, but the more forbearing stayed where they were and squatted on the grass without making a sound, like intimidated earthworms who have forgotten which hole they crawled out of and can hope for nothing better than to be found by a blackbird and put out of their misery.
3
It was now ten o’clock. Don Gabriel spent some time in his office, just to see if anything might have turned up. Nothing did.
Nothing could possibly have turned up, for his official business at Bujvilum moved very slowly. He looked around to see if there was anything he could conceivably do, since after all, he was the secretary of the place. But look around as he might there was nothing to call for governmental activity.
Everything was exactly as he had left it the night before. There were a few papers and letters on the table, others were spiked on some nails in the mud wall. He shuffled the letters and printed orders and regulations about. He had already looked over every leaflet and scrap of paper a hundred times without bothering his head for a moment over a single thing they said. In his position he ought to have had a clerk, but he did not; nor would he have known how to employ one, for there was nothing that called for clerical activities. He could only have given him the papers to copy out in order to keep him occupied.
When he had shuffled the papers several times he placed them as they had been before, smoothed them out and aligned them accurately with the corner of the table; then he gave them a pat to ensure that they would consent to remain where he had put them.
After this, he took up the ink bottle, shook it, uncorked it, smelled it, shook it again, corked it up, and put it back in its place. Then he picked up his pen and examined the rusty point. After wiping it clean on his hair he put the pen back in the penholder beside the ink bottle.
The office contained only a table of unfinished wood, two equally unpainted upright chairs, and two long benches against the wall. He looked at the benches and regretted that there were no accused or litigants seated on them, whose lives or property he could interfere with to his own advantage.
Then he went outside and looked across toward the village, holding out his hand to feel the direction of the wind. He rounded the corner of the building; from here he could see the boys, who were cackling like a flock of geese in front of the schoolroom door. He called out from the corner, “Ahora, muchachos, escuela—time for school now, boys.” The boys immediately lined up in front of the door.
“Atención!” he commanded.
Some of the boys, who had learned their lessons on previous days, cried out shrilly, “Buenos días, señor Profesor.”
Don Gabriel spent the next half hour calling them to attention, bringing them into some semblance of order, and teaching them the jubilant “Buenos días, señor Profesor”—all of which had to be repeated each time he approached the schoolroom door to show that school had begun.
He had to put them through it every day because every day there were new arrivals who were not acquainted with the routine. Don Gabriel considered this to be the most important lesson he could give them. It cost him the least possible mental exertion, and with this slight outlay of intellect he achieved an immediate and visible result, something which could never have followed so quickly from endeavoring to hammer the alphabet into their heads.
At the same time it was something impressive to show any officials who might come along on a tour of inspection. If any such caballeros put in an appearance the whole school would jump to attention at the word of command. It might even happen that the jefe político would come in person, and the señor Jefe Político would be delighted to see how smoothly the wheels of discipline revolved. He would take it as a compliment to himself and recognize that the boys were being brought up to respect his authority. The dictator would have no need to fear that when they grew up they would be rebellious and demand their rights, if the machinery worked so well at a simple word of command. Once this was drilled into them in their youthful years, the dictator or the archbishop had only to shout “Atención!” and they would all forget that they had come to claim their rights and liberties.
The boys enjoyed springing to attention and lining up and shouting much more than sitting quietly in school. It was also a good beginning for the learning of Spanish. The boys knew only the speech of their Indian fathers and mothers, and as the Tseltals have no word for attention, this was a first introduction to the language of their country.
Don Gabriel had to explain everything first in the children’s own speech. He spoke it very badly, to say the least, and anyone less polite and tactful than Indians are would have gone into fits of laughter at every word he said. But these children were too well brought up by their parents to make a grown-up person look ridiculous, even though he stuttered and had no roof to his mouth.
When they were able to bellow “Buenos días, señor Profesor” to their teacher’s satisfaction, he taught them to say “caballero” instead of “señor Profesor.” They were taught to use that form of address whenever it was a question of anyone but their teacher. “Caballero” was right on all occasions. It could even be used in addressing clerics, about whose titles don Gabriel was not very clear.
4
Neither the schoolroom nor any other room in the cabildo had a window. There was only the door, and this, as with all the other rooms of the building, had to be left open if daylight was to be admitted.
Not a house in the villages or small towns of Mexico, whether a dwelling or a place of business or an office, has windows; the majority of houses even in towns of medium size are without windows, and there are thousands of windowless houses in the larger towns, particularly in the poor sections. At night the doors are securely bolted and people sleep in the atmosphere of a vault. After living for a time in Mexico you get so used to it that you quite forget that a house can have windows. During the day the climate enables you to leave the door open all the year through, and so windows are not missed.
The floor of the schoolroom, as of all the other rooms, was of beaten earth. The roof was of palm leaves. There was no ceiling beneath them.
The furniture consisted of a very small wooden table and a rickety chair. There were no benches or desks for the pupils, who had either to stand or to squat on the ground.
On the table was the one and only book the school possessed. Its title was What a Farmer Must Know in Order to Keep His Stock in Health. This book had presumably been left behind by a former secretary. It was in tatters a
nd must already have served as a plaything for the pupils of several secretaries. There was once another book; it was in so sorry a plight that it scarcely deserved the name now, even if half of it had not been missing. The missing pages had no doubt been given to a passing official who was not accustomed to using tufts of grass for his private needs. Its condition was all the worse because the edges of the pages that remained had been gnawed by roaches and mice. Its title was Popular Astronomy.
There was also a small bottle of congealed ink on the table, and beside it in a penholder a pen with a rusty point. To the left of these items were a few sheets of paper. The children were supplied with neither pencils nor paper.
The village schools appeared in the statistics with imposing figures of attendance so that the world should know that Mexico marched in the forefront of civilized peoples. But the schools had no benches, no desks, no pencils, no pens, ink, books, paper, and no qualified teachers. This was not mentioned in the statistics, nor did anyone require that it should be mentioned. This is how it comes about that in all spheres of human activity it is far easier to lie and deceive statistically than nonstatistically. It is only necessary to omit from your statistics whatever might lessen their effectiveness. If with all these schools and such a high percentage of attendance and after thirty years of dictatorship, 50 per cent of the people could neither read nor write, it was not the fault of the dictator. You cannot fill brains with a funnel. If the children learned nothing, the fault was theirs; and it only showed how necessary it was to maintain the dictatorship and the power of the Church in view of the incapacity of the Indians for learning anything, for acquiring knowledge, and for governing themselves.
5
Behind the table in the schoolroom two boards taken from old boxes were nailed up on the wall. Don Gabriel took a piece of chalk and wrote an A and said, “That is an A. What is it now?” The children shouted all together, “An ayee.”
Then he chalked up B and said, “That is B. What is it?”
The children shouted, “A bee.”
By the time he reached H he felt exhausted. “Now we’ll have a break. You can play outside, but don’t start beating one another or I’ll beat you with this bean stick, you cochinos. That’s what you are, pigs. What are you?”
“Cochinos,” the children shouted in chorus.
“You know that, at least,” he said.
He went into the living quarters and poured himself some brandy. Then he sought out his wife and made up with her. As they slept in the same bed and he had the night to think of, he thought it best to be reconciled while there was yet time. One ought always to be reconciled with one’s wife before the sun sets, particularly if there is no one else at one’s disposal. But it was a long time till sunset, and before a typical day was done they were to have, perhaps, four more bitter quarrels. Nevertheless, he contrived each time to make his peace again, and because the last reconciliation took place as he blew out the candle, there was no time left for a fifth quarrel, and peace was maintained until morning. War broke out again before breakfast, and so they were able to start the new day in a state of matrimonial felicity. It would be impossible to endure marriage without these daily battles, and if they were lacking, something else would have to take their place. For the life of man is attack, and of woman counterattack with artillery support from concealed positions in her rear and a constant massing of reserves.
After an hour’s break don Gabriel went back to his teaching. He began with “Atención” and the beating of two boys who were pulling each other’s hair. They ran home howling to tell their fathers.
Don Gabriel did not worry about that. His duty was merely to open a school and to keep it open. Besides, five new boys had appeared, so the loss was made up for. As three others had gone home to their huts during the break and had not returned, the number of scholars remained the same.
He pointed now to the A. “What is that?”
“An eff,” shouted the majority, while two maintained with heat that it was a D.
Don Gabriel shook his head in despair. “Wrong,” he said. “It is an A.”
“An ayee,” the boys shouted.
“What is this?” he asked, pointing to the B.
“An ayeech,” shouted some, while others said an E.
Don Gabriel’s despair deepened and he realized that a teacher’s life was no joke. “You donkeys will never learn it as long as you live. It’s useless. It would need a crowbar to get it into your Indian skulls.”
Now he wrote an I. “That is an I. Say it, all of you.”
“That is an Ieee, say it all of you,” the boys shouted with joy.
“Curse you,” he cried in a rage. “You have to say I only and nothing else.”
“Ieee,” shouted the boys.
They were all crowded around the table and don Gabriel next wrote a J on the board. At this point, one of the boys called out, “I know that. It’s a tethered goat and my father told me I had to go home now to keep an eye on the goats in case they got into the maize.”
“You’ll stay here,” don Gabriel said. The boy began to cry.
“Oh, get off with you and go to hell,” don Gabriel shouted. “But mind you’re here for school first thing in the morning or you’ll have the bean stick broken over your back.”
The boy ran out and don Gabriel said, “It is a J, but you’ll never learn it. What’s the use of my bothering with you any longer, shouting my lungs out. We’ll go on to something else. Now listen: I am a Mexican, viva Mexico, viva, arriba!”
The boys shouted it out after him and don Gabriel said, “You know that now and don’t forget it.”
The children had no idea what it meant, for don Gabriel did not bother to explain it in their own tongue. But this “viva Mexico” and “up with Mexico” gave him a new idea as to the course his instruction might take.
He had had no plan, nor the least notion of how children ought to be taught. He had merely been prepared to write the letters on the board and to give them their names. If the children remembered them, they would have learned to read; if they did not remember them, it would not have been his fault. His duty as a teacher would have been done once he had told them what the letters were called. He had not known what else might be done and at that point his capacities as a teacher would have been exhausted.
But this “viva Mexico” was an inspiration. He now saw clearly what line to take. “Listen carefully, muchachos,” he said, “I am going to sing you something and you will then sing it after me.”
He began to sing the national anthem. He sang it so badly that it might have been a fox trot, and when he got to the third line he was stuck and could get no farther. He had to be content, therefore, with singing the first two lines over and over again; and then the children had to sing them after him. They bawled them out without understanding a word, since the words were of course in Spanish.
Don Gabriel found this an admirable method for carrying out the primary object of the school, which was to teach these Indian children the language of their country. When the children had droned out the two lines a dozen times he was satisfied with the success he had achieved, although no one who had not been carefully forewarned could have said whether the boys were singing in Spanish or Hindustani.
He waited now for a new inspiration, and then it occurred to him that he might make use of the children in order to secure a better post for himself in the government service. His new idea was to teach them the oath of allegiance to the flag. He knew that no official who chanced to come along on a tour of inspection would ever go to the trouble of finding out whether the children could read or write. It would be too exhausting, and boring besides. Officials do not want to be bored. But an admirable impression would be made when he called the boys to attention if they cried out in Spanish “Good morning, caballero” and sang a line or two of the national anthem; and if in addition they recited the oath of allegiance to the flag—in Spanish, of course—the inspector would see at once that d
on Gabriel deserved promotion and was the very man for the post even of tax collector, if there happened to be a vacancy.
So don Gabriel added the oath to his curriculum. But when he began to say it he found that here too he could not get far. He was so uncertain of the second sentence that he gave it up and contented himself with teaching them the opening words and making them repeat the first two lines of the national anthem.
He was convinced that this would afford an ample demonstration of the progress the school was making. No official would ever expect to hear the oath repeated in full or want to hear every verse of the national anthem sung. On the contrary, he would be thankful to don Gabriel for sparing him the necessity of listening to the rigmarole in all its tedious length in this filthy Indian village. It would show his tact if he merely gave the official an idea of the curriculum and its successful results. He might even say, in order to avoid any suspicion of negligence, that he was merely giving a sample and that he knew that the señor Comisario’s or the señor Inspector’s time was too valuable, and that he could not expect him to listen hour after hour while the children repeated and sang all they had learned.
Don Gabriel knew what he was about. When some months later a tax inspector passed through and, in order to show an excess of zeal, included an inspection of the school in the report of his tour, don Gabriel pulled it off exactly as he had planned. The following note appeared in the inspector’s report: “Visited and inspected in an unofficial capacity the village school conducted by the local secretary, señor Gabriel Orduñez. Very promising and satisfactory in all respects. All the children speak Spanish and are well advanced in reading, writing, and history.”
This report, like all other such reports, told the truth. Statistics and reports assume great importance under a dictatorship or a despotism. They are the façade of the structure and there must not be so much as a scratch on the gilding. And nowhere are people, whether in an official or private capacity, so clever at running up façades as under a dictatorship, where everyone who wishes to live unmolested, or even to live at all, has at all costs, and whatever else he may say or do, to plaster up a stucco front in case he incurs the suspicion of not seeing eye to eye with the political regime.
