Schooling (6 page)

Yes there are questions and strangers will ask them of you in public spaces. You will aspire to beauty, they will march up with a coat folded overarm demanding to know about happiness.

Well, are you, Catrine?

Through the ears of the cow, she watched Sophie lean back on her palms . . . Not for Christmas, no.

I would like to go someday.

It’s not what you think. Hot and oranges, oil wells.

I know . . . Sophie stopped drumming her heels . . . I hate England I hate. All this.

All what?

Green. Give me a desert. Enough of Shakespeare. You’d think the man was God.

Catrine’s cow began to shift, she touched its bristly hide. I like the desert because it is clean. What did Lawrence mean. Sand is less confusing than shrubbery.

You’d better get off, she wants to stand . . . Sophie slid down her cow’s stomach . . . Enough of Monstead, old Betts trying to keep the tragedies straight.

He likes you.

He likes Madame Araigny. We’re all exactly the same to Betts . . . Sophie slalomed mines of hardened cowshit . . . Year after year, we’re simply different heights, different degrees of poor eyesight.

They made their way across the field, it was after five, trees began to lose their outline.

Something happened to him.

Damn . . . Sophie struggled with the metal latch on a gate . . . What are you talking about?

Betts. Why is he always writing in that notebook? What’s he scribbling?

Catrine . . . Sophie looked up from the gate . . . You think too much.

Into the next gallery.

The first guide, wattled, beet-red, stands before a scene of dead animals . . . Decay . . . he whispers . . . You see it in the decadence of the brushstroke, the brutal application, the shock of color.

Another ocean. A girl, bonnet. Valley. Dark as Gilbert’s scene. His democratic painting. Amsterdam, he said. Or was it Denmark. In Portland, neither sky nor land was favored one over the other, no God-driven shafts of sunlight or dappled elk, just the rotting passage of time. The day was all wrong, they missed one train, Father failed to meet them. Mother’s voice filled the museum as if she were cursing

The rotting passage of time.

They were in Portland to consult a specialist. She was a child then, a believer in daytrips for art. Mother said, Decay can be beautiful, you must forever question your assumption of beauty. No. Mother said, I like to work at a painting. Loudly. Frightening Catrine that she might suddenly blaspheme the lesser Impressionists or mock a bystander’s interest in Wyeth. But Mother quietened. They went for lunch as if they were old friends not related, to a French restaurant with no prices and animated snails on one wall. She was allowed small sips of Mother’s wine and somewhere near dessert, before, it was before dessert because right afterwards the crème caramel appeared, but before dessert Mother slapped her on the face, hard. Once. Then turning to the waiter, who was setting down dessert, she informed him that crème caramel was the hallmark of inferiority. She had always led Catrine to believe the hallmark of inferiority is lying but it was crème caramel the entire time. The waiter retreated, she looked out the leaded window at one of the oldest buildings in Portland. It had once been a hotel. A dog stood uncertainly in the middle of the street. She didn’t raise a hand to her cheek. Outside, a man gripped a baguette. They had never hit her. Mother paid the bill. Mother finished the dregs. Mother had slapped her because Mother was dying.

Stewed tea with Blackened Banana. Across the museum café, the ting of dropped silver. School next week. Return without a house. The chair presses a mondrian into the back of her legs. She drains her tea.

Returning the cup weaving the stark tables past the woman pushing scone crumbs with the edge of her map past Soloman scrubbing newsprint from his fingertips through the swing door up the stairs past the grave guard good morning through the Romans earthenware dominoes Greeks one grand gallery oils second one with red walls sketches last corridor bleached with light. Sculpture Court.

Rodin’s hand. Two lovers entwined. Bashful woman on a rock, hands strategically planted, ohmygoodness. Cousin of Gilbert’s blue muse. Naked figure of man throwing plate. Girl kneeling for a better view. Man completely naked. Girl a step closer. Light cue and.

Here’s a painting children love. Four ruddy schoolboys posed against a swampy backdrop. Flash shoe difficult to.
Hurry the fuck up,
Yank
. Mutiny of the odalisques. Hold on. Struggling with the F-stop as the boys marble with the cold, ruining her composition.
Yank hurry
the—suddenly the boys yelp, stumble and scamper away.

She whirls around, letting the camera fall to her side.

A figure stands silhouetted against School House, arms akimbo. Appalled.

You, Evans? You?

Interruption. Trouble. Two days into term two. So this is how it will be. Trouble in the form of Mr. Betts, he of English inflamed with French, the married denying thinning blonde man who, when staring into his Shakespearean ether, sees only Madame Araigny’s expressive fingers which, for ambiguous reasons, number only neuf. Trouble is courage taken after months of
Mr. Betts are you alright sir you look a bit
peaky shall I fetch Matron?
A Comedy of Errors as the English master, spying the object of his philandering thoughts on so many lyric afternoons, four emotive fingers of a left hand in midbring of coffee cup to gentle gallic lips, stiffened his resolve, strode across the staff room and troubled the Widow Araigny for an afternoon stroll. A choice made to forsake the usual path in favor of the pastoral route by the old swimming pool. So.

When trouble interrupts on that flat January horizon it does so in the besotted form of an amateur botanist looking up from nine adorable French fingers to a scene—

Right out of de Sade . . . Mr. Betts fusty strides . . . Indecent. Almost, Headmaster I don’t even like to but . . . hesitant but not at all to mention . . . Pornographic I could say.

Yes . . . Cyclops, doubtful . . . That will do I think.

Camera in her lap, finger wrapped with the edge of skirt wiping the camera lens around and around.

Mr. Betts marches to the window as if to locate decency behind the curtains . . . Our rules may not explicitly prohibit alfresco nudity, but—

Oh we have seen far worse, Betts. This was hardly catastrophic. I think perhaps you should return to your Dickens—

Molière it is, Headmaster. Fourth formers.

Yes. And allow me to deal with Miss Evans here.

As you wish . . . at the door Betts spins on his heel struck by the thought . . . Headmaster, I believe this nasty incident may have unfortunate repercussions for Madame Araigny.

Ahem. I can only implore you then to keep extra counsel on Madame’s health, Mr. Betts. For the good of the school.

Sir . . . a lozenge of light on the carpet and Betts has gone. Cyclops, inaudible. Then holding out a hand . . . I should think that lens clean by now.

He takes the camera.

Catrine Catrine . . . a sigh over her his eyepatch his eggshell three scribbles on his forehead . . . I realize that last term’s incident with the Gredville boy might have its ripples felt in some disagreeable ways—

That had nothing to do with it, Mr. Stokes. They asked me— And we all want to be liked—

That was not the reason.

But it is not in keeping with the academic code by which you have agreed to abide, by which we all, in order to live harmoniously at Monstead, must agree to abide, to take photographs of your classmates undressed and on the hockey pitch.

He is ridiculing her.

You understand my obligation to ensure this sort of thing does not happen twice.

It was meant to be art.

Cyclops swivels his chair to the window. After a moment . . . Where are you getting these ideas, girl?

Father gave me the camera for Christmas, sir.

So it’s Teddy who’s responsible.

A joke but answer even more seriously . . . Oh no, Mr. Stokes it wasn’t
Father’s
idea.

Swivels back to her . . . Evans.

Sir, I saw paintings and at the Modern—

When boys do such things you should walk away—

There was a sculpture—

I’m inclined to forgive this brief excursion into your artistic—

I can’t really draw but I thought well—

Character, of course a show of remorse should be swiftly undertaken—

I have a camera and art has naked—

Evans. The behavior you have chosen to display is not in keeping with the tenor of Monstead life. Now your father is ahem an old friend, you are a confused little girl and I can only think additional focus on your studies and less focusing of your lens will result in a happier situation all round.

Yes sir.

I have brought your ahem. Incident before the Conduct Committee. Since art appears to be your downfall, I propose an immersion in the sciences. Therefore you will spend an hour before breakfast each morning for the period of one month assisting Miss Dyer from the fifth form in cleaning, sorting and preparing Chemistry materials. Mr. Gilbert specifically requested your help.

Requested her specifically.

Stokes flicks at a blemish on the desk . . . Apparently Miss Dyer is somewhat preoccupied, certain matters at home seem to require her concentration.

Specifically.

Monday morning then at seven o’ clock sharp you are to meet Miss Dyer at the chemistry lab. I hope this month will encourage you to see our world in a more scientific light, that you may put some of these foolish notions behind you, leave them behind as child’s play and approach the world with the mind of a scientist. Our Mr. Gilbert seems to think you have some real talent in this area and it’s not too early to begin bending your thoughts to your A level subjects. Perhaps you will be one of our science girls, Miss Evans, there aren’t many, most seeming to prefer English or the dramatic arts, but there’s always room for an exception . . . standing moving around the side of his desk . . . I think your father will regard this as fair, don’t you?

My father? Please don’t tell my father, Mr. Stokes.

Cyclops looks pleased, she has shown panic, a coming unglued. He presses his lips together to convey—what? There are questions, yes there are questions. Silently he nods her toward the door.

A moment outside, listening to the creaks of Cyclops swiveling. A talent for science. Then she bolts down the red stairs out the grand entrance shouldering open the heavy door asked for her specifically front lawn parking lot between the cars of secretaries and cleaners the ones who go home at night to gas fires and attentive pets running across to the patch of trees breaking through them breathing hard through them blurred coming up against the wall to outside.

Can’t they take a joke. Rough hand troubling the bricks, like finding like. Face against the cool red. Don’t they know how it goes in boarding school stories. Isabelle would not have been discovered. Isabelle. She turns around. Isabelle’s face against the cold window. Through the trees, the school’s drive encircles a composed lawn. A grid of tidy cars. Give me a desert because it is clean. Isabelle had never taken the cold seat, Isabelle was a girl she once saw opening a door. A voice cried out
Isabelle
that was all the Isabelle she had or knew. Check the tale. Sinking down against the wall. The boys had come for her. Headmaster, leaning back on his swivel chair, coughing into a handkerchief like some victim of tuberculosis, swiping under his eyepatch and reflecting on Nature. Bursar crosses the lawn to her car. Boys will be boys, or bad apples. And Gilbert, hips against lab bench, leaning over, a sidelong appraisal Your Teeth Your Hair You’re Disgusting. Bursar shakes a key from its clutch, a breeze picks up, shivering her hem. Bursar shouts You are yourself a bad apple You are yourself wanting knees and forehead sweat mingling hair tangled hands all over. Bursar pulls in her feet and slams the car door shut. Holding his innocent triangle Father will hurry to the phone. Eight two oh three four one? The toast will grow cold as will his fingers where they grip the receiver. Father will say I don’t understand, I have just bought a new house and arranged for the piano to sit in the drawing room. No one plays it, no one ever did or maybe the mother did, I can’t recall at this moment as you’ve caught me eating toast on the way out the door, but I will tell you that I wanted the girl to unpack our paintings and roll out the rugs. And you suggesting she’s a delinquent of some kind takes me by surprise. Bursar’s car disappears through the gate. Father sighs Well, Stokesy, I don’t know what to tell you, we only ever had still lifes at our house.

18

Sophie’s pulling her down the Avenue after school to show her letters she’s been writing to a Dane. As they get to School House, a mattress sails out of a fifth-floor window on the girls’ side. Landing in the courtyard, a blue ticking lump.

19

Who can say exactly when Owen Wharton replaces their Thursday-night Preptaker the girl who takes ill or goes missing but there’s a fine penmanship out of keeping with his leather jacket. Imagine him as a shadow in the louvered doors to a saloon. Only the saloon is Follyfield number four and it’s a cold Thursday night and outside the set, instead of a dusty mainstreet, there’s wet green bushes, an iron gate and a distressing lack of tumbleweed.

Owen Wharton, he says setting down a perfect stack of books and that undefinable accent. Welsh? Half a jigger of Scotch? A splash of the States? No questions until half past and I mean none. Therefore no one politely inquires, You a Mick?

When the clock approaches eight Owen puts down his book and blows on his wrist . . . I’m stage-managing the Aristophanes for Percival. Percy’s alright outside Latin, when he’s not pressing for ablatives, so let’s have some volunteers . . . the boy stands, ambles over to the wooden lockers. He wears motorcycle buskins, begins a monologue . . . A play entitled The Birds.

It’s black out, the glass reflects an indistinct face.

After all, there seem to be more than a few theatrical types in this classroom . . . Owen raps on the lockers . . . Actors among you.

She turns from the window.

Pay attention. Wouldn’t you all like to wear wings? As close to angels as you’ll ever get. It’s a play where men become birds. A search for a utopia. Doesn’t that sound compelling. Mortals, gods, yes it’s Greek don’t interrupt. About the disaffected, those left out. The birds win you see. If I were Patrick Betts I could point out the resonances I could point out how this is relevant to you brats in your lines of little desks filling your ink pens on the hour tripping to the toilet as many times as possible to avoid learning your history. On the other hand I could leave it for you to learn I could let you actually have a thought on your own which would be novel enough and not unnoble of me. Yes, an escapist play if by escapist we mean the futile attempt by men to escape the anguish of existence. O suffering mankind your lives of twilight, pale generations, you wingless! The fading! Unhappy mortals, shadows in time, flickering dreams but not to worry for there’s a wedding at the end, happily ever after and all that.

Shyly, Duncan Peaks raises his hand.

Right, there’s one.

Simon Puck stands on his chair, croaks.

There’s two, now sit down before you break your skull. Who else will volunteer?

Silence.

Owen leans down to Brickie, plants hands on his desktop . . . You? Wouldn’t you like to be a god?

Brickie tips back in his chair . . . Am already.

Legend in your own mind, perhaps . . . a comedian, this Owen . . . But I can provide an audience.