THE PROFESSOR by Chiara Barzini

THE PROFESSOR

CHIARA BARZINI

The Professor was so intrigued by Art Nouveau architecture that he put stained windows in the classroom just for the sake of his lectures. For being a teacher he was very hands-on. I got to class late and he asked the students to applaud me. Look at how everything she holds is just spilling out of her, he said. She’s like a Gaudì building, but warm on the inside. The students clapped, even though they resented giving me special attention. I tried to look modest. The Professor said that if we were impressed with the way he redecorated his lecture hall, we should see what he did to the hotel down the street. He remodeled it in his name–– iron and bricks bended to his will. That’s how it was in town. He was a powerful man. The girls knew it. Even the most self-righteous feminist in class, the one who believed men should be derided for making bad pop music, was often silenced by the power of his teachings. He cast spells, some said. He made you do things.

For practice that day, he told us to get in touch with the earth. Take some soil and mold yourself according to its rules, he said. That was the first step to become an artist. We had to know our elements so we could dominate them. A pot filled with dirt was passed around class. The Professor ordered us to swallow as much of it as we could fit in our stomach. At first there were giggles, the most advanced students scoffed. What was the point of taking his class if they were just going to giggle, I thought. I didn’t laugh. I looked at the Professor as he demonstrated the exercise. He stuffed himself with earth until he could no longer speak. When he opened his mouth, mud poured. A final gush and it all spilled to the floor. Et voilà, he said coughing up dirt brittles. The rest of the students followed his example. Soon enough everyone was regurgitating mud and feeling cathartic. One girl proclaimed she would confront her selfish mother for never taking her to museums when she was a girl. Another student screamed that her calling was to be a sculptor. An older scholar sobbed because it was her last day of class. The only grump was the feminist. She babbled and complained, walking around class with a big pale belly hanging out, proud for having refused the Professor’s dirt.

I didn’t want to listen to her. Shut up, I complained in my mind. I wanted to think the Professor’s experiment was a magical alchemy, that it would cure me. I too wanted to confront my selfish mother. I wanted to know what my calling was. I wanted the Professor to shape the elements of my body like he shaped buildings. I wanted him to remove my lungs and my heart, and place my organs in different positions to make them hurt less. I prayed it would work. I ate the Professor’s dirt and worked my fingertips deep down into his flesh, but there was mud inside and I never found anything else.