J. Coetzee - Elizabeth Costello

That is the note on which Dean Arendt has to bring the proceedings to a close: acrimony, hostility, bitterness. He, John Bernard, is sure that is not what Arendt or his committee wanted. Well, they should have asked him before they invited his mother. He could have told them.

It is past midnight, he and Norma are in bed, he is exhausted, at six he will have to get up to drive his mother to the airport. But Norma is in a fury and will not give up. 'It's nothing but food faddism, and food faddism is always an exercise in power. I have no patience when she arrives here and begins trying to get people, particularly the children, to change their eating habits. And now these absurd public lectures! She is trying to extend her inhibiting power over the whole community!'

He wants to sleep, but he cannot utterly betray his mother. 'She's perfectly sincere,' he murmurs.

'It has nothing to do with sincerity. She has no self-insight at all. It is because she has so little insight into her motives that she seems sincere. Mad people are sincere.'

With a sigh he enters the fray. 'I don't see any difference,' he says, 'between her revulsion from eating meat and my own revulsion from eating snails or locusts. I have no insight into my motives and I couldn't care less. I just find it disgusting.'

Norma snorts.'You don't give public lectures producing pseudo-philosophical arguments for not eating snails. You don't try to turn a private fad into a public taboo.'

'Perhaps. But why not try to see her as a preacher, a social reformer, rather than as an eccentric trying to foist her preferences on to other people?'

'You are welcome to see her as a preacher. But take a look at all the other preachers and their crazy schemes for dividing mankind up into the saved and the damned. Is that the kind of company you want your mother to keep? Elizabeth Costello and her Second Ark, with her dogs and cats and wolves, none of whom, of course, has ever been guilty of the sin of eating flesh, to say nothing of the malaria virus and the rabies virus and the HI virus, which she will want to save so that she can restock her Brave New World.'

'Norma, you're ranting.'

'I'm not ranting. I would have more respect for her if she didn't try to undermine me behind my back, with her stories to the children about the poor little veal calves and what the bad men do to them. I'm tired of having them pick at their food and ask, "Mom, is this veal?" when it's chicken or tuna fish. It's nothing but a power game. Her great hero Franz Kafka played the same game with his family. He refused to eat this, he refused to eat that, he would rather starve, he said. Soon everyone was feeling guilty about eating in front of him, and he could sit back feeling virtuous. It's a sick game, and I'm not having the children play it against me.'

'A few hours and she'll be gone, then we can return to normal.' 'Good. Say goodbye to her from me. I'm not getting up early.'

Seven o'clock, the sun just rising, and he and his mother are on their way to the airport.

'I'm sorry about Norma,' he says. 'She has been under a lot of strain. I don't think she is in a position to sympathize. Perhaps one could say the same for me. It's been such a short visit, I haven't had time to make sense of why you have become so intense about the animal business.'

She watches the wipers wagging back and forth. 'A better explanation,' she says, 'is that I have not told you why, or dare not tell you. When I think of the words, they seem so outrageous that they are best spoken into a pillow or into a hole in the ground, like King Midas.'

'I don't follow. What is it you can't say?'

'It's that I no longer know where I am. I seem to move around perfectly easily among people, to have perfectly normal relations with them. Is it possible, I ask myself, that all of them are participants in a crime of stupefying proportions? Am I fantasizing it all? I must be mad! Yet every day I see the evidences. The very people I suspect produce the evidence, exhibit it, offer it to me. Corpses. Fragments of corpses that they have bought for money.

'It is as if I were to visit friends, and to make some polite remark about the lamp in their living room, and they were to say, "Yes, it's nice, isn't it? Polish-Jewish skin it's made of, we find that's best, the skins of young Polish-Jewish virgins." And then I go to the bathroom and the soap wrapper says, "Treblinka – 100% human stearate." Am I dreaming, I say to myself? What kind of house is this?

'Yet I'm not dreaming. I look into your eyes, into Norma's, into the children's, and I see only kindness, human kindness. Calm down, I tell myself, you are making a mountain out of a molehill. This is life. Everyone else comes to terms with it, why can't you? Why can't you?'

She turns on him a tearful face. What does she want, he thinks? Does she want me to answer her question for her?

They are not yet on the expressway. He pulls the car over, switches off the engine, takes his mother in his arms. He inhales the smell of cold cream, of old flesh. 'There, there,' he whispers in her ear. 'There, there. It will soon be over.'

She has not seen her sister in twelve years, not since their mother's funeral that rainy day in Melbourne. That sister, whom she continues to think of as Blanche but whose public name has for so long been Sister Bridget that she must by now think of herself as a Bridget, has moved – for good, it seems – to Africa, following a vocation. Trained as a classical scholar, retrained as a medical missionary, she has risen to be administrator of a hospital of no mean size in rural Zululand. Since Aids swept over the region, she has concentrated the energies of the Hospital of the Blessed Mary on the Hill, Marianhill, more and more on the plight of children born infected. Two years ago Blanche wrote a book, Living for Hope, about the work of Marianhill. Unexpectedly the book caught on. She did a lecture tour of Canada and the United States, publicizing the work of the Order, raising money; she was featured in Newsweek. So, having given up an academic career for a life of obscure toil, Blanche is suddenly famous, famous enough, now, to be having an honorary degree conferred on her by a university in her adopted country.

It is for that degree, for the ceremony of its conferral, that she herself, Elizabeth, Blanche's younger sister, has come to a land she does not know and has never particularly wanted to know, to this ugly city (she flew in only hours ago, saw it spread out below her with its acres of scarred earth, its vast sterile mine dumps). She is here, and she is tired to the bone. Hours of her life lost in the passage over the Indian Ocean; futile to believe she will ever recover them. She ought to take a nap, perk herself up, recover her humour, before she encounters Blanche; but she is too restless, too disoriented, too – she feels it obscurely – unwell. Is it something she picked up on the plane? To fall sick among strangers: what misery! She prays she is wrong.

They have installed the two of them at the same hotel, Sister Bridget Costello and Ms Elizabeth Costello. When the arrangements were made, it was enquired whether they would prefer single rooms or a shared suite. Single rooms, she said; and she would guess Blanche said likewise. She and Blanche were never truly close; she has no wish, now that they have passed beyond being women of a certain age to being, frankly, old women, to have to listen in on Blanche's bedtime prayers or see what fashion of underwear the Sisters of the Marian Order go in for.

She unpacks, fusses around, switches on the television, switches it off again. Somehow or other, in the middle of all of this, she falls asleep, flat on her back, shoes and all. She is woken by the telephone. Blindly she gropes for the receiver. Where am I? she thinks. Who am I? ' Elizabeth?' says a voice. 'Is that you?'