J. Coetzee - The Schooldays of Jesus

‘Is that what señora Arroyo told you?’

‘Yes. She showed us how to call down Two and Three. You can’t call down One. One has to come by himself.’

‘Will you show us how you call down these numbers?’ says Inés.

The boy shakes his head. ‘You have to dance. You have to have music.’

‘What if I switch on the radio?’ he, Simón, suggests. ‘Maybe there will be music to dance to.’

‘No. It has to be special music.’

‘And what else happened today?’

‘Ana Magdalena gave us biscuits and milk. And raisins.’

‘Dmitri told me you say a prayer at the end of the day. Who do you pray to?’

‘It’s not a prayer. Ana Magdalena makes the arc sound and we have to get in harmony with it.’

‘What is the arc?’

‘I don’t know, Ana Magdalena won’t let us see it, she says it is secret.’

‘Most mysterious. I’ll ask when next I see her. But it seems that you had a good day. And all because out of the goodness of their hearts señora Alma and señora Consuelo and señora Valentina took an interest in you. An academy of dance where you learn how to call down numbers from the stars! And where you get biscuits and milk from the hands of a pretty lady! How fortunate we are to have ended up here in Estrella! Don’t you agree? Don’t you feel lucky? Don’t you feel blessed?’

The boy nods.

‘I certainly feel that way. I think we must be the luckiest family in the world. Now it is time to brush your teeth and go to bed and get a good night’s sleep so that in the morning you will be ready to dance again.’

The days assume a new pattern. At six thirty he wakes the boy and gives him breakfast. By seven they are in the car. There is little traffic on the roads; well before eight he drops him off at the Academy. Then he parks the car on the square and spends the next seven hours hunting desultorily for employment or inspecting apartments or — more often — simply sitting in a cafe reading the newspaper, until it is time to pick up the boy and bring him home.

To his and Inés’ enquiries about his schooldays the boy responds briefly and reluctantly. Yes, he likes señor Arroyo. Yes, they are learning songs. No, they have not had reading lessons. No, they do not do sums. About the mysterious arc that señora Arroyo sounds at the end of the day he will say nothing.

‘Why are you always asking me what I did today?’ he says. ‘I don’t ask you what you did. Anyway, you don’t understand.’

‘What don’t we understand?’ says Inés.

‘You don’t understand anything.’

After that they stop interrogating him. Let him tell his story in his own good time, they say to themselves.

One evening he, Simón, unthinkingly blunders into the women’s dormitory. Inés, on her knees on the floor, looks up with displeasure. The boy, wearing only underpants and the golden dancing slippers, stops in mid-motion.

‘Go away, Simón!’ exclaims the boy. ‘You are not allowed to watch!’

‘Why? What is it that I shouldn’t watch?’

‘He is practising something complicated,’ says Inés. ‘He needs to concentrate. Go away. Close the door.’

Surprised, puzzled, he retreats, then hovers at the door listening. There is nothing to hear.

Later, when the boy is asleep, he questions Inés. ‘What was going on that was too private for me to see?’

‘He was practising his new steps.’

‘But what is secret about that?’

‘He thinks you won’t understand. He thinks you will make fun of him.’

‘Given that we send him to an academy of dance, why should I make fun of his dancing?’

‘He says you don’t understand the numbers. He says you are hostile. Hostile to the numbers.’

She shows him a chart the boy has brought home: intersecting triangles, their apices marked with numerals. He can make no sense of it.

‘He says this is how they learn numbers,’ says Inés. ‘Through dance.’

The next morning, on the way to the Academy, he brings up the subject. ‘Inés showed me your dance chart,’ he says. ‘What are the numbers for? Are they the positions of your feet?’

‘It’s the stars,’ says the boy. ‘It’s astrology. You close your eyes while you dance and you can see the stars in your head.’

‘What about counting the beats? Doesn’t señor Arroyo count the beats for you while you dance?’

‘No. You just dance. Dancing is the same as counting.’

‘So señor Arroyo just plays and you just dance. It doesn’t sound like any dance lesson I am familiar with. I am going to ask señor Arroyo whether I can sit in on one of his lessons.’

‘You can’t. You are not allowed. Señor Arroyo says no one is allowed.’

‘Then when will I ever see you dancing?’

‘You can see me now.’

He glances at the boy. The boy is sitting still, his eyes closed, a slight smile on his lips.

‘That is not dancing. You can’t dance while you are sitting in a car.’

‘I can. Look. I am dancing again.’

He shakes his head in bafflement. They arrive at the Academy. Out of the shadows of the doorway emerges Dmitri. He ruffles the boy’s neatly brushed hair. ‘Ready for the new day?’

Inés has never liked getting up early. However, after three weeks on the farm with little to do but chat to Roberta and await the child’s return, she rouses herself early enough one Monday morning to join them on their ride to the city. Her first destination is a hairdresser. Then, feeling more herself, she stops at a women’s outfitters and buys herself a new dress. Chatting to the cashier, she learns that they are looking for a saleslady. On an impulse she approaches the proprietor and is offered the position.

The need to make the move from the farm to the city suddenly becomes urgent. Inés takes over the hunt for accommodation, and within days has found an apartment. The apartment itself is featureless, the neighbourhood dreary, but it is within walking distance of the city centre and has a park nearby where Bolívar can exercise.

They pack up their belongings. For the last time he, Simón, wanders out into the fields. It is dusk, the magic hour. The birds chatter in the trees as they settle for the night. From far away comes the tinkle of sheep-bells. Are they right, he wonders, to leave this garden place that has been so good to them?

They say their goodbyes. ‘We hope to see you back for the harvest,’ says Roberta. ‘That’s a promise,’ says he, Simón. To señora Consuelo (señora Valentina is busy, señora Alma is struggling with her demons) he says: ‘I cannot tell you how thankful we are to you and your sisters for your great generosity’; to which señora Consuelo replies: ‘It is nothing. In another life you will do the same for us. Goodbye, young Davíd. We look forward to seeing your name in lights.’

On the first night in their new home they have to sleep on the floor, since the furniture they ordered has not been delivered. In the morning they buy some basic kitchenware. They are running short of money.

He, Simón, takes a job, paid by the hour, delivering advertising material to households. With the job comes a bicycle, a heavy, creaking machine with a large basket bolted above the front wheel. He is one of four delivery men (he rarely crosses paths with the other three); his assigned area is the north-east quadrant of the city. During school hours he winds through the streets of his quadrant stuffing pamphlets into letter boxes: piano lessons, cures for baldness, hedge trimming, electrical repairs (competitive rates). It is, to a degree, interesting work, good for the health and not unpleasant (though he has to push the bicycle up the steeper streets). It is a way of getting to know the city, also a way of meeting people, making new contacts. The sound of a rooster crowing leads him to the backyard of a man who keeps poultry; the man undertakes to supply him with a pullet each week, at a price of five reales , and for an additional real to slaughter and dress the bird too.