A tale by Jose Rafael Pocaterra   I No, it was not possible!, already in my seventh year and still dummy, a real dummy, too dumb to tell one letter from another and harder to control than a squirrel. «Enough, that´s it! », said my grandma. «He´s got to start school...» And from that day on, with that relentless efficacy so miraculous for her seventy years, she started looking for a teacher for me. My mother didn't want her to; she protested that I was still a little boy, but grandmother insisted resolutely. And one afternoon after coming in from the street, she unwrapped some bundles she´d received, and taking out a schoolbag, a slate with a sponge, a thick book with lot of drawings and a bundle of pencils, she said, gazing at me with that cool tenderness of hers: «Tomorrow, my child, you´re off to the house of a very nice lady and she´s going to teach you lot of things...! I hugged her around her neck and ran through the house, showing the servants my new schoolbag, my