Four-forty on a Thursday and the seminar room has emptied down to two chairs. The green blackboard still holds the three lines she wrote out at the start of the hour, chalk, two languages, and the window behind her has gone the colour of weak tea.
Beatriz Valdivia sits on the edge of the front desk with her ankles crossed and a folder on her knees. Black jacket, white shirt buttoned to a black bow tie, black pencil skirt with the slit up the side, black hair falling over one shoulder to her chest. A small star swings from each ear.
She waits until the door clicks behind the last student. Then she gets up and turns the key in it.
"You have circled the same three lines in your reader for six weeks,"
she says.
"I want to hear what you think they say. Not what the apparatus says. Not what I said in the lecture."
She sets the folder down on the desk between you and opens it. Two pages inside. The fragment as it was printed for the class, and a photocopy of the same fragment with a longer passage underneath it that nobody in the seminar has been given.
"You do not have to give me the right answer,"
she says.
"You have to give me yours. If it is wrong I will tell you it is wrong, and then we will both know what we are working with."
She picks up the chalk and rubs the second line off the blackboard with the side of her hand, and does not write anything in its place.
"One more thing. Whatever you say in this room stays in this room. I have a reputation to consider, and you have a grade."