The first-year students at the Blassac School for Boys stood up as the master entered the classroom and sat behind his desk. He was in a foul mood this morning; the night had been cold as a witch’s tit, and his stove was acting up again. “Sit down!” he ordered. His class were a pack of dunces. Oh yes, they were top-notch at playing marbles, leapfrogging and scrapping, but not a single one of them could recite the rivers of France, say their multiplication tables or write their lines without smudging. Not a single one! If it were up to him, he’d put them all in the corner wearing dunce’s caps until the end of the year. It wasn’t like this in his day, when licks rained down from the cane and boys were kept in line. This slackness was exasperating. What were their parents doing? France was not what she used to be. Full of dunces and good-for-nothings who can barely count. And the less said about their spelling, the better — even little Charles, the mayor’s boy, was practically illiterate. Charles stared at him in boredom, slouched behind his pulpit.
The master began his lesson on the kings of France. As Charles yawned, half listening to the exploits of Pepin the Short, an idea came to him. It had been a while since he’d played any jokes on Jeannot. Jeannot was the butcher’s boy, who always sat at the back because he was so big. When he wasn’t at the back, he was in the naughty corner beside the board. Charles took a moment to decide whether he should tear a page from his copybook or from his history book. A good paper aeroplane shouldn’t be wasted on the names of some old kings. While the master was writing important dates on the blackboard, making the chalk squeal as he always did, Charles made a quick movement and ripped a page from his notebook. He wrote a note to Jeannot and folded the sheet carefully. Aerodynamics were his speciality. The boy at the next desk gave him a dirty look, not wanting to get in trouble for Charles’ misdeeds. After all, he wasn’t the mayor’s son. Charles made a sign to tell him to keep his mouth shut, otherwise he’d pay for it at break time. The plane was ready. Charles lifted his arm and launched his jet. It was a perfect throw; the plane’s nose was headed straight for Jeannot’s. But all of a sudden, Paul intervened and redirected the plane towards the teacher. What rotten luck! Paul evidently had a talent for air traffic control; he’d sent the plane straight to the master’s desk. The master turned around, cast a suspicious eye over the class and unfolded the plane. “Jeannot, the great oaf”, he read. “Who threw this? Come on, fess up unless you’re a coward!” The pupils trembled with fear. Jeannot was on the verge of tears. He was as red as a tomato and sniffled like a baby. Charles could not contain himself and burst out laughing.
The mayor’s son would not go unpunished. Justice was the foundation of education, the very ground France was built on, the pride of the school, and the master would not play favourites. His mind was made up; Charles would be getting a spanking. Papa won’t be happy, sniffed Charles. And his mother wouldn’t come to read him a story that night; she refused to read him Perrault’s folk tales when he’d been naughty. But if he couldn’t dream about Little Thumbling leaping across the plains in his seven-league boots, he’d never be able to sleep. Damn Pepin the Short! Damn Paul! Damn Jeannot! Next time, he’d throw the plane higher.
Alan Alfredo Geday