In those last gloomy days, as the school cruised towards final exams, the
prom, graduation exercises and other farewell routines that still had to be
organized and gone through, Radix found a place of sanctuary, so to speak,
in the school library; in the east wing on the third floor.
He'd drifted in there one morning and found it empty and quiet. It was the
7th period, his "prep" period, so he decided to return the next day and the
day after. There was the New York Times on its polished sticks. A few
students, heads bowed, were reading and working with purpose. And there
was Dr. Valery Balleret, the librarian, who ran the library like a castle of
of discipline and enlightenment.
His first encounter with her back in the Fall was unsettling. He'd been
asked by his supervisor to cover a class that normally met in the computer
room; but since the supervisor wasn't prepared to let a bunch of kids sit
idle in the computer, it was off to the library with Radix in charge.
He had a difficult time marshalling everyone up to the third floor. Some
students straggled; some sneaked off and were stopped in the hallway and
asked to explain their unattended behavior, prompting the security officer
to look at Radix as if he ought to be doing a better job controlling his
class.
When he got to the library Dr. Balleret refused to let them in. She asked
Radix if he worked here ̶ was he a substitute teacher? She insisted that
everyone line up quietly and take out their identity cards.
This had been her routine over the years: waiting at the door as library
visitors came tumbling up the stairs; her hands folded, her chin raised in
proprietary displeasure as everyone got their cards out for inspection.
To Radix that morning, his patience already tested and frayed, this was a
silly time-wasting procedure.
He stood aside, stiff and unhelpful, an offended look on his brow.
Eventually she let them in, told them where to sit; then she got on the
phone to enquire what this was all about since no one had told her about a
class coming to the library.
She spoke in a cultivated English accent he came to associate with
librarians, and people whose lives and work seem connected with
literature and the Arts.
Then as if to make amends for the offhand way she'd treated him, she
sidled over to Radix, introduced herself and ̶ with arms folded, her eyes
narrowed and steeled in case of trouble ̶ she struck up friendly conver-
sation during which they appeared to be jointly watching over their
charges.
She wanted to know where he came from. She quickly announced how
pleasing his accent was. Part of the problem here at John Wayne Cotter,
she whispered with some urgency, was the failure of communication
between teachers and students whose origins were oceans apart. Radix
felt some discomfort with this opinion, and wished she would wander back
to her library duties.
A student came in. Dr. Balleret stopped him in his tracks and asked what
he wanted. He seemed surprised anyone would want to stop him from
using the school library. He explained he simply wanted to stay here.
She asked if he had a room pass; he didn't have one. "Well, in that case
you can't stay here." Not willing to challenge her he walked away, looking
back, puzzled and resentful.
Only then did it strike Radix how unusually compliant the kids were in this
part of the building; how controlled and responsive to request. Was it the
library with its library rules? Was it the stern overarching presence of Dr.
Balleret? There was more than a hint of uncompromising will in her narrow
white face, her straight arrow posture.
Above all, she told Radix, she was concerned with "setting a good example
for these kids"; establishing "a positive tone in the school"; encouraging
"civility in the way we conduct ourselves."
And as if to demonstrate what she meant, she walked over to a table
where the decibel level had risen to unacceptable levels. She spoke to the
miscreants in her slow refined way (which seconds ago had Radix wishing
she'd hurry and get to the end of the sentence, or finish the thought.) It
compelled the students to listen, to follow syllable after syllable her
admonitions. Then she returned to Radix's side, shaking her head sadly,
eager to pick up the thread of their conversation.
(from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" by N.D.Williams, 2001)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 