His students were all the sons of ranchers and rich men, and even before they inherited their family properties they had inherited the prejudices that would eventually enable them to enjoy those properties without remorse, as well as the rationalizations by which they would unscrupulously defend them. The idea of their own importance was like a thick carapace around them; proud of the role they would one day play in society, they learned the little vices of their class very early. They believed that abusing tobacco, having a strong head for alcohol, and giving immoderate reign to their sexuality would confer the patents of adulthood upon them. The fact that someone like Fernando, who lacked any prestige in their eyes, should come to put their convictions into question and try to replace them with others that went against their feelings, habits and interests left them completely unfazed. It only made them laugh. They heard Ulloa’s explanations with mocking patience; they asked him trick questions; they put the little stone of a scornful observation in his path for his enthusiasm to stumble against. In a dim and formless way, Fernando was aware of his failure. But that wasn’t enough to change his objectives, alter his conduct or diminish his fervor.

Fernando Ulloa’s presence was a living reproach to the other teachers who were fossilized in the routine of a profession exercised without vocation or any particular aptitude. Like any reproach, it disturbed the somnolence of their ruminations. They woke up just enough to keep a watch on the new arrival with a gaze that eagerly sought any pretext for mistrust. Fernando’s every word or gesture was pondered and commented upon by his colleagues. Without knowing it, Fernando Ulloa had become the defendant before a group of judges who would look more harshly upon his virtues than upon his defects.

The hostility Fernando aroused in those around him was exacerbated by his ignorance of the customs of Ciudad Real, the careless way in which he wounded many sensibilities, his imprudence in expressing his opinions. His various lapses in tact were meticulously recorded in the dossier that was being assembled against him. After a few weeks he was known only by the nickname, “the Communist,” that a gleeful teacher of first year civics had come up with.

For most of them, the term Communist had no meaning. But it rang in their ears like a forewarning of something sinister and threatening that was embodied in this man whose story nobody knew.

The rumor—Communist—had a few isolated repercussions among the civil and ecclesiastical authorities. There was some suspicious questioning of the establishment’s director, and knowing smiles were exchanged by the professors. But the real cry of alarm went up from the parents.