“Considering that history is written by the winners, and the defeated don’t have the right even to a footnote in the big book of history…”
Only to add, even more knowingly, as a provocation: “Be aware, nevertheless, that I’m always on the side of the winners. They must have had something going for them over the others, if they managed to win. Victory is never neutral or unmerited. ‘Vae victis!’ said the Romans. Woe betide the defeated! They spread the plague. Steer clear of them!”
Or else: “The rich have slightly more merit than the poor. Their money, at least!”
Or: “If we allow ourselves to be affected by our feelings, we are done for. We should strongly resist ourselves. And never listen to our hearts, suffice that it beats!”
Grandmother found Mr. Madern’s boutades amusing and when I came back from school, she’d often ask me what his latest shaft of wit had been. As she got to know him better through our banter, she started to drop the nickname of Puppeteer, as if he was gaining respect in her eyes. When we discussed what he’d said or done, she seemed to think it was really funny and she’d comment that that fellow’s sour jibes — the teacher who spent half his time at school glued to his chessboard — were down to the fact that the Novíssima was under sentence of death. Grandmother meant that the authorities had decided to close that school and we would be forced to go to the national schools in the neighbouring village — always in the plural, because there was one for boys and one for girls — as there weren’t enough children in the outlying farmhouses to sustain two classrooms for girls and boys and two salaries for the schoolmaster and mistress.
“Teachers eat very little,” laughed Grandmother, “so they say, but that clever-clogs teacher of yours must get something to keep the wolf from the door, he doesn’t look as if he’s starving.”
She sometimes asked us what we thought of Mr. Madern, whether we thought he was a fascist or a revolutionary, whether he was a reactionary or an anarchist, she’d add more precisely.
“That’s to say,” she went on so we could grasp the distinctions she was making, “whether he couldn’t care less what he says and doesn’t worry about the consequences, because he’s covered his own back like all the regime’s reactionary supporters, or on the contrary whether he does care and lets others get on with it because he believes in absolute freedom and in nothing, neither God nor master, perhaps not even the Fatherland. He couldn’t give a toss and wants to let freedom organize itself following its natural instincts, without laws or compulsion, like a wood nobody plants and nothing hinders where trees grow more proudly, finding their own place and their own light.”
We glanced at each other, at a loss what to say. We didn’t understand that someone’s behaviour could be dictated by inner convictions. We thought people did what they did out of boredom, sloth, routine or self-interest, that they only came up with the arguments after they’d done something, in particular to justify themselves, make excuses, express regret or boast about their feats, depending on the outcome.
“Sometimes he even dozes off, thinking about his next move, his eyes glued to his chessboard,” was all we could think to say.
“He must be a man who’s fed up to his back teeth with everything,” concluded Grandmother, “with politics, religion, his profession, life… Is it true he has a photo of José Antonio hanging next to the crucifix, and no portrait of the Caudillo?”
“He says his photo was ruined by damp and he’s taken it to be restored or replaced…”
“Now that’s a good one!” laughed Grandmother, as if she alone got the joke. “He must be one of those disillusioned Falangistes who didn’t want to hitch up to the Generalíssim’s chariot alongside the Moors, the Carlists, the Bishops, the military top brass, the Falangistes in faded colours, the rentiers… and the whole crew of hangers-on.”
However, after finding out what I now knew about Mr. Madern, I avoided these conversations with Grandmother and was amazed Cry-Baby had been able to withstand that banter and gossip in the past without ever blushing.
One day when I still hadn’t managed to get straight the exact relationship between Cry-Baby and Mr. Madern, the latter asked me to wait in the classroom at the end of school because he wanted to speak to me.
The first thought that came to mind was that I should scarper as fast as I could. The figure of the teacher was all mixed up in my mind with prints and images of the giants and ogres in Grandmother’s stories, who gobbled live children, swallowing them in one gulp. However, it was these fantasies and similarities that gave me the courage to wait patiently behind my desk while my mates left because I was ashamed I could take those children’s stories seriously. What’s more, I told myself, if he’d wanted to do something on the sly, he’d not have asked me in public in the middle of the class to stay behind and talk to him. I’d told Quirze and Cry-Baby not to wait, to go home, that we had to sort out a couple of problems. True enough, he had approached me on the quiet, but Gamundi, who shared a desk with me, and those nearby, had heard him. Though my schoolmates always ignored the jousting between the teacher and me, they reckoned he liked me because of the high level of knowledge I’d brought from the parish school. As far as they were concerned, being held in esteem by a teacher and receiving praise for one’s schoolwork was something to be ashamed of; they preferred not to have anything to do with arse-lickers, as they called them, the know-alls and seminarians, which was the worst they could say of someone. My mates from the country hamlets were sure I’d end up in the seminary if I continued to be so fond of books and school. However, the teacher never mentioned that, nor did the priest in the parish school.
The classroom emptied out and I hung around tidying the things I kept in my desk. The teacher had gone out to the entrance to say goodbye to the class and when he came back, he sat on his dais, and gave me what I felt was a warm look, full of expectation, the kind parents adopt when they summon you to give you a present on the night of the Kings, however miserable, scant and disappointing you remember it being on that night for giving presents that weren’t given, but grownup eyes shine in a special way because they know what you don’t, they have the key to what you’re hoping for, and that knowledge shines in their eyes with a mixture of hope and the fear they may not match your expectations.
He didn’t ask me to come nearer, but simply said: “I didn’t know your father was in prison.”
I looked at him and didn’t know what to say. Ah, so it was that! I thought disappointedly. Those political things that got Grandmother going.
“I hope he’s lucky,” he continued, as if he was turning the page of a book and starting a new chapter. “I wanted you to know that Mr. and Mrs. Manubens came to see me to ask after you. Your schooling, your ability, your behaviour… in a word, your future.”
My future? I repeated to myself. In what way were the owners of the farmhouse involved in my future? I’d seen the Manubens two or three times at most. The husband was plump and pleasant with a bald, shiny pate that looked as if it had been varnished. His wife was conceited, buxom, plump too, her eyes, mouth and cheeks were always made up, she wore dresses with swooping necklines and loose skirts, dripped with necklaces, rings and bracelets, and sported a curly fringe and a perm at the back that looked rather ridiculous as it gave the impression she wanted to hide her age; her voice piped and juddered. The Manubens had courted me whenever they paid us a visit and I now recalled that day when the wife looked me up and down as if I was an item she wanted to buy before she’d said: “Poor little thing! If you could eat the odd decent steak, you’d be even nicer! Your cheeks would be more handsome and your eyes sparkier.”