Peering at the sky through the window, the scholar Di Fiore approves with a nod of his big, brainy head.
— All told, he grunts, three dehydrated bodies. As if the atmosphere isn’t wet enough already!
Sunny and fresh, Quiroga’s laughter washes over the group at the window. Meanwhile, the Mother has settled firmly into her abstract attitude. The Principal, nonplussed at how long her conscience is taking to respond, raises his eyes to the bust of Sarmiento snoozing atop the Principal’s bookshelf between a criollo duck and a turtle, both stuffed. In the national hero’s dour countenance he undoubtedly finds the impetus he needs, because right away he forgets about the Mother and sets upon the boy, who at that moment is busy exchanging smiles and gestures with a small group of pupils outside, who reciprocate in vibrant solidarity.
— You, Child! declaims the Principal. Listen to me, Child! Look me in the eyes, Child! Because of your misbehaviour I’ve had to summon your mother, taking her away from the home that needs her so much. Answer me, Child! Is that any way to repay the thousand-and-one sacrifices your mother has made to raise you, protect you, and educate you? Mother, I said. Sacred word! Let’s add up the material costs alone. How old are you, Child?
— Ten, the boy answers without much concern.
— A real little man. Let’s say it costs a peso a day (and I’m underestimating) to keep you in food, clothing, and school expenses. Tell me, Child. How many days are there in a commercial year?
— A hundred and sixty, the boy hazards adventurously.
In the Principal’s face, the dun accents of Saturn are accentuated.
— Three hundred and sixty! he shouts. Three hundred and sixty times ten makes three thousand six hundred Argentine pesos.
The boy goes wide-eyed at this mathematical revelation.
— And that’s not all! the Principal adds triumphantly. Let’s suppose your mother were in possession of that much capital and calculate how much interest she’d have earned on it in ten years. Child, do you understand how interest rates work?
— No, sir.
— I suspected as much. Let’s take, for example, an interest rate of five percent, which is what Mortgage Bonds are paying. Let’s see, here. Just a minute.
Seizing a pencil, he does a feverish calculation on a notepad. At the same time Adam Buenosayres growls beside the window:
— God! What crime has this poor kid committed to deserve such punishment?
— A fist-fight with another kid in the hollow of Neuquén Street, responds Quiroga.
— Is that all? At his age, I was in a fight every day.
The scholar Di Fiore raises an index finger to his temple.
— See this scar? he says. Got hit by a rock when us guys in the Gaona gang challenged the guys from Billinghurst.
The four of them smile alongside the window. Sarmiento himself, on the bookshelf, seems less dour, as though he too were recalling the heroes Barrilito and Chuña.3 But the Principal is waving a sheet of paper in the boy’s face.
— One thousand eight hundred pesos in interest! he exclaims. Three thousand seven hundred in capital! Sum totaclass="underline" five thousand four hundred pesos!
Turning to the woman, he adds:
— Mother, after so much sacrifice for the sake of your child, are you going to let him be ruined by the influence of the street? Do you know where that influence could lead? To delinquency, the hospital, jail!
Quickly, Adam turns to his three friends and parodies:
— Jail, I said. Sacred word!
And he makes his escape through the door, leaving behind three cruel chortles, one mother engrossed in thought, one worried boy, one vexed Principal, one dead swallow.
A glacial wind whips through the column-flanked corridor. Adam Buenosayres deeply inhales its gusts. Then he slips between two columns out to the schoolyard where three hundred wound-up schoolboys yell and push and shove beneath a sky the colour of tarnished brass, between walls sweating moisture and fatigue. As he makes his way through hectic bunches of children, Adam Buenosayres takes the measure of the void in his soul. More than ever he feels a lack of internal pressure that leaves him helplessly exposed to external images. Scenes, shouts, colours, and shapes irrupt into his empty soul, like a mob of brutal strangers invading an uninhabited site.
Just then, a deafening clamour breaks out among the schoolboys. Looking across the schoolyard, he sees a swarm of boys around a centre he can’t yet make out. Their jeers and hoots of laughter seem to condense into one:
— Iron face! Iron face!
He walks toward the source of the uproar. But the chorus of boys is breached violently, as a kid comes charging out with head lowered in a wild bid to escape. Adam Buenosayres catches him on the fly and, glancing at his face, discovers the reason for the tumult: a terrible paralysis has hardened the lines of the child’s countenance, imposing a strange metal-or rock-like rigidity. Mouth and chin seem to be permanently contracted in a cruel rictus. His eyes, staring fixedly, express ferocity, undermined only by the tear trembling on each of his eyelids. He’s wearing a sailor suit; the long pants veil the severity of the orthopedic shoes. While straightening up the boy’s dishevelled clothes, Adam takes a look around. He sees a circle of faces observing him expectantly. Some of them, innocent in their wickedness, are still laughing and whispering, “Iron face!” Stroking the child’s cheeks still trembling under his hands, Adam asks him:
— What’s your name?
— Tristán Silva, answers Iron Face in a kind of grunt.
— Is this your first day at this school?
— Yes.
Adam uses his handkerchief to dry the two tears that can’t quite decide to slide down that frightful face. Then he holds out his open hand to the child.
— Tristán Silva, he says. You and I are going to be friends. How about it?
— Yes, grunts Tristán, who has grasped the offered hand.
To make the others aware of this gesture of friendship, Adam walks around among the onlookers, Tristán’s hand in his. Then he returns him to the group of his enemies, who now embrace and acclaim him. Oh, world! But Señor Henríquez, embalmer of birds, has just given the order to line up for a run. Three hundred schoolboys, anxious to shake off the cold, form up in impatient squads.
— Ready, set, go!
The race begins, the schoolyard rumbles underfoot, shouts of joy explode. Adam, in the centre of the circle, is watching the parade of vertiginous faces, when he feels Tristán Silva’s hand slip back into his.
— Shall we run? he asks.
— Yes! answers Tristan, piercing Adam with hard eyes.
Holding on tight to the child’s hand, Adam joins the circle of runners, amid flushed cheeks and noisy breathing. Clinging to Adam’s hand, Tristan hops in the air like a rag doll; the metal of his orthopedic boots clangs on the hard tiles. Not a single muscle moves in his face, but a long roar comes out of his chest and bursts from his lips. And Adam understands that Iron Face probably has no other way to laugh.
When the bell rings for the second time, the pupils break from standing at attention and in orderly fashion seek their habitual place in line. Adam is standing in front of his pupils, observing as they form up in a wiggly double file that is gradually straightening. Suddenly, he sees the Principal approaching with a triumphant air, his eyes tearful, his mouth quivering in an imminent sob.