Ferdydurke (9 page)

3 Caught with His Pants Down and Further Kneading

The teacher looked at his watch more and more often, the students took out their watches and also looked. Finally the saving bell rang, Ashface broke off in mid-sentence and disappeared, the students came to and exploded-only Syphon remained quiet, focused and self-absorbed. But no sooner did Ashface leave than the issue of innocence, stifled earlier by the boredom brought on by the bard, flared up again. Leaving officially sanctioned musings behind, the students again bashed their faces into the lad and the guy, and all that had been real slowly turned into a world of ideals, oh, let me dream now, let me! Syphon did not take part in the dispute but just sat, coddling himself—while Pyzo was rallying Syphon's followers and Hopek was promoting Kneadus' cause. And, in the thick and stifling air, cheeks flushed again and controversy grew—various theories and the names of doctrinaires were catapulted and sped into battle—here world views grappled with each other high above hot-heads, there a troop of liberated and liberating damsels charged at the obscurantism of the conservative press with the vehemence of sexual neophytes. "Our nationalism! Bolshevism! Fascism! Catholic Youth! Falcons! Boy Scouts! Be prepared! Knights of the Sword! Ancient tribes of Poland!"—and ever more fanciful words were falling. It was obvious that each political party had stuffed the students' heads with its brand of the ideal boy, and on top of that, individual thinkers had loaded them with their own tastes and ideals, while films, romantic novels, and newspapers had also done their job. And so all types of lad, guy, communist youth, athlete, juvenile, youngblood, scoundrel, aesthete, philosopher, and skeptic rose into the air above the battlefield and, red with anger, spat at one another, while from below one could hear only moans and groans of "You're naive!" "No, it's you who are naive!" Because all their ideals, without exception, were narrow, awkward, constrained, and inept; they spat them out in the heat of the dispute, then recoiled like catapults, scared of what they had done and unable to retract their callow words. Having totally lost touch with life and with reality, mangled by all kinds of factions, trends, and currents, constantly subjected to pedagogy, surrounded by falsehood, they gave vent to their own falsehood! They talked through their hats! Their pathos was artificial, their lyricism was odious, they were dreadful in their sentimentalism, inept in their irony, jest, and wit, pretentious in their flights of fancy, repulsive in their failures. And so their world turned. Turned and proliferated. Treated with artifice, how else could they be but artificial? And being artificial how else could they talk but in ways that were dishonorable? Consequently a terrible impotence hung in the stifling air, and what had been real slowly turned into a world of ideals, while Kopyrda was the only one to resist being sucked in by it all, nonchalantly tossing his nail file and looking at his legs ...

In the meantime, Kneadus stood to one side with Mizdral, getting the ropes ready, and Mizdral, trying to oblige, took off his suspenders. Shivers went down my spine. If Kneadus were to carry out his plan of initiating Syphon through the ears, then indeed— reality . . . reality would turn into a nightmare, freakishness would take over, and escape would become impossible. One had to take action against all this, at any cost. But how could I act alone, against all of them, and with my toe still stuck in my shoe? No, I could not. Oh, give me a single face that's still uncontorted! I approached Kopyrda. He stood by the window, in his flannel pants, looking at the school yard and whistling through his teeth, and I thought at least he would not be harboring any ideals. But how was I to begin?

"They want to violate Syphon," I said simply. "It would be better to dissuade them from it. If Kneadus violates Syphon, the school atmosphere will become completely unbearable."

And I anxiously waited for the sound, the ring of Kopyrda's voice ... But he did not say a word, and with his legs straight, just as he stood, he jumped out the window and into the yard. Once in the yard he went on whistling through his teeth.

I was left there, totally bewildered. What happened? He ducked my question. Why did he jump instead of answering me? This was not normal. And why legs—why had his legs come to the fore, to the forefront? His legs were on his forehead. I rubbed my forehead with my hand. Was I dreaming? Or was this real? But there was no time to think. Kneadus jumped toward me. Only now did I realize that, standing nearby, he had overheard what I said to Kopyrda.

"Why are you butting in?" he yelled. "Who gave you permission to talk to Kopyrda about our business? He doesn't care! Don't you dare talk to him about me!"

I took a step back. He exploded with the most awful invectives.

I whispered pleadingly:

"Kneadus, don't do it to Syphon."

No sooner did I say that when he exploded again:

"He is a pain in the ass and so are you, with all due respect!"

"Don't do it," I begged him. "Don't get mixed up in this! Can you see yourself doing it? Listen, just imagine it! Look! Here is Syphon, on the ground, all tied up, and you're initiating him—by force, through the ears! Can you see yourself doing it?"

He twisted his face even more hideously and said:

"I see that you're quite a lad yourself! Syphon has pulled you into his camp too! Your 'lad' is also a pain in the ass, with all due respect!"

And he kicked me in the shin.

I searched for words, which, as usual, failed me.

"Kneadus," I whispered, "drop it . . . You're making an ass of yourself too. Does Syphon's innocence entitle you to depravity? Drop it."

He looked at me.

"What is it you want from me?" he asked.

"Don't make a fool of yourself !"

"A fool?" he mumbled, his eyes became misty. "Stop making a fool of myself," he went on wistfully. "Indeed, there are guys who don't make fools of themselves. There are guys—journeymen, farmhands, sons of caretakers—these guys cart water, sweep the streets ... They must really laugh at Syphon and me, at all our poppycock!" He fell into one of his pained musings, for a moment he abandoned trifling talk and uncouth mannerisms, his face relaxed. But suddenly he jumped as if burned with a red-hot poker. "Oh, what a pupa! A pupa!" he exclaimed. "No, I won't have it, I won't have the students taken for innocents. I have to rape Syphon through the ears! F . . . f... f... !" And his face twisted again into a disgusting grimace, he splattered a ton of filth—I had to take a step back.

"Kneadus," I mechanically whispered, horrified, "let's run away, let's run from here!"

"Run?"

His ears were up. He stopped spluttering and looked at me inquisitively. He looked more normal now—I seized on this like a drowning man would clutch at a straw.

"Let's run, Kneadus, run away," I went on whispering, "drop it, let's run!"

He hesitated, his face sagging with indecision. I realized that the thought of escape was having a positive effect, and, trembling with fear lest he resume his freakishness, I desperately searched for a way to egg him on.

"Run! To freedom! To those farmhands, Kneadus!"

Aware of his yearning for the journeyman's real world I thought I could bait him with the farmhand. Oh, I couldn't care less what I said, I just wanted to keep him away from the grotesqueness, from suddenly contorting his face again. And indeed, his eyes began to sparkle, and he gave me a brotherly poke in the ribs.

"Would you like to, really?" he asked softly, intimately, and he laughed with a laughter that was soft and pure. I too laughed softly.

"To run away," he murmured, "to run... To the farmhands... To those real guys who tend their horses by the river, who bathe ..."

But then I saw something terrible—something new had come over his face—a longing, a kind of beauty unique to a schoolboy running away to farmhands. He switched from brutality to musicality. Taking me for one of his own he stopped acting, and instead he gave vent to his yearnings and lyricism.

"Hey, hey," he sang softly, "hey, to eat black bread with farmhands, to ride horses bareback over a meadow..."

His lips parted with a strange and bitter smile, his body turned supple and slender, and a kind of self-betrayal settled on his back and shoulders. He turned into a schoolboy longing for the freedom of farmhands—and now, quite openly, and throwing all caution to the wind, he flashed his teeth at me. I took a step back. I found myself in an awful predicament. Should I flash my teeth in return? If I didn't flash, he was likely to start spitting and swearing again, but what if I did flash . .. wouldn't the flashing make things worse, wouldn't the clandestine beauty that he proffered here be even more grotesque than his ugliness? Damn it, damn, why did I induce him to dream about the farmhand? I decided against flashing my teeth, I pursed my lips instead and whistled softly, and so we stood facing each other, flashing, whistling, or laughing softly, while the whole world seemed to have broken down and reorganized itself in the mode of a flashing, fleeing boy, when suddenly, a derisive roar came from a few steps away and all around us! I took a step back. It was Syphon and Pyzo, together with half a dozen other Syphonists—they were clutching their innocent bellies, chortling and roaring, an indulgent yet sneering expression on their faces.

"What?!" exclaimed Kneadus, caught with his pants down. It was too late.

Pyzo bellowed:

"Ha, ha, ha!"

While Syphon shouted:

"Congratulations, Kneadalski! Now we know what's going on! We've caught you, my friend, with your pants down! So you're hankering after a farmhand, are you?! You'd like to go trotting with a farmhand over a meadow, would you?! You pretend to be a realist, a brute, you fight the idealism of others, while deep down you're a sentimentalist yourself. A farmhand sentimentalist!"

Mizdral spewed vulgarities as best he knew how: "Shut up! Son of a bitch! Shit! Damn!"—but it was too late. Not even the worst invectives could save Kneadus, caught
in flagranti
with his secret longings. He blushed blood-red while Syphon sneered triumphantly: "He fights the idealism of others, yet pulls beguiling faces at farmhands. Now we know why purity gets in his way!"

Kneadus was about to pounce on Syphon—but he didn't pounce. He was about to crush him with hyper-vulgar invectives, but he didn't crush him. Caught as he was
in flagranti
he couldn't—he stiffened and became cold and venomously polite.

"I see, Syphon," he rejoined quasi-nonchalantly, but mainly to gain time, "so you think I'm pulling faces, do you? And don't you pull faces?"

"I?" replied Syphon, caught off-guard, "not at farmhands, I don't."

"Only at ideals, eh? So I'm not supposed to pull faces at farmhands, but it's all right for you to do it, because you pull fancy faces at ideals, is that it? Be so kind as to look at me. I'd love to see your face, if it's not too much bother."

"What for?" Syphon asked anxiously, and he took out his handkerchief, but Kneadus grabbed it from him and flung it to the floor: "What for? Because I can't stand the sight of your face! Stop putting on those pure and noble airs! I see, so it's all right for you to do it, is it?... Stop it, I tell you, or I'll screw up my face so horribly that you'll be sick of it all—sick of it... wait till I show you... I'll show you ..."

"Show me what?" Syphon asked. But Kneadus went on ranting and raving feverishly: "I'll show you! I'll show you! You show me, and I'll show you! Enough talk, on with it, show us that lad of yours instead of talking about him, and I'll show you something too, and then we'll see who will run! Show me! Show me! Enough empty phrases, enough half-baked, timid airs, those little airs, to hell with those delicate, maidenly airs that we hide even from ourselves— damn it, damn it—I challenge you to pull real faces, great faces, no-holds-barred faces, and you'll see, I'll show you faces that will make your lad run with his tail between his legs! Enough talk! You show me, show me, and I'll show you too!"

What a crazy idea! Kneadus had challenged Syphon to a face-pulling duel. They all fell silent and looked at him as if he had lost his wits, while Syphon was thinking up all kinds of sarcasms. But the viciousness that spread over Kneadalski's face was so demonic that everyone easily grasped the deadly sincerity of his proposal. Pulling faces! Faces—a weapon and a torture, all in one! A fight with no holds barred! Some of the students shuddered, seeing that Kneadal-ski was pulling into the open this dreadful tool that, up to now, everyone had used with the greatest circumspection, freely and openly maybe only behind closed doors and in front of a mirror. And so I took a step back because I realized that Kneadus was at the end of his wits, gone mad, and that he wanted to pull those horrible faces to befoul not only Syphon and the lad, but also the farmhand, the guy, himself, me, and everything else besides!

"Got cold feet?" he asked Syphon.

"Why should I be ashamed of my ideals?" the latter replied, unable to hide his embarrassment. "Why should I be afraid?" but his voice trembled slightly.

"Well then, Syphon! The time—today, after school! The place-here in this classroom! Name your seconds, I name Mizdral and Hopek as my seconds, and for umpire (here Kneadus's voice became even more diabolical), for umpire I propose ... this hew fellow who just arrived in school today. He'll be impartial." What? Me? He proposed me for an umpire? Was I dreaming? Or was this real? But I couldn't be an umpire! Of course I couldn't! I didn't even want to watch this! I didn't want to see it! I tried to protest, but the general anxiety gave way to such an excitement that they all started screaming: "Great! It's setded! On with it!" while at the same time the bell rang, a little man with a short beard walked into the classroom and sat at the teacher's podium.

It was the same body that, in the staff room, had expressed the opinion that prices had gone up, an exceptionally friendly little old man, a little gray dove with a wart on his nose. He took out the grade book, and a deathly silence fell in the classroom—he beamed as he looked to the top of the list, and everyone whose name started with "A" trembled—he looked to the bottom of the list, and everyone whose name started with "Z" froze in fear. Because no one knew anything and, caught up in their discussions, they had forgotten to copy the Latin translation—with the exception of Syphon, who had already prepared his lesson at home and could deliver anything, whenever called upon, while others could not. But the little old man, totally unaware of the fear he was arousing, cheerfully gazed up and down the list of names, hesitated, reflected, bantered inwardly, then finally said with confidence: