Literature classes at Bell College

            In 1980 I came back to Bell College of Saffron Walden, in Essex, England, for the autumn term. In 1979 I had stayed at Bell College the first time, for the autumn term as well. My comrade Enrique Belzuz had stayed at Bell College with me during the two terms. I have written about Bell College in other short stories, but I have not made any translations of these into English so far. Until then I had studied English just for a few days, 2 or 3 at USA’s Washington Irving Cultural Center in Madrid and one week at International House of Piccadilly Street in London. My mother tongues are castilian and galician, and as a second language I had studied French during my baccalaureate. So, after having been studying English at Bell College for the autumn term in 1979, I had not reached level enough to pass an examination in English to get a certificate by the University of Cambridge. Therefore, in 1980 I had taken advantage of time and I had followed other English courses in Malvern Wells, Worcestershire, in Ramsgate, Kent, and in East Croydon, south of London. Of course, my level was first beginner and later intermediate and at last advanced, enough to try the First Certificate in English, exam by Local Examinations Syndicate that I finally passed with grade B at the end of 1980 autumn’s term.

            Apart from having English lessons daily except on Saturdays and Sundays, I could choose some activities to carry out: Photography, Painting and Drawing first year, and second year Literature as well. Being a voracious reader I chose Literature second year thinking it may be advantageous. First day I sat down in the classroom with a lot of students from different countries. I had heard it already, but the Literature teacher said too quickly 'kings can be removed', it was what he said after saying to us his name and that of William Shakespeare to start with. I got bored instantly. I remembered the four times reading Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, twice when I was nine and one time when I was ten and another time more when I was eleven, and I had in mind that soldiers at Elsinor and Hamlet himself had seen Hamlet’s father image and had listened to him after his death. It had been even two months only since I had read Hamlet once more, Othello, the Moor of Venice, Romeo and Juliet, lovers of Verona, and The king Lear. I knew already the story of Hamlet was an old Danish legend. Reading Medieval Germanic Literatures, by Jorge Luis Borges, I knew the story of Hamlet had been written about the year 1200 in the Gesta Danorum by Danish historian Saxo Gramaticus, based on another old version. Jorge Luis Borges unmasks William Shakespeare. The Argentinian writer goes to real facts: Whatever the thing is, Shakespeare was a distorter of History, licked the asses of queen of England and of Ireland Tudor Elizabeth l and of king Stuart James VI of Scotland and I of England and of Ireland, the Scottish king who ascended the English throne in 1603 disguising former deeds by which both queen and king would be ashamed about. King Duncan of Scotland had not died stabbed treasoned by Macbeth and Macbeth's wife at Macbeth's castle, but in the battlefield fighting against the English king. So naturally Shakespeare blackened the figure of Macbeth as much as he could. Also the Argentinian writer like many others made me doubt about Shakespeare's sexual orientation; his Sonnets, someone said to me once, sounds something like I forgive you everything, You may come back to me and Make me love, or Fuck me up if you want to, my love, if you follow with your eyes what I am saying about Beauty. Well…, ahem, I have seen them cleverer... As for the fact that Shakespeare had reached the top as a mere versionist, nobody doubts.

So second day when we were waiting to enter the classroom for the Literature class I asked a Spanish gipsy girl who lived in the college too if we played hooky. She laughed and told me it was first time she was coming to Literature classes. I said to her that she would not learn anything, that first day the teacher had said to us kings can be removed. What’s wrong with that?, the gipsy girl asked me. I did never see such a waste of time, I nearly exclaimed. We entered my room and I told her to lie down on the bed. She sat down with her back leaning on the wall and laughed. I interpreted this jovially and threw up myself to the bed. She struggled immediately to free from me but I had taken her trouser’s belt and I tried to have her stuck to me. We did not get any closer, for she finally freed from me and jumped out of the room through the window, at street level! Until last moment I tried to gain her for me.

            I remained in my room till dinner time. I do not remember much about how were things going during our common self-service dinner. What I do remember very well is having been told the gipsy girl had a Turkish guy as boyfriend.The Turkish were a gang of ten or twelve guys who stayed at Bell College too, most of them studied English, they usually played football and watched TV in common TV rooms, but things were as they were and although I had no notice of the Turkish gang being dangerous, I thought immediately they were going to get me involved in a quarrel if the gipsy girl told them. After dinner we went downstairs to the TV room and we took something from the refreshments and the coffee and tea machines. I was having a coffee in a plastic cup and the gipsy girl sat down opposite to me. I do not clearly remember which the words were, but the gipsy girl kicked my plastic cup and coffee splitted on the table. I took off my shoe and my sock and I couldn’t control myself and I slapped her not with force symbolically. The others who were with us intervened to say I should go away. I went away, to the see if there was a movie going on in the cinema room. I halted once more at Butler Hall; that is, Bell College’s hall, so much importance they give to some halls concrete it smells of something out of the common, just to see again the exhibition of framed photographs, last year I had had three framed photographs in exhibition at Butler Hall.

            When I was watching the photographs I suddenly saw a Turkish guy, the strongest of the Turkish gang, running enraged towards me. I left everything like it was before and run away instantly looking for the stairs to the upper floor. I did not have time, the Turkish guy cut my step, so I climbed two steps backwards and began to throw kicks to the Turkish guy until he had to make his escape. Once free I retraced my steps and decided to go to the Staff room upstairs. The Staff room was plenty of teachers and college employees. I saw first the Literature teacher and I went to him. The Turkish guys want to hit me, I said to him. Be a man and defend yourself, he encouraged me. For that I have a lot of time, I explained. Seeing they were talking and had not taken notice of me, I went to sit down on a chair a little away from them and from their coffee machine. I waited not too long, I was desperate to have an espresso, although almost impossible wherever you are in England, and I went away from the Staff room after saying to them, especially to the Literature teacher, they were teachers that did not invite students to coffee.

I went downstairs to the hall and wended towards the Turkish guy’s room, Spanish gipsy girl’s boyfriend. I climbed the stairs, went to the guy’s room and when I was beside the door I listened to them speak. I knocked the door with my knuckles and said aloud: Open up, gipsy girl! They kept silence suspiciously. I said again out loud: Open up, gipsy gir!! I heard you speaking! Come on, open up! There was absolute silence inside the room. I waited for a moment. I heard them cracking so there would be silence. I heard you speaking, gipsy girl!, I said still at the door. Well, if you do not open the door, I will see you later or tomorrow, I said and went away. Just a few steps I had taken when I could hear them talking again. I retraced my steps without a sound and went to the door again: Come on, open up the door! They cracked so there would be silence. They kept silence. I heard you speaking! Come on, open up! No one moved, I could almost see. Well, it’s all right, I will not bother you no more. I am going away. See you tomorrow, I said, and I left the corridor at Bell College main building and went to my room, that was in another building in the middle of the college fields.

Next day in the football field the Turkish guy and I greeted each other stretching hands. I was not doing better in football as I had done the previous year, I was by then fully concentrated in the First Certificate in English exam and in having published a short story on the Bell College End of the Course Newspaper, which would be distributed one day before everybody left the college for Christmas. The Literature teacher and another teacher were in charge of revising and of giving the O.K. to writings. I had started the short story. Its title was The maker. It dealt of a man who wanted to change the world so that the world would be like paradise, but he needed a gun to kill someone and that way to provoke a succession of chain events. Unnecessary to say Glory was with the man protagonist. I was not capable of putting an end to the short story and I said to the two teachers two or three times I had not finished it yet. When last day admitting writings for the college newspaper arrived, I could not but confess I was not going to finish my short story on time. The Literature teacher seemed to me he got angry with me. I invited him to have dinner together at a Chinese restaurant. He told me he could live without Chinese restaurants. I told him I wanted to give him an explanation. We appointed at the main entrance to the college for dinner. I told him straight, once both of us already seated in the Chinese restaurant, I wanted to be leader of the Spanish Revolution. He did not seem to be taken by surprise. He asked me how I may become the leader. I told him I was neighbour of the dummy king of Spain’s sister. That isn’t much, he said to me. Whatever things are, I have not finished my short story because of my situation. What do you mean?, he asked. I mean being a leader and a neighbour of the dummy king of Spain’s sister, I said. Perhaps you would have written nicely about it, nobody knows now, he said. I did try indeed, I said, but I felt as if I was giving more than what would be welcome. Why that?, he asked. Well, you know, I told him, some readers are not trustful, not in the least. This is how I settled the matter. As for the exam I became nervous at it, but I did not do excessive wrong answers and I got a pass with grade B. Regarding Carmen my friend the gipsy gril, we kissed our cheeks in front of everyone at a ball in the college just the day before leaving. Carmen means Poem in Greek, she told me. With respect to my comrade Enrique Belzuz, he cannot complain had he read all the short stories I have written about the time we shared at Bell College.