Fool School by James Comins Page A

extended belly broad as
Creation and sitting on a small table of its own, which is bowed
under the weight. An expression of bile and disgust. An hexagonal
black hat.
    "How do you do," the wet lips say without
enthusiasm.
    "Sir," I say. "Tom. This is Malcolm. God keep you."
We are still startled and incoherent.
    Beady eyes fix on us in turn. I get the strong
impression that this man doesn't like me.
    "I am the Chamberlain of the Library," the fat man
says. "I suffer myself to be addressed as 'Hamlin,' upon the
incessant vocalizations of frustration on behalf of everyone but
myself saying those four words each time. Thus you will address me
as Hamlin. Now. During classes your Classics professor will speak,
and during such classes you may be instructed to speak yourself. If
you have not been instructed to speak, then don't. I despise the
sound. If you desire to peruse our scrolls, you will look up the
call number of the scroll you need in our catalogue," he throws a
finger in the direction of a wooden case of drawers, "and bring me
the number. I shall myself install the thing on the rollers. You
shall not touch the parchment, only the roller handles. You shall
not utilize our spritz-atomizers to soften the pages. If the pages
need spritz-atomization, you shall summon me and I shall
spritz-atomize for you. Once you have finished your perusal, I will
detach the scroll from its rollers and return the scroll to its
place. Filthy boy hands never touch parchment."
    "Only filthy chamberlain hands," adds Nuncle, who
seems to have no fear of this pendulous man.
    "I shall have you gutted," mutters Hamlin without a
trace of humor. Yet I find myself suppressing a smile. "If you have
urgent need of a text, and I am not in my accustomed spot," he pats
his chair arm, "then kindly stand there --" he points to the
floor beside him--"and wait. If I'm not along in a few minutes,
then do continue standing there until news of my passing is
announced and my corpse inhumed. Under no circumstances am I to be
awoken or disturbed from my food or Roman entreaties."
    "Roman entreaties?" Malcolm says.
    "The john," Nuncle whispers.
    "And there is to be no victual, no quaffage, and--and
I shall say this unexpectedly loudly--NO FIRE," he screams from his
chest, rising partway out of his chair. "Candles are left at the
base of the stairs, outside the music room. Nuncle is not so
cautious in his parchment as I am."
    "I also take the time to create copies of all my
documents," says Nuncle in a sniffy way, dancing on the tips of his
toes.
    "Regrettably I have not the hand," mumbles Hamlin,
waving his small chubs in the air.
    "They say inside every chamberlain's hand is a
scribe's hand struggling to get out," snips Nuncle.
    "Out, noisemaker," bellows Hamlin, thrusting his
chamberlain's hand at the stairwell. "Only reason you're on the
floor below mine is the odslud acrobats needed the higher ceiling
of the mezzanine. Don't think yourself free of my ire, tumpty-man.
You've been warned."
    On the way down, we hear the evening arrival of the
other students, the four of them arriving together in a band.
Before we meet them, I ask Nuncle, unexpectedly, whether Hamlin was
as bilious and hateful as he made himself out to be. Nuncle and
Malcolm both turn silently and give me a look I don't like at all.
Nuncle's eyes narrow and he doesn't respond.
    I am mistaken, only two of the students in this band
are together. The other two voices I heard coming in through the
big door are professors--no, again I'm mistaken. They're cooks, you
can tell from their slovenly demeanor and filthy clothes. Not only
are they cooks, but twins. Nuncle thrusts me and Malcolm toward the
band of cloaked merrymakers.
    "Ah, messirs, here is the freshest meat," he says,
and introduces us to each of the four.
    Douglas Rhodes, or Dag, is angular, a teenager made
of elbows, with an elongated head, like it had been crushed,
although it's not as big as Malcolm's. Dag seems slow, but I
imagine it might just