Ninth Day

I was reminded of my school-days today.

On one occasion, for a minor crime - something too childish for me to record without embarrassment - I was sent to the Deputy Head's office. When this woman, who to me had little evident function, found me waiting there she had no idea what I might have done. I had to explain that I had been sent there by Mrs. X, and why, carefully wording my account so as not to admit my own guilt. Of course, I believed my own behaviour to have been, if not exactly exemplary, far from worthy of punishment. I had an unshakeable belief in my own superiority, in those days, and saw my transgressions as the more regrettable manifestations of a personality that a wiser institution would cherish and celebrate.

These cautious words ('I have committed the following act... I can see why Mrs. X may not have appreciated the joke... maybe it was not in fact all that funny... my disrespect was targeted more at the school's procedures than at Mrs. X herself...') did not satisfy the figure that was supposed to be punishing me. She expected a more explicit mea culpa, and being made to mouth it, when I did not believe it, was to be my punishment.

I left with a hollow feeling. If I had been given a genuine opportunity to express myself, the authorities might have learnt something about me, or even about themselves. As it was I had been placed in limbo until I found a form of expression that fitted with what they already believed. Had the interview taken place in public, it would have been a show-trial; the dissenter forced by luddite power to act a role: 'Aha! Now I see my mistake! My pretentious upbringing has placed in me a poisonous seed, a hollow of faithlessness, a doubt against the white magic of the rituals of the enlightened State!'

I felt more comfortable when, on arriving late for the third time that half-term, I was placed in detention (a word that now means something entirely different). That was merely disproportionate.

You see, today two smart professional people, respectable members of society, lacking only the perspective to see their own insignificance, engaged me in the same sort of conversation. I was taken from my room by a uniformed officer and led by my elbow through blank and silent corridors to meet this pair, a man and a woman. The man was balding but not old. The woman was younger, with regular features and a trim figure. She was the kind of woman that could not possibly be described as pretty, but she lacked the asymmetries or imbalances that mark us as ugly, and I imagined the lust the men she worked with felt for her.

They introduced a topic of conversation and expected me to speak. The topic they chose was my friend M. What did M do for a living? Who else did M meet with? Did I know where M could be found, or how he had spent the last period? Even, in what I felt was a moment of weakness, why did I imagine they were so interested in M?

I told the truth but there was little to say. To my knowledge M has no other friends. He is a colleague of mine, and I do not see him socially.

There was something they wanted me to say. They repeated themselves. They shared glances (and I imagined the tiny thrill this meant for the man). They showed care and perseverance at their work. They grew almost excited when I mentioned that M could be 'intense'. But this time I didn't know what it was my questioners wanted to hear.