J. Coetzee - The Schooldays of Jesus

‘Did Dmitri kill her?’

‘I have no idea. I don’t know how she died. Now, there is something I want you to tell me. That little room where we found her — was that the room where Dmitri took you to show you pictures of women?’

‘Yes.’

The next day, the first day of clear skies after the big rains, Dmitri turns himself in. He presents himself at the front desk of police headquarters. ‘It was I,’ he announces to the young woman behind the desk, and when she fails to understand produces the morning’s newspaper and taps the headline ‘DEATH OF BALLERINA’, with a photograph of Ana Magdalena, head and shoulders, beautiful in her rather icy way. ‘It was I who killed her,’ he says. ‘I am the guilty one.’

In the hours that follow he writes for the police a full and detailed account of what happened: how, on a pretext, he persuaded Ana Magdalena to accompany him to the basement of the museum; how he forced himself on her and afterwards strangled her; how he locked the body in the cubicle; how for two days and two nights he wandered the streets of the city, indifferent to cold and rain, mad, he writes, though mad with what he does not say (with guilt? with grief?), until, coming upon the newspaper on a news-stand, with the photograph whose eyes, as he puts it, pierced him to the soul, he came to his senses and gave himself up, ‘resolved to pay his debt’.

All of this comes out at the first hearing, which is held amid intense public interest, nothing so extravagant having occurred in Estrella within living memory. Señor Arroyo is not present at the hearing: he has bolted the doors of the Academy and will speak to no one. He, Simón, tries to attend, but the throng outside the tiny courtroom is packed so tight that he gives up. From the radio he learns that Dmitri has admitted his guilt and refused legal assistance, even though the magistrate has explained to him that this is neither the time nor the place to enter a plea. ‘I have done the worst thing in the world, I have killed the person I love,’ he is reported to have said. ‘Lash me, hang me, break my bones.’ From the courtroom he has been conveyed back to his cell, enduring on the way a barrage of gibes and insults from onlookers.

Responding to his call, Inés has returned from Novilla, accompanied by her elder brother, Diego. Davíd moves back into the apartment with them. Since there are no classes to attend, he is free to play football with Diego all day. Diego, he reports, is ‘brilliant’ at football.

He, Simón, meets Inés for lunch. They discuss what is to be done about Davíd. ‘He seems his normal self, he seems to have got over the shock,’ he tells her, ‘but I have my doubts. No child can be exposed to a sight like that and not suffer after-effects.’

‘He should never have gone to that Academy,’ says Inés. ‘We should have hired a tutor, like I said. What a calamity those Arroyos have turned out to be!’

He demurs. ‘It was hardly señora Arroyo’s fault that she was murdered, or her husband’s, for that matter. One can cross paths with a monster like Dmitri anywhere. To look on the positive side, at least Davíd has learned a lesson about adults and where their passions can lead them.’

Inés sniffs. ‘Passions? Do you call rape and murder passions?’

‘No, rape and murder are crimes, but you cannot deny that Dmitri was driven to them by passion.’

‘So much the worse for passion,’ says Inés. ‘If there were less passion around the world would be a safer place.’

They are in a cafe across the street from Modas Modernas, with tables packed tightly together. Their neighbours, two well-dressed women who may well belong to Inés’ clientele, have fallen silent and are listening in to what has begun to sound like a quarrel. Therefore he withholds what he had been about to say ( Passion , he had been about to say — what do you know about passion, Inés? ) and remarks instead: ‘Let us not stray into deep water. How is Diego? What does he think of Estrella? How long will he be staying? Is Stefano going to join you?’

No, he learns, Stefano will not be coming to Estrella. Stefano is entirely under the thumb of his girlfriend, who does not want him to leave her. As for Diego, he has not formed a favourable impression of Estrella. He calls it atrasada , backward; he cannot understand what Inés is doing here; he wants her to come back to Novilla with him.

‘And might you do that?’ he asks. ‘Might you move back to Novilla? I need to know because where Davíd goes I go.’

Inés does not reply, plays with her teaspoon.

‘What about the shop?’ he says. ‘How will Claudia feel if you suddenly abandon her?’ He leans closer across the table. ‘Tell me honestly, Inés, are you still as devoted to Davíd as ever?’

‘What do you mean, am I still devoted? ’

‘I mean, are you still the boy’s mother? Do you still love him or are you growing away from him? Because, I must warn you, I cannot be both father and mother.’

Inés rises. ‘I have to get back to the shop,’ she says.

* * *

The Academy of Singing is a very different place from the Academy of Dance. Housed in an elegant glass-fronted building, it is situated on a leafy square in the most expensive quarter of the town. He and Davíd are ushered into the office of señora Montoya, the vice-principal, who greets them coolly. Following the closure of the Academy of Dance, she informs him, the Academy of Singing has received a small flood of applications from ex-students. Davíd’s name can be added to the list, but his prospects are not favourable: preference will be given to the applicants who have had formal instruction in music. Furthermore, he, Simón, should take note that fees at the Academy of Singing are considerably higher than at the Academy of Dance.

‘Davíd took music lessons with señor Arroyo himself,’ he says. ‘He has a good voice. Will you not give him a chance to prove himself? He excelled at dancing. He could excel at singing too.’

‘Is that what he wants to be in life: a singer?’

‘Davíd, you heard the señora’s question. Do you want to be a singer?’

The boy does not reply, but stares evenly out of the window.

‘What do you want to do with your life, young man?’ asks señora Montoya.

‘I don’t know,’ says the boy. ‘It depends.’

‘Davíd is six years old,’ says he, Simón. ‘One can’t expect a six-year-old to have a life plan.’

‘Señor Simón, if there is one trait that unites all students at our Academy, from the youngest to the oldest, it is a passion for music. Do you have a passion for music, young man?’

‘No. Passions are bad for you.’

‘Indeed! Who told you that — that passions are bad for you?’

‘Inés.’

‘And who is Inés?’

‘Inés is his mother,’ he, Simón, intervenes. ‘I think you misunderstood Inés, Davíd. She was referring to physical passion. A passion for singing is not a physical passion. Why don’t you sing for señora Montoya, so that she can hear what a good voice you have? Sing that English song you used to sing to me.’

‘No. I don’t want to sing. I hate singing.’

He takes the boy to visit the three sisters on their farm. They are as warmly received as ever, and treated to little iced cakes and Roberta’s home-made lemonade. The boy sets off on a circuit of the stables and the stalls, reacquainting himself with old friends. During his absence he, Simón, relates the story of the interview with señora Montoya. ‘A passion for music,’ he says: ‘imagine asking a six-year-old whether he has a passion for music. Children may have enthusiasms but they can’t yet have passions.’