Antonio Moresco - Distant Light

“What do you want to talk to the teacher about?” he asked me again.

“I wanted to ask him about a dead child.”

“Which dead child?” he asked smiling in the dark. “All the children in the night school are dead.”

“I don’t know his name. He doesn’t know it either. He must have forgotten it. He says his school friends call him Putty.”

The man studied me from close up, in the dark, with his broad lopsided head, his poor eyes squinting slightly to see me better.

“Ah, yes, yes! Putty!” he smiled.

A moment later he continued to close the entrance doors.

“I really have to shut now,” he said. “But you can stay a while, if you want. The teacher isn’t here, but you can talk to me, though I’m just the janitor.”

He closed the entrance completely. The darkness wasn’t so heavy now. The only light coming in was from a small half-moon pane of glass over the entrance.

“It’s not surprising that the boy says he can’t see anything!” I suddenly thought, now that the janitor had completely shut the doors, locking them with two small bolts that went into the floor, and then with another larger bolt and the lock, turning the key and counting the number of turns under his breath so he wouldn’t forget any of them.

He put the large key into his work coat pocket.

“Come with me!” he said eventually, taking me under the arm. “I’ll show you the school.”

“But I can’t see anything!” I said.

“You can see, you can see …” he said kindly, as we climbed a flight of steps. “You just have to let your eyes get used to the darkness. Then it’s really not so dark … There’s always some light from outside, from the streetlamp, which comes through the curtains from the gaps between them, between the two parts that never completely close, even though we try really hard two or three times to draw them across, trying to get them to join completely….”

He was panting slightly as he climbed the steps holding my arm.

“I shouldn’t be doing this job anymore,” he said meanwhile. “I’ve been doing it for such a long time that I’d be sorry to stop … I’ve been here since I wasn’t much more than a lad. Sometimes I used to play with the children. When the bell rang and they saw me going along the corridor they used to run after me, they used to pull me all over the place with their little 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 light filtered 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 though he couldn’t even join in and yet, at the same time, he used to throw himself into the game so much that it didn’t seem just a game for him but a question of life and death. He used to tire quickly, his face turned bright burning red, he sweated more than the others. When he threw himself into a game he couldn’t stop, the others used to shake him by the shoulders to make him understand the game had come to an end, but he didn’t understand, he couldn’t accept it. They would go off and leave him alone. You know … you get to know children well, seeing so many of them, living among them …”

We had now reached the end of this last stretch of corridor. We turned back.

“He wasn’t very good at school. He used to get bad marks. Sometimes the teacher would throw exercise books at him, would put him behind the blackboard …”

“Yes, it’s true! He put him behind the blackboard!”

“I used to see him as I went along the corridor, passing the open doors …” continued the janitor, who was so absorbed in his story that he didn’t seem to have heard me, “because the blackboards were put at an angle at the far end of the classrooms. When I passed, he used to lift his head which he kept bowed, we’d catch each other’s eye, he’d look at me with those eyes of his, so large, and all full of tears …”

“Yes, yes …” I murmured.

“But there was one thing that no one could beat him at … During playtime, every now and then, they played a game. Though, in a way, I don’t know whether it was a game. Anyway, when the bell rang they all ran to that point there, look, where the corridor widens slightly by the toilets. At that time there was a large carpenter’s bench, the kind that has a wooden vise. I don’t know who’d put it there, what it was doing there … The children ran there to eat the sandwiches they’d brought from home or the focaccia they’d bought before they arrived from the baker’s that used to be just by the school, which they’d take out of its greasy wrapping. Others would eat some fruit, or nothing at all, because they were getting ready for the fight …”