Madame

by Antoni Libera

  When I reached the first of the quotations from Faust I saw there were still another five minutes to go. Not good: too long. I paused for a moment, and on the words, ‘My own attitude towards astrology . . .’ slowed down even more.

  When I had plodded my way past the words ‘I was born in September. On the tenth of September, to be precise. Which makes me a Virgo,’ Madame could bear it no longer and demanded impatiently, ‘Ne pourrais-tu pas faire un peu plus vite?!’

  Faster? Dear God! When I’d been searching for ways of provoking her into saying things that sounded ambiguous or suggestive, I hadn’t dreamed I would be granted a morsel as tasty as this. I was stunned.

  ‘Plus vite?’ I asked softly, with an abstracted air: I wanted to hear her say it again.

  ‘Oui, plus vite, bien plus vite!’ she said emphatically, ‘if you don’t want me to fall asleep.’

  And what if I do, it occurred to me to reply – but of course I didn’t. Instead, in a more considered move, I shrugged and agreed. ‘Bon, j’essaierai, I’ll try,’ and then, just for fun, I added, ‘but it might be risky.’

  ‘Oh, stop all this clowning around and get on with it, please,’ she snapped, drumming an irritated tattoo on the desk with her fingers, and rose from her chair.

  Only two or three minutes now remained. In accordance with Madame’s wishes, I read faster. Another six paragraphs went by, and then at last I heard the bell. It sounded just as I was reading out the words ‘We must start with the myth of Virgo and Aquarius.’

  I raised my eyes from the text and lowered my notebook, implying by gesture and expression my complete powerlessness in the face of these circumstances. I’ve done my best, it’s not my fault, there’s nothing I can do about it.

  ‘Combien il y en a encore?’ asked Madame coolly, her tone implying that she was prepared to sit there for the whole break if necessary, regardless of the bell.

  I pretended to make a rough count of the pages. ‘Oh, quite a bit, quite a bit,’ I said with false concern. ‘I wouldn’t get through it even if I went on reading until the end of break, I’m afraid.’

  And then another unexpected thing occurred. Madame came up to me, swivelled my notebook around the other way and began to turn over the pages one by one. On the last page, with Margaret’s lament and the final sentence (‘I long for that victory with my Aquarius’), she paused.

  ‘Bon,’ she said finally, ‘on verra ce que tu as écrit: we’ll see what you’ve written.’ And she went, taking my notebook with her.

  What Then? What Then, My Lad?

  I was exhausted – drained, dazed and on edge, my nerves jangling, as if I’d just finished some important, difficult exam. So much had happened! First Roz’s astonishing outburst, then the mess with Agnes Wanko, then, most important, my duel with Madame. And then being called on to read, and finally, as if that were not enough, having my notebook confiscated. It was a lot for one lesson.

  The seizure of my notebook was unprecedented. Madame never took away our notebooks, even for routine inspections, let alone for a special inspection like this, and so selective! Something must have aroused her suspicions, but I couldn’t pinpoint what it might be. She hadn’t raised an eyebrow at the subtitle with her date of birth; but then she had been bored, or at least had succeeded in giving that impression. And later, when she was standing over me leafing through my notebook, her face had expressed nothing but amused surprise at how much I had written. There was the moment when she had paused for a longer look at that final, crucial page, where her name appeared woven into the last sentence – but even then it was no more than a slightly prolonged look, not a definite reaction.

  When I got home I shut myself in my room and lay down on the bed, hoping for sleep. But I couldn’t switch off; my head was still spinning with the day’s events. Obsessively I went over every detail in my mind. For instance, Madame’s attack on Roz after his bitter remark that the best people in Poland ‘weren’t really Polish’ or ‘got the hell out’. I ran and re-ran this episode in my mind, examining it as if I were inspecting a reel of film, back and forth, frame by frame, and the more I did so the more certain I was that when Madame heard those words her angry features had contorted, just for an instant, in a kind of involuntary grimace or spasm. Something had tugged at the nerves and muscles of her face. Strange. I couldn’t explain it. What was it that had stung so much? And why that in particular, and none of his other remarks? Why hadn’t she put Roz in his place long before then?

  Or the moment when she had asked me to read faster . . . But now I was no longer thinking of her suggestive phrase – ‘Ne pourrais-tu pas faire un peu plus vite? Can’t you go a little bit faster’ – and its possible interpretations or the exchange that followed. I was wondering whether she had hurried me on because she really was irritated and bored by my plodding delivery or because she wanted to hear how it went on – because the subtitle I had hit upon at the last minute had aroused her curiosity. After all, people do tend to notice their date of birth. And in that context you could hardly fail to be intrigued: ‘mystery’, ‘enigma’ – hard to believe that she had been entirely uninterested. The fact that she had shown no curiosity, had remained her impassive self, meant nothing: that was just how she was. Yes, that must have been it: she had hurried me on and then taken my notebook because she had sensed something else going on and wanted to find out what it was.

  Then it occurred to me that she might by now have read it, or perhaps was actually reading it at that very moment. I leapt up, hunted down my satchel, which I had left lying about somewhere in the hall, and took out my copy of the essay – the clean copy I had written out on sheets of lined writing paper. Back in my room, I flung myself back on the bed, this time half lying, half sitting, and once again began to read it through, slowly and carefully, trying to see it through Madame’s eyes.

  At what point had she caught on to my subtle game? When had she realised what I was doing and why? And what did she think of it? Did she believe any of my nonsense? Did she even believe that such myths and legends, and such interpretations, existed? Or did they strike her immediately as transparent inventions? And if she knew it was all pure fantasy, if she had seen through my plan and discovered my true intentions, what was her response? Anger? Amusement? Scorn? Or perhaps respect, after all? Perhaps she was even a little touched? Here I had been set a simple essay to practise French composition, and I had produced – this!

  It’s hard to believe he went to all this trouble, she might think. Good heavens, what a romantic! He clearly didn’t do it just to get good marks or to show off – he didn’t volunteer, he didn’t draw attention to himself: he just happened to be called on. Well, well – he must adore me.

  On the other hand, she might be thinking more along the following lines: What a sly customer! Sly and untrustworthy, and too clever by half. All that clever rhetoric, all those erudite speeches, and an answer to everything. On top of that he makes suggestive remarks – flirts with me! But most of all, how does he know?! Where did he get the information? Did he dig it up himself? Did he spy on me? Or did he get it from someone else, steal it from somewhere? How dare he do such a thing, how dare he! And then to boast about it! The impudence! Insolent creep!

  I had a feeling the second reaction was the more likely one.

  In any event, I thought, putting aside the copy and closing my eyes, it has to end somehow . . . Yes, but how? Will she give me back my notebook without a word, without comment or correction, and pretend that she hasn’t read it or didn’t find it interesting? That she took it because I’d provoked her and because she was angry anyway, but later calmed down and after that just forgot about it? Oh, it simply went out of my mind – so many things to think about! Here it is, you can have it back, let’s forget about it, pretend it didn’t happen.

  But there was another, much worse possibility:

  She comes into the classroom. She puts my notebook on the edge of her desk, very deliberately, to make it clear that at the appropriate
moment it will become the object of a spectacular trial, and begins the lesson. Conversation. Exercises. She appears not to notice me. Finally, a quarter of an hour before the bell, she makes her move. She reaches for the corpus delicti, opens it and begins to read. She picks out the juiciest bits and reads them aloud, torn out of context. And laughs at them, makes fun of me, pours out bucketfuls of scorn. To make me forever abandon the thought of flirting.

  ‘This,’ she thunders from behind her desk, ‘this is the true face of our great thinker – our philosopher, our poet and God knows what else! Superstition. Obscurantism. The dark ages. This is the kind of thing he really likes, this is what he secretly admires. Yes, he can talk, he can go on for hours, but what good is it when he talks such rubbish? I’ve never seen such nonsense. Woman – initiated! Man – eternally a virgin! A virgin is really a young man! A man is really a woman! What other profound truths does our venerable guru have to tell us? What other wisdom, what depths of knowledge will he reveal? Perhaps he’ll say he’s not really a boy but a timid young girl . . .’

  Well, perhaps she wouldn’t go that far, but the thought of even a milder version froze my blood. Hoping to chase away this nightmarish vision, I gave myself up to daydreams.

  There’s no reason it should end so badly, I thought, no reason for her to be so cruel. After all, what did my crime amount to? It was only a joke. But how inspired, how original, how subtly and gracefully done! She had no grounds for feeling offended or thinking she’d been made a fool of. On the contrary, she should be flattered – both as a teacher and as a person. So much effort! And such writing! So why shouldn’t she respond quite differently? Like this, for instance: She comes in. She begins the lesson. She doesn’t give me back my notebook, doesn’t even mention my essay. But after class – when everyone is leaving the room, say – she stops beside me for a moment and says, as if she’d just remembered something, ‘Ah, oui, ton cahier! Your notebook. Viens le chercher dans mon bureau. Après les cours, à deux heures. Come and see me after school, at two.’

  And when I present myself at her office, she reaches into her desk for the essay, but then, instead of handing it to me with her usual businesslike ‘voilà’ and leaving it at that, she opens it and leafs through it again. Then she turns to me. ‘So you say, do you,’ a teasing smile on her lips and in her eyes, ‘that Aquarius is written in your stars? That you long for the victory with your Aquarius? Have you ever met anyone born under that beautiful sign? Apart, of course, from Mozart, Mendelssohn and Schubert?’

  How was such a question to be answered?

  ‘Why don’t you answer? Have you nothing to say? First you do your best to arouse one’s curiosity, and then you’re as silent as the Sphinx. Well? Have you? Met an Aquarius?’

  ‘If I’m not mistaken, Roz Goltz is an Aquarius.’

  Not bad. What would it achieve? She might respond like this: ‘So? Is he really the one your soul longs for? Your ideal, your other half?’ Her voice vibrates with feigned interest. ‘I can see all too well that you want to endear yourself to him. But does he see it, can he appreciate it? Or is he deaf to it?’

  I could then say, ‘I don’t think so. I saw him applauding me recently, when I was criticising the essay that Agnes –’

  Whereupon she should stop me and say, ‘No, you don’t understand, that isn’t what I mean. I mean, are you certain that the one your soul longs for will come towards you? That he’ll return your feelings or even respond to them? What if he doesn’t? What if it turns out that he isn’t, after all, the Schubert who will write the music to your virgin’s song? What then? What then, my lad?’

  On this last question she would look me in the eye. And I would say, ‘That, of course, would be painful, and rather a pity. On the other hand, it might be a blessing. For happiness’ – and here I could neatly insert a quotation from a story by Thomas Mann – ‘happiness lies not in being loved; that merely gratifies one’s vanity, and is mingled with disgust. Happiness lies in loving, and perhaps snatching brief, illusory moments of closeness to the beloved object . . .’

  Yes, such an exchange in the seclusion of her office would be a beautiful thing. It would be a kind of fulfilment – at least within the small area of hopes and dreams connected with my essay.

  I need hardly add that not the faintest shadow of such an eventuality was cast within the cave of our school reality. Nor were any of the other scenarios I’d imagined played out. The whole affair ended with a whimper, blandly and unexcitingly – and yet at the same time unexpectedly. One might say it didn’t end at all, or ended only because it didn’t go on, like a game abandoned by the players.

  For Madame never alluded to the subject again. She gave me no mark, she made no comment, she said not a single word about my essay. Moreover, she failed to return my notebook. She simply did not give it back. She gave no reason. She simply kept it and went on as usual, behaving as if nothing had happened.

  Why did I allow it? Why did I not insist on an explanation, at least on the return of my property?

  When she failed to return the notebook at our next lesson with her, I thought it odd, but to tell the truth I preferred to let sleeping dogs lie. Besides, I had decided to adopt a strategy of provocative passivity: when she dictated something or told us to write something down, I’d simply sit there, motionless and impassive, staring at her insistently and ready to shoot out the challenge: ‘Mais je n’ai pas de cahier, vous ne me l’avez pas rendu. I’ve got nothing to write on.’ I got the impression she was trying to avoid my eye. In any event, she ignored my mute display and said nothing. No reaction. And later, in the lessons that followed – but let us not run on ahead. For before the next lesson I met Dr Freddy Monten at his father’s house, and this meeting made me see everything from a different perspective.

  THREE

  What is the Meaning of the Word ‘Philology’?

  It was exactly five o’clock when I pressed the white porcelain knob of the pre-war bell in its decorative surround recessed in the right frame of the door. The door was opened by Constant, in his usual tweed jacket with leather elbow-patches, a pale blue shirt, a small, elegant red-spotted bow tie, dark-green trousers of good thick corduroy and a leather belt with a chrome buckle. On his feet he wore a pair of highly polished brown lace-ups, neatly tied. The left lapel of his jacket bore the purple satin rosebud of the Légion d’honneur.

  ‘Swiss punctuality,’ he observed, looking at his watch (a gold Longines).

  ‘I’m told it’s not done to be too punctual,’ I objected, sparing a melancholy thought for the poor Ruhla. ‘Apparently the proper thing is to be a few minutes late.’

  ‘That depends,’ said Constant, ‘on where you’re going and why. If it’s a party of some kind, then yes, you might indeed arrive a little late. But if you’re going to see someone you’ve already had occasion to visit, especially on business, then punctuality is nothing to be ashamed of. On the contrary, it’s a sign of the best habits.’

  From the sitting-room to the right a slim man with a smooth and gloomy face slowly emerged. His hair was brushed flat, with a visible parting, and beneath his shirt collar he wore a carefully tied cravat of wine-coloured silk.

  ‘And here is your expert,’ said Constant. ‘The Professor. Freddy, that is. Let me introduce you.’

  Freddy approached and, piercing me with an intense look, clasped my hand firmly. ‘How verrry nice to meet you,’ he said in a melodious voice. His rs were guttural, rolled in his throat the French way.

  ‘How do you do. Good evening.’ I shook his hand, a delicate hand with long, agile fingers.

  So that’s what he’s like, I thought, searching for a resemblance to Constant but not seeing one. An overbred fogey? A spoilt dandy? A blasé neurotic? What had he been like ten years ago, when he’d studied with Madame?

  ‘Let’s go in here,’ commanded Constant, turning right into the room from which Freddy had just emerged.

  The curtains on the tall windows, which gave onto the courtyar
d, were already drawn, and the interior of the room was dim. The gloom was dispelled only by a faint yellowish light that came from two small bracket-lamps on the wall above the two armchairs. Between the armchairs stood a low bow-legged table.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Constant, indicating the armchair on the right, while he himself sank comfortably into the other. Freddy, meanwhile, had vanished silently into the kitchen. ‘How are your parents? Everything all right?’ He crossed his legs, revealing dark plum-coloured socks, smooth over his calves.

  ‘They’re fine, thank you,’ I said with a polite smile and a slight inclination of the head, conveying that I appreciated his question not merely as the usual gesture of courtesy but as a sign of his loyalty to me: he had kept my request to himself, as I’d asked.

  ‘Freddy knows all about it,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry, I didn’t give him any instructions. I was a completely neutral, entirely loyal intermediary. I simply told him that you’re about to finish school, are thinking of Romance languages as one of your options, and would like some advice.’

  ‘Thank you, I appreciate it. And did you happen to mention, by any chance, that I’d also be grateful for some stories from his own days as a student?’

  ‘No, I didn’t mention that.’

  Damn, I thought, clenching my teeth. With a hint of regret I said, ‘Oh . . . that’s too bad. It’s important to me,’ and, thinking that there might still be time to accomplish something before Freddy returned from the kitchen, began to elaborate on the theme. ‘You’ve known me for a long time, and you know how much importance I attach to tradition – to an awareness of what came before, as a point of reference for the present. In fact, to some extent you’re responsible for it. After all,’ I said, with a note of teasing defiance, ‘you’re the one who really awoke in me this tendency to be always . . . testing things against the past.’