the only store in the village was closed too. And if I make coffee now, we won’t have any tomorrow morning.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Mr. Landzaat called back. “A glass of water is all right.” He rubbed his hands together, cupped them and blew into them. “Wow, it’s so cold,” he said.
Now, from the kitchen, I heard the rattling of bottles.
“We’ve still got…,” I heard Laura say. “Wait a minute, what’s this? Eau-de-vie. There’s still a little left. You want that? A glass of eau-de-vie?”
No,
I said in my thoughts.
Not eau-de-vie.
But Laura couldn’t hear that.
“Well, I wouldn’t say no to that!” Mr. Landzaat shouted. “I still have to drive, but one little glass couldn’t hurt.”
Then he turned to look at me—and winked. He winked, and at the same time he bared those long teeth, all the way up to the purplish gums.
I didn’t look at his face, only at his mouth and his teeth. If I had teeth like that I would keep my smiling to a minimum. In my imagination I saw Mr. Landzaat nibbling at a carrot. Then I imagined him holding an acorn between his fingers. Would he sink those teeth into the acorn right on the spot, or would he save it for the long winter?
You have two kinds of teachers. The first kind behave like adults. They want to be addressed as “sir” or “ma’am,” they don’t put up with backtalk or stupid jokes in their classroom, if you can’t behave then you can stand out in the hall for an hour, or they’ll give you a note to take to the principal’s office. In everything, they emphasize the inequality between themselves and the pupil. The only thing they ask for is respect. And usually, they get it.
The second kind of teacher is mostly scared. He lowers himself out of fear. He pulls a boy’s hair, just as a joke, he plays soccer with the kids at recess, he wears trousers and shoes that bear a distant resemblance to our own trousers and shoes; he wants, above all, to be liked. Sometimes we, the pupils, play along for a while. Mostly out of pity. We act as though we really do like the frightened teacher, we let him believe that he’s popular. Meanwhile, however, the frightened teacher has awakened our animal instincts. Animals can smell fear a mile away. Within the herd, the nice teacher is the straggler. We wait patiently for the right moment. An unguarded moment when the nice teacher stumbles or turns his back on us. Then we pounce on him collectively and tear him limb from limb.
Both the authoritarian and the frightened teacher belong to the most mediocre category of human being. The term “
high
school,” in fact, is completely misleading: there’s nothing high or mighty about it, it’s the deep rut in the middle of the road. They only make it seem like you’re being taught different things: what it really comes down to is spending six years under the yoke of the most stifling kind of mediocrity. Nowhere is the odor of mediocrity more pervasive than at a high school. It’s a smell that works its way into everything, like the stench of a pan of soup that has been bubbling on the burner too long. Someone turned down the gas and then forgot all about it.
“So, are you two surviving out here in the cold?” Mr. Landzaat asked. He was trying to sound jovial. He did his best to please, to act as though it was indeed all a thing of the past, the desperate overtures in the bicycle shed, the panting phone calls, the shadowing of Laura all the way to beneath her bedroom window.
Dead and buried,
he was trying to say.
You two have nothing to fear from me.
But he was still standing there, warming his hands at the stove. Above all, he was standing too close to our bed. He shouldn’t have come.
Before I could answer him, Laura came in carrying the bottle of eau-de-vie and three glasses. They weren’t shot glasses, they were tumblers. She slid aside the two dirty plates off of which we’d eaten our fried eggs and bacon that morning, and put the glasses on
“Don’t worry about it,” Mr. Landzaat called back. “A glass of water is all right.” He rubbed his hands together, cupped them and blew into them. “Wow, it’s so cold,” he said.
Now, from the kitchen, I heard the rattling of bottles.
“We’ve still got…,” I heard Laura say. “Wait a minute, what’s this? Eau-de-vie. There’s still a little left. You want that? A glass of eau-de-vie?”
No,
I said in my thoughts.
Not eau-de-vie.
But Laura couldn’t hear that.
“Well, I wouldn’t say no to that!” Mr. Landzaat shouted. “I still have to drive, but one little glass couldn’t hurt.”
Then he turned to look at me—and winked. He winked, and at the same time he bared those long teeth, all the way up to the purplish gums.
I didn’t look at his face, only at his mouth and his teeth. If I had teeth like that I would keep my smiling to a minimum. In my imagination I saw Mr. Landzaat nibbling at a carrot. Then I imagined him holding an acorn between his fingers. Would he sink those teeth into the acorn right on the spot, or would he save it for the long winter?
You have two kinds of teachers. The first kind behave like adults. They want to be addressed as “sir” or “ma’am,” they don’t put up with backtalk or stupid jokes in their classroom, if you can’t behave then you can stand out in the hall for an hour, or they’ll give you a note to take to the principal’s office. In everything, they emphasize the inequality between themselves and the pupil. The only thing they ask for is respect. And usually, they get it.
The second kind of teacher is mostly scared. He lowers himself out of fear. He pulls a boy’s hair, just as a joke, he plays soccer with the kids at recess, he wears trousers and shoes that bear a distant resemblance to our own trousers and shoes; he wants, above all, to be liked. Sometimes we, the pupils, play along for a while. Mostly out of pity. We act as though we really do like the frightened teacher, we let him believe that he’s popular. Meanwhile, however, the frightened teacher has awakened our animal instincts. Animals can smell fear a mile away. Within the herd, the nice teacher is the straggler. We wait patiently for the right moment. An unguarded moment when the nice teacher stumbles or turns his back on us. Then we pounce on him collectively and tear him limb from limb.
Both the authoritarian and the frightened teacher belong to the most mediocre category of human being. The term “
high
school,” in fact, is completely misleading: there’s nothing high or mighty about it, it’s the deep rut in the middle of the road. They only make it seem like you’re being taught different things: what it really comes down to is spending six years under the yoke of the most stifling kind of mediocrity. Nowhere is the odor of mediocrity more pervasive than at a high school. It’s a smell that works its way into everything, like the stench of a pan of soup that has been bubbling on the burner too long. Someone turned down the gas and then forgot all about it.
“So, are you two surviving out here in the cold?” Mr. Landzaat asked. He was trying to sound jovial. He did his best to please, to act as though it was indeed all a thing of the past, the desperate overtures in the bicycle shed, the panting phone calls, the shadowing of Laura all the way to beneath her bedroom window.
Dead and buried,
he was trying to say.
You two have nothing to fear from me.
But he was still standing there, warming his hands at the stove. Above all, he was standing too close to our bed. He shouldn’t have come.
Before I could answer him, Laura came in carrying the bottle of eau-de-vie and three glasses. They weren’t shot glasses, they were tumblers. She slid aside the two dirty plates off of which we’d eaten our fried eggs and bacon that morning, and put the glasses on
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