J. Coetzee - The Schooldays of Jesus

‘You know! You must bring Ana Magdalena back!’

Dmitri sighs. ‘I wish I could, young fellow, I wish I could. Believe me, if Ana Magdalena were suddenly to appear before us I would bow down and wash her feet with tears of joy. But she won’t come back. She is gone. She belongs to the past, and the past is forever behind us. That’s a law of nature. Even the stars can’t swim against the flow of time.’

Through all of Dmitri’s speech the boy has continued to hold his hand on high, as if only thus can the force of his command be sustained; but it is clear to him, Simón, and perhaps to Dmitri too, that he is wavering. Tears are brimming in his eyes.

‘Time to go,’ says Dmitri. He allows the police officers to help him to his feet. ‘Back to the doctors. Why did you do it, Dmitri? Why? Why? Why? But maybe there is no why. Maybe it’s like asking why is a chicken a chicken, or why is there a universe instead of a great big hole in the sky. Things are as they are. Don’t cry, my boy. Be patient, wait for the next life, and you will see Ana Magdalena again. Hold on to that thought.’

‘I’m not crying,’ says the boy.

‘Yes, you are. There is nothing wrong with a good cry. It clears out the system.’

The day of the census has dawned, the day too of the show at Modas Modernas. The boy wakes up listless, surly, without appetite. Might he be ill? He, Simón, feels his brow, but it is cool.

‘Did you see Seven last night?’ the boy demands.

‘Of course. I couldn’t keep my eyes off you. You danced beautifully. Everyone thought so.’

‘But did you see Seven?’

‘Do you mean the number seven? No. I don’t see numbers. It’s a failing on my part. I see only what is before my eyes. You know that.’

‘What are we going to do today?’

‘After all the excitement last night, I think we should have a quiet day. I would suggest we take a peek at Inés’ fashion show, but I don’t think gentlemen will be welcome. We can go and fetch Bolívar, if you like, and take him for a walk, as long as we are off the streets by six. Because of the curfew.’

He expects a string of Why? questions, but the boy shows no interest in the census or the curfew. Where is Dmitri now? : another question that does not come. Have they seen the last of Dmitri? Can the forgetting of Dmitri commence? He prays that it is so.

As it turns out, it is near midnight when the census officers come knocking at the door. He picks up the boy, half asleep, whimpering, wrapped in a blanket, and stows him bodily in the cupboard. ‘Not a sound,’ he whispers. ‘It is important. Not a sound.’

The census-takers, a young couple, apologize for their lateness. ‘This is not a part of the city we are familiar with,’ says the woman. ‘Such a maze of crooked streets and alleys!’ He offers them tea, but they are in a hurry. ‘We still have a long list of addresses to cover,’ she says. ‘We will be up all night.’

The census business takes no time at all. He has already filled out the form. Number of persons in family : ‘ONE,’ he has written. Marital status : ‘SINGLE.’

When they are gone he liberates the boy from confinement and returns him to bed, fast asleep.

In the morning they stroll over to see Inés. She and Diego are sitting down to breakfast; she is as bright and cheerful as he has ever seen her, prattling on and on about the show, which — everyone agrees — was a great success. The ladies of Estrella flocked to see the new spring fashions. The low necklines, the high waists, the simple reliance on black and white, have won general approval. Pre-sales have exceeded all expectations.

The boy listens with glazed eyes.

‘Drink your milk,’ Inés tells him. ‘Milk gives you strong bones.’

‘Simón locked me in the wardrobe,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t breathe.’

‘It was only while the census-takers were there,’ he says. ‘A nice young couple, very polite. Davíd was as quiet as a mouse. All they saw was a lonely old bachelor roused from his slumbers. It was over in five minutes. No one dies of asphyxiation in five minutes.’

‘It was the same here,’ says Inés. ‘In and out in five minutes. No questions.’

‘So Davíd remains invisible,’ says he, Simón. ‘Congratulations, Davíd. You have escaped again.’

‘Until the next census,’ says Diego.

‘Until the next census,’ he, Simón, agrees.

‘With so many millions of souls to count,’ says Diego, ‘what does it matter if they miss one?’

‘What does it matter indeed,’ echoes he, Simón.

‘Am I really invisible?’ asks the boy.

‘You don’t have a name, you don’t have a number. That is enough to make you invisible. But don’t worry, we can see you. Any ordinary person with eyes in his head can see you.’

‘I’m not worried,’ says the boy.

The doorbell rings: a young man bearing a letter, hot and flushed after his long ride. Inés invites him in, offers him a glass of water.

The letter, addressed to Inés and Simón jointly, is from Alma, the third sister. Inés reads it aloud.

‘After we came home from the Institute my sisters and I talked late into the night. Of course no one could have foreseen that Dmitri would burst in like that. Nevertheless, we were dismayed at the way the proceedings were conducted. Señor Arroyo was much to blame, we felt, for inviting children onto the stage. It did not speak well for his judgement.

‘While my sisters and I retain the greatest respect for señor Arroyo as a musician, we feel that the time has come for us to distance ourselves from the Academy and the coterie he has gathered around himself there. I am therefore writing to inform you that if Davíd should return to the Academy we will no longer be paying his fees.’

Inés breaks off reading. ‘What is this about?’ she says. ‘What happened at the Institute?’

‘It’s a long story. Señor Moreno, the visitor for whom the reception was held, gave a lecture at the Institute which Davíd and I attended. After the lecture Arroyo called his sons onto the stage to perform one of their dances. It was meant as a sort of artistic response to the lecture, but he lost control and everything slid into chaos. I’ll give you the details some other time.’

‘Dmitri came,’ says the boy. ‘He shouted at Simón. He shouted at everyone.’

‘Dmitri again!’ says Inés. ‘Will we never be rid of the man?’ She turns back to the letter.

‘As childless spinsters,’ writes Alma, ‘my sisters and I are hardly qualified to offer advice on the rearing of children. Nonetheless, Davíd seems to us excessively indulged. It would do him good, we believe, if his natural high spirits were sometimes reined in.

‘Allow me to add a word of my own. Davíd is a rare child. I will remember him with affection, even if I do not see him again. Greet him from me. Tell him I enjoyed his dancing.

‘Yours, Alma.’

Inés folds the letter and pushes it under the jam pot.

‘What does it mean, I am excessively indulged?’ demands the boy.

‘Never you mind,’ says Inés.

‘Are they going to take the marionettes back?’

‘Of course not. They are yours to keep.’

There is a long silence.

‘What now?’ says he, Simón.

‘We look for a tutor,’ says Inés. ‘As I said from the beginning. Someone with experience. Someone who will not put up with any nonsense.’

The door to the Academy is opened not by Alyosha but by Mercedes, who has resumed her cane.

‘Good day,’ he says. ‘Would you be so good as to inform the maestro that the new help is reporting for duty.’

‘Come in,’ says Mercedes, ‘The maestro is shut away, as usual. What duty are you reporting for?’