The Death of Jesus

by J. M. Coetzee

  ‘You plan to give David a blood transfusion? Is that because of the seizures?’

  ‘No, no, you misunderstand. The blood is a separate issue. The blood needs to be at hand, as a precaution, in case of emergency. That is our general policy.’

  ‘And the blood is on its way?’

  ‘The blood will be on its way as soon as the blood bank in Novilla can find a donor. That may take a while. David’s type is, as I said, rare. Exceedingly rare. With regard to the seizures, we have put a new medication regime in place to control them. We will see how it works.’

  The new drugs not only leave David drowsy but seem to be lowering his spirits too. The morning’s lesson with señora Devito is cancelled. When visitors from the apartments arrive, he, Simón, pleads with them to hush and let the boy sleep. But soon there is a fresh influx: Alyosha, the young teacher from the Academy with whom David has had the closest bond, accompanied by a number of David’s classmates. Alyosha bears—triumphantly—a wire cage containing the lamb Jeremiah, or at least the latest in the succession of lambs named Jeremiah.

  Once Jeremiah has been released, there is no controlling the children, who run around shouting and laughing, trying to grab hold of him as his hard little hooves skitter and slide on the smooth floor.

  He, Simón, keeps a wary eye on the dog in his lair under the bed. Even so, he is slow to act when Bolívar emerges and bears down on the unsuspecting lamb. Only just in time does he hurl himself on the dog, grasp him around the neck, and wrestle him to a standstill.

  The huge dog struggles to free himself. ‘I can’t hold him!’ he pants to Alyosha. ‘Get the lamb out of here!’

  Alyosha corners the bleating lamb and holds him aloft.

  He lets go of Bolívar, who now circles Alyosha, waiting for him to tire, waiting to spring.

  ‘Bolívar!’ The voice is David’s. He sits up in bed, his arm raised, his finger pointing. ‘Come!’

  In a single easy bound the dog leaps onto the bed and settles there, his eyes locked on David’s. Silence falls in the room.

  ‘Give Jeremiah to me!’

  Alyosha lowers the lamb from on high and gives him into the arms of David. The lamb ceases to kick and struggle.

  For a long while they face each other: the boy cradling the lamb, the dog, panting lightly, still waiting his chance.

  The spell is broken by the arrival of Dmitri. ‘Hello, children! What is going on? Hello, Alyosha, how are you?’

  Sternly Alyosha gestures to Dmitri to be quiet. There has never been any love lost between the two.

  ‘And you, David,’ says Dmitri, ‘what are you up to?’

  ‘I am teaching Bolívar to be good.’

  ‘The dog is cousin to the wolf, my boy. Didn’t you know that? You will never teach Bolívar to be good to little lambs. It is his nature to hunt them down and tear their throats out.’

  ‘Bolívar will listen to me.’ He holds out the lamb toward the dog. The lamb struggles in his grip. Bolívar does not stir, his eyes fixed on the boy’s.

  All of a sudden the boy tires and slumps back in bed. ‘Take him, Alyosha,’ he says.

  Alyosha takes the lamb from him. ‘Come, children, say goodbye. It is time for David to rest. Goodbye, David. We will be back tomorrow, with Jeremiah.’

  ‘Leave Jeremiah behind,’ orders the boy.

  ‘That is not a good idea, not with Bolívar around. We will bring him back tomorrow, I promise.’

  ‘No. I want him to stay.’

  That is how the matter is resolved: with David’s will prevailing. Jeremiah is left behind in his wire cage, with a bedding of newspaper to soak up his urine and a bunch of spinach from the kitchen to sustain him.

  When Inés arrives for her shift, the lamb is stupidly asleep. She falls asleep herself. When she awakes at first light the cage is lying on its side and nothing is left of the lamb save its head and a bloody tangle of hide and limbs on the once clean floor.

  She peers under the bed and is met with a stony glare from the dog. She tiptoes from the room, comes back with a pail and mop, and cleans up the shambles as best she can.

  CHAPTER 15

  AFTER THE demise of Jeremiah the lamb there is a change in the boy. Visitors are met no longer with a smile but with cool reserve. As for the sparrows Rinci and Dinci, they have disappeared into the bowels of the hospital building. No one speaks of them or of their fate.

  One of the nurses, or perhaps señora Devito, has looped a string of festival lights, blue and red, on the wall above David’s bed. They wink on and off incongruously, but no one takes them down.

  During some of the visits the boy remains silent from beginning to end. On other days he will launch without preamble into one of his stories of Don Quixote, then when it is over withdraw into himself again, as if to reflect further on its meaning.

  One of his stories is about Don Quixote and the ball of string.

  On a certain day the people brought to Don Quixote a tangled ball of string. If you are really Don Quixote, they said, then you will be able to unravel this ball of string.

  Don Quixote said no word, but brought forth his sword and with a single stroke smote the ball of string in two. Woe unto you, he said, for doubting me.

  Hearing the story, he, Simón, wonders who ‘the people’ are who bring Don Quixote the ball of string. Are they meant to be people like him?

  Another story concerns Rocinante.

  A man came to Don Quixote and said, Is that the famous counting horse Rocinante? I wish to make it mine. What is its price?

  To him Don Quixote answered: Rocinante has no price.

  A horse that counts may be rare, said the man, but it cannot surely be priceless. There is nothing in the world that does not have a price.

  Then Don Quixote said, O man, you see not the world itself but only the measures in which the world is veiled. Woe unto you, blind one.

  Don Quixote’s words left the man puzzled. Show me at least how the horse counts, he said.

  Then Sancho spoke. He puts one foot across the other and goes clop-clop for two or clop-clop-clop for three. Now go away and cease to trouble my master.

  Another of David’s stories is about Don Quixote and the virgin, la virgen de Extremadura.

  There was brought before Don Quixote a virgin who had a baby which was fatherless.

  Then Don Quixote said to the virgin, Who is the father of this baby?

  The virgin replied, I cannot say who the father is because I did sexual intercourse with Ramón and I did sexual intercourse with Remi.

  Then Don Quixote had them bring Ramón and Remi before him. Which of you is father of this baby? he demanded.

  Ramón and Remi gave no reply, but held their silence.

  Then Don Quixote said, Let a bath be brought full of water, and they brought a bath full of water. Then Don Quixote unwrapped the baby from its swaddling clothes and laid it in the water. Let the father of the baby stand forth, he said.

  But neither Ramón nor Remi stood forth.

  Then the baby sank under the water and turned blue and died.

  Then Don Quixote said to Ramón and Remi, Woe unto you both; and to the virgin he said, Woe unto you too.

  When David’s story of the virgin of Extremadura comes to an end the children stand silent, full of puzzlement. He, Simón, wants to protest: If the girl had had sexual intercourse then she could not have been a virgin. But no, he bites his tongue and holds his peace.

  Yet another of David’s stories concerns a scholar of mathematics.

  During his travels Don Quixote came upon a concourse of learned men. A scholar of mathematics was demonstrating how the height of a mountain might conveniently be measured. Plant a stick in the ground that is a yard high, he said, and observe its shadow. At the moment when the shadow of the stick is a yard long, measure the shadow of the mountain. And behold, the length of that shadow will tell you the height of the mountain.

  The learned men joined in applauding the scholar for his ingenuity.
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  Then Don Quixote addressed the scholar. Vain man! he said. Do you not know it is written: Whoever has not climbed the mountain cannot know its height?

  Then Don Quixote rode on his way, disdaining the learned men, while the learned men laughed into their beards.

  ‘You never told us what happened to the white horse with wings,’ says little Artemio, ‘the one who flew away into the sky. Did he come back to Don Quixote?’

  David does not reply.

  ‘I think he came back,’ says Artemio. ‘He came back and made friends with Rocinante. Because the one could dance and the other could fly.’

  ‘Hush!’ says Dmitri. ‘Can you not see that the young master is thinking? Have more respect and hold your tongue while he thinks.’

  Dmitri refers more and more to David as the young master. It irritates him, Simón.

  The death of the lamb has left its mark on Inés too. To the lamb itself she is indifferent. What troubles her is the fact she slumbered through the slaughter. ‘What if David had been having one of his seizures?’ she says. ‘What if he had needed me and I was fast asleep?’

  ‘No human being can work a full day at the shop and then stay awake all night,’ he replies. ‘Let me take over the night watch.’ So they change their routine. When the band of children leaves in the afternoon, he leaves with them. He has his evening meal in his apartment and naps for an hour or two, then catches the last bus back to the hospital to relieve Inés.

  Through his influence on the kitchen staff—his powers within the hospital seem limitless—Dmitri has ensured that David gets creamy porridge in the mornings, mashed potatoes with peas in the evenings. ‘Nothing is too good for the young master,’ he says, hovering over David, watching while he eats, though in fact David eats like a bird.

  The nurses all dislike Dmitri, and he, Simón, is not surprised. Sister Rita in particular bridles when he enters the ward, will not respond when he addresses her. Only señora Devito the teacher seems to be on good terms with him. More and more he is convinced there is something going on between them. A shiver runs down his back. What is it that draws her to a man who is a known killer?

  He is well aware that Dmitri mocks him behind his back as ‘the man of reason’, the man whose passions are always under control. What kind of world would it be if we all submitted to the rule of reason? Dmitri once asked, and gave the answer himself: A dull, dull world indeed. What he, Simón, would like to say is: Dull perhaps, yet better than a world ruled by passion.

  The drugs the boy is given with his evening meal, meant to suppress the seizures, send him into a deep sleep. In the dead hours of the night he will sometimes wake and give a drowsy smile. ‘I am having dreams, Simón,’ he will whisper. ‘Even with my eyes open I can have dreams.’

  ‘That’s good,’ he will whisper in turn. ‘Go back to sleep now. You can tell me about the dreams in the morning.’ And by the blue glow of the night-light he will rest a hand on the boy’s forehead until he falls asleep again.

  Now and again there is a lucid interval in which they can talk.

  ‘Simón, when I am dead are you and Inés going to make a baby?’ the boy murmurs.

  ‘No, of course not. In the first place, you are not going to die. In the second place, Inés and I do not have that kind of feeling for each other, the kind of feeling out of which babies are born.’

  ‘But you and Inés can do sexual intercourse, can’t you?’

  ‘We can, but we do not desire to.’

  There is a long silence while the boy reflects. When his voice comes again, it is even fainter. ‘Why do I have to be that boy, Simón? I never wanted to be that boy with that name.’

  He waits for more, but the boy is asleep again. Laying his head on his arms, he falls into a light sleep himself. Then all of a sudden there is birdsong and the first glow of dawn. He goes to the toilet. When he returns the boy is wide awake, lying with his knees drawn up tight to his chest.

  ‘Simón,’ he says, ‘am I going to be recognized?’

  ‘Recognized? Recognized as a hero? Of course. But you will first have to do deeds, the kind of deeds that people will remember you for; and those deeds will have to be good ones. You saw how Dmitri tried to become famous by doing a bad deed, and where is Dmitri now? Forgotten. Unrecognized. You will have to do good deeds, and then someone will have to write a book about you describing your many deeds. That is how it usually happens. That is how Don Quixote was recognized. If señor Benengeli had not come along and written a book about his deeds, Don Quixote would just have been a crazy old man riding his horse around the countryside, unrecognized.’

  ‘But who is going to write a book about my deeds? Will you?’

  ‘Yes, I will do so if you want me to. I am not much of a writer but I will do my best.’

  ‘But then you must promise not to understand me. When you try to understand me it spoils everything. Do you promise?’

  ‘All right, I promise. I will simply tell your story, as far as I know it, without trying to understand it, from the day I met you. I will tell about the boat that brought us here, and how you and I went looking for Inés and found her. I will tell how you went to school in Novilla, and how you were transferred to the school for delinquent children, and how you escaped, and how we all then came to Estrella. I will tell how you went to señor Arroyo’s academy and were the best of all dancers. I do not think I will say anything about Dr Fabricante and his orphanage. He is best left out of the story. And then, of course, I will tell of all the deeds you did after you left the hospital, after you were cured. There are sure to be many of those.’

  ‘What will my best deeds be? When I danced, was it a good deed?’

  ‘Yes, when you danced you opened people’s eyes to things they had not seen before. So your dancing qualifies as a good deed.’

  ‘But I haven’t done very many good deeds in my life, have I? Not as many good deeds as a proper hero.’

  ‘Of course you have! You have saved people, many people. You saved Inés. You saved me. Where would we be without you? Some of your good deeds you did on your own, some you did with the aid of Don Quixote. You lived through the Don’s adventures. Don Quixote was you. You were Don Quixote. But, I agree, most of your good deeds are still to come. You will do them after you are cured and come home.’

  ‘And Dmitri? Will you leave Dmitri out of the book too?’

  ‘I don’t know. What should I do? You be my guide.’

  ‘I think you should keep Dmitri in. But when I am in the next life I am not going to be that boy anymore, and I am not going to be friends with Dmitri. I am going to be a teacher and I am going to have a beard. That is what I have decided. Will I have to go to a school to be a teacher?’

  ‘That depends. If you want to teach dancing, an academy like señor Arroyo’s will be better than any school.’

  ‘I don’t just want to teach dancing, I want to teach everything.’

  ‘If you want to teach everything you will have to go to lots of schools and study under lots of teachers. I don’t think you would enjoy that. Perhaps you should be a wise man instead of a teacher. You don’t need to go to school to be a wise man. You can just grow a beard and tell stories; people will sit at your feet and listen.’

  The boy ignores the barb. ‘What does confesar mean?’ he asks. ‘In the book it says that when he knew he was dying Don Quixote resolved to confesarse.’

  ‘Confessing was a custom people used to follow in the old days. I am afraid I know nothing more about it.’

  ‘Is confesarse what Dmitri did after he killed Ana Magdalena?’

  ‘Not exactly. You have to be sincere when you confess, whereas Dmitri is never sincere. He tells lies to everyone, including himself.’

  ‘Do I need to confess?’

  ‘You? Of course not. You are a blameless child.’

  ‘And what does abominar mean? It says that Don Quixote abominó his stories.’

  ‘It means he rejected them. He no longer believed in them
. He changed his mind and decided they were bad. Why are you asking me these questions?’

  The boy is silent.

  ‘David, Don Quixote lived in olden times, when people were very strict about the stories they allowed. They divided them into good ones and bad ones. Bad stories were stories you were not supposed to listen to because they took you off the path of virtue. You were supposed to abominate them, as Don Quixote did with his stories before he died. But before you decide you are going to abominate your own stories, if that is what you are hinting at, there are three things you should bear in mind. The first is that in our world, which is not as strict as the old world used to be, none of your stories of Don Quixote will count as bad stories. That is my opinion and I am sure your friends will agree. The second thing is that Don Quixote chose to abominate his stories because he was on his deathbed. You are not on your deathbed. On the contrary, you have a long and stirring life before you. And the third thing is that Don Quixote did not really mean it when he said he abominated his stories. He was just saying so to round off his book, the book about him. He was speaking in the spirit of what people call irony, even if he did not use that word. If he had really abominated his stories he would not have encouraged people to write them down in the first place. He would have stayed at home with his horse and his dog, watching the clouds cross the sky, hoping for rain, eating coarse bread and onions for supper. He would never have been recognized, let alone become famous. Whereas you—you have every opportunity to become famous. That is all. I apologize for making such a long speech so early in the day. Thank you for listening to me. I will shut up now.’

  The next night they continue their conversation. The boy is visibly drowsy, but he fights against the drugs, fights to stay awake. ‘I am frightened, Simón. When I fall asleep the bad dreams are there, waiting for me. I try to run away but I can’t because I can’t run anymore.’

  ‘Tell me about these bad dreams. Sometimes when we find words for our dreams they lose their power over us.’

  ‘I already told my dreams to the doctor, but it didn’t help, they keep coming back.’