J. Coetzee - Slow Man

He wants to make himself interesting to Drago, that is to say, to an intelligent representative of the coming era, but it is not easy. What has he to offer? A broken bicycle. A truncated limb, probably more repellent than attractive. And a cabinet full of old pictures. In sum, not much. Not much with which to attach a boy to him as a mystical godson.

But Drago, excellent son of an excellent mother and – who is to say? – perhaps of an excellent father too, is nothing if not polite. Obediently he peers through the microscope, taking note of the millimetre of dried hen's egg that is claimed to make all the difference.

'You were a photographer yourself, weren't you, Mr Rayment?'

'Yes, I ran a studio in Unley. For a while I also gave evening classes in photography. But I was never – how shall I put it? – an artist of the camera. I was always more of a technician.'

Is that something to apologise for, not being an artist? Why should he apologise? Why should young Drago expect him to be an artist – young Drago, whose goal in life is to be a technician of warfare?

'Fauchery wasn't an artist himself' he says, 'at least not until he came to Australia. He came out from Paris during the gold rush of the 1850s. Did some amateur gold-digging himself, in Victoria, to get a taste of it, but mainly took photographs.' He gestures towards the group of women at the door of the wattle hut. 'That was when he discovered his talent. Perfected his technique too. Took full command of his medium. As any great photographer needs to do.'

'My mum wanted to be an artist, back in Croatia.'

'Really!'

'Yeah. She went to art school. Then after art school she went into restoration, you know, restoring old frescoes and things like that.'

'How interesting! I did not know that about her. Restoration is a skilled profession. You might even call it an art in its own right, except that it is frowned on to be original. First rule of restoration: follow the intention of the artist. Never try to improve on him. Your mother must have found it hard to give up her art work and move to nursing. Does she still paint?'

'She has still got, you know, the brushes and equipment and stuff. But she hasn't got time any more.'

'No, I'm sure she hasn't. Still, she is a first-rate nurse. She brings honour to the profession. I hope you know that.'

Drago nods. 'Where did you get these photographs, Mr Rayment?'

'Collected them over many years. Went to antique shops, went to auction sales, bought old albums, bought up boxes full of old pictures, junk for the most part, but every now and again there would be something worth saving. When a picture was in poor condition, I did the restoring myself. Not nearly as difficult as restoring frescoes, but specialised work nonetheless. That was my hobby for years. That was how I spent my spare time. If your time is not worth much in itself, at least you can put it to a good use. So I told myself. On my death I will donate the collection. It will become public property. Part of our historical record.' And he throws up his hands in an odd, unintended gesture. Astonishingly, he is close to tears. Why? Because he dares to mention his own death to this boy, this forerunner of the generation that will take over his world and trample on it? Perhaps. But more likely it is because of our. Our record, yours and mine. Because just possibly this image before them, this distribution of particles of silver that records the way the sunlight fell, one day in 1855, on the faces of two long-dead Irishwomen, an image in whose making he, the little boy from Lourdes, had no part and in which Drago, son of Dubrovnik, has had no part either, may, like a mystical charm – I was here, I lived, I suffered - have the power to draw them together.

'Anyway,' he says, 'if you get bored, if you have nothing else to do, feel free to look through the rest of the pictures. Just don't remove them from their sleeves. And make sure you put them back in order.'

An hour later, as he is preparing for bed, Drago puts his head around the door. 'Got a computer, Mr Rayment?'

'Yes. You will find it on the floor under the desk. I don't use it much.'

Soon Drago is back. 'Can't find the connection, Mr Rayment. For the modem.'

'Sorry, I don't understand.'

'The link. Do you have a cord somewhere that links you into the net?'

'No, it's not that kind of computer. I use it to write letters now and again. What are you trying to do? What do you need it for?'

Drago gives him an unbelieving smile. 'For everything. When did you buy your computer?'

'I don't remember. Years ago. Nineteen eighty something. It's not up to date. If you need something more advanced, I can't help you.'

Drago does not let the subject rest there. They are in the kitchen the next evening, having supper. He has not ordered pizza, as he said he would. Instead he has cooked quite a nice risotto, with mushrooms and Sauternes.

'Do you hate things if they are new, Mr Rayment?' says Drago out of the blue.

'No. Why do you say that?'

'I'm not, you know, blaming you. It's just the style, the style of everything.' He sits back in his chair, waves a hand casually over, as he says, everything. 'It's cool. I'm just asking. Isn't there anything new you like?'

The flat on Coniston Terrace is part of a refurbished pre-war block. It is high-ceilinged and spacious, yet not too large. He bought it after the divorce; it was exactly what he, as a rediscovered bachelor, wanted. He has lived here ever since.

Part of the deal when he bought the flat was that he should take over the previous owner's furniture. The furniture was heavy and dark and not to his taste; he has always meant to replace it, but has never found the energy. Instead, over the years, he has adjusted to his surroundings, growing a little more plodding, a little more sombre himself.

'I'll give you a straight answer, Drago, but not at the cost of being laughed at. I have been overtaken by time, by history. This flat, and everything in it, has been overtaken. There is nothing strange in that – in being overtaken by time. It will happen to you too, if you live long enough. Now tell me: what is this conversation really about? Is it about a computer that doesn't match up to your standards?'

Drago stares at him in shocked puzzlement. And indeed he surprises himself. Why such sharp words? What has the poor boy done to deserve them? Do you hate things if they are new? A fair enough question to an old man. What is there to be cross about?

'This was all, once upon a time, new,' he says, waving a hand in exactly the same gesture Drago used. 'Everything in the world was, once upon a time, new. Even I was new. The hour I was born I was the latest, newest thing on the face of the earth. Then time got to work on me. As time will get to work on you. Time will eat you up, Drago. One day you will be sitting in your nice new house with your nice new wife, and your son will turn around to the pair of you and say, Why are you so old-fashioned? When that day arrives, I hope you will remember this conversation.'

Drago takes a last forkful of risotto, a last forkful of salad. 'We went to Croatia last Christmas,' he says. 'Me and my mum and my sisters. To Zadar. That's where Mum's parents live. They're pretty old now. They also got, like you said, overtaken by time. My mum bought them a computer and we showed them how to use it. So now they can shop on the internet, they can send e-mails, we can send them pictures. They like it. And they're pretty old.'

'So?'

'So you can choose,' says Drago. 'That's all I'm saying.'

WHEN HE INVITED Drago to stay, there was, behind the invitation, nothing that he would deem – he picks up the primly disapproving word of the day, weighs it, tests it – inappropriate. His heart, as far as he can see into his heart, was and is pure, his motives innocent. He is fond of Drago with a measured, an appropriate fondness, as any man might be of an adopted son, or son-to-be.