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Authors: James Scudamore
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the class.’
‘I know,’ Fabián might say. ‘I was pretty agitated myself, I can tell you.’
‘Terrible,’ I would say. ‘Well, maybe next time.’
‘Sure. One day.’
There would be a pause, and then I would say:
‘Anything could have happened in that cupboard, couldn’t it?’
‘You’re right,’ Fabián would say. ‘Anything could have happened. Anything from full penetrative sex through to a bit of harmless flirting followed by a kick in the balls.’
‘So, on that scale of possibility, what would a really unimaginative person say had happened to him in that cupboard?’
‘The unimaginative person would probably say that hefollowed Verena into the cupboard hoping to cop a feel, but that she bashed him round the head with a foolscap folder before making him carry about three tons of paper back to the classroom for her. Something like that.’
‘How unimaginative.’
‘Quite. How disappointing,’ Fabián would say.
As we had already had one version of what had happened at the Semana Santa parade, I was expecting the true story to come out in a similar fashion. What I didn’t expect was that ‘the truth’ would far outgun the story.
‘Are you going to tell me what really happened with the arm?’ I said.
‘It’s not what really happened with the arm that’s the best bit,’ he said.
And he told me how he had seen a vision of his mother looking down on him from within the glass case of the Virgin during the Easter parade.
I didn’t have a clue how I was supposed to react. In all of our two years of banter, not once had the idea of a religious experience come up. And, as I said, we had never, even remotely, touched on the subject of his mother.
I stayed silent, trying to disguise my growing unease, while he went on talking, apparently rationally, about the reasons why he thought his mother had chosen to appear to him from within the glass case.
‘I’m not sure, but I think it means that she must be trapped somewhere,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’ He looked at me with a calm smile.
‘What do I think?’
‘Yeah.’
Putting my beer down on the table, I then said something very stupid:
‘Fabián. What would the unimaginative person say had happened here?’
His eyes jabbed in my direction.
‘I’m not fucking around, you know,’ he said. ‘I really did see my mother in that crowd.’
One of the pitfalls of being Fabián’s friend was the occasional moment of panic and uncertainty as, halfway through a game, he changed the rules without telling you. I was used to it. I’d done it to others myself alongside him. But at this moment, I felt more at sea in his company than ever before.
‘I thought—’
‘You thought what? This isn’t something I would go round telling at school. I’m speaking the truth.’
‘I know, but I thought … Your mother’s dead, isn’t she?’
Fabián took a slurp of his beer and stared over at the bookshelves on the other side of Suarez’s desk. The jukebox switched records clumsily, from ‘Great Balls of Fire’ to ‘Roll Over Beethoven’.
He seemed about to say something, and then turned his head back to the beer. He finished it in a few gutsy gulps and, with his good arm, chucked the bottle at the wall. He wasn’t left-handed, but it was a powerful throw. The bottle shattered right on the beat, in time to Chuck Berry, sending shards skittering across the chequerboard floor and leaving a round, foaming blotch beside the jukebox.
‘Just believe me, will you?’ he said.
‘Okay. I believe you,’ I said.
‘If I’m going to tell you about my parents, I’m going to need to get a lot more drunk than this.’
‘Fine by me,’ I said.
A Fabián I didn’t know was dangerously near the surface. While the voyeur in me wanted to expose that person once and for all, I was conscious nonetheless of the need to tread carefully.
‘What about getting out Suarez’s shrunken head?’ saidFabián, getting up and swaggering over
‘I know,’ Fabián might say. ‘I was pretty agitated myself, I can tell you.’
‘Terrible,’ I would say. ‘Well, maybe next time.’
‘Sure. One day.’
There would be a pause, and then I would say:
‘Anything could have happened in that cupboard, couldn’t it?’
‘You’re right,’ Fabián would say. ‘Anything could have happened. Anything from full penetrative sex through to a bit of harmless flirting followed by a kick in the balls.’
‘So, on that scale of possibility, what would a really unimaginative person say had happened to him in that cupboard?’
‘The unimaginative person would probably say that hefollowed Verena into the cupboard hoping to cop a feel, but that she bashed him round the head with a foolscap folder before making him carry about three tons of paper back to the classroom for her. Something like that.’
‘How unimaginative.’
‘Quite. How disappointing,’ Fabián would say.
As we had already had one version of what had happened at the Semana Santa parade, I was expecting the true story to come out in a similar fashion. What I didn’t expect was that ‘the truth’ would far outgun the story.
‘Are you going to tell me what really happened with the arm?’ I said.
‘It’s not what really happened with the arm that’s the best bit,’ he said.
And he told me how he had seen a vision of his mother looking down on him from within the glass case of the Virgin during the Easter parade.
I didn’t have a clue how I was supposed to react. In all of our two years of banter, not once had the idea of a religious experience come up. And, as I said, we had never, even remotely, touched on the subject of his mother.
I stayed silent, trying to disguise my growing unease, while he went on talking, apparently rationally, about the reasons why he thought his mother had chosen to appear to him from within the glass case.
‘I’m not sure, but I think it means that she must be trapped somewhere,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’ He looked at me with a calm smile.
‘What do I think?’
‘Yeah.’
Putting my beer down on the table, I then said something very stupid:
‘Fabián. What would the unimaginative person say had happened here?’
His eyes jabbed in my direction.
‘I’m not fucking around, you know,’ he said. ‘I really did see my mother in that crowd.’
One of the pitfalls of being Fabián’s friend was the occasional moment of panic and uncertainty as, halfway through a game, he changed the rules without telling you. I was used to it. I’d done it to others myself alongside him. But at this moment, I felt more at sea in his company than ever before.
‘I thought—’
‘You thought what? This isn’t something I would go round telling at school. I’m speaking the truth.’
‘I know, but I thought … Your mother’s dead, isn’t she?’
Fabián took a slurp of his beer and stared over at the bookshelves on the other side of Suarez’s desk. The jukebox switched records clumsily, from ‘Great Balls of Fire’ to ‘Roll Over Beethoven’.
He seemed about to say something, and then turned his head back to the beer. He finished it in a few gutsy gulps and, with his good arm, chucked the bottle at the wall. He wasn’t left-handed, but it was a powerful throw. The bottle shattered right on the beat, in time to Chuck Berry, sending shards skittering across the chequerboard floor and leaving a round, foaming blotch beside the jukebox.
‘Just believe me, will you?’ he said.
‘Okay. I believe you,’ I said.
‘If I’m going to tell you about my parents, I’m going to need to get a lot more drunk than this.’
‘Fine by me,’ I said.
A Fabián I didn’t know was dangerously near the surface. While the voyeur in me wanted to expose that person once and for all, I was conscious nonetheless of the need to tread carefully.
‘What about getting out Suarez’s shrunken head?’ saidFabián, getting up and swaggering over
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