J. Coetzee - The Schooldays of Jesus

‘Cleaning. Carrying. Whatever needs to be done. I am, as of today, handyman to the Academy: factotum, dogsbody.’

‘If you mean what you say, the kitchen floor can do with a scrub. The bathrooms too. Why are you offering yourself? There is no money to pay you.’

‘We have come to an arrangement, Juan Sebastián and I. It does not involve money.’

‘For a man who does not dance, you seem uncommonly devoted to Juan Sebastián and his Academy. Does this mean that your son will be returning?’

‘No. His mother is opposed to it. His mother thinks he has run wild under Juan Sebastián.’

‘Which is not untrue.’

‘Which is not untrue. His mother thinks it is high time he commences a normal education.’

‘And you? What do you think?’

‘I do not think, Mercedes. In our family I am the stupid one, the blind one, the danceless one. Inés leads. Davíd leads. The dog leads. I stumble along behind, hoping for the day to come when my eyes will be opened and I will behold the world as it really is, including the numbers in all their glory, Two and Three and the rest of them. You offered me lessons in the dance, which I declined. Can I change my mind now?’

‘It is too late. I leave today. I catch the train to Novilla. You should have grasped the nettle while you had the chance. If you want lessons, why not ask your son?’

‘Davíd thinks I am unteachable, past redemption. Is there not time for a single lesson? A quick introduction to the mysteries of the dance?’

‘I will see what I can do. Come back after lunch. I will speak to Alyosha, ask him to play for us. In the meantime, do something about your footwear. You can’t dance in boots. I make no promises, Simón. I am not Ana Magdalena, not a devotee of el sistema Arroyo . You won’t see visions while you are with me.’

‘That’s all right. Visions will come when they come. Or they will not.’

He finds the shoe shop without difficulty. The same salesman serves him as before, the tall, sad-faced man with the little moustache. ‘Dancing slippers for yourself, señor?’ He shakes his head. ‘We don’t have them — not in your size. I don’t know how to advise you. If we don’t carry them, no other shop in Estrella will.’

‘Show me the biggest size you have.’

‘The largest size we have is a thirty-six, and that is a lady’s size.’

‘Show it to me. In gold.’

‘Unfortunately we have thirty-six only in silver.’

‘In silver then.’

Of course his foot does not fit into size thirty-six.

‘I’ll take them,’ he says, and hands over fifty-nine reales .

Back in his room he slits open the toe-ends of the slippers with a razor blade, forces his feet in, laces them up. His toes project obscenely. Good enough, he says to himself.

When she sees the slippers Mercedes laughs out loud. ‘Where did you get the clown shoes? Take them off. It will be better if you dance barefoot.’

‘No. I paid for the clown shoes, I am going to wear them.’

‘Juan Sebastián!’ Mercedes calls. ‘Come and look!’

Arroyo wanders into the studio and nods to him. If he notices the shoes, if he finds them funny, he gives no sign of it. He sits down at the piano.

‘I thought Alyosha would be playing for us,’ says he, Simón.

‘Alyosha is not to be found,’ says Mercedes. ‘Don’t worry, it is not beneath Juan Sebastián to play for you, he plays for children every day.’ She sets her cane aside, takes up position behind him, grips his upper arms. ‘Close your eyes. You are going to rock from side to side, your weight first on your left foot, then on your right, back and forth, back and forth. Imagine, if it helps, that behind you, moving in time with you, is some unattainably beautiful young goddess, not ugly old Mercedes.’

He obeys. Arroyo begins to play: a simple tune, a child’s tune. He, Simón, is not as steady on his feet as he thought he would be, perhaps because he hasn’t eaten. Nevertheless, he rocks back and forth in time to the music.

‘Good. Now bring the right foot forward, a short step, and back; then the left foot forward and back. Good. Repeat the movement, right forward and back, left forward and back, until I tell you to stop.’

He obeys, stumbling now and then in the slippers with their strange soft soles. Arroyo inverts the tune, varies it, elaborates: while the pulse remains steady, the little aria begins to reveal a new structure, point by point, like a crystal growing in the air. Bliss washes over him; he wishes he could sit down and listen properly.

‘Now I am going to let go of you, Simón. You are going to raise your arms to balance yourself, and you are going to continue with right-and-back, left-and-back, but with each step you are going to turn to your left in a quarter circle.’

He does as she says. ‘How long must I go on?’ he says. ‘I am feeling dizzy.’

‘Go on. You will get over the dizziness.’

He obeys. It is cool in the studio; he is conscious of the high space above his head. Mercedes recedes; there is only the music. Arms extended, eyes closed, he shuffles in a slow circle. Over the horizon the first star begins to rise.