Barcelona 03 - The Sound of One Hand Killing by Teresa Solana, Peter Bush Read Free Book Online Page A

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    She read out a long report that Montse and I suffered in silence. According to the teacher, Arnau was a fidgety child (she actually used the word “hyperactive”) who foundit hard to concentrate because he spent the whole time chatting to his friends and winding the girls up. His interest in football, and in Barça in particular, was verging on an obsession, she added, as you could see at playtime when he found it impossible to interact with the girls because all he ever wanted to do was play football.
    â€œYou must realize that if Arnau continues in this vein he will be facing failure in life,” she warned, looking as severe as a judge delivering a death sentence.
    Arnau is five years old. At home he is a loving, communicative child, as they say nowadays, and, like most kids his age, rather mischievous. At the annual meet-the-teachers session with the other parents at the start of term, the teacher had lectured us on the dangers of television, video games, football and Barbie dolls, that, according to her, transformed girls into anorexic adolescents first, and sex objects second. At the time, Montse and I felt she’d laid it on rather thickly, but the majority of parents were in agreement and applauded.
    â€œBut what is Arnau doing exactly? Does he hit other children? Does he break things? Does he show a lack of respect towards you?” I asked.
    â€œHe never sits still and spends the whole time chatting. And sometimes uses swear words,” said the schoolmistress in a hushed voice. “Obviously, children normally pick up swear words at home…” she added pitilessly.
    I looked down, shamefaced, and Montse remained silent. I initially interpreted her silence as an act of contrition, as implicit acceptance that we had failed as parents and had no idea how to bring up our son. I was wrong. When I looked up and saw the expression on my wife’s face, I realized Montse was so angry that her silence was caused by the effort she was making to stop herself going for the teacher’s jugular.
    â€œSo what do you suggest?” Montse asked curtly, not returning the smile of commiseration the teacher had given us when she finished her little speech.
    Her advice was to ban Arnau from playing football and to give him a course of homeopathic medication. Many children in the class are already taking some, she said. The other option was to start on Bach flower remedies that worked extremely well.
    I’d been shocked to hear that Arnau ran the risk of becoming an illiterate, foul-mouthed, male chauvinist piglet, and was at a loss for words. Montse, who is feistier, thanked the teacher dryly and reminded her she was a professional psychologist and that, in her view, Arnau’s behaviour wasn’t abnormal in the slightest. In any case, she would take her remarks on board, she added, though she didn’t feel it necessary either to have recourse to medication or to ban him from playing football.
    â€œYou are his parents. You must make these decisions,” said the teacher, raising her eyebrows, with a knowing smile that meant we were to blame for Arnau’s problems and she was washing her hands of the whole business.
    â€œIndeed,” Montse retorted as she got up. “My husband and I will do whatever we think necessary. Thank you for your concern.”
    â€œThat’s a stupid teacher, if ever there was one!” Montse grunted as soon as we were outside the school gates.
    â€œYes, I do think she was exaggerating rather…”
    â€œWhat does she mean when she says Arnau is hyperactive because he likes playing football? He’s only five years old, for Christ’s sake!”
    â€œAnyway, I think he’s too young to start taking pills…”
    â€œForget it! I know my son. There’s nothing wrong with him.” Montse was beside herself. I suggested going for a coffee, although what my wife