My Fellow Skin by Erwin Mortier Page B

emerged. He stepped daintily to the microphone, adjusted his brown Homburg hat, slipped his hand into the pocket of his fluttering nylon raincoat and drew out a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. He put them on with a flourish of the fingers.
    “That’s Father Deceuster,” Willem said. “He’s the principal. A do-gooder.”
    The priest unfolded a sheet of paper with delicate movements. A pause ensued, during which he eyed us sharply. When he finally pronounced the words “Good morning young men”, we all started at the volume of his voice.
    His booming salutation was instantly met with a tinny screech from the loudspeakers blaring out over the brick paving.
    The priest took his spectacles off and hissed, “François, François!”
    The man with the dough-face tiptoed to the front, made a reassuring gesture and ran inside. The screeching stopped.
    Recovering himself, the priest readjusted his glasses and said, “You have just made the acquaintance of Mr Bouillie! Devoted study supervisor and a pillar of this institution. A round of applause for Mr Bouillie!”
    A couple of boys started clapping dutifully. Willem kept his hands in his pockets.
    The priest considered this to be a blessed day, for it was the first day not only of term but also of the school year, which meant that we were embarking on a great adventure.
    “He says the same thing every year,” Willem murmured. “He’ll be telling us about the new sports hall next.”
    “This school is ready and waiting for you,” the priest said, beaming. “With all the proper modern facilities, and we are proud—as I’m sure you’ll agree, Mr Bouillie—to announce that the new sports hall can finally, yes finally, be put to use. From now on we play basketball indoors and we swim in our own private pool!”
    “It took him fifty seafood banquets to raise the funds,” Willem said. “My father couldn’t stand it any more. After the third one he wrote a cheque. That stopped them.”
    “… and then our entirely renovated typing classroom,” the priest continued, “for which Mr Villeyn has quite rightly been campaigning for years.”
    “Villeyn, rhymes with villain,” Willem murmured.
    I wondered how he knew all these things. “Have you got an older brother here by any chance?”
    He avoided my eye. “I’ve been put back a year. Tried too hard.”
    Father Deceuster looked ecstatic, as if he were about to levitate. He held forth about a schoolboy’s duty to be a good Christian and drifted into a muddled discourse on happiness, which in his view was to be found in little things. Screwing up his notes, he wished us a good term and good progress on our road to a strong and healthy adolescence.
    There was a feeble round of applause.
    Mr Bouillie took a brisker line. He took the mike from the priest and barked, “I am going to call out your names followed by an A, a B or a C. After roll-call I shall give you a signal for you to go to the teacher holding your designated letter.”
    He pointed to the far end of the yard, where three teachers were standing on the step in front of a wooden gate, each holding up a sign.
    I was given a B.
    So was Willem.
    “We’ll be together, then,” I said.
    We crossed the yard and went to our respective teachers.
    “It’s Vaneenooghe,” Willem said, “which isn’t too bad. He teaches religious education.”
    “I want you to file in an orderly fashion and I don’t want to hear another word,” Mr Vaneenooghe said.
    He paused. “Not another word,” he repeated.
    When everyone was quiet he snapped his fingers.
    The row started moving.
    Willem nudged me.
    Mr Vaneenooghe pushed against the gate, which swung wide open as if it were the mouth of hell.

CHAPTER 5
    A FLIGHT OF BLUESTONE STEPS took us to the upper level, where neon strip lights flickered. We filed down a narrow passage with wood panelling along one wall. The other wall had high windows through which you could see grey sky, lamp-posts, and a cable swaying in the