I smiled and ignored the empty feeling in the pit of my stomach, as if a piece of flesh or inner organ had been torn from me. I couldn’t articulate it, but I felt that large lady had no right to interfere in my private life, while at the same time I thought she was right, that I ate very badly in the factory town, Mother’s sawdusty gruel, her potatoes and stinking greens with a knob of tasteless sausage, black maize bread, onion omelettes, and rabbit legs on the occasional special Sunday…but steak, never.
“The Manubens…” continued the teacher in a strangely gentle voice, as if choosing his words carefully, “own the farmhouse where your grandparents live…do you know them at all well?”
“They’re friends of my uncle and aunt…and Grandmother Mercè,” I replied hesitantly, unable to imagine where my teacher wanted to take me. “They’ve sometimes visited the farmhouse to see them.”
“Come a bit nearer,” he told me in a friendly tone I’d never heard before, because he always seemed to speak in a deadpan way as if giving out orders; now he wasn’t issuing an order but an invitation.
I shuffled closer to his little platform and stopped in front of the table, not daring to rest my hands, let alone my elbows on top. The teacher moved my chair closer and bent over me, his arms folded on the table.
“Listen,” he said. ”I’m now going to talk about things you may not understand. I mean politics, laws, the world of adults, the business of life…”
He looked me straight in the eyes to see if I grasped what he was saying or to check on the effect his words were having on me, words I thought were boring, repetitious commonplaces of very little interest.
“The most important thing for a man is freedom,” he continued. “Most wars and revolutions have been fought in the name of justice and freedom… But it’s not wars I want to talk to you about. I simply want to say that the Manubens are taking an interest in you, in your studies, in your life and your future.”
The teacher stared at me keen to make me grasp what he was saying, but I couldn’t imagine the agenda hidden behind his words. As far as I was concerned, the Manubens treated me pleasantly enough, Mother had instructed me to arouse the pity of the rich and of factory owners, and to behave as if I was a victim of the circumstances of the war, to weave a saccharine web of feelings of compassion and commiseration whenever they stopped to speak to us and gaze down on us as if we were relics from the war and examples of the consequences of the envy of those who’d revolted, so I wasn’t at all surprised that the Manubens should take an interest in my schooling or in my life on the farm. The rich had lots of time to kill, Mother would say, and had different obligations to the poor, particularly the need to preserve their world so it could act as a model to the poor who aspired to draw close, because if there wasn’t a mirror of a perfect world which they could look into and aspire to, in which other direction might the aspirations of the poor lean?
“They have asked me, if the situation arises,” continued the teacher more spiritedly, “whether you would agree to them taking charge of your schooling, watching over the progress you make, ensuring you have everything you need…so you can go on to study at university.”
Now I looked at him, intrigued. I felt a stab of fear somewhere in my chest and a pit in my stomach, though I couldn’t identify the cause, nor could my brain pinpoint any real danger.
“It looks as if your father’s cause won’t prosper,” said the teacher, his voice faltering, “well, you know, a reprieve might come at the last minute — that has happened in other cases — but if it doesn’t, what we don’t want to happen, might very well come to pass.”
He lowered his eyes so as to avoid mine. I thought of Mother’s long conversations with Aunt Ció—how was it they’d not told me anything? Was what they called the sentence, the appeal against the sentence or the execution of the sentence really so imminent?
Was that why they both whimpered in the middle of their conversations as if their sobs were contagious? Was that why they looked down and shut their eyes as if they were privy to a horrible scenario? Was that why they hugged as if they’d not seen each other for ages or wouldn’t be meeting up again for months or years, a long time before they actually said goodbye…?
“The Manubens don’t have any children and they are looking for someone to adopt…”
The teacher twisted his neck slightly and his eyes softened as if he wanted to make what he was saying more palatable. However, I couldn’t get my head round what he was saying. It was like the farewell conversations between Mother and Aunt Ció, I was used to being left out, to them not expecting me to react to whatever they were saying, and now was perhaps the first time I was being spoken to in person about a serious, important matter, and I really didn’t know how to take it. I couldn’t decide if it was a proposal or a possibility, fact or fantasy.
“I don’t think they’ve spoken to your mother as yet. But I’m sure they have talked to your uncle and aunt, and if they know what the Manubens are intending, you can be assured your mother is in the know too. They must think that, if things turn out badly, she’d be able to cope better by herself… that is, without you.” said the teacher, immediately adding, possibly to soften the impact of his words: “Oh, don’t think I’m speaking on behalf of anyone! These are simply my own reflections, ideas prompted by a visit of the Manubens to express an interest in your schooling, your behaviour… I felt I should tell you, that you should be aware, that you ought to be ready if the situation arises, so you aren’t taken by surprise. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I don’t know,” I replied like a robot, the truth is I didn’t know what to think. Quite unconsciously, I noticed I was spontaneously smiling at the teacher, as if I owed him something, and I was really annoyed at myself for such knee-jerk reaction.
“I spoke about freedom at the beginning of this conversation because you should consider what you can gain and what you can lose in this situation. They’ll tell you, if they haven’t already, that you’ll now be the man in the family and that everything that may happen will make you mature very quickly. Don’t take any notice. What you must think through is whether you want to continue with your schooling or want to stay at home and work like the other boys, in a factory or on the land. That is the only genuine decision you have to take. If you like studying and want to go to university, this is a good opportunity.” He paused and added: “You will find the way to keep your freedom.”
He cleared his throat and continued: “I mean there are lots of ways to do what you want while at the same time pleasing those who are helping you out. You must be clear about the extent you can please others without curtailing your own freedom, the things you don’t want to share with anyone.”
A noise in the playground made us both look round and out of the window. Quirze, Oak-Leaf and Cry-Baby hadn’t followed the teacher’s advice and were running and shouting at each other on the gravel.
“They’re waiting for you,” said the teacher. “I won’t keep you any longer. You think about what I’ve said, when you have a moment of peace and quiet, just in case things don’t turn out as we’d like them to. Be brave. You can get over this. I too lost my parents when I was very young and now I regret not putting up more of a fight to do what I wanted to do rather than going on to do what I do now. Fight and don’t let anything get in your way.”