J. Coetzee - The Schooldays of Jesus

‘And then did they give him olive oil to drink?’

‘If he wanted olive oil they gave him olive oil. But usually oxen don’t drink olive oil. They don’t like it.’

‘And did he give them milk?’

‘No, it’s the cow who gives us milk, not the ox. The ox hasn’t anything to give except his labour. He turns the olive press or pulls the plough. In return for that we give him our protection. We protect him from his enemies, the lions and tigers who want to kill him.’

‘And who protects the lions and the tigers?’

‘No one. Lions and tigers refuse to work for us, so we don’t protect them. They have to protect themselves.’

‘Are there lions and tigers here?’

‘No. Their day is over. Lions and tigers have gone away. Gone into the past. If you want to find lions and tigers, you will have to look in books. Oxen too. The day of the ox is all but over. Nowadays we have machines to do the work for us.’

‘They should invent a machine to pick olives. Then you and Inés wouldn’t have to work.’

‘That’s true. But if they invented a machine to pick olives then olive-pickers like us would have no jobs and therefore no money. It is an old argument. Some people are on the side of the machines, some on the side of the hand-pickers.’

‘I don’t like work. Work is boring.’

‘In that case, you are lucky to have parents who don’t mind working. Because without us you would starve, and you wouldn’t enjoy that.’

‘I won’t starve. Roberta will give me food.’

‘Yes, no doubt — out of the goodness of her heart she will give you food. But do you really want to live like that: on the charity of others?’

‘What is charity?’

‘Charity is other people’s goodness, other people’s kindness.’

The boy regards him oddly.

‘You can’t rely endlessly on other people’s kindness,’ he pursues. ‘You have to give as well as take, otherwise there will be no evenness, no justice. Which kind of person do you want to be: the kind who gives or the kind who takes? Which is better?’

‘The kind who takes.’

‘Really? Do you really believe so? Is it not better to give than to take?’

‘Lions don’t give. Tigers don’t give.’

‘And you want to be a tiger?’

‘I don’t want to be a tiger. I am just telling you. Tigers aren’t bad.’

‘Tigers aren’t good either. They aren’t human, so they are outside goodness and badness.’

‘Well, I don’t want to be human either.’

I don’t want to be human either . He recounts the conversation to Inés. ‘It disturbs me when he talks like that,’ he says. ‘Have we made a big mistake, removing him from school, bringing him up outside society, letting him run around wild with other children?’

‘He is fond of animals,’ says Inés. ‘He doesn’t want to be like us, sitting and worrying about the future. He wants to be free.’

‘I don’t think that is what he means by not wanting to be human,’ he says. But Inés is not interested.

Roberta arrives bearing a message: they are invited to tea with the sisters, at four o’clock, in the big house. Davíd should come too.

From her suitcase Inés brings out her best dress and the shoes that go with it. She frets over the state of her hair. ‘I haven’t seen a hairdresser since we left Novilla,’ she says. ‘I look like a madwoman.’ She makes the boy put on his frilled shirt and the shoes with buttons, though he complains they are too small and hurt his feet. She wets his hair and brushes it straight.

Promptly at four o’clock they present themselves at the front door. Roberta leads them down a long corridor to the rear of the house, to a room cluttered with little tables and stools and knick-knacks. ‘This is the winter parlour,’ says Roberta. ‘It gets afternoon sun. Sit down. The sisters will be along shortly. And please, no mention of the ducks — you remember? — the ducks that that other boy killed.’

‘Why?’ says the boy.

‘Because it will upset them. They have soft hearts. They are good people. They want the farm to be a refuge for wildlife.’

While they wait he inspects the pictures on the walls: watercolours, nature scenes (he recognizes the dam on which the ill-fated ducks had swum), prettily done but amateurish.

Two women enter, followed by Roberta bearing a tea tray. ‘These are they,’ intones Roberta: ‘señora Inés and her husband señor Simón and their son Davíd. Señora Valentina and señora Consuelo.’

The women, clearly sisters, are, he would guess, in their sixties, greying, soberly dressed. ‘Honoured to meet you, señora Valentina, señora Consuelo,’ he says, bowing. ‘Allow me to thank you for giving us a place to stay on your beautiful estate.’

‘I’m not their son,’ says Davíd in a calm, level voice.

‘Oh,’ says one of the sisters in mock surprise, Valentina or Consuelo, he does not know which is which. ‘Whose son are you then?’

‘Nobody’s,’ says Davíd firmly.

‘So you are nobody’s son, young man,’ says Valentina or Consuelo. ‘That is interesting. An interesting condition. How old are you?’

‘Six.’

‘Six. And you don’t go to school, I understand. Wouldn’t you like to go to school?’

‘I have been to school.’

‘And?’

Inés intervenes. ‘We sent him to school in the last place where we lived, but he had poor teachers there, so we have decided to educate him at home. For the time being.’

‘They gave the children tests,’ he, Simón, adds, ‘monthly tests, to measure their progress. Davíd didn’t like being measured, so he wrote nonsense for the tests, which got him into trouble. Got us all into trouble.’

The sister ignores him. ‘Wouldn’t you like to go to school, Davíd, and meet other children?’

‘I prefer to be educated at home,’ says Davíd primly.

The other sister, meanwhile, has poured the tea. ‘Do you take sugar, Inés?’ she asks. Inés shakes her head. ‘And you, Simón?’

‘Is it tea?’ says the boy. ‘I don’t like tea.’

‘Then you need not have any,’ says the sister.

‘You will be wondering, Inés, Simón,’ says the first sister, ‘why you have been invited here. Well, Roberta has been telling us about your son, about what a clever boy he is, clever and well spoken, about how he is wasting his time with the fruit-pickers’ children when he ought to be learning. We discussed the matter, my sisters and I, and we thought we would put a proposal before you. And if you are wondering, by the way, where the third of the sisters is, since I am aware that we are known all over the district as the Three Sisters, I will tell you that señora Alma is unfortunately indisposed. She suffers from melancholy, and today is one of those days when her melancholy has got the better of her. One of her black days, as she calls them. But she is entirely in accord with our proposal.

‘Our proposal is that you enrol your son in one of the private academies in Estrella. Roberta has told you a little about the academies, I believe: the Academy of Singing and the Academy of Dance. We would recommend the Academy of Dance. We are acquainted with the principal, señor Arroyo, and his wife, and can vouch for them. As well as a training in dance they offer an excellent general education. We, my sisters and I, will be responsible for your son’s fees as long as he is a student there.’

‘I don’t like dancing,’ says Davíd. ‘I like singing.’

The two sisters exchange looks. ‘We have had no personal contact with the Academy of Singing,’ says Valentina or Consuelo, ‘but I think I am correct in saying that they do not offer a general education. Their task is to train people to become professional singers. Do you want to be a professional singer, Davíd, when you grow older?’