arms …”
We arrived upstairs and turned into the dark corridor, along which I thought I could see the doors of the classrooms from what little lightfiltered in from between the edges of the curtains not completely drawn.
I glanced at him now and then as he carried on walking, holding me by the arm.
He stopped for a moment before he began speaking again.
“Janitor here! Janitor there! They used to call me from the classrooms when the inkwells needed filling up, in those wooden desks they used to have, all riddled with compass holes. It was always running out, I was always having to rush about with that tin canister full of ink, refilling the inkwells again. They sat there watching, biting their lips so as not to laugh, nudging each other, while the ink came out of the spout and refilled those glass inkwells they used to have in the middle of the desk, on the top edge. Which hadn’t really run out at all. It was them, they filled the inkwells with bits of blotting paper to make them dry up faster, so they could have fun watching me arrive with the tin to fill them up again. They used to dip their pens into that sludge of ink and blotting paper, there were always those bits of fluff in the words they wrote in their exercise books, they tried to pick them off with their fingers before they started writing again, from the tip of the nib, they even used to pull the nib out of its holder to pick them off more easily, they always had their fingers all black with ink. They would change the nibs, pulling them out of their little boxes. There were copper, steel, gold nibs, and different shapes: some like a tower,a lance, a stick … Every child had his own favorites. That’s exactly what they used to be called: the tower, the lance, the stick … They used to go to the stationer and they’d say, give me a lance, or three sticks, two towers … And the stationer would go and get the right box. Janitor, janitor! The ink is finished! they’d yell out from the classrooms, with their little voices. And I’d go running … At that time I was the morning janitor, when I first came here. Well, I mean, let’s say … when I was alive.”
This time I was the one who stopped. But his hand pressed my arm more firmly, affectionately, as we continued walking along the corridor.
I could hear a slight noise, from his mouth. I turned toward him. Now that my eyes had become more accustomed to the darkness, I saw that he was waggling the top plate of his denture up and down with his tongue, either out of habit or because it was bothering him.
“I ask you, how could I have stopped?” he continued. “I like having children around me! So I carried on as the janitor …”
We had reached a bend in the corridor, which continued on with numerous other small doors, behind which you could imagine blackboards, desks.
“Which is that boy’s classroom?” I tried asking the dead janitor, in the darkness.
“You mean Putty? I’ll show you … There, it was that one! But the desks and blackboard are no longer the same, of course …”
I stopped in front of the door.
“Why do you say it was? I’m talking about now! About the little boy who comes to the night school now!”
He made no reply. I could hear the sound of his hand, the one that wasn’t holding my arm, which was scratching his large bald head, in the dark.
“He was a strange boy …” he continued. “I don’t know why, but he was strange. He always kept himself to himself, you never knew what he was thinking. Is he a child? Is he really a child? I used to wonder. Not because he didn’t behave like a child but, quite the opposite, because he was more of a child than the others. He was so much of a child that he didn’t even seem like a child. He was always by himself, even though he wanted to make friends, to play with the others, when they wanted him. But he wasn’t very good at playing. He didn’t seem to be playing. He went too far. It seemed as
We arrived upstairs and turned into the dark corridor, along which I thought I could see the doors of the classrooms from what little lightfiltered in from between the edges of the curtains not completely drawn.
I glanced at him now and then as he carried on walking, holding me by the arm.
He stopped for a moment before he began speaking again.
“Janitor here! Janitor there! They used to call me from the classrooms when the inkwells needed filling up, in those wooden desks they used to have, all riddled with compass holes. It was always running out, I was always having to rush about with that tin canister full of ink, refilling the inkwells again. They sat there watching, biting their lips so as not to laugh, nudging each other, while the ink came out of the spout and refilled those glass inkwells they used to have in the middle of the desk, on the top edge. Which hadn’t really run out at all. It was them, they filled the inkwells with bits of blotting paper to make them dry up faster, so they could have fun watching me arrive with the tin to fill them up again. They used to dip their pens into that sludge of ink and blotting paper, there were always those bits of fluff in the words they wrote in their exercise books, they tried to pick them off with their fingers before they started writing again, from the tip of the nib, they even used to pull the nib out of its holder to pick them off more easily, they always had their fingers all black with ink. They would change the nibs, pulling them out of their little boxes. There were copper, steel, gold nibs, and different shapes: some like a tower,a lance, a stick … Every child had his own favorites. That’s exactly what they used to be called: the tower, the lance, the stick … They used to go to the stationer and they’d say, give me a lance, or three sticks, two towers … And the stationer would go and get the right box. Janitor, janitor! The ink is finished! they’d yell out from the classrooms, with their little voices. And I’d go running … At that time I was the morning janitor, when I first came here. Well, I mean, let’s say … when I was alive.”
This time I was the one who stopped. But his hand pressed my arm more firmly, affectionately, as we continued walking along the corridor.
I could hear a slight noise, from his mouth. I turned toward him. Now that my eyes had become more accustomed to the darkness, I saw that he was waggling the top plate of his denture up and down with his tongue, either out of habit or because it was bothering him.
“I ask you, how could I have stopped?” he continued. “I like having children around me! So I carried on as the janitor …”
We had reached a bend in the corridor, which continued on with numerous other small doors, behind which you could imagine blackboards, desks.
“Which is that boy’s classroom?” I tried asking the dead janitor, in the darkness.
“You mean Putty? I’ll show you … There, it was that one! But the desks and blackboard are no longer the same, of course …”
I stopped in front of the door.
“Why do you say it was? I’m talking about now! About the little boy who comes to the night school now!”
He made no reply. I could hear the sound of his hand, the one that wasn’t holding my arm, which was scratching his large bald head, in the dark.
“He was a strange boy …” he continued. “I don’t know why, but he was strange. He always kept himself to himself, you never knew what he was thinking. Is he a child? Is he really a child? I used to wonder. Not because he didn’t behave like a child but, quite the opposite, because he was more of a child than the others. He was so much of a child that he didn’t even seem like a child. He was always by himself, even though he wanted to make friends, to play with the others, when they wanted him. But he wasn’t very good at playing. He didn’t seem to be playing. He went too far. It seemed as
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