Madame

by Antoni Libera

  As she seemed eager, after this crisp conclusion, to bring the meeting to an end, there was no time for shilly-shallying. I replied that yes, actually I did have a few questions, but about something else. They concerned the joint Franco-Polish project in education: I’d heard there was already a French-language school somewhere in Warsaw, set up under the auspices of the Service Culturel. Was there any truth to this? So many contradictory rumours were flying around. And if it was true, which school was it? And how exactly was the French side involved? Was it true that the . . . the head of this school was someone sent over from France? My curiosity about this was fuelled not by any personal interest – my own school days were behind me – but by concern about my . . . about my younger brother, who, seeing how much I owe to my knowledge of French, was eager to follow in my footsteps and become as fluent as possible as quickly as possible. Unfortunately this was not feasible at his own school. So, in short, he wanted to move – if there was somewhere to move to, and if it could be managed.

  The green-eyed Ondine listened to all this with a sweet smile and nodded at the end of each sentence, as if to embolden me. (‘Oui, oui, je te comprends; you’re doing very well. Go on, dear boy, go on!’) When I’d made it to the end and stopped, she straightened herself in her chair, placed her hands demurely together in her lap and launched into her reply: C’est vrai, there was a plan to create a network of French-language schools in Poland, but organising it was a lengthy, complicated process, not yet past the initial so-called experimental phase. The problem was that the Polish Ministry of Education wanted it run exclusively by its own people – entrusted to local manpower, as it were; all it wanted from the French side was teacher training and textbooks. France, on the other hand, felt, on the basis of its experience in other countries, that such a project made sense, and could be expected to bring results, only if at least some of the teachers were French, not Polish. A compromise was sought and found: the teachers would be Polish but trained in France. Those selected – or, rather, accepted – by the French side, on the basis of language tests and proven qualifications, backed up with documents attesting to their pedagogical achievements, would be sent to France for a special training course, and after that for six months’ classroom experience in schools for foreigners. Only after that, when the proper people had been trained in the proper way, could the project go ahead. Malheureusement the aspirations of my frère cadet could not be fulfilled, for the school in question did not, as yet, exist. Only the people existed – the candidates for the posts, who were now undergoing preliminary trials in selected schools.

  When the sentence that laid bare the heart of this blessed compromise (‘the teachers would be Polish, but trained in France’) fluttered from the lips of the Green-Eyed One, my pulse quickened and a wave of heat flooded over me. It was as if, after a long sea voyage, full of doubts and fears and despair of ever reaching shore, I had finally sighted land – far away on the horizon but clear and unmistakable. As it turned out, this was merely a prelude to far more powerful emotions. For what happened when I went a step further exceeded all my expectations.

  But I musn’t anticipate. Slowly. One thing at a time.

  Still emanating concern for my fictitious frère cadet, I asked shyly whether any deadlines had been set, at least for the results of the preliminary trials and the selection of the first batch of future teachers.

  Yes, they certainly had. The training course in France was being planned for the summer, so the selection – or, rather, acceptance – of candidates would be taking place quite soon, at the end of the first quarter of the coming year. Time was needed for them to put their affairs in order and go through the lengthy procedure of obtaining passports.

  One other question: ‘language tests’ I could understand, of course, but what exactly did she mean by ‘proven qualifications, backed up by documents attesting to their pedagogical achievements’? What form were these documents supposed to take? Teaching practice? A certificate from a school governing board? A university degree? A PhD in education?

  Oh, no, nothing like that! Mainly the opinion of French experts, based on visits to the classroom during lessons, and whatever information the candidates themselves supplied about their teaching methods and results – supported, of course, with documentary evidence. She could show me the sort of thing she meant, if I was that interested.

  Swivelling gracefully in her chair, she reached up to a white shelf just above her and took down a fat, shiny file. After another 180-degree turn, she laid it open on her desk and began shuffling through its contents, a number of clear plastic folders holding papers of some kind. Here, she said, was the documentation I wanted to see: descriptions of lessons, tests, examples of compositions . . .

  It was then, when she pronounced that word, that I discovered America: for there, imprisoned in the plastic sleeve she was holding, like an insect or a dried flower pinned under glass, was my blue notebook with the essay about the stars. Attached to it with a shiny silver paper-clip was a note in Madame’s handwriting: ‘Essay by a pupil in his final year. A year and a half’s study by the intensive method.’

  I was thunderstruck. So that’s what she’d done! And on top of that it was a lie! ‘A year and a half’ of study?! It was barely three months! By an ‘intensive’ method?! It was a perfectly ordinary, common or garden method; in my case one might even call it a rather restrained method. The worst lie, however, was implicit, since my proficiency in French in fact had nothing to do with what I did at school: I’d had private lessons since I was very young, and from my childhood my parents had constantly nagged me to read French books and practise speaking the language at home. They pestered me with comments about how being less than fluent in French was a ‘shameful handicap’, ‘a sign of uncouthness’, even a ‘disgrace’. ‘In the old days,’ they’d intone, ‘every young man from a self-respecting home knew at least one language, and that was French. The fact that times have changed and that this is no longer the case is no excuse. It’s just proof of your stupidity if you try to use it as one.’

  My father would open a volume of Zygmunt Krasinski’s Collected Writings and show me a letter Krasinski had written in French to a childhood friend, a young Englishman called Henry Reeve. It was over a dozen pages long, and amounted to a lecture on Polish literature. ‘He was seventeen when he wrote that,’ my father said. ‘Would you be able to write even an ordinary letter in French?’

  Thus goaded, I would grit my teeth and return to my books. I slogged my way through dozens of rules, phrases and idioms until I had attained something approaching fluency. I also devised other strategies: for instance, I tried to write in Polish as if I were writing in French. This consisted of simplifying my thoughts and expressing them so that they could be easily translated into a foreign language. I committed to memory entire sentences in French, even whole passages of prose, whatever struck me as useful or effective-sounding, so that I might slip them airily into conversations at appropriate moments.

  This was how I had become fluent in French: through years of effort and practice. Madame’s contribution was less than negligible. And yet she could have contributed, even in the short time she had been teaching us. She could have improved my proficiency if she had wanted to. If she had paid me a little more attention, if she had been a little less cold towards me, a little less forbidding, a little less determined to be unapproachable. If she’d just talked to me – as the silver-haired Marianne, for instance, had talked to me: in a friendly, playful way, with that teasing but graceful irony. Even that would have helped. If I’d sensed that she liked me, felt even the slightest sympathy on her part, I would certainly (knowing me) have spared no pains to impress her; that in itself would have been good training and I would have made progress.

  Why didn’t she care whether I did or not? Why did she make no effort to get more – anything – out of me? After all, the ‘document attesting to pedagogical achievements’ that I had unwittingly provided was a heaven-sent opportuni
ty for her. And she had used it. And yet she’d made no effort to obtain it, let alone to improve my French to the point where she might hope for it. On the contrary, she had done her best to put me off. Was it calculated? Might she have decided that in my case this was the right approach, and would have the desired effect? Unlikely. Then why? What were her motives?

  In a fever of speculation I tried to imagine what might have happened if she had acted differently. I went through all the possible variations, as if working out the consequences of a hypothetical move my opponent might make. What if, having discovered my abilities, she had concentrated on me, taken me under her wing, perhaps even given me special ‘individual’ coaching, as the physics teacher had done for the ‘genius’ Roz Goltz? If, in short, she had singled me out as her special concern, her favourite pupil? Set above and apart from the rest in this way, the only one to be admitted into her favour, I would have given freer rein to my feelings for her; they would have been much stronger. It wasn’t hard to imagine how her attentions would have affected me: to be praised by her in public, held up as an example, and especially to be given extra work . . . in the form of conversation lessons, after school, in her office . . . I would have lost my heart to her completely. I would have done anything for her. I would have written her a dozen compositions that could attest to her ‘pedagogical achievements’. Yes – but then? How would I have felt then, discovering what I had just discovered now, but on a much greater scale? Like a deceived suitor. Betrayed, ridiculed, made a fool of – in my own eyes as well.

  Could it be that she realised this? That her coolness to me, her distance, her stand-offishness, the behaviour I interpreted as hostility – that eternal Alpine winter which prevented the coming of spring, ruthlessly killing off every defiant bud, every green thing struggling to come up through the earth, freezing them over so that they withered and died – was in fact her attempt at fair play? The result not of excessive pride but of a sense of fairness and decency – and sensitivity? Perhaps, knowing her own strength, she was reluctant to abuse it, to manipulate my feelings? And that was why, when I unexpectedly gave her something she could use to further her own ends and she used it accordingly, she limited herself, in settling the account, to a businesslike A and distanced herself even more? Perhaps what seemed like rank ingratitude was in fact a sign of honesty and responsibility?

  I tried to reconstruct the thoughts behind her actions. ‘I didn’t ask for anything,’ she might say. ‘I did nothing to exploit you. But since you offered me this tribute of your own accord, and since it happened to be something I could use, I used it. I had the right to. Were your efforts not rewarded with an A? If I bestowed it in silence, with no comment, in an atmosphere of distaste and suspicion, it was to stress that it should not be seen as a return favour, much less as encouragement to more efforts and offerings on your part . . . And another thing. You know my middle name, which not many do. And my date of birth. I wonder how – certainly not from me. I’m forced to conclude that you’ve been sniffing around, secretly gathering information. Do you deny it? No – you can’t. So don’t hold it against me if I repay you in kind.’

  ‘Is everything clear now?’ The melodious rhythm of the French question broke through my confused imaginings and returned me to my surroundings. For a moment I was bewildered, but as soon as I saw those two green eyes, studying me inquiringly, I shook myself awake and recovered my wits.

  Yes, indeed, quite clear, and I was very grateful. It was really most kind of her to have gone to this trouble. I slipped the admission card into the sleeve of my diary and rose to take my leave.

  Oh, no trouble at all. The Green-Eyed One also rose, and emerged from behind the fortress of her desk. It had been a pleasure, she assured me. She would see me out.

  For a moment I wasn’t sure whether to broach the subject, but as we descended the stairs in silence (the Green-Eyed One in front, with me half a step behind), I threw caution to the winds: in a confidential, off-the-record tone I asked, smiling, what she thought of the essays produced by these pupils subjected to the ‘intensive’ method – assuming, of course, that she had read them . . . or at least one of them.

  Well, she replied, en principe it wasn’t part of her job to read them, so officially she had no opinion. Unofficially, however, she could say that she had come across essays that were quite astounding – in their originality, their style and the richness of their vocabulary. That essai about Nostradamus, for instance, was a masterpiece. Her boss, the director of the Service, was so impressed when he read it that he couldn’t contain himself. He kept bursting into spontaneous cries of amazement and hoots of laughter, and interrupted her work every few minutes to read out selected passages. And, as she recalled, the essay was indeed très amusant et parfaitement bien écrit. One thing had stuck in her memory – that strikingly original, wonderfully perverse and funny interpretation of Aquarius – le Verseau. But then that wasn’t surprising, since Aquarius was her sign . . .

  My memory unfailingly called up the relevant passage from my composition: ‘. . . although embodied in the form of a man, Aquarius actually represents all that is female. By giving water he gives life; he watches over life’s creation. And at the same time, with the sound of splashing water, he beckons; he tempts.’

  ‘So, did it fit?’ I asked with a smile.

  ‘Peut-être . . .’ she replied mysteriously.

  ‘It could just as well have been Pisces,’ I muttered in an amused undertone, half to myself.

  She caught the remark, though. ‘Poissons? Pourquoi?’ she asked as we neared the reception desk.

  I looked into the green eyes. Are you not a siren? I thought. And aloud I said, ‘They’re next to Aquarius.’

  She laughed gracefully and shook my hand. Goodbye, charming boy, her eyes seemed to say, don’t forget me!

  On my way out I noticed the receptionist watching the scene with attention. She was smiling.

  I nodded to her politely and left.

  * * *

  Calm down, I said to myself as I went down the path through the courtyard to the main gate, trying to control the confusion of my thoughts. Not now. Get home first. Pull down the blinds, lie down, cover yourself with your old wool blanket, and then you can start examining your spoils and digesting all that’s happened. But not before. Not now. Now just take a deep breath and relax.

  I closed the gate behind me, obediently took a deep breath and turned in the direction of Alliance Square.

  ‘Just a moment, citizen!’ a stentorian male voice sounded from somewhere behind me.

  I turned.

  The moustachioed reader of Sports Weekly was emerging from his glass booth. He came towards me and halted, saluting. ‘Your documents, please.’

  I was completely taken aback. For a moment I just stood there and stared, dumbstruck. This was something I hadn’t foreseen.

  ‘I’m sorry – what’s the problem?’ I finally managed to ask.

  ‘Your documents, please,’ he repeated, as if that were explanation enough.

  ‘I’m sorry, but why? Why do you need to see them?’

  ‘I don’t have to explain myself to you. I have my reasons.’

  ‘I’d like to know what they are.’

  ‘You will. In good time. Right now your ID, please.’

  I didn’t yet have a proper ID, although I was old enough for one. I’d begrudged the time I’d have to waste on the lengthy and laborious formalities at the Militia Headquarters (the agency in charge of this administrative procedure), and I simply hadn’t bothered. So my ‘identity papers’ still consisted only of my school ID. This I had on me, but I decided that producing it in these circumstances would be unwise: it identified my school and thus opened the way to possible intervention there, which would have been fatal – especially since the school badge, a bit of red felt that bore the identifying number of my school in Roman numerals and should have been sewn on my sleeve, was patently not there, and its absence was regarded as a serious infringem
ent of the school code. I preferred not to provide firepower for my enemies.

  In order to gain time and sniff out the sergeant’s intentions, I made a show of searching for it: at first calmly (inner pockets, outer pockets), then more and more frantically (back trouser pockets), and finally with the resignation of one who knows he searches in vain. ‘Unfortunately I don’t seem to have it on me,’ I conceded in a pained voice. This didn’t seem to help matters, so I added, ‘I was wearing different clothes yesterday, and must have forgotten to transfer it.’

  ‘No excuse,’ said the sergeant phlegmatically. ‘It is the duty of each and every citizen to have his papers on him at all times.’

  ‘Oh, I quite agree,’ I said to mollify him, ‘but how can I help it if I forgot? Man is a fallible creature.’

  ‘If you have no papers or refuse to produce them when asked, you could be arrested,’ announced the sergeant, unmoved.

  ‘What for?!’