Four by Four E-Book

Sara Mesa

• Herausgeber: Peirene Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 308

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

At Wybrany College, there are two kinds of student: the children of the rich and powerful, and the 'Specials' – recipients of a mysterious scholarship. Sealed off from the decaying world outside, the school promises safety, order and, for the Specials, the chance of a different life. But when one of them disappears, the illusion begins to crack. Hidden hierarchies shift. The line between protector and predator blurs. The story unfolds in two parts: first through the lives of students navigating a system built on silence and control; then through the diary of a substitute teacher who uncovers disturbing truths, while hiding a secret of his own.

Leseprobe

123

SARA MESA

Translated from the Spanish by Katie Whittemore

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For my brother

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PART ONE

Never More Than Two Hundred

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11

CELIA

The contour of the landscape curves, fades and descends before dissolving into the distance. We are there, at the end, paused and panting under the motionless sky. It’s February and still cold. The air cuts off our breath, attacks Teeny’s lungs. She’s been sick for weeks.

We’ve never made it this far. Our trainers are soaked from walking in the muddy grass, avoiding the roads.

We wait for Teeny to catch up and then reconvene.

‘Should we have breakfast now?’ Valen asks.

Her chubby cheeks tremble. Valen is always hungry. The rest of us protest. It’s not time to eat. We only stopped to decide where to go from here, from now. There’s no time to waste; we’ll eat later, while we walk. Or we won’t eat at all.

We have two options: climb the hill until we reach the motorway or follow the slope down and try to find the river. Though riveris probably an exaggeration. Memory summons to mind a brown thread – a creek, at best – but not its exact location. None of us have been here in years. 12

‘I say we head for the motorway. Then we can hitch-hike wherever somebody will take us.’ Marina sounds braver than she acts. We’re not convinced.

I speak up. ‘Hitch-hike? Are you crazy? They’d bring us right back.’

‘The river’s safer,’ Cristi says.

‘But we don’t know where it is!’ says Marina.

Cristi shrugs. Valen tries again, reaching for her backpack. ‘We could eat while we decide.’

‘What do you think, Teeny?’ I ask.

She looks up. Squints. The lenses of her glasses are fogged over. She coughs again. She coughs and blinks endlessly. Her nose runs. She’s full of fluid, Teeny is. I don’t even wait for her to respond. I speak for her: ‘Teeny doesn’t care what we do so long as we do it quick. Sitting around in this cold is going to kill her.’

‘I think she should eat something,’ Valen says.

‘Shut up, you greasy fat-arse,’ Cristi says.

They fight. First, with insults. Then they throw themselves on the wet ground and roll around, theatrically, half-heartedly. Marina goads them. It’s not clear whose side she’s on. Teeny and I wait. She thinks about nothing and I try to think about everything.

None of it matters. I see them coming in the four-by-four, up the narrow, dusty path. They’re coming towards us and there we are, stopped, as stopped as time. I get a rush: anticipating a lecture from the Arse or punishment from the Headmaster makes me feel better.

A quail chirps in the distance. Valen and Cristi stand, brush off their clothes and look me in the eye. Neither one speaks, but I know they both blame me.

13

IGNACIO

Wybrany College, seven o’clock in the evening. Ten, twelve boys in gym clothes hang around to see what’s happening. Silence has filled the courtyard at the entrance to the school. Night is falling and Héctor enters, escorted by his parents, the Headmaster and the Advisor. He walks past the boys, glancing up at Ignacio. At him, just him. The look is unmistakable, direct.

Ignacio trembles. The crunch of steps on the gravel lingers. He observes the back of Héctor, his head of thick, blond hair, the smooth nape of his neck.

Only when he’s roughly shaken does he realize that they’ve been grumbling in his ear the whole time, and he hasn’t heard a thing.

‘I’m talking to you, man, can’t you hear me?’

Ignacio nods, craning slightly towards the door through which the New Kid has disappeared.

The mother – the woman he assumes is the mother – is outside, closing her umbrella. She has slender calves and iridescent stockings beaded with drizzle. Lux watches her, 14too, his head cocked and back arched, ready to flee at the slightest movement.

It’s 1 November. Ignacio’s birthday: twelve years old and finally the prospect of a friend to protect him.

‘I said, what do you think of him?’ the boy insists.

‘What do I know? I just saw him.’

‘But he looks queer, right?’

‘Yeah. Queer.’

Ignacio senses the light is different, more yellow, or hazy. He can’t watch Héctor and listen at the same time, but they keep at him and their insistence becomes a command.

‘Why queer?’ the boy presses.

‘What do you mean, why? You’re the one who said it.’

‘Yeah, but why did you say it, too? What do you know about that?’

A rueful smile breaks on Ignacio’s face. Caught again, he thinks, but who cares, he’ll finally have a friend to protect him. The New Kid is tall, he’s strong, and out of all the faces there in the courtyard, he chose to look at Ignacio’s.

He hears the girls’ laughter from the other side of the wall, a restless laughter, musical. He longs for girls, but only as classmates.

‘Because he laughs like a girl.’

‘Oh, so you’ve heard him laugh?’

‘Yeah, before. When he got here.’

‘Really? Where?’

He frees himself from one of the arms that grips him.

‘I don’t know, before. Let go of me, I have to get to my next lesson.’ 15

‘Lesson? Lessons are over.’

‘Just let me go,’ he begs.

‘Cripple, sissy, fucking fag,’ the boy says, releasing him completely.

Ignacio hobbles away in his raised shoe with the lift. Laughter screeches at his back.

Real or imagined, Ignacio hears it all the time.

16

HÉCTOR’S ORIGINS

But the New Kid’s origins go back to an earlier moment, to weeks before, days before – not that time matters much in this place, where the days are so like one another. They accumulate, piling up, creating a sense of continuity, movement, or the evolution of something.

It’s important to note, perhaps, that Héctor isn’t present on this occasion. Just his mother, or the woman who looks like the mother, and the father – him, for sure – in the Headmaster’s office. They are joined by the assistant headmistress, alias ‘the Arse’.

The office doesn’t seem like an office. It’s more like a magnificent living room, with its crystal chandeliers and perfectly worn Persian rugs – vulgar, if they’re too new – and gleaming floor-to-ceiling windows, the glass spotless and free of flies.

Seated in leather armchairs around a low table, they speak for a long time with the particular politeness to which they are accustomed. 17

The Arse, a real beauty in another time, is discreet, only interjecting with an opportune fact when necessary, blinking before she speaks. In general, such facts relate to fees, services and requirements, details of which the Headmaster is ignorant, given that he delegates such minutiae to her.

The tone of the conversation is sickly-sweet. Good manners, gone off.

The office smells like cologne. Which one? Impossible to say. A mix of various scents: those worn by the people now present, and by those who are absent. The people who sat where they are now, finalizing the details of their progeny’s matriculation.

The scent of the elite, one could say if it weren’t an oversimplification, since that isn’t exactly the case. But one couldn’t claim the opposite is true, either.

(…)

‘You do realize we’re making an exception…’

‘Yes, yes,’ Héctor’s father says.

He moves his hands to accentuate his words, like he did when he was a government minister. Unnecessary rhetorical emphasis.

‘It will be more expensive – due to the exception, you understand – still, you insist this is what you want?’

‘Yes, we insist. It’s absolutely critical.’

‘Though it won’t be easy for us, getting rid of the boy,’ the woman adds.

‘Getting rid of isn’t quite the right expression,’ the father says. 18

His eyes flash. He looks at his wife and she goes quiet.

The Arse smiles at them both. They shouldn’t feel uncomfortable, she says, language betrays us all. Parents inevitably feel a sense of relief when they enrol their children at the college; it happens to everyone. Bringing up a child is complicated, an act of responsibility demanding extreme dedication. There’s nothing wrong with leaving a piece of it in the hands of experts.

‘Héctor is a brilliant boy,’ the woman continues, speaking cautiously now. ‘Very intelligent, headstrong, a bit mischievous, maybe. He always finds a way to make his uniform unique somehow: a patch, a hole, a badge pinned somewhere. As you know, he needs to do things his way.’

‘Ah, but that’s good,’ the Headmaster says. ‘That’s very good. It speaks of character, strength of character, manliness. We don’t go overboard on rules here. Strict on the fundamentals, flexible on incidentals. Our educational methods are liberal – they’re based in absolute freedom. Will you have some…’ – he turns to look at Lux, the cat, who has just slipped through the bars on the window – ‘… coffee?’

They drink from little porcelain cups, served with biscuits they barely nibble. Then they settle the rest: the registration, monthly payments, additional instalments. The visitors express their surprise that rooms are shared, but nod sensibly at the explanation.

‘At this age, boys on their own are hard to control,’ says the Arse. ‘This way they keep an eye on each other. It’s not to their benefit to be alone in their free time.’ 19

‘Obviously, some boarding schools make private rooms a mainstay of their appeal,’ the Headmaster continues, ‘precisely because they have nothing else to offer. Special menus, the latest technology, professional sports facilities, blah, blah, blah… They’re only focused on the superfluous aspects. We guarantee a sufficient level of material comfort. Not excellent, perhaps, but sufficient. But we also guarantee an extraordinarily high-quality education, which goes far beyond academics. We do not impose discipline: the children impose it on themselves. Rigorous, not rigid. Firm, not harsh. Personalities are sculpted, polished until they shine. The country’s best have passed through here. We know how to shape the best.’

He carefully dabs at his beard with a napkin and waits for a reaction. The couple smile. They are notably, visibly relaxed.

An agreement has been reached.

20

THE FOUNDER

Wybrany College – which we pronounce gwee-brahneecolich– is set in a man-made meadow surrounded by forested terrain.

On the motorway from Cárdenas to the now defunct city of Vado, no sign exists indicating access to the property. Supposedly, this is to avoid any invasion of privacy by those who would pry, including journalists.

The Wybrany College website provides neither an exact location nor any photographs of its facilities. Only a brief contact form is available for interested parents, one that, once submitted, apparently never receives a response.

In any case, full occupancy at Wybrany College is not a concern. There is likely a long waiting list for openings: this is one of the best schools in the country. Héctor is the only student we’ve seen arrive in a while, except for the first-years and the Specials. Adding a cohort of Specials was a recent expansion of the school. But in no way did this alter the spirit of the college’s founding. 21

The history of Wybrany College is recited once a year. The assistant headmistress recounts it during the mid-January anniversary celebration, in a formal speech prior to the dance.

The way she tells it, the school was founded in 1943 by a Polish businessman forced into exile during the Second World War. He arrived in our country practically ruined, despite having been one of the wealthiest men in Europe just two years before.

The assistant headmistress reads her speech before the silent auditorium: ‘Moved by the fate of exiled children who had lost their parents, Andrzej Wybrany directed his efforts at building a school where they could be educated and cared for with all the resources they would have enjoyed had the destinies of their families remained unaltered.’

In this version, Wybrany College was an elite alternative to the orphanages and shelters of the day.

Naturally, Wybrany College was not founded in 1943. The school is quite a bit newer than that. It is rumoured to be no more than fifteen years old. The same time frame, more or less, as the depopulation of Vado.

The fact that it was built in the style of the 1940s – solemn buildings arranged in the shape of a ‘C’, high stone walls, orderly grounds, shady bowers – doesn’t actually mean anything, as one can easily imagine.

Following the trail like bloodhounds, we can see that the design has been shaped by more modern imperatives: the golf course, the helipad, the tennis courts, the four swimming pools.

A hidden drawing betrays the present in the past, following lines drawn by fear.

22

THE EXAMINATION

The Headmaster takes the floor, and his first line of questioning is predictable.

‘Where were you girls planning to go?’ His voice creaks. He clears his throat and repeats the question.

‘Where were you girls planning to go?’

I smile and don’t answer. The Arse speaks next. Nothing new. ‘Where were you girls planning to go?’

I watch her become desperate. I tell them I can’t answer a question directed at ‘you girls’, in the plural. I can say where Iplanned to go, but I can’t speak for the others. In fact, I don’t understand why they have called me in but not them.

‘Because you were the one who organized it. On that point they all agree,’ the Arse says.

‘They don’t agree on the other points?’

‘We’re asking the questions, not you.’

Time and again they ask me the same thing: where were we planning to go? They know as well as I do, so I don’t see any reason to repeat it. I prefer to tell them what we were not planning to do. 23

‘It wasn’t an escape. We were going to come back.’

The Arse resumes the interrogation. She is obviously at ease in these situations.

‘Come back? Come back when? You wanted to make it to Cárdenas. You can’t walk there and back in one day.’

‘If you know that’s where we were going, why do you keep asking me?’

‘Because I don’t know whether or not Cárdenas was just one stop on a longer trip.’

‘I already told you it wasn’t.’

The Advisor hesitates, lifts his hand, requests to speak. Short, hairy, with a bulbous nose and wide hips, he has an unhealthy look that does not inspire respect.

‘I think we ought to put ourselves in the girl’s position,’ he says.

The girl, the boys, the children: this is how school counsellors talk. The Arse turns to him with contempt; the Headmaster laughs quietly to himself, the left corner of his lip slightly curled.

‘Under different circumstances, her parents would be here to defend her, or at least support her,’ he continues. ‘But this girl has no one.’

‘Exactly,’ says the Arse. ‘Exactly. She has no one, yet she has been given this opportunity. She could be living on the outskirts of Cárdenas, but here she is, enjoying the college’s facilities. She has no appreciation for how lucky she is. Moreover, she riles up the other girls. I don’t understand why we should put ourselves in her position.’ 24

They argue. It’s easy to tune them out. It’s all too predictable. I prefer to watch the Arse and the Advisor exchange arguments and rebuttals, the power struggle that tips the scales back and forth, never committing entirely to either side. I can see that the Headmaster feels the same way. He almost looks amused, turning his head from one to the other as they serve and return. Clearly, our attempted escape does not concern him in the least; this time around, he’s not even curious. I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He pretends not to notice.

They agree to subject me to closer monitoring, not to control me, but for my own good. Only and exclusively for my own good, the Arse says. When she says it, she fixes me with a watery stare. The Advisor commits fully to the plan.

Close monitoring is one of his specialities, it seems.

I see that they don’t consider this surveillance a punishment.

It is what it is, there’s nothing I can do.

I consent.

25

THE FIRST DAY

The New Kid is there, at the start of the day. He’s not ‘Héctor’ yet, but will be soon. He sits in the back row and speaks to no one.

And there, in the front row, Ignacio’s defenceless neck.

He can feel the New Kid’s gaze. It makes him feel proud and he yearns for the prickling it causes.

The others horse around, trying to get the New Kid’s attention. He looks like a leader and they have to earn it.

Instead, he stares through a filter of hazy morning light. A melancholy light that conceals both the athletic fields and his hard, metallic eyes.

It’s the first cool morning after a relentless summer that stretched on interminably. Today, all the students are wearing long sleeves except for him. He crosses his muscular arms on the desk and presses his lips tightly together, his face turned.

He barely opens his mouth the whole morning, not even to answer the teachers’ questions. He insists on an obstinate and continual Idon’tknow,Idon’tremember,no. Stubborn, 26difficult. A fist. His nails, turned white from holding his tongue. What’s he got inside? Ignacio wonders. Why did he look at me yesterday, only at me, why did he turn around and choose me, and why is he still staring, staring so hard?

He attempts to establish telepathic communication – to no avail.

Ignacio believes in telepathy. He believes it is a purer form of communication than verbal language. The words that reach our ears are tainted; there is interference, always. Two minds that speak honestly, cleanly, across broad and efficient channels, free of weeds, like a motorway: this is his ideal language.

Meanwhile, the whispers under the tables start to lose their strength. Queer,fuckingfag. They travel from desk to desk, but more tenuously, without conviction.

Ignacio floats above his seat, his neck hot from being watched.

27

TEENY

Although her mother is just a hand’s breadth taller, Teeny is small in other ways. Next to Teeny’s ungainliness, her mother is elegant indeed. Elegantly, she demonstrates her joy at seeing her daughter, pulls her close and looks to see who is watching. Her pupils dilate, more unease than excitement in the trembling of her hands.

Teeny barely notices. She shifts nervously from foot to foot, coughs a little. Her nose leaks.

‘Poor thing, you’re sick, darling.’

A stammer. ‘Better, I’m better,’ Teeny whispers.

She unwraps the gifts. Trainers with laces, a planner, books of stories, many stories – reading is good, reading is sohealthy, the mother thinks that only readers will save themselves in this dark world. Fairies, white rabbits, pastel colours on the cover. Teeny is no longer a little girl. She bites her lip as she flips through the pages, but doesn’t complain. She only asks: ‘Papa?’

He couldn’t come, the mother says, fluffing her hair. He’ll be back from Germany on Sunday, and she can see him 28then, before returning to the colich. An extra weekend, she exclaims, glancing around, you didn’t expect that, did you, darling?

It’s because Teeny is sick. One weekend away a month, that’s the norm, that’s what everyone knows and accepts without issue.

But her nose is always running and she coughs all the time. She’s smaller than the other girls, skinny and pale; she squints and has something of an overbite; perhaps therein lies the exception.

‘It’s Turner syndrome, but she’s smart,’ her mother said the day of her official enrolment.

Now she repeats it every chance she gets. Turner syndrome. It has an artistic ring to it: bridges in the mist, families struggling against misfortune’s blows. Teeny can attend the colichbecause she’s intelligent, the mother claims at every turn. She fought like a lioness to get her admitted. She even appeared in a magazine article: Mother Courage, triumphant, smiling, dressed in designer labels.

‘The cold this February has been bad for her. And she partook in a certain field trip, one not organized by us, I’m afraid. I’m sure she’ll explain.’ The Arse stared hard at Teeny as she said this.

Field trip? Her soaking-wet feet, the frightening pre-breakfast walk. ‘Where were you going, darling?’ the mother will ask later, once they’ve left the office. Oh, Celia, the famous Celia, always getting other girls in trouble, she should have stayed in Cárdenas with her biological 29mother – she spits out the syllables: bi-o-log-i-cal. Some people will simply never appreciate their opportunities.

Ungrateful people, you see, ungrateful.

They walk, holding hands, their bodies silhouetted in the light of Friday afternoon. Teeny stumbles, like always, on her skinny sparrow’s ankles. The mother loses her extra height as she ducks her head in haste, determination and disgust.

30

THE ADVISOR

They call me in for a little chat, and I prepare myself for another round of questioning. But I’m not brought to the Arse’s office. A door opens and the person standing there is a man, not a woman.

A smile drips from the Advisor’s lips as he comes to take my hands in his. I stammer, I don’t manage a word, but I allow him to guide me to a sofa, where I sit.

He brings me lemonade.

‘Oh Celia, Celia, you suffer so…’

I’m still wary. He doesn’t reproach me. He seems to understand. This is unnerving.

He knows I’m not like the others. He says so.

‘You aren’t like the others.’

And then he adds, solemnly: ‘But you could be.’

I tell him that’s not what I want. What I want is to go back to where I come from.

He smiles gently and asks if I would like to have a pet. A cat, perhaps. 31

I’m not surprised. He pretends to be simple to win me over, that’s all. But a cat is tempting. He’s done his research and knows that I like them. That I miss my old Tinaja. I’m tempted.

‘They’d let me?’

‘Of course they’d let you. I’ll take care of it. To each according to his needs. We’ve always said so.’

‘All right. But I need to go.’

He kneels at my side. His breath closes in on me. Sweet, heavy. I try to concentrate on my future cat. I like them too much not to be pleased.

I can barely hear him whisper. ‘Come on,’ he murmurs, ‘come, come,’ but I don’t know what he means.

‘Come, come,’ he repeats.

I think he’s trying to comfort me, but I’m not sure. I stand up. He continues to kneel, absurdly, and speaks from down on the floor.

‘I understand you, Celia. I understand your confusion. But nothing will happen to you if you trust me. I’ll look out for you.’

I don’t answer. I have nothing to say.

He continues. ‘You mustn’t stir up the others. Especially Teeny. The girls on scholarships can handle themselves, they’re made of the same stuff you are. But Teeny is different. She’s too weak. You already know that she’s sick.’

He’s right about that. I don’t want to lose Teeny. But an unhealthy thought crosses my mind: if I had a cat, then I wouldn’t need her any more. Is Teeny my pet? Is that what I want her for? 32

I pick up the paperweight from his desk. A small crystal ball with a picture of a bird on its base. The bird is wearing a king’s crown. A ridiculous image.

He finally stands, comes towards me. I put the paperweight back in its place. He picks it up and moves closer, ball in hand.

‘Do you want it?’

I say no. He opens my fist, places the paperweight on my palm, closes my fingers one by one, slowly. I let him.

‘I’m going to take you to see your mother,’ he says. ‘I promise.’

Pricking of the eyes. Tingling. I’m not sure of the source of the tingling, or his offer.

My mother.

‘But you’re not going to like what you see. Be warned. Things have changed a lot in a short time.’

‘Will it be a secret?’ I ask.

‘Oh yes, of course. You mustn’t tell anyone.’

33

THE ROOM

Telepathy is useless to him. Héctor is assigned to another room, exactly three doors down. He would need to be closer to prevent the punches, the insults.

These first days of school, Héctor has watched him constantly. He pays close attention to Ignacio, compared to the indifference he shows everyone else. Ignacio feels singled out and this comforts him and makes him brave.

He sits on his bunk and scratches hard between his toes. He dares to speak.

‘All the rooms are full. Why’d they assign him that one?’

Iván comes over.

‘Because he has to sleep somewhere, idiot. I saw they brought him a camp bed. I don’t know what his parents would say if they found out. Paying a ton of money for a crappy fold-up bed.’

Carlos, from the depths of the bottom bunk:

‘Oh, they’ll find out. What’s weird is that they even let him in at all. He was held back. The colichdoesn’t take those kids. Especially once school’s already started.’ 34

Iván muses.

‘Maybe it’s because that girl left. You heard they expelled a Special this year, right?’

And he adds: ‘But if you think about it, if they lost a girl, they should have got another one. We’re not even now. When we leave, one of us will be on our own.’

Carlos closes the conversation.

‘Specials don’t count, anyway. They’re worthless.’

They’re worthless, yes. On this the boys agree. And they agree not to call Héctor queer any more. They don’t feign indifference now. They listen for noises in the hallway, hoping to pick out his voice from the others. Cruelty has given way to surveillance.

‘Doesn’t he ever talk? The bastard,’ Iván says.

‘Maybe he’s shy,’ Ignacio summons the strength to suggest.

Loud laughter from Carlos unnerves him.

‘The New Kid’s high all day, that’s what’s up. Come on, he’s totally got weed. And I’m gonna ask him as soon as he trusts me. He’s not fucking shy.’

‘Man, if he gets you weed, score some for the rest of us,’ Iván laughs.

Ignacio laughs too, almost puzzled by the sound of it.

Surprisingly, they leave him alone that night. He lies back in bed, hugging his pillow. The little light from the switch glows green on his cheek.

He listens, strains to hear something. Nothing but the tap-tap-tapof water dripping in the sink and the whine of the mastiff Cayetana, Lux’s pitiful meows. 35

But not Héctor’s voice, which he would recognize no matter what.

He begins to speak to him telepathically, insistently. His lips move soundlessly, so he won’t get teased, or hit.

Sleep overcomes him before he’s received a response.

36

VALEN, CRISTI AND MARINA

Teeny has returned with a little colour in her cheeks, her hair smoothed with a straightening iron.

She’s blanketed in compliments – Valen, Cristi and Marina lay it on thick. What did she bring them? She knows that’s their motivation: Teeny is generous with the Specials. They wait for her precisely because she’s generous.

They go to the girls’ bathroom to avoid raising suspicions among the Normals.

Teeny doles out her attention as she doles out the gifts.

Valen chews candy and sucks her spit.

Cristi, exasperated: ‘Ugh, do you have to be so tacky?’

Celia isn’t with them. When it gets dark, she goes jogging in Adidas trainers donated by Wybrany. Her shadow can be seen in the distance, a gust trampling the wet grass. Back and forth in a mostly errant, undisciplined race.

They watch her from inside the doorway, and from their little huddle rise murmurs and complaints.

Teeny demurs, but weakly. ‘Celia didn’t say anything about us.’ Her nose drips. ‘She took all the blame.’ 37

‘Well, then she’s saying that she manipulated us,’ Cristi says. ‘And I think that’s true. She never stopped to think about the consequences of her big idea. Such bullshit. We almost got seriously punished, you know. She’s selfish. Come on, Teeny – why do you think she hangs out with you? You’re not part of our group. She’s totally taking advantage of you.’

Teeny tilts her head. She doesn’t know whether to deny it or nod in agreement. Instinctually, feebly, she whispers: ‘My house is in Cárdenas, too. Maybe that’s why.’

How could that possibly be the reason? the others say. Julia’s parents also live in Cárdenas. Her mother was mayor and now she has some other big position. And Teeny’s house, she has to admit, is in the city centre, next to the National Museum. Not in Celia’s neighbourhood, on the outskirts. Every city is made up of different cities, Cristi says. Even she’s surprised by how intelligent she sounds and smiles to herself.

What’s most perplexing about Celia isn’t that she’s from Cárdenas, but the question of how she came to be at the colich at all. Who recommended her for a scholarship, who granted it, why just for her senior year? Nobody knows. Rumours point to a friend of her mother’s, someone with connections, perhaps. But Celia can’t hack this whole colich thing, they say. She had got used to the robberies, the looting, an easy life with no rules. Now she’s here, a caged animal.

The girls talk like ventriloquists and Teeny timidly agrees. She folds herself into a corner, skinny little arms hugging her body, and coughs like an old toy poodle. 38

Marina brushes her hair furiously. Static lifts her bangs, which wave above her small, close-set eyes.

‘Well, she can count me out for sure. They really came down on us, thanks to her.’

‘And it’s not like she can do anything on her own,’ Cristi says.

‘She uses us because she can’t do it by herself,’ says Valen, not entirely convinced.

Teeny – her voice ground down by the others – repeats herself again and again until they hear her. ‘She didn’t force us to go with her. We all wanted to. It sounded fun.’

‘She should just go back to her neighbourhood,’ Marina says. ‘I’m sure she misses it.’

‘What’s her neighbourhood like?’ Cristi asks.

‘Rats, hooligans, graffiti, needles, all of that.’ Marina wrinkles her nose.

‘And people like that?’

‘Of course. People who grow up there want that. They complain if you take them out. Like Celia.’

They hear her coming down the hallway, her ragged breath reaching them.

They cover up by pretending to show each other their boobs, as they’ve done on other occasions.

They discuss how they’ve grown, their shape, colour, variation in the nipples. Then they agree on a vote-based, numerical ranking.

When it’s her turn, Teeny lifts her shirt and bares two pale, tiny little sacks at her ribs. The girls laugh at the hint of breasts that aren’t really anything at all. Celia joins the 39group and sees Teeny; she laughs, too, pointing out the bit of fuzz that grows on her nipples.

Teeny blushes and covers herself quickly. She looks away, unsure which expression will best hide her discomfort.

40

THE ARSE

The Arse pays the occasional visit to the Headmaster’s office. Sometimes she notifies him beforehand, but often she goes without any warning.

Her colouring is different after those meetings. Fine, zig-zagging veins lace the apples of her cheeks. Her eyes shine like oil slicks and she walks – staggers – like a drunk woman.

What happens in that office concerns no one but the two of them, yet it swells through the school day like an underground tide, its fluctuations leaving an inexorable mark. The whole colich, teachers and students alike, feels the charge of that partially secret relationship.

Inside that room, the Arse humiliates herself while the Headmaster sits impassively or snorts cocaine. Sprawled comfortably in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, he watches and speaks to her slowly, meting out sentences that are short, lacerating.

‘It’s sad to look at you. Not just pathetic – useless. You’re rotten, you know that? You’re spoiled. There’s nothing in your veins but pus, or poison.’ 41

He enjoys the show, her obstinate silence, for a short time – five minutes, half an hour – or for the whole afternoon. She’s in no hurry. He tells her what to do, how to position herself. She obeys. She submits without complaint. She’ll only spit her reproaches later, as she dresses, never even having been touched.

‘No one knows what a fake you are.’

The Headmaster laughs, and sometimes responds.

‘Of course they do. You know it, and you still come. The children’s parents know it, and they still send them. Those same children know it, and still they admire me.’

‘They don’t admire you, they fear you.’

‘No, darling. They fear you. Do you know what you represent for them? A weed.’

‘A weed?’

‘Yes, a dried-up weed.’ He laughs.

‘You could have had me long before we came to this.’

‘I could have, but I didn’t want you. It excited me more to have you at a distance, when you were appealing. Now I enjoy myself a different way. It’s a question of nuance.’

The Arse slows her movements, takes her time rolling up her tights so he’ll continue to insult her.

But he doesn’t. He delivers his insults out in doses. He watches her dress, scowling in disgust. The lamp casts a greenish-yellow light. The Headmaster likes her – prefers her – like this.

The Arse also seeks that light, and craves it when she is denied it.

42

THE NIGHT

They’re not allowed to leave their rooms and there are always snitches prepared to rat them out. But Ignacio sneaks out anyway, tripping over his pyjama bottoms. Shadows overlap in the hallway. He feels his way along the wall.

Other nights, he heard the scuffing of footsteps, footsteps that didn’t exist before the New Kid came. The New Kid, who is just Héctor now, after a week of lessons. And as he earned his name, he broke his stubborn silence with monosyllables and the odd, short sentence. To Ignacio, everything Héctor says is an expression of his audacity.

He admires him blindly.

Ignacio goes in search of those footsteps, a moment to speak with him alone.

He advances slowly, alert and hopeful, and his eyes adjust to the dark.

He makes out Héctor’s door and stands outside, sifting through the sounds of the sleeping boys. He concentrates on the silence and tries to sense his hero’s presence. He waits and hears no more than the murmur of a dream 43– a nightmare, maybe – and Ignacio, defeated, turns back towards his room.

But then, heavy breath behind him.

His heart leaps before he can turn.

He spins around as a hand grips his shoulder like a claw, squeezing his bones.

The face isn’t Héctor’s. Almond eyes, wide jaw and greater stature reveal Adrián, alias the Lout.

The Lout squeezes him harder and punches him in the stomach. What the hell is he doing there? Spying on them? Is he one of the Arse’s rats?

His punches don’t make a sound, but they hurt. Ignacio falls to the ground and protects himself with his arms and knees.

‘Leave me alone!’ he shouts. ‘I couldn’t sleep! I was just taking a walk. I wasn’t spying on anyone!’

The Lout looks down at him, his face distorted by the angle. Sleepy voices of curious boys hungry for a fight, stirring behind the doors.

No matter how he aches for Héctor, none of the voices are his.

44

LUX

The cat arrives and it’s a small Persian with a wrinkled face and just a hint of a nose, wet and squished like rat shit. I would’ve preferred a Roman street cat.

‘But a stray is always more trouble,’ the Advisor tells me. ‘It would make for the woods and you’d lose it right away. This is a unique specimen, genetically altered to be gentler, smaller. Look, it barely even has claws. It’s designed to be with people. A stray cat is a selfish animal: it uses you. It doesn’t want your company. You wouldn’t like that, would you?’

‘It must have been expensive,’ I say.

The Advisor dribbles around this. He’s skilled at keeping possession of the conversation.