At other times I came with a notebook and read while pretending to stop and make notes or copy diagrams. I gave every impression that I was squeezing the maximum amount of knowledge from every volume I touched. Whenever I wanted to flee bullies, to think or to nap, I would go to the library. When the bell for class rang, I pretended not to have heard it. I stayed on till Fr. Kaanders came over, tapped me on the shoulder, then tapped on the face of his watch, at which I would start as though I had seen a ghost. I would smile at him, excuse myself, hurry to put the volumes noisily back, collect my things and rush out of the building.
In order to win the library vote, I knew that I needed more support. I targeted the literature teacher. Literature was still not more than an elevated sort of English grammar and composition lesson to many. I myself knew nothing particular about literature, and for a long time I could not even define the word. I looked it up, memorized the definition and lost it again. I knew for sure that hypocrisy would not win the day here. This man was the soberest priest I had ever met. He was also the most educated we had: a priest with a degree from a secular university was still a rarity in those days. This man was viewed with suspicion by some of his colleagues. Why would a university graduate join the priesthood instead of getting himself a good job in the city? they wondered. This lean, ascetic man had the uncanny ability to look right through you, making you feel that he knew everything about you and that lying to him was useless. It was for this reason that few boys chose him as their confessor or spiritual director. Boys disliked priests they could not effectively fool.
Since I knew that I could not fool him, I decided to take genuine interest in his subject. I asked questions and tried to make him break down this literature mystery for us. I read the books he gave us, and tried to really understand what they were about. Deep analysis was not my forte, but I did my level best and used my Longman dictionary a lot. Somebody nicknamed me Longman Dick, because he claimed that I handled that book more often than I did my penis.
In a subject treated with suspicion, my good marks started to make me stand out. However, I did not try to catch the teacher’s eye. I wanted him to notice me, to court me, to make the first move. I often finished my assignments ahead of time, but I did not hand them over, waiting for the day when they were collected. The strategy bore fruit. Although I was thrilled, I tried to remain indifferent.
Two months into my library campaign, Kaanders came over to my desk one afternoon and said, “You love books, boy. Oh boy, boy.”
“At home we have a library with very many volumes. The only toys one gets at home are books.”
“Books are unpopular here, boy, boy,” he said, surveying the shelves in their cold, straight lines. “Do you want to come and help here, boy, boy?”
“Yes, Father,” I replied, trying not to show too much excitement.
“Good, boy, boy. That will be so good, boy.”
This was the most irritating characteristic of his fading years. He called everybody “boy.” The priests in particular resented it. He would be talking to the rector and would say, “Boy … I was saying, boy.” He would go to the bursar’s office and say, “When will the books we ordered arrive, boy?” At table he would lean over to the priest in charge of the sacristy and say, “Boy, I didn’t find any wine in the side chapel where I say my private mass, boy.” Or, “Would you pass me the salt, boy?” The younger priests with egos as large as houses never got used to being called “boy.” Each time the word came, especially when there were boys around, they looked as if they wanted to cuff the old man. The innocuous look in Kaanders’ time-harassed face would both confuse and annoy them. It was not a word intended to injure, let alone annoy anyone, but why was the man so obsessed with it? One young priest attempted to correct him and bring it to his attention that he was not a boy, but the very next sentence the old man said began with the word. Everyone laughed, and the priest gave up, and boys called him Boy until he was transferred. There were a few nuns living in a small convent attached to the kitchen and the food store. Kaanders, to everyone’s amusement or despair, also called the nuns “boy” all the time.
Kaanders’ battered body bore the scars of his long battle with the polygamists of Jinja Diocese. In the midst of his running battles with paganism, polygamy and ignorance on the marshy, tsetse-fly-laden eastern shores of Lake Victoria, he had contracted the sleeping sickness. The disease and the nervous breakdown that followed had both been treated and pronounced cured, but in his dotage the tsetse fly struck back, reminding him of its residual juice in his blood. Nowadays he dozed off in mass, in class, on the toilet seat, in the library, anywhere. He could be teaching us French, and out the lights would go. We would watch him with boyish glee, his head tipped precariously forward, loose mouth open with a string of saliva in one corner, arms on his thighs, sleeping. He would wake up as suddenly as he had knocked off, and would say, “Boy, oh boy, boy, that fly … Where were we?”
During mass, especially in the course of a very long Sunday sermon, he would float off to dreamland on the wings of the fly. The sermon would end, everyone would rise and he would stay seated, chin dug into his chest, a puddle of saliva on his seat. Somebody would finally nudge him, and his lips would begin to work. Kaanders was very bad at remembering names, except those of great writers. He hardly knew the names of his fellow staff members; however, he clearly remembered the name of the boy who cleaned his office.
Amnesia made Kaanders the most popular priest with students, and most especially with truants and other chronic rule breakers. Whenever he caught somebody doing wrong, he would ask the name, which he faithfully wrote down and presented to the rector, saying, “Boy, this boy was breaking rules, oh boy, boy.” The rector would make a show of seriousness while suppressing laughter, for none of the names were known to him. Sometimes he was presented with names of army officers, famous singers or other characters the boys had come up with at the time of their apprehension. Whenever he was in the mood after a Kaanders visit, he would mimic the old man: “Oh boy, boy, I found Captain Jona, Father Adriga and Sister Pants behind the fences … Oh boy, boy, what bad things they were doing there, boy!” He would laugh, hammer his desk with his fists and tap his feet on the floor as he rocked.
On his bad days, Kaanders would totter under a hood of amnesia so strong that he would forget that he had already had his breakfast. He would return to the dining room and ask any priest he found there, “Who has used my cup, boy? Oh boy, boy, nobody has any respect anymore, boy. My cup! I have used it for the last twenty years, and somebody has used it and forgotten to wash it and replace it. Boy, oh boy!” Most priests would just look at him, shrug resignedly and let him simmer in his own quaint soups. He would pace the room back and forth, coming very close to the wall on one side and the fridge on the other, before stopping and saying, “Boy, somebody ate my cheese, too! Oh, boy!”
It was remarkable that Kaanders never forgot or confused French grades. It seemed as if his mind went out of its way to accommodate French. He spotted each and every mistake and underlined it in red ink and penalized it with half a point. He taught us the following seven French adjectives in song form, which became his nickname: “Bon mauvais méchant / grand petit joli gros.”