In the quiet, hallowed halls of a prestigious Brazilian medical school, the atmosphere was thick with ambition and ego. The rows of students, dressed in crisp white coats, sat with open notebooks and attentive eyes, eager to absorb the day’s lesson. Among them sat a young man named Aparício Torelly, known for his sharp tongue and sharper mind—a student who, though often underestimated, possessed an intellect that sparkled with quiet confidence.
The professor, a stern and self-important man, paced at the front of the room, his hands folded behind his back. He relished his position as the unquestioned authority of the class and often took pleasure in exposing what he believed to be the ignorance of his students.
Clearing his throat with exaggerated drama, he looked out over the sea of eager faces and asked, “How many kidneys do we have?”
The room fell silent for a moment, students hesitating, wary of a trap.
Without missing a beat, Torelly raised his hand and confidently answered, “Four.”
A murmur rippled through the classroom. The professor’s eyes narrowed, his expression twisting into a smirk. He had caught what he assumed was a foolish error—and he intended to make an example of it.
With a sneer, he gestured dramatically and declared, “Bring some grass—we have a donkey in the room!”
Laughter erupted from a few corners of the room. The professor stood tall, basking in what he believed was his clever humiliation of the student.
But Torelly did not flinch. Calmly, he sat back in his seat, then looked up with a cool, unreadable smile and replied:
“And a coffee for me, please.”
The class froze. The humor had shifted, suddenly and unmistakably, back to Torelly. The tone, the delivery—it was cutting and clever, and it pierced the professor’s sarcasm like a needle through cloth.
Furious at being challenged and outshone, the professor snapped, “Get out of my classroom!”
Torelly rose from his seat, gathering his books with practiced ease. He made his way to the door, all eyes on him. But just as he reached the threshold, he paused, turned around slowly, and delivered the final blow with poised precision:
“You asked, ‘How many kidneys we have,’ sir. We—as in, both of us—have four. Two of mine, and two of yours.”
The room went dead silent. Even the professor was stunned, his smug expression faltering as the words settled.
Then, with the faintest smile tugging at his lips, Torelly added:
“Enjoy your meal… and may the grass be yours.”
And with that, he walked out—not humiliated, but victorious, leaving behind a classroom no longer laughing at him, but in awe of the power of wit and calm intellect.
That student would go on to become Barão de Itararé, one of Brazil’s greatest satirists—forever remembered for using words as his sword and humor as his shield.
