Read Online B004QGYWKI EBOK by Mario Vargas Llosa - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mario Vargas Llosa
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before recess was over. Watching us nervously, they were leaning against the wall next to the teachers’ lounge. Then they looked at each other. In the doorway several teachers had appeared: they too were surprised.
Gallardo came over.
“Listen!” he shouted, confused. “We still haven’t—”
“Shut up,” somebody snapped back from the rear. “Shut up, Gallardo, you queer!”
Gallardo grew pale. With long strides, with a threatening gesture, he invaded the rows. Behind his back, several students yelled, “Gallardo’s a queer!”
“Let’s march,” I said. “Let’s go round the courtyard. Seniors lead off.”
We started marching, stomping vigorously, until it hurt our feet. On the second time around—we formed a perfect rectangle, in line with the contours of the courtyard—Javier, Raygada, Leon and I started in:
“Sche-dule; sche-dule; sche-dule…”
Everybody joined in the chorus.
“Louder!” burst out the voice of someone I hated: Lou. “Shout!”
Immediately the din rose until it was deafening.
“Sche-dule; sche-dule; sche-dule…”
Cautiously, the teachers had disappeared, closing the door to the lounge behind them. When the seniors passed the corner where Teobaldo was selling fruit on a plank, he said something we didn’t catch. He moved his hands, as if cheering us on. Pig, I thought.
The shouting got stronger. But neither the rhythm of the march nor the stimulus of the shrieking were enough to hide our fear. The wait was nerve-racking. Why did he delay coming out? Still feigning courage, we repeated the chant, but they had begun to look at each other and from time to time little laughs, sharp and forced, could be heard. “I mustn’t think about anything,” I said to myself. “Not now.” By this time it was hard for me to shout: I was hoarse and my throat burned. Suddenly, almost without realizing it, I looked at the sky: I was following a buzzard that glided gently over the school, under a big, blue dome, clear and deep, lit up by a yellow disk like a blemish on one side. I lowered my head quickly.
Small and livid, Ferrufino had appeared at the end of a corridor that led out into the recess grounds. His short, bowlegged steps, like a duck’s, brought him closer, harshly breaking the silence that suddenly reigned, surprising me. (The door of the teachers’ lounge opens: a dwarfish, comic face peeps out. Estrada wants to get a look at us; he sees the principal a few steps away; he vanishes swiftly; his childish hand closes the door.) Ferrufino was facing us: he roamed wild-eyed through the groups of silenced students. The ranks had broken: some ran to the lavatories, others desperately encircled Teobaldo’s stand. Javier, Raygada, Leon and I stood motionless.
“Don’t be afraid,” I said, but nobody heard me because the principal had said at the very same time:
“Blow the whistle, Gallardo.”
Again the rows formed, this time slowly. The heat was not unbearable yet, but we were already suffering from a certain drowsiness, a kind of boredom. “They got tired,” Javier murmured. “That’s bad.” And, furious, he warned:
“Careful about talking.”
Others spread the warning.
“No,” I said. “Wait. They’ll go wild the minute Ferrufino opens his mouth.”
Several seconds of silence, of suspicious seriousness, went by before we raised our eyes, one by one, toward that little man dressed in gray. He stood there with his hands clasped over his belly, his feet together, perfectly still.
“I don’t want to know who started this commotion,” he recited. An actor: the tone of his voice, measured, smooth, the almost cordial words, his pose like a statue’s, were all carefully calculated. Could he have been rehearsing all by himself in his office? “Actions like this are a disgrace to you, to the school and to me. I’ve been very patient, too patient—mark my words—with the instigator of these disruptions, but this is the limit….”
Me or Lou? An
Gallardo came over.
“Listen!” he shouted, confused. “We still haven’t—”
“Shut up,” somebody snapped back from the rear. “Shut up, Gallardo, you queer!”
Gallardo grew pale. With long strides, with a threatening gesture, he invaded the rows. Behind his back, several students yelled, “Gallardo’s a queer!”
“Let’s march,” I said. “Let’s go round the courtyard. Seniors lead off.”
We started marching, stomping vigorously, until it hurt our feet. On the second time around—we formed a perfect rectangle, in line with the contours of the courtyard—Javier, Raygada, Leon and I started in:
“Sche-dule; sche-dule; sche-dule…”
Everybody joined in the chorus.
“Louder!” burst out the voice of someone I hated: Lou. “Shout!”
Immediately the din rose until it was deafening.
“Sche-dule; sche-dule; sche-dule…”
Cautiously, the teachers had disappeared, closing the door to the lounge behind them. When the seniors passed the corner where Teobaldo was selling fruit on a plank, he said something we didn’t catch. He moved his hands, as if cheering us on. Pig, I thought.
The shouting got stronger. But neither the rhythm of the march nor the stimulus of the shrieking were enough to hide our fear. The wait was nerve-racking. Why did he delay coming out? Still feigning courage, we repeated the chant, but they had begun to look at each other and from time to time little laughs, sharp and forced, could be heard. “I mustn’t think about anything,” I said to myself. “Not now.” By this time it was hard for me to shout: I was hoarse and my throat burned. Suddenly, almost without realizing it, I looked at the sky: I was following a buzzard that glided gently over the school, under a big, blue dome, clear and deep, lit up by a yellow disk like a blemish on one side. I lowered my head quickly.
Small and livid, Ferrufino had appeared at the end of a corridor that led out into the recess grounds. His short, bowlegged steps, like a duck’s, brought him closer, harshly breaking the silence that suddenly reigned, surprising me. (The door of the teachers’ lounge opens: a dwarfish, comic face peeps out. Estrada wants to get a look at us; he sees the principal a few steps away; he vanishes swiftly; his childish hand closes the door.) Ferrufino was facing us: he roamed wild-eyed through the groups of silenced students. The ranks had broken: some ran to the lavatories, others desperately encircled Teobaldo’s stand. Javier, Raygada, Leon and I stood motionless.
“Don’t be afraid,” I said, but nobody heard me because the principal had said at the very same time:
“Blow the whistle, Gallardo.”
Again the rows formed, this time slowly. The heat was not unbearable yet, but we were already suffering from a certain drowsiness, a kind of boredom. “They got tired,” Javier murmured. “That’s bad.” And, furious, he warned:
“Careful about talking.”
Others spread the warning.
“No,” I said. “Wait. They’ll go wild the minute Ferrufino opens his mouth.”
Several seconds of silence, of suspicious seriousness, went by before we raised our eyes, one by one, toward that little man dressed in gray. He stood there with his hands clasped over his belly, his feet together, perfectly still.
“I don’t want to know who started this commotion,” he recited. An actor: the tone of his voice, measured, smooth, the almost cordial words, his pose like a statue’s, were all carefully calculated. Could he have been rehearsing all by himself in his office? “Actions like this are a disgrace to you, to the school and to me. I’ve been very patient, too patient—mark my words—with the instigator of these disruptions, but this is the limit….”
Me or Lou? An
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