I can sense the tension around me, the fear, the rush... The smoke fills the air while the rumor of repeated hastied steps resounds along the semi-dark corridor and a hundred frightened voices ring everwhere in breathless murmures. No, it's not a fire: it's oral exam day. And I'm next.
As I wait for my turn, leaning my head on the wooden frame of the closed door, the others wait beside me, smoking 5 cigarettes at once in a nervous wreck, as they dispairately bury their noses in their notebooks struggling to memorize in the last minute another line of information. That isn't an easy task, for we have taken millions of notes in this class: Mr. Profe speaks as tirelessly as a two-sided record, pausing only to breath between sentences, filling every single minute of the lenght of his art history class with a polished speech of trimmed diction and extense encyclopaedic lexic that unwinds as clearly and fluidly as the trickling sound of a waterfall, running smoothly through occassional brief intrerruptions of the questions addressed to him, and acompanied by the rythm of his calm pace and conservative pantomime.
And, yes, you guessed it: Mr. Profe is the classic type. He's not one of those modern wacky professors that claim to be allergic to any traditional methods of teaching. No weird inventions with him, no obssessive experimentation, no "bright" overdone ideas. He will not arrive to school riding bareback on a zebra, or showing off a glow-in-the-dark tatoo on the balding spot of his forehead. And, no joke, it happens: you have no idea how far some profes can go to be original.
I've seen some that liked to turn the class into a therapy session. I've had some that encouraged us to rip off our books, toss our pencils in the air and our homework out the window. I saw them kick off their shoes to climb up on their desk and insert a yoga lesson during the class. They even made me pick up my classmates over my shoulders and carry them around the room - even if they had not fainted.
In that line, Mr. Profe is pretty well behaved. His classes may not be a constant safari of surprises, but at least won't freak you out with straining excentricities. For as long as I've knon him (and I refer to an amount of months that would require the use of even my toes to be counted) he's as neat and polished as an Edwardian doctor, from the invariable haircut, that fits so well on his head it seems to have been born with him, to the perenially buttoned-up coat of hi sober-coloured suit. His fashion is as steady and predictible as a cartoon character, playing the same role film after film: a look, a costume, a personality, a selection of moves that seemed photocopied for the rest of his career. Such styles suit Mr. Profe like no other.
His classes are as "original and copies" as his looks. He always follows the same patron. Fisrt glance you'd think he's as plain as a wall and as stiff as a snowboard, but that impression won't last more than two sessions with him.
For all his apparent lack of attention-getting efforts he stands out like an air conditioner on a window, and for all his apparent total seriousness, occassional joking outbursts strike him as brightly and quickly as a lightening, brushing away any momentary intention of qualifying him as a sleeping pill. By the way, if my description makes you picture me snoring while he lectures think again.
Mr. Profe is not boring at all! As I sit through his class hour after hour, more often than not I must battle with a grin: I love him! And I don't mean the student-teacher puppy crush 13-year-olds develope for a Phoebus clon literature teacher when he starts reciting Shakespeare. By no means. I refer to a certain admiration his character rouses. Yes, I admit I froze in panic the first day, when I discovered I couldn't follow his lecture anymore than a turtle keeps up with a rabbit. But in one week you get used to him. One semester later you learn to predict him. Before you even reach your first exam, Mr. Profe is a favorite, a treat to have in a class.
Of course, the man is as strict as his description suggests. He has the nerve to take note who attends his class and who missed it -by memory, not even with the list! He even has the nerve to notice who sneaks home during breaks, for Heaven's sake! And it's not advisable to be part of his hooky-player black list or you can foresee your degree going straight down the drain as he predicts you will be working with Mc Donalds in the future, for your lack of interest in his class points out your lack of good chances with college.
And Heaven forbid you should get caught red-handed in flagrant cheating sin during an exam! Then his Mr. Hyde wil surface and he'll glare at you with red eyes, spitting fire through his sharp fangs and rip your insignificant guilty person with the mighty claws of his authority. I have not so far witnessed this spectacular methamorphosis, but we have been warned, by him, not to provoke it.
However, I can not picture him playing such a ruthless role. For all I know him, tempered mood is his trade mark. Grave as a judge he keeps the same straight face, the same calm tone, the same conservative economy of gestures, wheter to explain his lesson, chide some unruly students that distract their concentration, or argue with the wicked slides projector that constantly does its best to sabotage his class, and which he treats with the patience of an angel.
It would be interesting for once to watch him bang the wretched device against the wall, kicking and crashing it, chewing it to pieces, cursing it in 7 languages -if he should that many speak. Instead he merely keeps his usual composure, and with the same clear tranquile voice accuses the evil prop of being the cause of his future heart attack.
He is so balanced that it is even amusing seeing him upset (given, of course, that his anger isn't aimed at my impeccably-behaved lovable person). But I never indulge myself more than a brief and stiffled laugh at those times, since I know a demonstration of excessive merriness may arouse his annoyance. Gay moods involve a relaxation of discipline and this is one strict taboo not to be put up with in his territory. And even knowing that his scolding will be shorter than his temper, I could not live with my conciense if I was to irritate him.
Some girls once committed the crime of comming down with such fits of laughing a little too much. He sentenced they transform his class into a TV talk show and cooly requested they relieve the room from their presence.
Between anecdotes, it is mesmerizing to watch the apparently unlimited knowledge of his vast mind, which seems to be cooked and swollen as a donut, stuffed with dates, places, books, titles, names, and facts; not as a stocked closet, full of objects in disorder but filed and organized so neatly that he manages to keep them all handy, ready to display as nonchalantly as if he was reciting the ABC, popping info from his brain as a magician yanking rabbits from a hat, with no apparent strain in finding the specific file in his head, no tongue-knotting to spell or pronounce foreign names and words, no hesitation of memory to quote paragraphs in their original tongue, even if that being swahili.
Well, this time it's my turn to impress him!
For everyone else this is Judment Day, but for me it's a juicy challenge: my chance to show off to Mr. Profe what profit I've made out of his efforts.
I wait by the door now coughing from all those smoking freaks, and I could just stick my tongue out at all of them. I didn't even bother bringing my notes with: I know everything as clearly as my own name. By the time this exam is over Mr. Profe will drop down on his knees and propose. I cast a pitiful glance at the panicking crowd around me. Poor unfortuned souls. Most of them will probably have to recur to the old trick of twisting the answer, converting and leading it to some point they can handle. That may work fine in a beauty contest, but Mr. Profe is always too alert to be fooled by this antic. (Let's just hope he'll never play a jury in a Miss Universe show or he'll give all those poor girls a complex.)
I look inside my mind for a last minute review. All the centuries of art are safely sheltered, like cute sleeping children, soundly tugged in their warm beds. I tip-toe into the memory room and pass a caring hand over their heads, whispering "sleep tight, Romanic dear, sweet Gothic" and I proudly watch their rosy cheeks, so chubby, healthy-looking, so well fed and taken care of, raised with long hours of dedicated studying. Wait until Mr. Profe sees you, my darlings, so grown up and flunky, beautiful and dolled up: his glasses will fall off of his nose!
While my mind wanders I suddenly discover and empty bed in my brain -a hole in my memory -a missing child! Oh, no! I scream in distress "Bizantine! Where are you?" but I get no answer. He was here a minute ago, just now I saw him, before I turned my head -what could possibly have happened?
I hunt after him, but he's nowhere to be found. I can see him, at last, flying around the room, laughing, moving away from me, oblivios to my dispair. I produce a butterfly net and jump in the air after him, but I fall so hard on my head I almost knocked Ghotic out of it, so I have to give it up. (I'll remember to fall on my bottom next time )
The door opens and a sweaty pale-faced figure emerges from the room breathing a sigh of relief. It is my turn to go in. I feel as if I'm walking into the dentist's office. If I was to see Mr. Profe holding a big twizor and ready to pull out all my teeth in a "I'm-your-worst-nightmare" manner I couldn't be more terrified. I brace myself and sneak in.
The professor looks everything but scary and calls me to step forward with such calm that it should be a soothing sight but the knowledge of a missing child overwhelms me with all sort of paranoid thoughts. I try to conjure up a voo-doo spell repeating in my mind "Don't get Bizantine! Don't get Bizantine!" as I try to decide which question card to pick. Shaking, I turn it over and read... BINGO! Bizantine it is -miserable luck! And I can't even curse his evil telpathy since he din't chose the subject: it as my own perverse little hand that did my sentence. Innocent of the torture I go thru he probably sees the sinking of courage in my face and sugests I change the question, on price of a precoius point out of my grade, which is a fairly generous offer, but something warns me I could be jumping out of the frying pan into the fire if my next choice is no better.
I stick, thus, to my present question, searching for a flash emergency plan B. If only I could stop time a few minutes and run after my missing child, or find a way to delay my execution... why does a nuclear war never strike when you need one?
With the calm of a fatalist I sit in front of him and try to play it cool.
He looks at me across the desk, from behind his glasses, probably convinced that I know what I'm going to answer. Ignorant of my amnesic lapsus he invites me to be degage and sits back waiting for what I have to say.
Even now he's comical: I'm one step from dropping like a brick and he wants me to relax. Now really...
For a split of second I have a vision of me serving fries and McBurgers. No way!
And just then -BANG! All of a sudden my missing child breaks in -but in such a way! From the chubby healthy-looking babe I had prepared for Mr. Profe all there is left now is a little skinny thing, ragged and dirty like a gypsy. This could hardly please my expectations, but having nothing else, will have to do. I manage to spit a crippled answer that sounds as pathetic as I feel at the moment.
As I had antcipated Mr. Profe's jaw didn't hit the floor with my performance. He tries to help me out with questions that intend to lead me into the right direction, but don't make me any wiser. I wait with resignation for his veredict while I consider several railroad tracks to tie myelf to, since none of the windows at the University are high enough.
Poised as ever, he goes through a little philosophical approach of my lame speech. As I hear him point out my highlights I realize my answer has been accurate enough to suit the demands, even though I had planned much better.
The number he grants me is far higher than the one I'd give to myself if I as to decide my own sentence. I could just leap over the desk and slap a kiss on the top of his nose squeaking "Oh, you merciful being, you patient one, you darling thing!" But that would go far beyond the terms we stand in so I settle for a polite and formal "Thank you, Mr. Professor" and I'm dissmissed.
Although I'm pretty satisfied with the resulting grade, a twinge of dissappointment needles me, for not having made the outstanding impression that might have singled me out as a particularly brilliant student.
Then again, becoming Mr. Profe's favorite seems like very wishful thinking -not due to my lack of outspoken talent, but because of his on impartiality.
As I walk past the trembling ghosts that crawl around the corridor and announce "Next" to a nervous-wrecked being that chews her nails by the door, I feel a tap on my shoulder and -guess who? BIZANTINE no less! The wicked goblin! He's back, but not as the poor devil I showed during my interview -but again the flunky pretty child I wanted, in all his glowing health.
I shake my head, glaring at him and hiss "Sure! Now you show up, double crosser!"
And he giggles fiendishly, promising to behave next time.
(This story was finished on November 2000)
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