J. Coetzee - The Schooldays of Jesus

Then one Friday, when he arrives at the Academy to pick up the boy, he finds the doors locked. After a long hunt he tracks down Dmitri in the museum.

‘Where is Davíd?’ he demands. ‘Where are the children? Where are the Arroyos?’

‘They have gone swimming,’ says Dmitri. ‘Didn’t they tell you? They have gone on a trip to Lake Calderón. It’s a treat for the boarders, now that the weather is warming up. I would have liked to go too, but alas, I have my duties.’

‘When will they be back?’

‘If the weather stays fine, on Sunday afternoon.’

‘Sunday!’

‘Sunday. Don’t worry. Your boy will have a wonderful time.’

‘But he can’t swim!’

‘Lake Calderón is the most placid sheet of water in all the wide world. No one has ever drowned there.’

This is the news with which Inés is greeted when she comes home: that the boy has gone off to Lake Calderón on an outing, that they will not see him this weekend.

‘And where is Lake Calderón?’ she demands.

‘Two hours’ drive to the north. According to Dmitri, Lake Calderón is an educational experience not to be missed. The children are taken out in boats with glass bottoms to see the underwater life.’

‘Dmitri. So now Dmitri is an expert on education.’

‘We can drive to Lake Calderón first thing in the morning, if you like. Just to make sure everything is in order. We can say hello to Davíd; if he is unhappy we can bring him back.’

This is what they do. They drive out to Lake Calderón with Bolívar snoozing on the back seat. The sky is cloudless, the day promises to be hot. They miss the turn-off; it is noon before they find the little settlement on the lake, with its single rooming house and its one shop selling ice cream and plastic sandals and fishing tackle and bait.

‘I am looking for the place where school groups go,’ he says to the girl behind the counter.

‘ El centro recreativo . Follow the road along the lake front. It is about a kilometre further on.’

El centro recreativo is a low, sprawling building giving onto a sandy beach. Disporting themselves on the beach are scores of people, men and women, adults and children, all in the nude. Even at a distance he has no difficulty in recognizing Ana Magdalena.

‘Dmitri said nothing about this — this nudism,’ he says to Inés. ‘What shall we do?’

‘Well, I am certainly not taking off my clothes,’ she replies.

Inés is a good-looking woman. She has no reason to be ashamed of her body. What she does not say is: I am not taking off my clothes in front of you .

‘Then let me be the one,’ he says. While the dog, set free, lopes off toward the beach, he retires to the back seat and divests himself of his clothes.

Picking his way delicately over the stones, he arrives on the sandy beach just as a boat full of children comes in. A young man with a sweep of dark hair like a raven’s wing holds it steady while the children tumble out, splashing in the shallow water, whooping and laughing, naked, Davíd among them. With a start the boy recognizes him. ‘Simón!’ he calls out, and comes running. ‘Guess what we saw, Simón! We saw an eel, and it was eating a baby eel, the baby eel’s head was sticking out of the big eel’s mouth, it was so funny, you should have seen it! And we saw fishes, lots of fishes. And we saw crabs. That’s all. Where is Inés?’

‘Inés is waiting in the car. She isn’t feeling well, she has a headache. We came to find out what your plans are. Do you want to come home with us or do you want to stay?’

‘I want to stay. Can Bolívar stay too?’

‘I don’t think so. Bolívar isn’t used to strange places. He might wander off and get lost.’

‘He won’t get lost. I will look after him.’

‘I don’t know. I’ll discuss it with Bolívar and see what he wants to do.’

‘All right.’ And without a further word the boy turns and scampers off after his friends.

The boy does not seem to find it strange that he, Simón, should be standing here in the nude. And indeed his own self-consciousness is evaporating fast among all these naked folk, young and old. But he is aware that he has avoided looking directly at Ana Magdalena. Why? Why is it she alone before whom he feels his nakedness? He has no sexual feeling for her. He is simply not her equal, sexual or otherwise. Yet it is as if something would flash from his eyes if he were to look straight at her, something like an arrow, hard as steel and unmistakable, something he cannot afford.

He is not her equal: of that he is sure. If she were blindfolded and put on exhibition, like one of the statues in Dmitri’s museum or like an animal in a cage in a zoo, he could spend hours gazing at her, rapt in admiration at the perfection she represents of a certain kind of creaturely form. But that is not the whole story, not by far. It is not just that she is young and vital while he is old and spent; not just that she is, so to speak, carved out of marble while he is, so to speak, put together from clay. Why did that phrase come at once to mind: not her equal ? What is the more fundamental difference between the two of them that he senses but cannot put his finger on?

A voice speaks behind him, her voice: ‘Señor Simón.’ He turns and reluctantly raises his eyes.

On her shoulders there is a dusting of sand; her breasts are rosy, burnt by the sun; at her crotch there is a patch of fur, the lightest shade of brown, so fine that it is near to invisible.

‘Are you here alone?’ she says.

High shoulders, a long waist. Long legs, firmly muscled, a dancer’s legs.

‘No — Inés is waiting in the car. We were concerned about Davíd. We were told nothing about this outing.’

She frowns. ‘But we sent a note to all the parents. Didn’t you receive it?’

‘I know of no note. Anyway, all is well that ends well. The children seem to be having a good time. When will you be bringing them back?’

‘We haven’t decided yet. If the weather stays fine, we may be here the whole weekend. Have you met my husband? Juan, this is señor Simón, Davíd’s father.’

Señor Arroyo, master of music and director of the Academy of Dance: this is not how he expected to meet him, in the nude. A large man, not corpulent, not exactly, but no longer young: his flesh, at throat and breast and belly, has begun to sag. His complexion, the whole complexion of his body, even of his bald skull, is a uniform brick red, as if the sun were his natural element. His idea it must have been, this excursion to the beach.

They shake hands. ‘It is your dog?’ says señor Arroyo, gesturing.

‘Yes.’

‘A handsome beast.’ His voice is low and easy. Together they contemplate the handsome beast. Gazing over the water, Bolívar pays them no heed. A pair of spaniels edge up to him, take turns to smell his genitals; he does not deign to smell theirs.

‘I was explaining to your wife,’ he, Simón, says. ‘As a result of some or other failure of communication, we did not learn in advance about this outing. We thought Davíd would be coming home for the weekend, as usual. That is why we are here. We were a little anxious. But all is well, I see, so we will be leaving now.’

Señor Arroyo regards him with what seems an amused curl of the lip. He does not say, A failure of communication? Please explain. He does not say, I am sorry you have had a wasted trip . He does not say, Would you like to stay for lunch? He says nothing. No small talk.

Even his eyelids have a baked hue. And then the blue eyes, paler than his wife’s.

He collects himself. ‘May I ask, how is Davíd getting on with his studies?’

The heavy head nods once, twice, thrice. Now there is a definite smile on the lips. ‘Your son has — what shall I call it? — a confidence that is unusual in someone so young. He is not afraid of adventures — adventures of the mind.’