T. Boyle - Wild Child and Other Stories

Angry.

The blowup came on a fine spring afternoon, all of Paris redolent with the perfume of lilac and lily, the southern breeze as soft and warm as a hand laid against a cheek, the pond on the Institute’s grounds giving rise sp ntaneously to ducklings, whole fleets of them, even as the deaf-mutes capered over the lawns, squealing and whinnying in their high, strained, unnatural voices.

Itard had devised an especially complex configuration of shapes and cutouts, posters nailed up on the walls and three-dimensional figures spread across the table, and he could see that Victor was growing frustrated. He was feeling frustrated himself — this morning, like a hundred others before it, offering up hope in such niggardly increments that it seemed as if the glaciers of the Alps and Pyrenees would meet before Victor could learn to perform a task any four-year-old would have mastered in a minute.

The shapes wouldn’t cohere. Victor backed away, flung himself sullenly on the bed. Itard took him by the arm and forced him to stand and confront the problem, just as he’d done over and over again all morning long, the grip of his iron fingers on the yielding flesh of the boy’s upper arm as familiar to both of them as breathing in and breathing out. But this time, Victor had had enough. With a violence that startled them both, he snatched his arm away and for one suspended moment made as if to attack his teacher, his teeth bared, fists raised in anger, until he turned on the hated objects — the spheres, pyramids and flat geometric figures — and tore them to pieces. He raged round the room, ducking away from his teacher with the animal dexterity that had yet to abandon him despite the weight he was putting on, heaving the scraps out the open window, then rushing to the fireplace to fling ashes round the room and ripping at the sheets of the bed with his teeth until they were shredded, and all the while Itard trying to wrestle him down. Finally, ululating in a new oppressive voice that might have been the call of some carrion bird, Victor threw himself on the floor and fell into convulsions.

The convulsions were authentic — the eyes sunk back in the boy’s head, his teeth gnashing, tongue bloodied — but they were self-generated for all that, and Itard, who’d witnessed this scene innumerable times in the past, lost control himself. In a flash, he was on the boy, jerking him up off the floor and dragging him to the open window — shock treatment, that was what he needed, a force that was greater than he, implacable, irresistible, a single act of violence that would tame him forever. And here it was, ready to hand. Clutching him by the ankles, Itard thrust the boy through the frame of the open window and dangled him there, five long stories from the ground. Victor went rigid as a board, the convulsions dissolved in the terror of the moment. What must he have thought?

That after all the kindness and blandishments, all the food, warmth and shelter, his captors — and this man, this man in particular who had always forced these strange, useless labors on him — had finally shown their true colors. That his teacher was in league with Madame Guérin, that they’d softened him in order to destroy him as surely as the deaf-mutes would have done if they’d had their way, and before them the merciless boys of the villages at the edge of the forest. He’d been betrayed. The ground would rush to meet him.

For those few minutes, Itard didn’t care what the boy was feeling. All the pain and humiliation of the scene at Madame Récamier’s came rushing back to him, all the endless wasted hours, the unceasing contest of wills, Sicard’s skepticism, the sharpened blade of the world’s ready judgment and failure waiting in the wings.

Victor whimpered. He wet his trousers. A pigeon, disturbed on its roost, let out a soft flutter of concern. And then, after all the blood had rushed to Victor’s face, after the sky seemed to explode across the horizon and close back up on itself in a black ball and the deaf-mutes began to gather below, pointing and shouting, Itard tightened his grip and hauled the boy back into the room.

He didn’t lay him on the bed. Didn’t set him in the chair or back on the floor. He held him up until Victor’s muscles flexed and he was able to stand on his own. Then, very firmly and without hesitation, he made the boy gather up what scraps of cardboard remained, and recommenced the lesson.

After that excoriating afternoon, Victor seemed to come round. He still balked at his lessons, but not as often — or as violently — as before, and Itard had only to motion to the window to subjugate him completely. There were no more tantrums, no convulsions.

Dutifully, his shoulders slumped and head bowed, Victor did as he was told and applied himself to his lessons, gradually acquiring a modicum of skill at matching the geometric shapes to their receptacles. At this point, Itard decided to move forward, attempting to teach him the alphabet through the agency of both his tactile sense and his burgeoning ability to make visual distinctions; to this end, he created a sort of board game in which there were twenty-four compartments, each marked with a letter of the alphabet, and twenty-four corresponding metal cutouts. The idea was for Victor to remove the cutouts from the compartments and then replace them properly, which he seemed able to do right from the beginning with relative ease. It was only by observing him closely, however, that Itard saw that Victor hadn’t learned the letters at all, but was instead painstakingly setting aside the cutouts and simply reversing the order in which he’d removed them. And so Itard complicated the game, as he’d done with the representational drawings, until Victor could no longer memorize the order of the letters but had to concentrate on matching the shapes. Which he finally did. Victoriously.

This led, shortly thereafter, to Victor’s pronouncing his first word aloud. It came about that one late afternoon, Madame Guérin had poured out a bowl of milk for Sultan, her pampered cat, and then a glass for Victor while the metal letters of the alphabet happened to be laid out on the table in her kitchen, and Itard, always looking for an opportunity of instruction, took up the glass before Victor could reach for it and manipulated four of the cutouts to spell the word for milk: 1-a-i-t. Pronouncing it simultaneously—“Lait, lait”—he scrambled the letters and pushed them back across the table to Victor, who immediately arranged them to spell: t-i-a-1.

“Good, Victor, very good,” he murmured, realizing his mistake—

Victor had seen the word upside down — and quickly rearranging the letters. Again the exercise, and this time Victor spelled the word properly. “Lait, lait,” Itard repeated, and Madame Guérin, at the stove now, took it up too, a chant, a chorus, a panegyric to that simple and nourishing liquid, all the while pointing from the letters on the table to the milk in the glass and back again to his lips and tongue. Finally, with effort, because he’d come to relish milk as much as the cat did, Victor fumbled out the word. Very faintly, with his odd intonation, but clearly and distinctly, he echoed them: “Lait.”

Itard was overjoyed. Here it was, at long last, the key to unlock the boy’s mind and tongue. After praising him, after losing all control of himself and pulling Victor to him for a rib-rattling hug and pouring him a second and third glass of milk till his lips shone with a white halo, Itard ran off to the abbé’s office to report this coup de foudre, and Sicard, for all his dubiety, withheld judgment. He could have remarked that even cretins can pronounce a few simple words, that infants of eighteen months can mouth “mama” and

“papa,” but instead he simply said, “Congratulations, mon frère. Keep up the good work.”