by Laura D
A young woman waves me over at last. I launch myself at her with a smile on my face, glad it will soon be over. She looks at me as if I've just made a pathetic joke and no one's laughing but me. Not really helpful for getting your spirits back up.
We come to the delicate question of my payment.
'Are you paying by cheque?'
Yes, my mother made the cheque out last week. A blank cheque. I can still hear her words: 'Now, be careful, Laura, make sure you don't lose it! Just imagine if someone found it!' I've always had a feel for money and, as soon as that cheque was in my hand, I gauged how powerful it was. I put it carefully into a wallet and put that into a drawer of my desk which locks with a key. I'm the only person who can open it and, even though I do trust my boyfriend who I live with, I'd rather take every precaution. You never know.
'Yes, by cheque.'
'So, as you don't have a grant but you do have a student payment scheme, that makes a total of 404.60 euros.'
What a ridiculous total! I hand her the cheque, trying to hide my smirk. Without a word, she stamps my papers, scribbles signs all over them, and points to the booth for student cards. The whole thing is over in two minutes.
The man in charge of cards is no more friendly than her, and practically snatches my school attendance certificate from my hand. In one mechanically regulated move, he prints my student card onto plastic, hands it to me and snatches the next certificate.
I couldn't care less now, I've got my student card at last. This is it, a new chapter of my life is beginning. I feel confident and serene, holding my future in my own two hands, on this stupid bit of plastic.
Laura D. First year of Modern Languages Spanish.
Classy.
I head back to the Métro, relieved.
Chapter 2
A Stipulation
8 September 2006
AFTER WORKING A FULL DAY at the restaurant I walk back into the apartment where I live with my boyfriend, Manu. We've being going out for a year and moved in together two months ago.
At the time I was desperately trying to solve the problem of where I could live for the start of the academic year. I had no money at all and my parents couldn't help me financially. On top of that, they don't live in V but, ever since I got my Baccalaureate results, I've known I would have to study here. Manu's been living here since he started his physics course and I was really happy to be joining him. So I started looking for an apartment, skimming through the small ads at the student welfare office to find a cheap little room. I soon realised that an actual apartment was far too expensive, not to say completely out of the question. I just wanted a roof over my head, but even that seemed out of reach. I wasn't looking for anything swanky; my budget wouldn't allow for that, anyway.
I'd come to a dead end. Because I wasn't entitled to a grant, I didn't get any help from the State, and that meant no help for accommodation either. The welfare office favoured people with grants for places in student lodgings, and my parents really couldn't put up 200 euros a month for rent. Apart from finding a job or giving up on uni, I couldn't see how to make it work. Plenty of students manage jobs at the same time as studying, but they are often the ones who fail exams or give up during the course of the year. I couldn't abandon my studies, I knew my future was at stake. Giving in now and finding work would mean drawing a line under my ambitions.
I carried on looking frantically for a miracle in the pages of free papers. At the same time I even went to hostels for the homeless to get information about them. I tried to convince myself it would be my only chance of going to uni and that, once I got there, I could try to find something else. But the thought of spending a night in one of those places made me shudder, it just seemed so degrading.
I was beginning to despair of finding an acceptable solution and one day when I was crying with frustration Manu jumped at the opportunity.
'We could live together! It would be great! Between us we could pay a reasonable rent and we'd be together the whole time!'
His eyes were shining. I liked the idea, but my financial problems stood in the way.
'Manu, look, I really can't. I haven't got any money. I've hardly got enough for a room, so a whole apartment . . .'
'You could get a part-time job, uni won't take up all that much time.'
I explained my reservations. Manu's family is comparatively well off and he doesn't always realise all the expenses I have to cover myself. To convince me I could combine my studies with paid work, Manu showed me the university site with timetables on it. I had a lot of lectures but it was workable. I was seduced by this little glimpse of the dream he was offering me.
'You see, you can do it. I'm sure you can. Go on, say yes! It would be so good to be together the whole time. And, basically, you haven't got any choice.'
It was true: I didn't really have a choice. I was so happy I jumped into his arms, and I moved into his apartment the very next day. It was complete luxury for me: not just a bedsit but a one-bedroom apartment in the centre of V. I felt like a princess in that palace! I dumped my two heavy suitcases by the door and started twirling round the apartment, making him dance with me.
My parents were relieved when they heard our solution, even though they're not very keen on Manu. They preferred this to knowing their daughter was doing some moronic job or, worse, sleeping on the streets.
All through the summer I worked in a restaurant just downstairs from our apartment so that I could at least pay for food. The little money I had left over constituted pocket money.
That's our deal: he pays the rent and the bills, and I take care of the rest, given my financial situation. In fact, although he hasn't told me, I know perfectly well that he's not actually paying the rent. His mother gives him enough to pay for everything, plus a handsome chunk of spending money, every month. I never bring the subject up; I love him too much and, as I'm living in his apartment, I think it's quite right that I should contribute to expenses as much as I can. Anyway, I make do. Sometimes when I go home I load up with whatever's in the fridge or with things my mother gives me. Through the summer it all worked perfectly: we were happy like that, cobbling together little meals for the two of us and occasionally going out for a drink with friends. Most of the time we stayed in watching TV, me nestling in his arms, him always with a joint in his mouth. I was taking my first real bite at life, with my boyfriend by my side, and everything seemed so much easier.
This evening I've come home from work exhausted having done two extra hours which I know I won't be paid for. I'm being completely exploited in this job but so far it's the only solution I've managed to find to guarantee my financial contribution. I also know that, if I do this job all through the year, I'll be tired the whole time but, for now, I don't really have an option. I'll find something else when I've got my actual timetable, and I know exactly when my lectures are.
Manu's here, in front of the TV. I say a happy, bouncy 'hello' as I sit down next to him and give him a big kiss on the mouth. Something strange happens: he doesn't return my enthusiasm.
'What's going on? Is everything OK?'
'Yes, I'm fine,' he says evasively.
'Are you sure? You don't seem . . .'
Manu turns off the TV and looks at me at last. He hesitates for a moment, then suddenly makes up his mind to speak. 'Laura, we're going to live together this year, and I want you to contribute to the rent.'
I pause for a moment, still looking him in the eye. 'Yes, I understand. But I don't make much money at the restaurant. How much do you want from me?'
'Half the rent, 300 euros. You see, I'm not going to be able to do it on my own . . .'
On his own! Liar! He knows perfectly well that I get only just that much from my waitressing and, if I gave it to him, I wouldn't have anything left. Trying to keep my courage up, I tell myself it's high time to give up waitressing and find another job.
'OK,' I say, 'but I think I'll have to find a different job.'
'Yes, I think you're r
ight. And, for the shopping, we'll take it in turns every other week, is that all right?'
Now he's asking me to do the shopping too? I can't believe it.
A lack of money always puts people in such an awkward situation that they don't dare reply. I have to agree, though: 'OK,' I say, 'whatever you say.'
I sit back down on the sofa and turn on the TV so I don't have to talk. It's the only thing I can think of to end the embarrassed silence between us. At the end of the evening I go to sleep in his arms to persuade myself this whole question of money is fine and needn't come between us.
Two days later I sign up with a telesales company for a part-time job.
Chapter 3
Term Time
17 September 2006
TIMETABLE IN HAND, I have to run so I don't miss my first lecture. I've only just left the secretaries' offices where I've signed up for my course. There I was, thinking all the admin was over and done with after that endless waiting the other day – how wrong I was!
After the administrative enrolment I had to go to the modern languages building and sign up for my course. I have only twenty hours of lectures and tutorials spread out over the week. I've been waiting impatiently for this timetable so that I can organise my life and structure it. I'll be able to carry on working as well as doing my studies. I can call the telesales company first thing tomorrow morning to go over my hours of work.
The whole process was quite speedy and they were quick to give me my timetable but I'm now late for my first commitment. A glance at the piece of paper tells me I need to get to the third floor for a lecture on Spanish civilisation. I run up the stairs, eager to learn.
I slip into the room quietly – the other students are already sitting at desks – and mumble an inaudible 'Sorry I'm late.' The lecturer flicks his eyes over me and picks his register back up.
'And you are?'
'Laura, Laura D.'
He scribbles something on the page and nods at me to sit down. I choose a chair next to another girl; there are many more girls than boys in the room, and probably in the whole year group.
The lecturer asks us to fill out a form so that he can get to know us. Another wretched form! So far it's not so different from school; they're bound to ask for one in every lesson. By the end of the week I'll be doing them in two seconds flat.
The form includes a space for 'career plans'. I ponder this question for a long time. Do I know what I really want to do? I want to go into business, yes, but in what field exactly? I've got very clear ideas about the sort of responsibilities that would suit me best but is there a recognised name, a particular job description for that? I write down all my dreams, reveal my every expectation for this stranger. Something's missing.
I chew my pencil and gaze up at the ceiling. A few minutes later I add the last few words to my inventory of dreams for the future:
Live life to the full.
Of course, this isn't the sort of reply the lecturer is expecting, if he actually is expecting anything in particular, but it's the most appropriate one for me.
The lecture begins and, with every passing minute, I thank my lucky stars for the gift of being here in this room. My mother had to shell out more than 400 euros for me to be here but she did it without a moment's hesitation, knowing full well my future depended on it – she's always wanted the best for her daughters. I'm going to learn and I'm going to do well.
The whole lecture is given in Spanish. My father is Spanish and, even though he's never spoken to me in his mother tongue, I've learned it when we've spent holidays with his family.
The lecturer hands out a sheet with a list of books we'll need for the year.
'I need you to be very conscientious. If you want to do well, you'll have to read all of them, and read them carefully, making lots of notes.'
I drink in his words. Yes, of course I'll read them all, I've always loved reading, that's no problem!
'There are some you won't find in the library. I keep asking for them but they never seem to come so you'll have to pay for them yourselves, come to some agreement to share them . . .'
Erm, that bit isn't quite so appealing. Foreign language books are always very expensive, at least fifteen euros each, and if I've got to buy several I'll never be able to cover the cost.
I look at the sheet, worried about how exhaustive it is, and grind my teeth when I see there are about ten books that need buying. I shove it into my bag quickly, not wanting it to ruin the day. There's plenty of time to think about it later.
'On another note, I won't tolerate repeated unjustified absence. After three absences I will not allow you to sit the exam in my subject.'
That's clear, to the point and precise. It's my choice if I really want to succeed or not. The ball's in my court.
The hour is soon over; I wasn't bored for a single second, not like school when I checked my watch every five minutes. I go to the next lecture and this time I see a proper amphitheatre for the first time. I'm so impressed it takes my breath away, and I'm not the only one: lots of us stop for a moment to admire the huge lecture theatre. Only the people taking the year again are quick to find a seat. For them, this is like the enrolment, they know the ropes and can afford to be laid-back.
I look around me – I already know I'm going to love learning in here. I'll be just one needle well hidden inside a haystack, no one will notice me or know me. Lecturers won't stop mid-sentence to comment on my last homework. University is a service: we are offered lectures and we are free to choose whether we attend them, free to take them as we see fit. University gives you a sense of responsibility: I know I'm just a number in amongst so many others, but right now I have to choose whether I'm going to take it on. I like feeling that I'm seen as an adult already.
I've finally got it, a true break with school. Even after just one day here I can feel everything's going to be different. My last year at school left indelible marks and made me suffer in ways I won't have to here, I'm sure of that.
I can remember one time during that last year when a history teacher publicly humiliated me in front of the whole class by having a go at me personally. He sprang a test on us and when I got a very mediocre mark he told me I was 'useless' – to which I replied by blinking slowly with utter indifference. I could handle his remarks about me perfectly well, that didn't bother me at all because I had absolutely no interest in the man and he always treated me like a little girl. The real problem was what happened next.
'No response, Laura? Well, I'm not going to congratulate you. I think you'll have to have a serious rethink about your future which is looking extremely shaky as things stand at the moment.'
Such cruelty for my first and only below-average mark! But he didn't stop at that.
'Face it, you're totally undisciplined and you don't take your schoolwork seriously. We only reap what we sow, Laura. Your parents must be very irresponsible . . .'
When I heard the word 'parents' my heart missed a beat. What right did this man have to judge my family, going on just one simple mark? I went wild instantly. The girl at the next desk tried to hold me back but it was too late, the fury was already running through my veins and before the inquisitor-teacher had time to respond I hurled the desk and everything on it to the floor. I suffer from anxiety attacks but I've never had one as bad as that day. I grabbed my bag on the hoof and ran from the room.
The next day I signed up for my Baccalaureate as an independent candidate. I couldn't stand the childish atmosphere there a minute longer so I walked out of the place once and for all. I now realise I overreacted and should have swallowed my pride, but at the time I just couldn't. My parents didn't understand at all and, at first, they thought it would be a short-lived drama but, when I stopped getting up early in the mornings and when I got the confirmation for my application as an independent candidate, they realised how serious my decision was. They still carried on waking me every morning, shaking me to get me up for school, but I didn't go. My mother begged me to start le
ssons again, she even cried.
'You're completely mad! You'll ruin everything! Laura, please, your work's too important to drop it just like this, on a whim. You won't get anywhere without your Bac. You can't just give up like this, not three months before your Bac.'
I've never admitted to my parents why I made the decision: it would have upset them too much. I just shook my head and kept saying that I would never set foot in the place again. From that moment on my father stopped talking to me. We didn't talk much anyway, but I'd just gone one step too far, I'd really disappointed him. Even now I can tell straight away when he wants to take me in his arms and tell me he loves me, but he holds back and slinks off without a word.
So for three months I worked at home, making sure I knew what happened in lessons and what books were on the syllabus. My mother gave me a hand on the quiet because my father didn't approve of my decision – and never would. In July I got a B in my Baccalaureate. I was so bloody proud that day! My mother cried, she was so happy when I rang and told her. That evening my father didn't speak any more than usual and we ate in silence because there was no question of celebrating anything whatsoever.
I can see now that I was very lucky. Was it really luck or motivation, an overriding desire to succeed? I know that sort of thing won't happen to me now, here in this amphitheatre. As a general rule, lecturers have too many students to remember all their names, to assess them individually and, therefore, to insult them. Here, you work for yourself alone.
I have several tutorials during the course of the day: translation work, language laboratory . . . After five hours of lessons I head back towards my snug little nest where my boyfriend's waiting for me. It really has been a wonderful day, how could I be happier? I've got a boyfriend who loves me and I live with him in the centre of V, I'm at uni and, although I may not have much money, I'm young and healthy. What more could I ask for?
I get into the packed carriage on the Métro. I'm going to do well this year, I know it, I can feel it, I want it.
