and finally say that was fine, I needn’t go on, and tell me to sit down. And then there was her suspicion of people who volunteered; that, too, had to be taken into account.
Leaving all that aside, and assuming that by some miracle Madame let me read on to the end, uninterrupted, I still had serious reservations. The rest of the class was bound to realise that something was up: over half an hour! Twenty pages instead of the usual three or four! An essay of that length couldn’t fail to arouse suspicion. And the content! All those fantastic stories, connected loosely at best with the subject; all that suspect erudition; all those transparent allusions and obvious hidden meanings – ‘young man’, ‘mature woman’, ‘virginity’, ‘initiation’; even an outsider would smell something fishy, and it certainly wouldn’t take the class long to figure out where the author was headed and what his true purpose was. Even the ones at the bottom of the class in French and the ones who never paid attention would rouse themselves from their lethargy and prick up their ears, intrigued by this reading that went on and on. And they’d probably wake up just when I got to the second half, where the layer of hints and allusions was thickest.
It was absurd to imagine that anyone would interpret this extravagant linguistic performance as an effort to improve my marks in French. Nor would it be dismissed as some bizarre flight of fancy, a laboured whim meant to dazzle the teacher and earn the gratitude of the class for taking up most of the lesson. It would be taken solely as proof that despite my ostentatious displays of indifference I, too, was in thrall to Madame; that I, too, like dozens of others, was utterly, helplessly smitten.
‘It’s not just Ashes under the desk any longer,’ they’d say. ‘Now he’s volunteering to read! Look at him, fawning on her, insinuating himself into her good graces, stooping to anything for a bit of attention!’
Awakened to this prospect, imagining the sniggers and jeers, I relinquished all thoughts of volunteering to read. Now I wouldn’t read even if I was called. I would simply refuse, explaining enigmatically that I had allowed myself to get carried away and wouldn’t like to take up the class’s precious time with my scribblings, but, of course, she could see my essay any time she liked, here it was, voilà, regardez mon cahier, j’ai écrit presque vingt pages – I’ve written almost twenty pages; but if for some reason she didn’t want my notebook, if it was too heavy, for instance, then – and here an entirely new idea came to me – then she could have a copy, a clean copy that I’d made, on just a few pages of foolscap.
Yes, that wasn’t a bad idea at all: copying it out so that I could hand the copy to Madame if need be. Suddenly it seemed the best solution; none of the others was quite so satisfactory. I abandoned my attempts to perfect my recitation, took up my pen and carefully copied the whole thing onto several sheets of cross-ruled writing paper.
But on the day of the lesson new doubts assailed me. Even if everything goes as planned, I reflected as I left the house that morning, going over it all for the hundredth time, even if I give her the copy and manage to make it look casual, almost as an afterthought, is this a good move? What will it achieve? I’ll only be revealing myself, exposing my position. It’s far too early for that – it’s the last thing I need. It’s a gambit that might cost me a great deal.
By the time I got to school the thought of any ploys with the copy could not have been further from my mind, and when the lesson began I was praying I wouldn’t be called.
Per Aspera ad Astra
Madame was in a remarkably good mood that day. She was cheerful and relaxed, and more talkative than usual; she spoke more freely, less formally. During the conversation period she strolled about among the desks, which she rarely did, stopping here and there to strike up a conversation. At one point she even permitted herself a little joke: when someone was describing how, during a terribly hot summer in the country, he’d cooled off with a plunge into a clay-pit, she observed with a smile, ‘On peut dire que tu as joui de la vie comme un loup dans un puits: one might say you had as much fun as a wolf in a well.’ Her interlocutor seemed to have missed some of the implications of this remark, for he appeared enchanted with it, agreeing happily and vigorously nodding his head.
‘And how did your essay about the stars go?’ she asked finally, proceeding to the next stage of the lesson. ‘All done? Would someone like to read theirs?’
This was unheard of. Never before had she asked for volunteers. The class was stunned, and Madame continued in a teasing tone: ‘Quoi donc? Il n’y a personne? No one wants a good mark? What’s the matter with you today?’
I felt my pulse quicken. Perhaps I should volunteer after all? In the circumstances . . . She did ask for volunteers, and no one seems very eager . . . No, definitely not. It’s out of the question.
‘Bon, alors, since there don’t seem to be any volunteers, I’ll have to pick on someone. Mademoiselle Swat, then, please.’
The plump, tapir-like Adrienne Swat heaved herself to her feet and launched, crimson-faced, into her essay. It wasn’t exactly thrilling. Indeed, it didn’t even meet the criteria for a composition; it was more of a collection of sentences strung together, like a definition, or something out of a children’s book:
‘Quand il n’y a pas de nuages, nous voyons le ciel, le soleil et la lune . . . Le ciel est bleu ou bleu pâle . . . Les étoiles sont loin . . . des millions de kilomètres d’ici.’ And so on in the same vein. Luckily it didn’t last long.
Madame did not interrupt the reading at any point, but she was displeased, and said so. ‘Je ne peux pas dire that I’m dazzled by your originality. Frankly, I expected more of you. It’s a pity. Not very satisfactory. However. It’s worth a C – at most.’ She entered the mark carefully in her book. ‘All right. Who’s next?’ She ran a manicured finger down the list of names. The nail was a polished, pale pearl. ‘Qui va me stimuler . . . qui va m’exciter? I’d like to get something out of this too . . . some pleasure . . . plaisir . . . from the fact that I’ve finally managed to teach you something.’
I don’t know about the others, but on me the effect of these words was electrifying. This was what I had meant, that day in the park when I’d sat on the bench in the afternoon sun and thought out my plan, by a game in which words acquired a plurality of meanings. Her words were meant quite innocently, spoken in good faith and intended at face value. But to me they sounded different – as if spoken in a different key. Only one element of the game was lacking: the initiative had not been mine. The words her lips had pronounced had been prompted by the circumstances – circumstances in which my role had been passive; she had not spoken them to me, or not only to me. Their value was thus diminished. Was there anything I could do to obtain more?
‘Bon, alors,’ the manicured finger halted at a name near the bottom of the list; ‘what does Mademoiselle Wanko have to offer us?’
Agnes Wanko, the daughter of a wing-commander in the air force for whom every official memorial day or anniversary was an opportunity to descend upon the school and lecture us about the defence of Poland or reminisce about the war, was the class swot, with all the characteristics typical of the breed. Respectful, ingratiating, her hand eternally raised (fingers straight, head up), she sat in the front row and kept well away from anyone and anything that could conceivably be viewed with disapproval. She could not be said to dazzle with her looks, nor was she distinguished by any eagerness to be helpful to others. She was always one of the first to arrive, spent her breaks in exemplary fashion, strolling in the corridor, always ate her sandwiches in the canteen the way you were supposed to and not, like most of the others, wherever she happened to be (even in the lavatories), and after school invariably went straight home. In short, she was a model of good behaviour; she might have been a robot instead of a human being. No loitering about, no insubordination, and,
