J. Coetzee - Slow Man

'Should I therefore concede? Should I abandon you and start anew somewhere else? I am sure that would make you happy. But I can't. Too much of a blow to my pride. No, I have to press on to the end.'

'To the end?'

'Yes, to the bitter end.'

He hopes to hear more. He hopes to hear what the end will be. But her mouth has snapped shut, she stares away from him.

'Anyway,' he pursues, 'in the course of trying to understand what you are doing in my life, I have come up with one hypothesis after another. I won't rehearse them all, though I will say that none is very flattering to you. The first, and still the most plausible, is that you want me as a model for a character in a book. In that case, let me repeat what I was saying a moment ago, and what you seem to have trouble accepting. Ever since the day of my accident, ever since I could have died but seem to have been spared, I have been haunted by the idea of doing good. Before it is too late I would like to perform some act that will be – excuse the word – a blessing, however modest, on the lives of others. Why, you ask? Ultimately, because I have no child of my own to bless as a father does. Having no child was the great mistake of my life, I will tell you that. For that my heart bleeds all the time. For that there is a blessure in my heart.

'Smile if you wish, Mrs Costello. But let me remind you, once upon a time I was a pukkah little Catholic boy. Before the Dutchman uprooted us and brought us to the ends of the earth I had my schooling from the good sisters of Lourdes. And as soon as we arrived in Ballarat I was committed to the care of the Christian Brothers. Why would you want to do that, boy? Why would you want to commit a sin? Can you not see how Our Lord's heart bleeds for your sin? Jesus and his bleeding heart have never faded from memory, even though I have long since put the Church behind me. Why do I mention this? Because I don't want to hurt Jesus any more by my actions. I don't want to make his heart bleed. If you want to be my chronicler, you will need to understand that.'

'A pukkah little Catholic boy. I can see that, Paul. I can see it all too clearly. Don't forget, I am a proper Irish Catholic girl myself, a Costello from Northcote in Melbourne. But go on, go on, I find this rich, I find this fascinating.'

'In my earlier life I did not speak as freely about myself as I do today, Mrs Costello. Decency held me back, decency or shame. But you are a professional, I remind myself, in the business of confidences, like a doctor or a lawyer or an accountant.'

'Or a priest. Don't forget the priests, Paul.'

'Or a priest. Anyhow, since my accident I have begun to let some of that reticence slip. If you don't speak now, I say to myself, when will you speak? So: Would Jesus approve? That is the question I put to myself nowadays, continually. That is the standard I try to meet. Not as scrupulously as I should, I must admit. Forgiveness, for instance: I have no intention of forgiving the boy who drove his car into me, no matter what Jesus may say. But Marijana and her children – I want to extend a protective hand over them, I want to bless them and make them thrive. That is something you ought to take account of in me, and I don't think you do.'

What he has said about discarding reticence, about speaking his heart, is not, strictly speaking, true. Even to Marijana he has not really opened his heart. Why then does he lay himself bare before the Costello woman, who is surely no friend to him? There can be only one answer: because she has worn him down. A thoroughly professional performance on her part. One takes up position beside one's prey, and waits, and eventually one's prey yields. The sort of thing every priest knows. Or every vulture. Vulture lore.

'Sit, Paul,' she says. 'I can't keep on squinting up at you.'

He flops down heavily beside her.

'Your bleeding heart,' she murmurs. The declining sun glances so piercingly off the surface of the water that she has to shade her eyes. The duck family, more than a family, the duck clan, is gathering for another assault on the land. Evidently he, the intruder, has been assessed and found harmless.

'Yes, my bleeding heart.'

'The heart can be a mysterious organ, the heart and its movements. Dark, the Spanish call it. The dark heart, el oscuro corazón. Are you sure you are not just a little dark-hearted, Paul, despite your many good intentions?'

He had thought he would make a peace overture; he had thought of offering the woman, if not a roof for the night, then at least an air ticket back to Melbourne. But now the old irritation comes flooding back. 'And are you sure,' he replies icily, 'that you are not seeing complications where they do not exist, for the sake of those dreary stories you write?'

Mrs Costello reaches into the plastic bag on her lap, crumbles a bread roll, and tosses it towards the ducks. There is huge commotion as they converge on their blessing.

'We would all like to be simpler, Paul,' she says, 'every one of us. Particularly as we near the end. But we are complicated creatures, we human beings. That is our nature. You want me to be simpler. You want to be simpler yourself, more naked. Well, I gaze in wonderment, believe me, upon your efforts to strip yourself down. But it comes at a cost, the simple heart you so desire, the simple way of seeing the world. Look at me. What do you see?'

He is silent.

'Let me tell you what you see, or what you tell yourself you are seeing. An old woman by the side of the River Torrens feeding the ducks. An old woman who happens to be running out of clean underwear. An old woman who irritates you with what you think of as her sly innuendoes.

'But the reality is more complicated than that, Paul. In reality you see a great deal more – see it and then block it out. Light of a certain stridency, for instance. A figure trapped by that light beside the softly fluent water. Lances of light that stab at her, threaten to pierce her through.

'Unnecessary complication? I don't think so. An expansion. Like breathing. Breathe in, breathe out. Expand, contract. The rhythm of life. You have it in you to be a fuller person, Paul, larger and more expansive, but you won't allow it. I urge you: don't cut short these thought-trains of yours. Follow them through to their end. Your thoughts and your feelings. Follow them through and you will grow with them. What was it that the American poet fellow said? There weaves always a fictive covering from something to something. My memory is going. I become vaguer with each passing day. A pity. Hence this little lesson I am trying to teach you. He finds her by the riverside, sitting on a bench, clustered around by ducks that she seems to be feeding – it may be simple, as an account, its simplicity may even beguile one, but it is not good enough. It does not bring me to life. Bringing me to life may not be important to you, but it has the drawback of not bringing you to life either. Or the ducks, for that matter, if you prefer not to have me at the centre of the picture. Bring these humble ducks to life and they will bring you to life, I promise. Bring Marijana to life, if it must be Marijana, and she will bring you to life. It is as elementary as that. But please, as a favour to me, please stop dithering. I do not know how much longer I can support my present mode of existence.'

'What mode of existence are you referring to?'

'Life in public. Life on the public squares, relying on public amenities. Life in the company of drunks and homeless people, what we used to call hoboes. Do you not recall? I warned you I had nowhere to go.'

'You are talking nonsense. You can take a room in a hotel. You can catch a plane back to Melbourne or wherever else you want to go. I will lend you the money.'