J. Coetzee - The Schooldays of Jesus

‘I do know what is going on in the world,’ says the boy. ‘You are the one who doesn’t know what is going on in the world.’

‘What is going on in the world, Davíd?’ says Alma. ‘We feel so cut off from the world, out here on the farm. Will you tell us?’

The boy lays the box of marionettes aside, trots over to Alma, whispers at length in her ear.

‘What did he say, Alma?’ asks Consuelo.

‘I don’t feel I can tell you. Only Davíd can do that.’

‘Will you tell us, Davíd?’ asks Consuelo.

The boy shakes his head decisively from side to side.

‘Then that is the end of the matter,’ says Consuelo. ‘Thank you, Inés, thank you, Simón, for your advice on señor Arroyo and his Academy. If you do decide to hire a tutor for your son, I am sure we will be able to assist with the fees.’

As they are leaving, Consuelo takes him to one side. ‘You must get a grip on the boy, Simón,’ she murmurs. ‘For his own sake. Do you understand what I mean?’

‘I understand. There is another side to him, believe me. He is not always so cocksure. And his heart is good.’

‘I am relieved to hear that,’ says Consuelo. ‘Now you must go.’

It takes him a long time to gain entry to the Academy or ex-Academy. He rings the bell, waits, rings again, on and on, then begins to rap on the door, first with his knuckles, eventually with the heel of his shoe. At last he hears stirrings within. The key turns in the lock and the door is opened by Alyosha, looking dishevelled, as if he has just woken up, though it is well past noon.

‘Hello, Alyosha, do you remember me? Davíd’s father. How are you? Is the maestro in?’

‘Señor Arroyo is at his music. If you want to see him you will have to wait. It may be a long wait.’

The studio where Ana Magdalena used to give her classes stands empty. The cedar floor that was polished daily by young feet in dancing slippers has lost its gleam.

‘I’ll wait,’ he says. ‘My time is not important.’ He follows Alyosha to the refectory and sits down at one of the long tables.

‘Tea?’ says Alyosha.

‘That would be nice.’

Faintly he can hear the tinkle of a piano. The music breaks off, starts again, breaks off again.

‘I am told that señor Arroyo would like to reopen the Academy,’ he says, ‘and that you may take over some of the teaching.’

‘I will be teaching the recorder and leading the elementary dance class. That is the plan. If we reopen.’

‘So you will persist with dance classes. I had understood that the Academy was going to become purely an academy of music. An academy of pure music.’

‘Behind music there is always dance. If we listen with attention, if we give ourselves to the music, the soul will begin to dance within us. That is one of the cornerstones of señor Arroyo’s philosophy.’

‘And you believe in his philosophy?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Davíd won’t be coming back, unfortunately. He wants to, very much so, but his mother is set against it. I myself don’t know what to think. On the one hand, I find the philosophy of the Academy, the philosophy you share, hard to take seriously. I hope you don’t mind my saying so. In particular the astrological stuff. On the other hand, Davíd is attached to the Arroyos, particularly to the memory of Ana Magdalena. Deeply attached. He clings to it. He won’t let go.’

Alyosha smiles. ‘Yes, I have seen that. At first he used to test her. You must have witnessed it: how he tests people, asserts his will over them. He tried giving her orders; but she didn’t tolerate it, not for a moment. While you are in my care you will do as I say , she said to him. And don’t give me such looks. Your looks have no power over me . After that he never tried his tricks again. He respected her. He obeyed her. With me it’s different. He knows I am soft. I don’t mind.’

‘How about his classmates? Do they miss her too?’

‘All the young ones loved Ana Magdalena,’ says Alyosha. ‘She was strict with them, she was demanding, but they were devoted to her. After her passing I did my best to shield them, but there were too many stories swirling around, and then of course their parents came and fetched them away. So I can’t tell you for sure how they were affected. It was a tragedy. One can’t expect children to come away from such a tragedy untouched.’

‘No, one can’t. There is also the matter of Dmitri. They must have been shaken by that. Dmitri was a great favourite among them.’

Alyosha is about to reply when the door to the refectory bursts open and Joaquín and his brother rush excitedly in, followed a moment later by a stranger, a grey-haired woman supporting herself on a cane.

‘Aunt Mercedes says we can have biscuits,’ says Joaquín. ‘Can we?’

‘Of course,’ says Alyosha. Awkwardly he performs the introduction. ‘Señora Mercedes, this is señor Simón, who is the father of one of the boys at the Academy. Señor Simón, this is señora Mercedes, who is visiting us from Novilla.’

Señora Mercedes, Aunt Mercedes, offers him a bony hand. In her narrow, aquiline features and sallow skin he can find no resemblance to Ana Magdalena.

‘Let us not interrupt you,’ she says in a voice so low that it is almost a croak. ‘The boys just came for a snack.’

‘You interrupt nothing,’ he, Simón, replies. It is not true. He would like to hear more from Alyosha. He is impressed by the young man, by his good sense, his seriousness. ‘I am just marking time, waiting to see señor Arroyo. Perhaps, Alyosha, you can remind him that I am here.’

With a sigh señora Mercedes lowers herself onto a chair. ‘Your son is not with you?’ she says.

‘He is at home with his mother.’

‘His name is Davíd,’ says Joaquín. ‘He is the best in the class.’ He and his brother have seated themselves at the far end of the table with the can of biscuits before them.

‘I have come to discuss my son’s future with señor Arroyo,’ he explains to Mercedes. ‘His future and the future of the Academy, after the recent tragedy. Allow me to say how stricken we all are by your sister’s death. She was an exceptional teacher and an exceptional person.’

‘Ana Magdalena was not my sister,’ says Mercedes. ‘My sister, Joaquín’s and Damian’s mother, passed away ten years ago. Ana Magdalena is — was — Juan Sebastián’s second wife. The Arroyos are a complicated family. Thankfully I am not part of that complication.’

Of course! Twice married! What a stupid mistake on his part! ‘My apologies,’ he says. ‘I wasn’t thinking.’

‘But of course I knew her, Ana Magdalena,’ señora Mercedes continues, unperturbed. ‘She was even, briefly, a student of mine. That was how she came to meet Juan Sebastián. That was how she entered the family.’

His stupid mistake has, it seems, opened the way for old animosities to be aired.

‘You taught dance?’ he says.

‘I taught dance. I still do, though you would not think so, looking at me.’ She raps on the floor with her cane.

‘I confess I find dance somewhat of a foreign language,’ he says. ‘Davíd has given up trying to explain it to me.’

‘Then what are you doing, sending him to an academy of dance?’

‘Davíd is his own master. His mother and I have no control over him. He has a lovely voice but won’t sing. He is a gifted dancer but won’t dance for me. Refuses point-blank. Says I don’t understand.’

‘If your son were to explain his dance he would not be able to dance any more,’ says Mercedes. ‘That is the paradox within which we dancers are trapped.’

‘Believe me, señora, you are not the first to tell me so. From señor Arroyo, from Ana Magdalena, from my son, I hear continually how obtuse my questioning is.’