The Schooldays of Jesus (29 page)

If Arroyo is disconcerted, he gives no sign of it. With shoulders squared he confronts Dmitri.

‘Where shall I turn for relief?' demands Dmitri. ‘To the law? You heard what the man said about the law. The law takes no reckoning of the state of a man's soul. All it does is make up an equation, fit a sentence to a crime. Take the case of Ana Magdalena, your wife, whose life was cut off just like that. What gives some stranger, some man who never laid eyes on her, the right to put
on a scarlet robe and say,
A lifetime in the lockup, that's what her life is worth
? Or
Twenty-five years in the salt mines
? It makes no sense! Some crimes are not measurable! They are off the scale!

‘And what would it achieve anyway, twenty-five years in the salt mines? An outward torment, that's all. Does the outward torment cancel the inner torment, like a plus and a minus? No. The inner torment rages on.'

Without warning he sinks to his knees before Arroyo.

‘I am guilty, Juan Sebastián. You know it and I know it. I have never pretended otherwise. I am guilty and in great need of your forgiveness. Only when I have your forgiveness will I be healed. Lay your hand on my head. Say,
Dmitri, you did me a terrible wrong, but I forgive you
. Say it.'

Arroyo is silent, his features frozen in disgust.

‘What I did was bad, Juan Sebastián. I don't deny it and don't want it to be forgotten. Let it always be remembered that Dmitri did a bad thing, a terrible thing. But surely that doesn't mean I should be damned and cast into the outer darkness. Surely I can have a little grace extended to me. Surely someone can say,
Dmitri? I remember Dmitri. He did a bad thing but at heart he wasn't a bad fellow, old Dmitri
. That will be enough for me—that one drop of saving water. Not to absolve me, just to recognize me as man, to say,
He is still ours, he is still one of us
.'

There is a minor commotion at the back of the auditorium. Two uniformed police officers march purposefully down the aisle toward the stage.

With his arms above his head Dmitri rises to his feet. ‘So this is how you answer me,' he cries out. ‘
Take him away and lock him up,
this troublesome spirit.
Who is responsible for this? Who called the police? Where are you skulking, Simón? Show your face! After all I have been through, do you think a prison cell frightens me? There is nothing you can do that is equal to what I do to myself. Do I look to you like a happy man? No, I don't. I look like a man sunk in the depths of misery, because that is where I am, night and day. It is only you, Juan Sebastián, who can draw me up from the deep well of my misery, because you are the one I wronged.'

The police officers have halted at the foot of the stage. They are young, mere boys, and in the glare of the lights suddenly unsure of themselves.

‘I wronged you, Juan Sebastián, I wronged you profoundly. Why did I do it? I have no idea. Not only do I have no idea why I did it, I cannot believe I did it. That is the truth, the naked truth. I swear to it. It's incomprehensible—incomprehensible from the outside and incomprehensible from the inside too. If the facts were not staring me in the face, I would be tempted to agree with the judge—you remember the judge at the trial?—of course not, you weren't there—I would be tempted to say,
It wasn't I who did it, it was someone else
. But of course that isn't true. It is not as if I am a schizophrenic or a hebephrenic or any of the other things they say I could be. I am not divorced from reality. My feet are on the ground and have always been. No: it was me. It was me. A mystery yet not a mystery. A mystery that it is not a mystery. How did it come to be
I
who did the deed—
I
of all people? Can you help me answer that question, Juan Sebastián? Can anyone help me?'

Of course the man is a fake through and through. Of course his remorse is confected, part of a scheme to save himself from
the salt mines. Nevertheless, when he, Simón, tries to imagine how this man, who every day visited the kiosk on the square to fill his pockets with lollipops for the children, could have closed his hands around Ana Magdalena's alabaster throat and crushed the life out of her, his imagination fails him. It fails or it quails. What the man did may not be a true mystery but it is a mystery nonetheless.

From the back of the stage the boy's voice rings out. ‘Why don't you ask me? You ask everyone else but you never ask me!'

‘Quite right,' says Dmitri. ‘My fault, I should have asked you too. Tell me, my pretty young dancer, what shall I do with myself?'

Gathering their resolve, the two young police officers make to ascend the stage. Brusquely Arroyo waves them back.

‘No!' the boy shouts. ‘You have got to
really
ask me!'

‘All right,' says Dmitri, ‘I'll really ask you.' He kneels down again, clasps his hands, composes his face. ‘David, please tell me—no, it's no good, I can't do it. You are too young, my boy. You have to be a grown-up to understand love and death and things like that.'

‘You are always saying it, Simón is always saying it—
You don't understand, you are too young.
I
can
understand! Ask me, Dmitri!
Ask me!
'

Dmitri repeats the rigmarole of unfolding and folding his hands, closing his eyes, letting his face go blank.

‘Dmitri, ask me!'
Now the boy is positively screaming.

There is a stir among the audience. People are getting up and leaving. He catches the eye of Mercedes sitting in the front row.
She raises a hand in a gesture he cannot read. The three sisters, beside her, are stony-faced.

He, Simón, signals to the police officers. ‘That's enough, Dmitri, enough of a show. Time for you to go.'

While one officer holds Dmitri still, the other handcuffs him.

‘So,' says Dmitri in his normal voice. ‘Back to the madhouse. Back to my lonely cell. Why don't you tell your youngster, Simón, what is going on at the back of your mind? Your father or uncle or whatever he calls himself is too delicate to tell you, young David, but in secret he hopes I am going to cut my throat, let my blood flow down the drains. Then they can hold an inquest and conclude that the tragedy occurred while the balance of the deceased's mind was disturbed and that will be the end of Dmitri. Shut the file on him. Well, let me tell you, I am not going to do away with myself. I am going to go on living, and I am going to go on plaguing you, Juan Sebastián, until you relent.' Laboriously he tries to prostrate himself again, holding his handcuffed hands above his head. ‘Forgive me, Juan Sebastián, forgive me!'

‘Take him away,' says he, Simón.

‘No!' cries the boy. His face is flushed, he is breathing fast. He raises a hand, points dramatically. ‘You must bring her back, Dmitri!
Bring her back!
'

Dmitri struggles into a sitting position, rubs his bristly chin. ‘Bring whom back, young David?'

‘You know! You must bring Ana Magdalena back!'

Dmitri sighs. ‘I wish I could, young fellow, I wish I could. Believe me, if Ana Magdalena were suddenly to appear before us I would bow down and wash her feet with tears of joy. But she
won't come back. She is gone. She belongs to the past, and the past is forever behind us. That's a law of nature. Even the stars can't swim against the flow of time.'

Through all of Dmitri's speech the boy has continued to hold his hand on high, as if only thus can the force of his command be sustained; but it is clear to him, Simón, and perhaps to Dmitri too, that he is wavering. Tears are brimming in his eyes.

‘Time to go,' says Dmitri. He allows the police officers to help him to his feet. ‘Back to the doctors.
Why did you do it, Dmitri? Why? Why? Why?
But maybe there is no why. Maybe it's like asking why is a chicken a chicken, or why is there a universe instead of a great big hole in the sky. Things are as they are. Don't cry, my boy. Be patient, wait for the next life, and you will see Ana Magdalena again. Hold on to that thought.'

‘I'm not crying,' says the boy.

‘Yes, you are. There is nothing wrong with a good cry. It clears out the system.'

CHAPTER 23

THE DAY of the census has dawned, the day too of the show at Modas Modernas. The boy wakes up listless, surly, without appetite. Might he be ill? He, Simón, feels his brow, but it is cool.

‘Did you see Seven last night?' the boy demands.

‘Of course. I couldn't keep my eyes off you. You danced beautifully. Everyone thought so.'

‘But did you see Seven?'

‘Do you mean the number Seven? No. I don't see numbers. It's a failing on my part. I see only what is before my eyes. You know that.'

‘What are we going to do today?'

‘After all the excitement last night, I think we should have a quiet day. I would suggest we take a peek at Inés's fashion show, but I don't think gentlemen will be welcome. We can go and fetch Bolívar, if you like, and take him for a walk, as long as we are off the streets by six. Because of the curfew.'

He expects a string of
Why?
questions, but the boy shows no interest in the census or the curfew.
Where is Dmitri now?
: another
question that does not come. Have they seen the last of Dmitri? Can the forgetting of Dmitri commence? He prays that it is so.

As it turns out, it is near midnight when the census officers come knocking at the door. He picks up the boy, half asleep, whimpering, wrapped in a blanket, and stows him bodily in the cupboard. ‘Not a sound,' he whispers. ‘It is important. Not a sound.'

The census-takers, a young couple, apologize for their lateness. ‘This is not a part of the city we are familiar with,' says the woman. ‘Such a maze of crooked streets and alleys!' He offers them tea, but they are in a hurry. ‘We still have a long list of addresses to cover,' she says. ‘We will be up all night.'

The census business takes no time at all. He has already filled out the form.
Number of persons in family
: ‘ONE', he has written.
Marital status
: ‘SINGLE'.

When they are gone he liberates the boy from confinement and returns him to bed, fast asleep.

In the morning they stroll over to see Inés. She and Diego are sitting down to breakfast; she is as bright and cheerful as he has ever seen her, prattling on and on about the show, which—everyone agrees—was a great success. The ladies of Estrella flocked to see the new spring fashions. The low necklines, the high waists, the simple reliance on black and white, have won general approval. Pre-sales have exceeded all expectations.

The boy listens with glazed eyes.

‘Drink your milk,' Inés tells him. ‘Milk gives you strong bones.'

‘Simón locked me in the wardrobe,' he says. ‘I couldn't breathe.'

‘It was only while the census-takers were there,' he says. ‘A nice young couple, very polite. David was as quiet as a mouse. All they saw was a lonely old bachelor roused from his slumbers. It was over in five minutes. No one dies of asphyxiation in five minutes.'

‘It was the same here,' says Inés. ‘In and out in five minutes. No questions.'

‘So David remains invisible,' says he, Simón. ‘Congratulations, David. You have escaped again.'

‘Until the next census,' says Diego.

‘Until the next census,' he, Simón, agrees.

‘With so many millions of souls to count,' says Diego, ‘what does it matter if they miss one?'

‘What does it matter indeed,' echoes he, Simón.

‘Am I really invisible?' asks the boy.

‘You don't have a name, you don't have a number. That is enough to make you invisible. But don't worry, we can see you. Any ordinary person with eyes in his head can see you.'

‘I'm not worried,' says the boy.

The doorbell rings: a young man bearing a letter, hot and flushed after his long ride. Inés invites him in, offers him a glass of water.

The letter, addressed to Inés and Simón jointly, is from Alma, the third sister. Inés reads it aloud.

‘After we came home from the Institute my sisters and I talked late into the night. Of course no one could have foreseen that Dmitri would burst in like that. Nevertheless, we were dismayed at the way the proceedings were conducted. Señor Arroyo was
much to blame, we felt, for inviting children onto the stage. It did not speak well for his judgment.

‘While my sisters and I retain the greatest respect for señor Arroyo as a musician, we feel that the time has come for us to distance ourselves from the Academy and the coterie he has gathered around himself there. I am therefore writing to inform you that if David should return to the Academy we will no longer be paying his fees.'

Inés breaks off reading. ‘What is this about?' she says. ‘What happened at the Institute?'

‘It's a long story. Señor Moreno, the visitor for whom the reception was held, gave a lecture at the Institute which David and I attended. After the lecture Arroyo called his sons onto the stage to perform one of their dances. It was meant as a sort of artistic response to the lecture, but he lost control and everything slid into chaos. I'll give you the details some other time.'

‘Dmitri came,' says the boy. ‘He shouted at Simón. He shouted at everyone.'

‘Dmitri again!' says Inés. ‘Will we never be rid of the man?' She turns back to the letter.

‘As childless spinsters,' writes Alma, ‘my sisters and I are hardly qualified to offer advice on the rearing of children. Nonetheless, David seems to us excessively indulged. It would do him good, we believe, if his natural high spirits were sometimes reined in.

‘Allow me to add a word of my own. David is a rare child. I will remember him with affection, even if I do not see him again. Greet him from me. Tell him I enjoyed his dancing.

‘Yours, Alma.'