I sat down on a secluded bench and began to analyse the situation.
I had been imprudent and had been held up to ridicule as a result. But the episode had also forced me to face facts: I, too, had fallen for Madame la Directrice. I was not immune; in refusing to admit it I had simply been deceiving myself.
My act of self-analysis, however, failed to produce its usual salutary effect: instead of making me feel better, it made the wound fester. I would now suffer not only all the tortures that went with the disease but also the humiliation of being, in my own eyes and everyone else’s, another victim. This was too degrading a prospect to be borne.
No, I thought as I gazed at the changing colours of the leaves in the October sun, I can’t allow this; I can’t abase myself like this. I’ve got to do something. If I don’t, I’ll soon be like all the rest of them – pathetic, oblivious to all sense of shame, stooping to anything for the slightest scrap of attention.
I was eighteen years old – at least twelve years younger than she was. I was also her subordinate, and of the lowest rank. I knew that in these circumstances I could seek consolation only in words: to hope for anything more was ridiculous and would lead to agonies of embarrassment and humiliation. By ‘words’ I didn’t mean ‘literature’; I didn’t intend to behave in accordance with Shakespeare’s description of the third age of man and take to composing ‘woeful ballads’ or – God forbid – besieging her with love letters. What I had in mind was something else: a kind of game in which words acquired a plurality of meanings and also a new strength. A game in which words became more than just a means of communication; they became, in a sense, facts. In this game, language, within a certain domain, became reality: ephemeral sounds with conventional meanings became things of flesh and blood. It was to be a kind of fulfilment through words.
I had already experienced the magic power of words; I knew what they could do, how much they could achieve. Not only could they change reality, they could create it and in some cases supplant it. It was through words that I had reversed, in the offices of the ASTB, a decision that had seemed without appeal; it was through words that, later, I had subdued the rabble. Words had been the true source of that unforgettable moment after the Choral Festival: it was the magic ‘No more’, that cry of ‘What you say?’ which had transformed our relief into an ecstatic Dionysian frenzy and brought catharsis.
And weren’t words always mightier than facts, even in the underground life of school? Of the dozens of incidents engraved forever in the collective memory of our class, Roz’s notorious essay was unquestionably the one that held first place. It even beat Titch’s inspired, uncompromising siege-breaking manoeuvre, which faded somewhat over time and lost some of its sparkle.
Not without reason was the book which proclaims that all things began, and always begin, with the Word known as the Holy Book!
I decided to make use of what I had learnt. I would not rely on Providence for opportunities to exploit the magic power of words. I would create them. I would deliberately pave the way and prepare the ground.
This, like the jazz ensemble and the theatrical performance, involved a certain amount of work. But this time, creating the necessary conditions for future rapture would consist mainly in amassing concrete and detailed knowledge about Madame and her life. The matter had to be approached scientifically. No more absurd fantasies, no more guesswork or wild surmise: it was time for some serious research. And the information had to be substantial, not useless facts like the shade of her lipstick. If I was to initiate the game I was planning, I needed a good hand, with a few aces. In short, an investigation was called for.
This bold plan, if I was not to dismiss it the next morning as some ridiculous fantasy conceived in a moment of gloom, had to be quickly anchored in reality. Immediate action was required. What was there I could do at once? Of course! The telephone book! I could find out her address.
I rose and set off with a determined step for the post office.
It was unlikely that a school head wouldn’t have a home telephone. But that didn’t mean the number would be in the book. It might be ex-directory, or in someone else’s name; if the phone had been recently installed, it might not figure in the last edition, for a new phone book only came out every two or three years.
My fears turned out to have been needless. Only three people with the same surname as Madame were listed, and of these only one had a woman’s first name. Furthermore, it was Madame’s. In addition, there was an academic title after the comma: ‘MA’, it said. This seemed to settle the matter: it could only be She.
The easy, swift success of my first stab at detective work had a dual effect. It evoked a shiver of excitement and strengthened my faith in my plan, but it also brought a sense of deception. For I was now back where I had started, facing a blank wall, and this in turn revived all my doubts.
Subjecting these feelings to a thorough analysis, I concluded that they were symptoms of a subconscious fear. Instead of getting on with it, I was stalling. While I longed for the day when, armed with the necessary knowledge, I could finally begin my Great Game, I also feared it; so I looked for reasons to procrastinate, even to give up altogether.
I’ve got to overcome this, I thought; I have to play an attacking game. And before I could change my mind I set off for the address in the phone book.
The street – more precisely, the housing estate – to which it led me was roughly halfway between the school and my own house. When I got off the bus and plunged into the maze of paths that wound around the buildings, my heart beat faster. What if I ran into her? It could happen at any moment. Wouldn’t she think it odd? Of course, I might have any number of perfectly good reasons for being there, but still . . . What should I do if it happened? Utter a polite greeting and walk on? Or say something? Act surprised, make some comment, try to engage her in conversation?
None of these answers was satisfactory. A chance encounter just now would upset my plans and was definitely to be avoided. I put myself on guard. As soon as I spotted her, I decided, I would change direction or turn away; if the worst came to the worst, I could pretend to be wrapped in thought and pass by as if I hadn’t seen her. As long as I was outside this presented no problem; but what if I met her at the entrance to her building, or – even worse – on the stairs? I’d have to say something then.
Luckily, the list of tenants was displayed on the outside of the building. Having found her name, I looked at the names of her neighbours and memorised a couple of them just in case. Armed with this knowledge, and slightly relieved, I began to walk slowly towards the entrance. Now I could run into her right at the door and I had an answer ready: however surprised or suspicious she was, I could say, ‘I’m going to see Mr So-and-so,’ giving the name of one of the upstairs neighbours. ‘What’s so extraordinary about that?’
The building had four storeys; she lived on the second floor. In front of her door I was engulfed by another wave of emotion. So it was here! This door! This doorknob! This doorframe! Having made sure that there was no spyhole in the door opposite through which someone might see me, I put my ear to the cold surface of the door. Silence. No one seemed to be in. I went upstairs and checked the names on the doors there, just in case. Then I ran downstairs and outside into the courtyard, and counted the windows.
This wasn’t difficult, as all of them clearly gave onto the courtyard, and there were only three on each floor. The one nearest the staircase proved, after a glance at the clearly visible interior of the ground-floor flat, to be the kitchen window; the other two, a big one with four panes and a smaller one with two, belonged to a room, or perhaps two rooms – here the ground floor brought no enlightenment, for the curtains were drawn.
I surveyed the building opposite, identical in
