J. Coetzee - The Schooldays of Jesus

‘And all of these are housed on the same premises — the Dance Academy, the boarding establishment, the Arroyo household?’

‘Oh, there is plenty of space. The Academy occupies the entire upper floor. Where are you from, señor, you and your family?’

‘From Novilla. We lived in Novilla until recently, until we moved north.’

‘Novilla. I’ve never been there. I came straight to Estrella and have been here ever since.’

‘And you have worked in the museum all that time?’

‘No, no, no — I have had more jobs than I can remember. That is my nature: a restless nature. I started out as a porter in the produce market. Then I had a spell working on the roads, but I didn’t like it. For a long while I worked in the hospital. Terrible. Terrible hours. But moving too — the sights you see! Then came the day my life changed. No exaggeration. Changed for the better. I was hanging about on the square, minding my business, when she walked past. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Thought it was an apparition. So beautiful. Unearthly. I jumped up and followed her — followed like a dog. For weeks I hung around the Academy, just for a glimpse of her. Of course she paid me no attention. Why should she? An ugly fellow like me. Then I saw a notice advertising a job at the museum, a cleaner, bottom of the ladder, and to cut a long story short I started work here and have been here ever since. Promoted first to Attendant and then last year to Principal Attendant. Because of my diligence and my punctuality.’

‘I’m not sure I understand. You are referring to señora Arroyo?’

‘Ana Magdalena. Whom I worship. I am not ashamed to confess to it. Wouldn’t you do the same if you worshipped a woman — follow her to the ends of the earth?’

‘The museum is hardly the ends of the earth. How does señor Arroyo feel about your worshipping of his wife?’

‘Señor Arroyo is an idealist, as I told you. His mind is elsewhere, in the celestial sphere where the numbers spin.’

He has had enough of this conversation. He did not ask for this man’s confidences. ‘I must leave, I have business to attend to,’ he says.

‘I thought you wanted to see the Estrella school of painters.’

‘Another day.’

Hours yet before the school day ends. He buys a newspaper, sits down at a cafe on the square, orders a cup of coffee. On the front page is a photograph of an elderly couple with a gigantic cucurbit from their garden. It weighs fourteen kilograms, says the report, breaking the previous record by almost a kilogram. On page two a crime report lists the theft of a lawnmower from a shed (unlocked) and vandalism at a public toilet (a washbasin smashed). The deliberations of the municipal council and its various subcommittees figure largely: the subcommittee on public amenities, the subcommittee on roads and bridges, the subcommittee on finances, the subcommittee charged with organizing the forthcoming theatre festival. Then there are the sports pages, which preview a high point of the football season, the forthcoming clash between Aragonza and North Valley.

He scans the Employment Offered columns. Bricklayer. Mason. Electrician. Bookkeeper. What is he looking for? Light labour, perhaps. Gardening. No demand for stevedores, of course.

He pays for his coffee. ‘Is there an Office of Relocations in the city?’ he asks the waitress. ‘Of course,’ she says, and gives him directions.

The relocations centre in Estrella is not nearly as grand as the one in Novilla — nothing but a cramped little bureau on a side street. Behind the desk sits a pale-faced, rather mournful-looking young man with a scraggly beard.

‘Good day,’ says he, Simón. ‘I am a new arrival here in Estrella. For the past month or so I have been employed in the valley doing casual labour — fruit-picking mainly. Now I am looking for something more permanent, preferably in the city.’

The clerk fetches a card tray and sets it down on his desk. ‘It looks like a lot, but most of the cards are duds,’ he confides. ‘The trouble is, people don’t let us know when a position is filled. How about this: Optima Dry Cleaners. Do you know anything about dry-cleaning?’

‘Nothing, but let me take the address. Do you have anything that is more physical — outdoor work, perhaps?’

The clerk ignores his question. ‘Stockman at a hardware store. Does that interest you? No experience needed, just a head for figures. Do you have a head for figures?’

‘I am not a mathematician, but I can count.’

‘As I said, I can’t promise the position is still open. You see how the ink is faded?’ He holds the card up to the light. ‘That tells you how old the card is. How about this one? Typist in a law office. Can you type? No? Then there is this one: cleaner at the art museum.’

‘That position has been filled. I met the man who filled it.’

‘Have you considered retraining? That may be your best option: enrol for a course that retrains you for a new profession. As long as you are in training you continue to get your unemployment allowance.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ he says. He does not mention that he has not registered for unemployment.

Three o’clock approaches. He makes his way back to the Academy. At the doorway is Dmitri. ‘Come to fetch your son?’ says Dmitri. ‘I make a point of being here when the young ones come out. Free at last! So excited, so full of joy! I wish I could feel that kind of joy again, just for a minute. I remember nothing of my childhood, you know, not a minute. A complete blank. I mourn the loss. It grounds you, your childhood. Gives you roots in the world. I am like a tree that has been uprooted by the tempest of life. Do you know what I mean? Your boy is lucky to have a childhood of his own. How about you? Did you have a childhood?’

He shakes his head. ‘No, I arrived fully formed. They took one look at me and marked me down as middle-aged. No childhood, no youth, no memories. Washed clean.’

‘Well, no use pining. At least we have the privilege of mixing with the young ones. Maybe some of their angel dust will rub off on us. Hark! End of dancing for the day. Now they will be saying their thanks. They always end the day with a prayer of thanks.’

Together they listen. A faint droning sound that tails off into silence. Then the doors of the Academy burst open and the children come clattering down the stairway, girls and boys, fair and dark. ‘Dmitri! Dmitri!’ they cry, and in a moment Dmitri is surrounded. He dips into his pockets and brings forth handfuls of sweets, which he tosses in the air. The children fall on them. ‘Dmitri!’

Last to emerge, hand in hand with señora Arroyo, eyes cast down, unusually subdued, is Davíd, wearing his gold slippers.

‘Goodbye, Davíd,’ says señora Arroyo. ‘We will see you in the morning.’

The boy does not respond. When they get to the car he climbs into the back seat. In a minute he is asleep, and does not wake until they reach the farm.

Inés is waiting with sandwiches and cocoa. The boy eats and drinks. ‘How was your day?’ she asks at last. No reply. ‘Did you dance?’ He nods abstractedly. ‘Will you show us later how you danced?’

Without answering the boy clambers onto his bunk and curls into a ball.

‘What is wrong?’ Inés whispers to him, Simón. ‘Did something happen?’

He tries to reassure her. ‘He is a bit dazed, that is all. He has been among strangers all day.’

After supper the boy is more forthcoming. ‘Ana Magdalena taught us the numbers,’ he tells them. ‘She showed us Two and Three and you were wrong, Simón, and señor Robles was wrong too, you were both wrong, the numbers are in the sky. That is where they live, with the stars. You have to call them before they will come down.’