My *secondary teacher was an asshole and sadist, but if he slipped past just behind the back of my chair, I turned black with joy and bliss.
Because he had the style, hanging out with the moody ones in class, to sit on the windowsill and sulk, to get us ready, because we were all boring idiots, I started comparing him to James Dean.
His glasses looked more like an official, the slightly fleshy lips were used to military shouts (he was in the military with my father, but my dad was higher ranking!) and the thinning, ashy hair also had absolutely nothing of the greatness of the legendary Hollywood rebel.
He was just a secondary teacher Wolf, who would have liked to have been something different, but now he was unhappy as a teacher in a small town surrounded by mediocre people. And that was quite a thing, that took a lot out of me!
I have already mentioned elsewhere, that teacher Wolf always let the stupidest students empty the trash.
He treated the students of the newly rich with hostility, He was either courteous or rude to the farm children.
WHAT IS A PEAR? Wolf asked the reserved Lukas, Son of an electrical salesman, who didn't like speaking French, had a long face and blushed brightly at every opportunity, and, almost turned purple.
Lukas didn't answer and only blushed, then purple.
“Then look at yourself!”, shouted my James Dean, Jingled his spurs around the classroom and blushed brightly himself.
This teacher was all sorts of things!
My dreams became more and more daring, my desire getting bigger and bigger.
In order to never be called upon by him in a school matter (Pears, Grammatik, Geography), I put the desk lid down
on for minutes, in case his eyes wandered in my direction. But he almost never did this, because I camouflaged myself behind an absence for four years, who seemed so distant and deeply disturbed, that Teacher Wolf passed me over.
Once, in English class, he searched among us lazy students for a translation of a sentence.
The sentence said: “A man lies on the beach.”
At that moment I laughed insanely, But teacher Wolf too. We laughed at each other. No one else laughed.
When I was called forward by secondary teacher Wolf, and he wanted to explain something to me using my school notebook,
mostly it was a reprimand, I started, to turn around at a hundred and eighty degrees. My desk neighbor Reny, the initiate,
laughed at me. I heard his warmth from far away, slightly wooden voice:
“Marion, turn around, when I talk to you!”
—–
I saw this man lying on the beach. At night I tormented and loved him, alternately.