The Schooldays of Jesus

by J. M. Coetzee

  J. M. Coetzee was the first author to win the Booker Prize twice and was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2003. His works include Waiting for the Barbarians, Life & Times of Michael K, The Master of Petersburg, Disgrace, Diary of a Bad Year, Three Stories and The Childhood of Jesus. He lives in Adelaide.

  textpublishing.com.au

  The Text Publishing Company

  Swann House

  22 William Street

  Melbourne Victoria 3000

  Australia

  Copyright © J. M. Coetzee 2016

  The moral right of J. M. Coetzee to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

  First published in Australia by The Text Publishing Company in 2016

  Jacket and page design by W. H. Chong

  Cover image by Scarlett Koehne

  Typeset by J&M Typesetting

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Creator: Coetzee, J. M.

  Title: The Schooldays of Jesus / by J. M. Coetzee.

  ISBN: 9781925355789 (hardback)

  ISBN: 9781925410204 (ebook)

  Subjects: Children—Fiction.

  School children—Fiction.

  Interpersonal relations—Fiction.

  Dewey Number: A823.3

  The paper used in this book is manufactured only from wood grown in sustainable regrowth forests.

  Algunos dicen: Nunca segundas partes fueron buenas.

  Don Quixote II.4

  CHAPTER 1

  HE WAS expecting Estrella to be bigger. On the map it shows up as a dot of the same size as Novilla. But whereas Novilla was a city, Estrella is no more than a sprawling provincial town set in a countryside of hills and fields and orchards, with a sluggish river meandering through it.

  Will a new life be possible in Estrella? In Novilla he had been able to rely on the Office of Relocations to arrange accommodation. Will he and Inés and the boy be able to find a home here? The Office of Relocations is beneficent, it is the very embodiment of beneficence of an impersonal variety; but will its beneficence extend to fugitives from the law?

  Juan, the hitchhiker who joined them on the road to Estrella, has suggested that they find work on one of the farms. Farmers always need farmhands, he says. The larger farms even have dormitories for seasonal workers. If it isn’t orange season it is apple season; if it isn’t apple season it is grape season. Estrella and its surrounds are a veritable cornucopia. He can direct them, if they wish, to a farm where friends of his once worked.

  He exchanges looks with Inés. Should they follow Juan’s advice? Money is not a consideration, he has plenty of money in his pocket, they could easily stay at a hotel. But if the authorities from Novilla are really pursuing them, then perhaps they would be better off among the nameless transients.

  ‘Yes,’ says Inés. ‘Let us go to this farm. We have been cooped up in the car long enough. Bolívar needs a run.’

  ‘I feel the same way,’ says he, Simón. ‘However, a farm is not a holiday camp. Are you ready, Inés, to spend all day picking fruit under a hot sun?’

  ‘I will do my share,’ says Inés. ‘Neither less nor more.’

  ‘Can I pick fruit too?’ asks the boy.

  ‘Unfortunately no, not you,’ says Juan. ‘That would be against the law. That would be child labour.’

  ‘I don’t mind being child labour,’ says the boy.

  ‘I am sure the farmer will let you pick fruit,’ says he, Simón. ‘But not too much. Not enough to turn it into labour.’

  They drive through Estrella, following the main street. Juan points out the marketplace, the administrative buildings, the modest museum and art gallery. They cross a bridge, leave the town behind, and follow the course of the river until they come in sight of an imposing house on the hillside. ‘That is the farm I had in mind,’ says Juan. ‘That is where my friends found work. The refugio is at the back. It looks dreary, but it’s actually quite comfortable.’

  The refugio is made up of two long galvanized-iron sheds linked by a covered passage; to one side is an ablution block. He parks the car. No one emerges to greet them save a grizzled, stiff-legged dog who, from the limit of his chain, growls at them, baring yellowed fangs.

  Bolívar unfolds himself and slides out of the car. From a distance he inspects the foreign dog, then decides to ignore him.

  The boy dashes into the sheds, re-emerges. ‘They’ve got double bunks!’ he shouts. ‘Can I have a top bunk? Please!’

  Now a large woman wearing a red apron over a loose cotton frock appears from the rear of the farmhouse and waddles down the path toward them. ‘Good day, good day!’ she calls out. She examines the laden car. ‘Have you come a long way?’

  ‘Yes, a long way. We wondered if you can do with some extra hands.’

  ‘We can always do with more hands. Many hands make light work—isn’t that what the books say?’

  ‘It will be just two of us, my wife and I. Our friend here has commitments of his own. This is our boy, his name is David. And this is Bolívar. Will there be a place for Bolívar? He is part of the family. We go nowhere without him.’

  ‘Bolívar is his real name,’ says the boy. ‘He is an Alsatian.’

  ‘Bolívar. That’s a nice name,’ says the woman. ‘Unusual. I am sure there will be a place for him as long he behaves himself and is content to eat scraps and doesn’t get into fights or chase the chickens. The workers are out in the orchards right now, but let me show you the sleeping quarters. On the left side the gentlemen, on the right side the ladies. No family rooms, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I am going to be on the gentlemen’s side,’ says the boy. ‘Simón says I can have a top bunk. Simón is not my father.’

  ‘Do as you please, young man. There is plenty of space. The others will be back—’

  ‘Simón is not my real father and David is not my real name. Do you want to know my real name?’

  The woman casts Inés a puzzled look, which Inés pretends not to notice.

  ‘We were playing a game in the car,’ he, Simón, intervenes. ‘To pass the time. We were trying out new names for ourselves.’

  The woman shrugs. ‘The others will be back for lunch soon, then you can introduce yourselves. The pay is twenty reales a day, the same for men and for women. The day is from sun-up until sundown, with a two-hour break at midday. On the seventh day we rest. That is the natural order, that is the order we follow. As for meals, we supply the foodstuffs and you do the cooking. Are you happy with the terms? Do you think you can manage? Have you done picking before? No? You will soon learn, it is not a high art. Do you have hats? You will need hats, the sun can be quite fierce. What else can I tell you? You can always find me in the big house. Roberta is my name.’

  ‘Roberta, pleased to meet you. I am Simón and this is Inés and this is Juan, our guide, whom I am going to drive back to town.’

  ‘Welcome to the farm. I am sure we will get on well. It’s good that you have a car of your own.’

  ‘It has brought us a long way. It is a faithful car. You can’t ask for more than that in a car, fidelity.’

  By the time they have unloaded the car, workers have begun straggling back from the orchards. There are introductions all round, they are offered lunch, Juan included: home-baked bread, cheese and olives, great bowls of fruit. Their group is about twenty in number, including a family with five chi
ldren whom David guardedly inspects from his side of the table.

  Before he takes Juan back to Estrella, he has a moment alone with Inés. ‘What do you think?’ he murmurs. ‘Shall we stay?’

  ‘It seems a good place. I am prepared to stay here while we look around. But we must have a plan. I haven’t come all this distance to settle into the life of a common labourer.’

  He and Inés have been over the ground before. If they are being pursued by the law, they ought to be prudent. But are they being pursued? Do they have reason to fear pursuit? Does the law have such ample resources that it can dispatch officers to the farthest corners of the land to hunt down a six-year-old truant? Is it of veritable concern to the authorities in Novilla whether a child does or does not go to school, so long as he does not grow up analphabete? He, Simón, doubts it. On the other hand, what if it is not the truant child who is being hunted but the couple who, perjuriously claiming to be his parents, have kept him out of school? If it is he and Inés who are being sought, rather than the child, then should they not lie low until their pursuers, exhausted, abandon the chase?

  ‘A week,’ he proposes. ‘Let us be common labourers for a week. Then we can reassess.’

  He drives to Estrella and drops Juan off at the home of friends of his who run a printing shop. Back at the farm, he joins Inés and the boy in exploring their new surroundings. They visit the orchards and are initiated into the mysteries of the shears and the pruning knife. David is wooed away from their side and disappears, who knows where, with the other children. He returns at suppertime with scratches on his arms and legs. They have been climbing trees, he says. Inés wants to put iodine on the scratches but he will not let her. They retire early, like everyone else, David to his desired upper bunk.

  By the time the truck arrives the next morning, he and Inés have had a hurried breakfast. David, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, does not join them. Along with their new comrades they climb aboard and are delivered to the vineyards; following the example of their comrades, he and Inés hitch baskets on their backs and set to work.

  While they labour the children are free to do as they please. Led by the eldest of the tribe of five, a tall, skinny boy named Bengi, with a mass of curly black hair, they race uphill to the earthen dam that waters the vineyards. The ducks that had been paddling there take off in alarm, all save a pair with young too immature to fly, who in an effort to escape urge their brood toward the far bank. They are too slow: the whooping children head them off, forcing them back to the middle of the dam. Bengi begins hurling stones; the younger ones imitate him. Unable to flee, the birds paddle around in circles, quacking loudly. A stone strikes the more gorgeously coloured male. He rises half out of the water, falls back, and splashes around trailing a shattered wing. Bengi gives a cry of triumph. The torrent of stones and clods of earth redoubles.

  He and Inés harken uncertainly to the clamour; the other pickers pay no attention. ‘What do you think is going on?’ says Inés. ‘Do you think David is safe?’

  He drops his basket, clambers up the hillside, arrives at the dam in time to see David give the older boy so furious a shove that he staggers and nearly falls. ‘Stop it!’ he hears him shout.

  The boy stares in astonishment at his assailant, then turns and hurls another stone at the ducks.

  Now David plunges into the water, shoes and all, and begins splashing in the direction of the birds.

  ‘David!’ he, Simón, calls. The child ignores him.

  Inés, in the vineyard below, drops her basket and begins running. Not since he watched her playing tennis a year ago has he seen her exert herself. She is slow; she has put on weight.

  Out of nowhere the great dog appears and races past her, straight as an arrow. In a matter of moments he has leapt into the dam and is at David’s side. Gripping his shirt in his teeth, he hauls the thrashing, protesting child to the bank.

  Inés arrives. The dog slumps down, his ears cocked, his eyes on her, waiting for a sign, while David, in his sodden clothes, wails and beats him with his fists. ‘I hate you, Bolívar!’ he cries. ‘That boy was throwing stones, Inés! He wanted to kill the duck!’

  He, Simón, lifts the struggling child into his arms. ‘Calm down, calm down,’ he says. ‘The duck isn’t dead—see!—he just had a bump. He will soon get better. Now I think all you children should come away and let the ducks calm down and get on with their lives. And you must not say you hate Bolívar. You love Bolívar, we all know that, and Bolívar loves you. He thought you were drowning. He was trying to save you.’

  Angrily David wriggles out of his arms. ‘I was going to save the duck,’ he says. ‘I didn’t ask Bolívar to come. Bolívar is stupid. He is a stupid dog. Now you have got to save him, Simón. Go on, save him!’

  He, Simón, takes off his shoes and shirt. ‘Since you insist, I will try. However, let me point out that a duck’s idea of being saved may be different from your idea of being saved. It may include being left in peace by human beings.’

  Other of the grape-pickers have by now arrived. ‘Stay—I will go,’ a younger man offers.

  ‘No. It’s kind of you, but this is my child’s business.’ He takes off his trousers and in his underpants wades into the brown water. With barely a splash the dog appears at his side. ‘Go away, Bolívar,’ he murmurs. ‘I don’t need to be saved.’

  Clustered on the bank, the grape-pickers watch as the no-longer-young gentleman with the physique not quite as firm as it used to be in his stevedoring days sets about doing his child’s bidding.

  The water is not deep. Even at its deepest it does not rise to above his chest. But he can barely move his feet in the soft ooze of the floor. There is no chance at all that he can catch the duck with the broken wing, who splashes about on the surface in ragged circles, to say nothing of the mother duck, who has by now reached the farther bank and scuttled away into the undergrowth followed by her brood.

  It is Bolívar who does the job for him. Sailing past like a ghost, with only his head showing above the water, he tracks the wounded bird, closes his jaws like a vice on the trailing wing, and hauls him toward the bank. At first there is a flurry of resistance, of beating and splashing; then all at once the bird seems to give up and accept its fate. By the time he, Simón, has emerged from the water the duck is in the arms of the young man who had offered to go in his place and is being inspected curiously by the children.

  Though well above the horizon, the sun barely warms him. Shivering, he puts on his clothes.

  Bengi, the one who cast the stone that caused all the trouble, strokes the head of the entirely passive bird.

  ‘Tell him you are sorry for what you did,’ says the young man.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ mutters Bengi. ‘Can we fix his wing? Can we tie a splint on it?’

  The young man shakes his head. ‘He is a wild creature,’ he says. ‘He will not submit to wearing a splint. It is all right. He is ready to die. He has accepted it. Look. Look at his eyes. He is already dead.’

  ‘He can stay in my bunk,’ says Bengi. ‘I can feed him till he gets better.’

  ‘Turn your back,’ says the young man.

  Bengi does not understand.

  ‘Turn your back,’ says the young man.

  To Inés, who is meanwhile drying off the boy, he, Simón, whispers: ‘Don’t let him look.’

  She presses the boy’s head into her skirts. He resists, but she is firm.

  The young man grips the bird between his knees. A swift motion, and it is done. The head lolls awkwardly; a film comes over the eyes. He hands the feathered carcass to Bengi. ‘Go and bury him,’ he orders. ‘Go on.’

  Inés releases the boy. ‘Go with your friend,’ he, Simón, tells him. ‘Help him bury the bird. Make sure he does it properly.’

  Later the boy seeks him and Inés out where they are working among the vines.

  ‘So: have you buried the poor duck?’ he asks.

  The boy shakes his head. ‘We couldn’t dig a hole for
him. We didn’t have a spade. Bengi hid him in the bushes.’

  ‘That’s not nice. When I have finished for the day I will go and bury him. You can show me where.’

  ‘Why did he do it?’

  ‘Why did that young man put him out of his misery? I told you. Because he would have been helpless with a broken wing. He would have refused to eat. He would have pined away.’

  ‘No, I mean why did Bengi do it?’

  ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm. He was just throwing stones, and one thing led to another.’

  ‘Will the babies die too?’

  ‘Of course not. They have a mother to take care of them.’

  ‘But who is going to give them milk?’

  ‘Birds are not like us. They don’t drink milk. Anyhow, it is mothers who give milk, not fathers.’

  ‘Will they find a padrino?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I don’t think there are padrinos among birds, just as there is no milk. Padrinos are a human institution.’

  ‘He is not sorry. Bengi. He says he is sorry but he isn’t really sorry.’

  ‘Why do you think so?’

  ‘Because he wanted to kill the duck.’

  ‘I don’t agree, my boy. I don’t believe he knew what he was doing, not fully. He was just throwing stones the way boys throw stones. He didn’t in his heart intend to kill anyone. Then afterwards, when he saw what a beautiful creature the bird was, when he saw what a terrible thing he had done, he repented and was sorry.’

  ‘He wasn’t really sorry. He told me.’

  ‘If he is not sorry now, he will be sorry soon. His conscience will not let him rest. That is how we human beings are. If we do a bad deed, we get no joy out of it. Our conscience sees to that.’ ‘But he was shining! I saw it! He was shining and throwing stones as hard as he could! He wanted to kill them all!’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean by shining, but even if he was shining, even if he was throwing stones, that doesn’t prove that in his heart he was trying to kill them. We can’t always foresee the consequences of our actions—particularly when we are young. Don’t forget that he offered to nurse the bird with the broken wing, to shelter him in his bunk. What more could he do? Un-throw the stone he had thrown? You can’t do that. You can’t unmake the past. What is done is done.’