J. Coetzee - The Schooldays of Jesus

Señora Arroyo turns to the boy. ‘Davíd — that is your name?’

He expects the usual challenge, the usual denial (‘ It is not my real name ’). But no: the boy raises his face to her like a flower opening.

‘Welcome, Davíd, to our Academy. I am sure you will like it here. I am señora Arroyo and I will be looking after you. Now, you heard what I told your parents about the dancing slippers and about not wearing tight clothes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Then I will be expecting you on Monday morning at eight o’clock sharp. That is when the new quarter starts. Come here. Feel the floor. It’s lovely, isn’t it? It was laid down especially for dancing, out of planks cut from cedar trees that grow high in the mountains, by carpenters, true craftsmen, who made it as smooth as is humanly possible. We wax it every week until it glows, and every day it is polished again by the students’ feet. So smooth and so warm! Can you feel the warmth?’

The boy nods. Never has he seen him so responsive before — responsive, trusting, childlike.

‘Goodbye now, Davíd. We will see you on Monday, with your new slippers. Goodbye, señora. Goodbye, señor.’ The swing doors close behind them.

‘She is tall, isn’t she, señora Arroyo,’ he says to the boy. ‘Tall and graceful too, like a real dancer. Do you like her?’

‘Yes.’

‘So is it decided then? You will go to her school?’

‘Yes.’

‘And we can tell Roberta and the three sisters that our quest has been successful?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you say, Inés: has our quest been successful?’

‘I will tell you what I think when I have seen what kind of education they give.’

Blocking their way to the street is a man with his back to them. He wears a rumpled grey uniform; his cap is pushed back on his head; he is smoking a cigarette.

‘Excuse me,’ he (Simón) says.

The man, evidently lost in reverie, gives a start, then recovers and with an extravagant sweep of the arm waves them through: ‘Señora y señores. .’ Passing him they are enveloped in fumes of tobacco and the smell of unwashed clothes.

In the street, as they hesitate, finding their bearings, the man in grey speaks: ‘Señor, are you looking for the museum?’

He turns to face him. ‘No — our business was with the Academy of Dance.’

‘Ah, the Academy of Ana Magdalena!’ His voice is deep, the voice of a true bass. Tossing his cigarette aside, he comes nearer. ‘So let me guess: you are going to enrol in the Academy, young man, and become a famous dancer! I hope you will find time one day to come and dance for me.’ He shows yellowed teeth in a big, all-enfolding smile. ‘Welcome! If you attend the Academy you are going to see a lot of me, so let me introduce myself. I am Dmitri. I work at the museum, where I am Principal Attendant — that is my title, such a grand one! What does a Principal Attendant do? Well, it is the Principal Attendant’s duty to guard the museum’s pictures and sculptures, to preserve them from dust and natural enemies, to lock them up safely in the evenings and set them free in the mornings. As Principal Attendant I am here every day except Saturdays, so naturally I get to meet all the young folk from the Academy, them and their parents.’ He turns to him, Simón. ‘What did you think of the estimable Ana Magdalena? Does she impress you?’

He exchanges glances with Inés. ‘We spoke to señora Arroyo but nothing is decided yet,’ he says. ‘We have to weigh up our options.’

Dmitri the liberator of the statues and paintings frowns. ‘No need for that. No need to weigh up anything. You would be stupid to refuse the Academy. You would regret it for the rest of your life. Señor Arroyo is a master, a true master. There is no other word for it. It is an honour for us to have him among us in Estrella, which has never been a great city, teaching our children the art of dance. If I were in your son’s position I would clamour night and day to be allowed into his Academy. You can forget about your other options, whatever they are.’

He is not sure that he likes this Dmitri, with his smelly clothing and his oily hair. He certainly does not like being harangued by him in public (it is mid-morning, the streets are full of people). ‘Well,’ he says, ‘that is for us to decide, is it not, Inés? And now we must be on our way. Goodbye.’ He takes the boy’s hand; they leave.

In the car the boy speaks up for the first time. ‘Why don’t you like him?’

‘The museum guard? It’s not a question of liking or disliking. He is a stranger. He doesn’t know us, doesn’t know our circumstances. He should not be sticking his nose into our affairs.’

‘You don’t like him because he has a beard.’

‘That is nonsense.’

‘He doesn’t have a beard,’ says Inés. ‘There is a difference between wearing a nice, neat beard and not caring for your appearance. This man doesn’t shave, he doesn’t wash, he doesn’t wear clean clothes. He is not a good example to children.’

‘Who is a good example to children? Is Simón a good example?’

There is silence.

‘Are you a good example, Simón?’ the boy presses.

Since Inés will not stand up for him, he has to stand up for himself. ‘I try,’ he says. ‘I try to be a good example. If I fail, it is not for want of trying. I hope I have, on the whole, been a good example. But you must be the judge of that.’

‘You are not my father.’

‘No, I am not. But that does not disqualify me — does it? — from setting an example.’

The boy does not reply. In fact he loses interest, switches off, stares abstractedly out of the window (they are passing through the dreariest of neighbourhoods, block after block of boxlike little houses). A long silence falls.

‘Dmitri sounds like scimitar,’ the boy says suddenly. ‘To chop off your head.’ A pause. ‘I like him even if you don’t. I want to go to the Academy.’

‘Dmitri has nothing to do with the Academy,’ says Inés. ‘He is just a doorman. If you want to go to the Academy, if your mind is set on it, you can go. But as soon as they start complaining that you are too clever for them and want to send you to psychologists and psychiatrists, I am taking you out at once.’

‘You don’t have to be clever to dance,’ says the boy. ‘When are we going to buy my dancing slippers?’

‘We will buy them now. Simón will drive us to the shoe shop right now, to the address the lady gave us.’

‘Do you hate her too?’ says the boy.

Now it is Inés’ turn to stare out of the window.

‘I like her,’ says the boy. ‘She is pretty. She is prettier than you.’

‘You should learn to judge people by their inner qualities,’ says he, Simón. ‘Not just by whether they are pretty or not. Or whether they have a beard.’

‘What are inner qualities?’

‘Inner qualities are qualities like kindness and honesty and a sense of justice. You must surely have read about them in Don Quixote . There are a multitude of inner qualities, more than I can name off the top of my head, you would have to be a philosopher to know the whole list, but prettiness is not an inner quality. Your mother is just as pretty as señora Arroyo, only in a different way.’

‘Señora Arroyo is kind.’

‘Yes, I agree, she seems kind. She seemed to take a liking to you.’

‘So she has inner qualities.’

‘Yes, Davíd, she is kind as well as being pretty. But prettiness and kindness are not connected. Being pretty is an accident, a matter of luck. We can be born pretty or we can be born plain, we have no say in it. Whereas being kind is not an accident. We are not born kind. We learn to be kind. We become kind. That is the difference.’