J. Coetzee - The Schooldays of Jesus

‘Señor Robles wants to make sure the foundations are firm,’ says he, Simón. ‘Once the foundations are firmly laid, we will be ready to erect our mathematical edifice on them.’

‘What is an edifice?’ says the boy.

‘An edifice is a building. This particular edifice will be a tower, I would guess, stretching far into the sky. Towers take time to build. We must be patient.’

‘He only needs to be able to do sums,’ says Inés, ‘so that he won’t be at a disadvantage in life. Why does he need to be a mathematician?’

There is silence.

‘What do you think, Davíd?’ says he, Simón. ‘Would you like to go on with these lessons? Are you learning anything?’

‘I already know about four,’ says the boy. ‘I know all the numbers. I told you, but you wouldn’t listen.’

‘I think we should cancel,’ says Inés. ‘It is just a waste of time. We can find someone else to teach him, someone who is prepared to teach sums.’

He breaks the news to Roberta (‘What a pity!’ she says. ‘But you are the parents, you know best.’) and telephones señor Robles. ‘We are immensely grateful to you, señor Robles, for your generosity and your patience, but Inés and I feel the boy needs something simpler, something more practical.’

‘Mathematics is not simple,’ says señor Robles.

‘Mathematics is not simple, I agree, but our plan was never to turn Davíd into a mathematician. We just don’t want him to suffer as a consequence of not going to school. We want him to feel confident handling numbers.’

‘Señor Simón, I have met your son only once, I am not a psychologist, my background is in engineering, but there is something I must tell you. I suspect young Davíd may be suffering from what they call a cognitive deficit. This means that he is deficient in a certain basic mental capacity, in this case the capacity to classify objects on the basis of similarity. This capacity comes so naturally to us as human beings, ordinary human beings, that we are barely aware we have it. It is the ability to see objects as members of classes that makes language possible. We do not need to see each tree as an individual entity, as animals do, we can see it as an example of the class tree . It also makes mathematics possible.

‘Why do I raise the topic of classification? I do so because in certain rare cases the faculty is weak or missing. Such people will always have difficulty with mathematics and with abstract language in general. I suspect your son is such a person.’

‘Why are you telling me this, señor Robles?’

‘Because I believe that you owe it to the boy to have his condition investigated further, and then perhaps to adjust the form that his further education may take. I would urge you to make an appointment with a psychologist, preferably one who specializes in cognitive disorders. The Department of Education will be able to provide you with names.’

‘Adjust the form of his education: what do you mean by that?’

‘In the simplest terms, I mean that if he is always going to struggle with numbers and abstract concepts, then it may be best if he goes, for example, to a trade school, where he can learn a useful, practical trade like plumbing or carpentry. That is all. I take note that you have decided to cancel our mathematics lessons, and I agree with your decision. I think it is a wise one. I wish you and your wife and son a happy future. Good night.’

‘I spoke to señor Robles,’ he tells Inés. ‘I cancelled the lessons. He thinks Davíd should go to a trade school and learn to be a plumber.’

‘I wish that señor Robles was here, so that I could give him a slap in the face,’ says Inés. ‘I never liked the look of him.’

The next day he drives up the valley to señor Robles’ house and at the back door leaves a litre of the farm’s olive oil, with a card. ‘Thank you from Davíd and his parents,’ says the card.

Then he has a serious talk to the boy. ‘If we find you another teacher, someone who will teach you just simple sums, not mathematics, will you listen? Will you do as you are told?’

‘I did listen to señor Robles.’

‘You know perfectly well that you did not listen to señor Robles. You undermined him. You made fun of him. You said silly things on purpose. Señor Robles is a clever man. He has a degree in engineering from a university. You could have learned from him, but instead you decided to be silly.’

‘I am not silly, señor Robles is silly. I can do sums already. Seven and nine is sixteen. Seven and sixteen is twenty-three.’

‘Why didn’t you show him you can do sums while he was here?’

‘Because, his way, you first have to make yourself small. You have to make yourself as small as a pea, and then as small as a pea inside a pea, and then a pea inside a pea inside a pea. Then you can do his numbers, when you are small small small small small.’

‘And why do you have to be so small to do numbers his way?’

‘Because his numbers are not real numbers.’

‘Well, I wish you had explained that to him instead of being silly and irritating him and driving him away.’

Days pass, the winter winds begin to blow. Bengi and his kinfolk take their leave. Roberta has offered to drive them to the bus station, where they will catch the bus to the north and seek work on one of the ranches on the great flatlands. Maite and her two sisters, wearing their identical outfits, come to say goodbye. Maite has a gift for Davíd: a little box she has made of stiff cardboard, painted quite delicately with a design of flowers and tumbling vines. ‘It’s for you,’ she says. Brusquely and without a word of thanks Davíd accepts the box. Maite offers her cheek to be kissed. He pretends not to see. Covered in shame, Maite turns and runs off. Even Inés, who does not like the girl, is pained by her distress.

‘Why do you treat Maite so cruelly?’ he, Simón, demands. ‘What if you never see her again? Why let her carry such a bad memory of you for the rest of her life?’

‘I am not allowed to ask you, so you are not allowed to ask me,’ says the boy.

‘Ask you what?’

‘Ask me why.’

He, Simón, shakes his head in bafflement.

That evening Inés finds the painted box tossed in the trash.

They wait to hear more about the academies, the Academy of Singing and the Academy of Dancing, but Roberta appears to have forgotten. As for the boy, he seems to be perfectly happy by himself, dashing about the farm on business of his own or sitting on his bunk absorbed in his book. But Bolívar, who at first would accompany him on all his activities, now prefers to stay at home, sleeping.

The boy complains about Bolívar. ‘Bolívar doesn’t love me any more,’ he says.

‘He loves you as much as ever,’ says Inés. ‘He is just not as young as he used to be. He doesn’t find it fun to run around all day as you do. He gets tired.’

‘A year for a dog is the same as seven years for us,’ says he, Simón. ‘Bolívar is middle-aged.’

‘When is he going to die?’

‘Not any time soon. He still has many years before him.’

‘But is he going to die?’

‘Yes, he is going to die. Dogs die. They are mortal, like us. If you want to have a pet who lives longer than you, you will have to get yourself an elephant or a whale.’

Later that day, as he is sawing firewood — one of the chores he has undertaken — the boy comes to him with a fresh idea. ‘Simón, you know the big machine in the shed? Can we put olives in it and make olive oil?’

‘I don’t think that will work, my boy. You and I are not strong enough to turn the wheels. In the old days they used an ox. They harnessed an ox to the shaft and he walked in a circle and turned the wheels.’