The novel in 28 chapters was set in a fictional – one assumes – South American country. A series of murders take place among the high-ranking officials of the government. The protagonist, a detective named Q ordered to investigate the murders can find no solution to the crimes…
Quibbling it may be, but it’s hard to imagine, from the outside, the lengths to which one may go to get one’s reward…
A few days before her exam, Betty asked her father for some money for a new dress.
Although her father was not exactly the richest man in town, any more than he believed in throwing money around, he did not like to see his daughter looking like a tramp. Appearances were as important to him as they were to her. He reached into his pocket and took out his wallet.
“Thank you, papa,” she said, and gave him a kiss.
Her father went back to reading his newspaper and she returned to her bedroom to get ready to go out.
Later, she met her boyfriend in the centre and they went to look for the dress.
After much debate, and indeed trial and error, visiting several shops where she was on familiar terms with the shop assistants, and who tried to get her to buy things that were not quite appropriate, or nearly appropriate, she settled on a grey trouser suit. Her boyfriend offered to pay; she was relieved. “Are you sure about it?” she said, as he pulled out his wallet.
“Anyway,” he said, “you’re always saying I’m a rich bastard.”
Betty laughed.
“Do I really say that?” she said, as if surprised, though, in fact, by her standards, he was not poor. Not only did he have a regular job but he also owned his own flat. He was, as the saying goes, sistemato, sorted for life.
The following day, dressed in the grey trouser suit, she arrived at the faculty.
Students were still milling around outside the exam hall; she stopped to talk to a friend. Are you going to sit for it?
“I don’t know,” said her friend. “I haven’t really studied.”
“Me, too,” she said. “I don’t feel ready.”
“You always say that,” said her friend.” You always get a good mark.”
“Don’t talk rubbish!”
“I mean it. I’m going to fail.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! You always wangle it in the end.”
Another friend had come over to join in the discussion. In spite of the fact that they all said they had not studied and were not ready to do the exam, they went and sat at the back of the hall. While they waited for the commission to arrive, they talked shop and exam horror stories.
“Remember that time Professor Intanti was helping his wife feed the baby in the room next to the exam hall.”
“What about that time the caretaker went on holiday and we had to climb over the gate to get in? – I laddered my tights!”
“That was too ridiculous!”
“We’ll never pass our degrees.”
“What does it matter? There won’t be any jobs anyway.”
Finally, the commission arrived.
The head of the commission, who was the professor of constitutional law, had the reputation for being a hard taskmaster. He never gave away questions; he liked you to be able to quote articles from memory. If you missed a phrase, or failed to use the correct subjunctive, he was merciless with sarcasm. A good mark for his exam was twenty-eight. He rarely gave thirty; very exceptionally, according to wags in the faculty, he would give thirty plus to the well-prepared sons and daughters of his colleagues.
If she knew that thirty was quite beyond her, Betty still hoped that with a bit of luck she would get twenty-eight. She wanted the twenty-eight to keep her average. At the back of this she had plans – plans to go on doing research. Although she did not believe in the value of research per se, she thought of it as a way to stave off the inevitable. Besides, she was tired of living at home.
It was her turn to do the exam; she sat down and took a deep breath. The exam, she thought, had not gone badly. She was pleased with her skill in negotiating all the traps set for her. It was not a perfect exam, but she thought she had deserved her twenty-eight.
She got up and went to the desk where the professor was beginning to write out the mark against her name. When he asked for her libretto so that he could record her mark, she made her excuses to the professor.
On the way out of the exam hall, she met her friend who wanted to know what mark she had managed to wangle, but B was in a hurry.
“I left my libretto home,” she said. “I’ve got to go and get it.”
“Oh, dear,” said her friend. “I hope the professor isn’t angry.”
“I hope not,” she said.
When Betty arrived home, her father, who was in the living room, asked her how much she got in the exam. Betty told him a white lie. There had been too many students. She would have to return the following day.
“My poor girl,” he said. “After all you have studied.”
“Well, papa,” she said. “I’ll just have to hope the professor is in a better mood tomorrow.”
Betty went into her room and opened her wardrobe. After some deliberation, she took out several dresses and skirts. She stood in front of the mirror, holding each item of clothing before her. When she had settled on a short brown suede skirt, she picked out a white polo neck and a pair of white tights from the chest of drawers. When she was ready, she looked in her desk drawer for a white envelope.
It was five o’clock when the professor finished the exams; Betty was sitting on a chair outside his office.
“Good evening, Signorina,” he said, as he unlocked the door. He took the folded verbale and spread it on his desk. He began to scrutinise the names.
Betty slipped the white envelope onto the table. The professor made no sign that he had seen it. “Signorina,” he said, “I must compliment on your exam. It was very well done.”
The professor handed back the libretto and she thanked him.
Afterwards, she had arranged to meet her boyfriend in the centre. “Knock me dead,” he said when she came over. “What happened to the trouser suit?”
He wrapped his hands around her waist and kissed her on the lips. “By the way,” he said, holding her tightly and squeezing her bum, “how much did the dirty bastard give you?”
When she told him, he grinned and said:
“You must be pleased.”
Betty, however, was not pleased; she wanted to burst into tears. She did not feel she had deserved twenty-eight.