The Death of Jesus

by J. M. Coetzee

  ‘He doesn’t know either. But he said I must not be afraid. He said, if I do not know what it means in this life, I will find out in the next life.’

  ‘Did he consider,’ says he, Simón, ‘that the song may come not from the next life but from your previous life, the life you had before you stepped on board the big boat and crossed the ocean?’

  The boy is silent. That is where the conversation ends, and with it the evening’s espectáculo. But the next day, when he and David are alone, the boy returns to the subject. ‘Who was I, Simón, before I crossed the ocean? Who was I before I began to speak Spanish?’

  ‘I would say, you were the same person you are today, except that you looked different and had another name and spoke another language, all of which was washed away when you crossed the ocean, along with your memories. Nevertheless, to answer the question Who was I?, I would say that, in your heart, at your core, you were yourself, your one and only self. Otherwise it would make no sense to say that you forgot the language you spoke and so forth. Because who was there to do the forgetting save yourself, the self you guard in your heart? That is how I see it.’

  ‘But I did not forget everything, did I? In diesem Wetter, in diesem Braus—I remember it, only I don’t remember what it means.’

  ‘Indeed. Or maybe, as señor Arroyo suggests, the words come to you not from your past life but from your next life. In that case it would be inaccurate to say the words come from memoria, memory, since we can only remember things that are past. Instead I would call your words profecía, foretelling. It would be as if you remember the future.’

  ‘Which do you think it is, Simón, past or future? I think it is future. I think it is from my next life. Can you remember the future?’

  ‘No, alas, I remember nothing at all, past or future. Compared with you, young David, I am a very dull fellow, not exceptional at all, in fact the very opposite of exceptional. I live in the present like an ox. It is a great gift to be able to remember, whether the past or the future, as I am sure señor Arroyo would agree. You should keep a notebook with you so that you can write things down when you remember them, even if they make no sense.’

  ‘Or else I can tell you things that I remember and you can write them down.’

  ‘Good idea. I could be your secretario, the man who records your secrets. We could make a project of it, you and I. Instead of waiting for things to come into your mind—the mystery song, for instance—we could set aside a few minutes each day, when you wake up in the morning or last thing before you go to sleep, as a time for you to concentrate and try to remember things from the past or the future. Shall we do that?’

  The boy is silent.

  CHAPTER 4

  ON THE Friday of that week, without preamble, David makes his announcement: ‘Inés, tomorrow I am going to play proper football. You and Simón must come and watch.’

  ‘Tomorrow? I can’t come tomorrow, my dear. Saturday is a busy day at the shop.’

  ‘I am going to play for a proper team. I am going to be number 9. I have to wear a white shirt. You must make a number 9 and sew it on the back.’

  One by one the details of the new era, the era of proper football, emerge. At nine o’clock in the morning a van will arrive to pick up the boys from the apartments. The boys must be wearing white shirts with black numbers on their backs, from one to eleven. At ten o’clock sharp, under the name Las Panteras, they will run onto the field to engage with Los Hálcones, the team from the orphanage.

  ‘Who selected your team?’ he asks.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Are you the captain then, the chief?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And who made you captain?’

  ‘All the boys. They want me to be captain. I gave them their numbers.’

  The van from the orphanage arrives punctually the next morning, driven by a taciturn man in blue overalls. Not all the boys are ready—they have to send an envoy to rouse Carlitos, who has overslept—and not all are wearing white shirts with black numbers as instructed—indeed, not all have proper football boots. However, thanks to Inés’s skill as a seamstress, David has an elegant number 9 on his shirt and looks every inch the captain.

  He and Inés see them off, then follow by car: the prospect of her son leading a team of footballers onto the field evidently trumps the business of the shop.

  The orphanage is on the far side of the river, in a part of the city he has never had reason to explore. They follow the van across a bridge, through an industrial quarter, then down a narrow, rutted road between a warehouse and a timber yard, to emerge at a surprisingly pleasant site on the riverside: a complex of low sandstone buildings shaded by trees, with a sports field where children of all ages are milling about, clad in the neat dark-blue uniform of the orphanage.

  There is a sharp breeze blowing. Inés has the protection of a jacket with a high collar; he, with less foresight, has only a sweater.

  ‘That is Dr Fabricante,’ he points out, ‘the man in the black shirt and shorts. It seems he will be the referee.’

  Dr Fabricante blows on his whistle, one imperious blast after another, and waves his arms. The throng of children scamper off the field, the two teams line up behind him, the orphans spick and span in dark-blue shirts, white shorts, black boots, the boys from the apartments in their miscellany of outfits and footwear.

  He is struck at once by the disparity in size between the teams. The children in blue are, simply, much bigger. There is even a girl among them, whom he recognizes from her sturdy thighs and swelling bosom as Maria Prudencia. There are boys too who look distinctly post-pubertal. By comparison the visitors seem puny.

  From the kickoff the young panteras back away, reluctant to tangle with their heavier opponents. In no time the team in blue has barged its way through and scored its first goal, soon followed by another.

  He turns to Inés, annoyed. ‘This is not a game of football, it is a slaughter of the innocents!’

  The ball falls at the feet of one of the boys from David’s team. Wildly he kicks it ahead. Two of his fellows chase after it, but it is trapped by Maria Prudencia, who stands over the ball, daring them to take it from her. They freeze. Contemptuously she side-foots it to a teammate.

  The tactics followed by the orphans are simple but effective: they move the ball methodically upfield, shouldering opponents out of the way, until they can push it past the hapless goalkeeper. By the time Dr Fabricante blows his whistle for half-time the score is 10-0. Shivering in the sharp wind, the children from the apartments huddle together and wait for the slaughter to recommence.

  Dr Fabricante restarts the game. The ball rebounds off someone and spins out to David. With the ball at his feet he drifts like a ghost past a first opponent, a second, a third, and taps it into the goal.

  A minute later the ball is again fed to him. With ease he rounds the defenders; but then, instead of shooting for goal, he passes the ball to a teammate and watches him loft it over the crossbar.

  The game comes to an end. Dispiritedly the boys from the apartments trudge off the field, while the victors are encircled by a joyous crowd.

  Dr Fabricante strides over to where they are standing. ‘I trust you enjoyed the game. It was a little one-sided—I apologize for that. But it is important for our children to prove themselves against the outside world. Important for their self-esteem.’

  ‘Our boys are hardly the outside world,’ replies he, Simón. ‘They are just kids who like to kick a football around. If you really want to test your team you should play against stronger opposition. Don’t you agree, Inés?’

  Inés nods.

  He is angry enough not to care if Dr Fabricante takes offence. But no, Fabricante brushes off the rebuke. ‘Winning or losing is not everything,’ he says. ‘What matters is that children participate, do their best, perform to their maximum. However, in certain cases winning does become an important factor. Ours is such a case. Why? Because our children start at a disadvantage. They need t
o prove to themselves that they can compete with outsiders—compete and prevail. Surely you see that.’

  He does not see it at all; but he has no wish to get into an argument. He has not taken to Dr Fabricante, educador; he hopes he will never see him again. ‘I am freezing,’ he says, ‘and I am sure the children are freezing too. Where has the driver got to?’

  ‘He will be here in a minute,’ says Dr Fabricante. He pauses, addresses Inés: ‘Señora, may I have a word with you in private?’

  He, Simón, strolls off. The children from the orphanage have taken possession of the field and are busy at their various games, ignoring the vanquished visitors, who wait miserably for the van to arrive and take them home.

  The van comes, Las Panteras scramble aboard. They are about to drive off when Inés raps peremptorily on the window: ‘David, you are coming with us.’

  Reluctantly David extricates himself from the van. ‘Can’t I go with the others?’ he says.

  ‘No,’ says Inés grimly.

  On the way back, in the car, the cause of her bad mood reveals itself. ‘Is it true,’ she says, ‘that you told Dr Fabricante you want to leave home and live in his orphanage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did you say that?’

  ‘Because I am an orphan. Because you and Simón are not my real parents.’

  ‘Is that what you told him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He, Simón, intervenes. ‘Don’t get sucked in, Inés. No one is going to take David’s stories seriously, least of all a man who runs an orphanage.’

  ‘I want to play for their team,’ says the boy.

  ‘You are going to leave home for the sake of football? To play football for the orphanage? Because you are ashamed of your own team, your friends? Is that what you are telling us?’

  ‘Dr Julio says I can play in his team. But I have to be an orphan first. It is the rule.’

  ‘And you said, Very well, I will repudiate my parents and claim to be an orphan, all for the sake of football?’

  ‘No, I didn’t say that. I said, Why is it the rule? And he said, Because.’

  ‘Is that all he said: Because?’

  ‘He said, if there was no rule everyone would want to play for their team because they are so good.’

  ‘They are not good, they are just big and strong. What else did Dr Fabricante say?’

  ‘I said I am an exception. And he said, if everyone is an exception then rules don’t work. He said, life is like a football game, you have to follow the rules. He is like you. He doesn’t understand anything.’

  ‘Well, if Dr Fabricante does not understand anything, and if his team is just a bunch of bullies, why do you want to go and live with him in his orphanage? Is it just so that you can play for a winning football team?’

  ‘What is so bad about winning?’

  ‘There is nothing bad about winning. Nor is there anything bad about losing. In fact, as a rule, I would say it is better to be among the losers rather than among people who want to win at all costs.’

  ‘I want to be a winner. I want to win at all costs.’

  ‘You are a child. Your experience is limited. You haven’t had a chance to see what happens to people who try to win at all costs. They turn into bullies and tyrants, most of them.’

  ‘It’s not fair! When I say something you don’t like, you say I am a child so what I say doesn’t count. It only counts if I agree with you. Why must I always agree with you? I don’t want to talk like you and I don’t want to be like you! I want to be who I want to be!’

  What lies behind this outburst? What has Fabricante been saying to the boy? He tries to catch Inés’s eye, but her gaze is fixed on the road.

  ‘We are still waiting to hear,’ he says. ‘Aside from football, why do you want to go to the orphanage?’

  ‘You never listen to me,’ says the boy. ‘You don’t listen so you don’t understand. There is no why.’

  ‘So Dr Fabricante does not understand and I do not understand and there is no why. Who is there, besides yourself, who understands? Does Inés understand? Do you understand, Inés?’

  Inés does not reply. She is not going to come to his aid.

  ‘In my opinion, young man, you are the one who does not understand,’ he presses on. ‘You have led a very easy life thus far. Your mother and I have indulged you as no normal child is indulged, because we recognize that you are exceptional. But I begin to wonder whether you appreciate what it means to be exceptional. Contrary to what you suppose, it does not mean that you are free do as you like. It does not mean you can ignore the rules. You like to play football, but if you ignore the rules of football the referee will send you off the field, and rightly so. No one is above the law. There is no such thing as being an exception to every rule. A universal exception is a contradiction in terms. It makes no sense.’

  ‘I told Dr Julio about you and Inés. He knows you are not my real parents.’

  ‘What you tell Dr Julio is of no importance. Dr Julio cannot take you away from us. He does not have the power.’

  ‘He says if people are doing bad things to me then he can give me refuge. Bad things are an exception. If people do bad things to you, you can take refuge in his orphanage, no matter who you are.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ says Inés, speaking for the first time. ‘Who has been doing bad things to you?’

  ‘Dr Julio says his orphanage is an island of refuge. Anyone who is a victim can come there and he will protect him.’

  ‘Who has been doing bad things to you?’ demands Inés again.

  The boy is silent.

  Inés slows the car, stops at the roadside.

  ‘Answer me, David,’ she says. ‘Did you tell Dr Julio we have been doing bad things to you?’

  ‘I don’t have to answer. If you are a child you don’t have to answer.’

  He, Simón, speaks. ‘I am confused. Did you or did you not tell Dr Julio that Inés and I are doing bad things to you?’

  ‘I don’t have to tell.’

  ‘I don’t understand. You do not have to tell me or you do not have to tell Dr Julio?’

  ‘I don’t have to tell anyone. I can come to his orphanage and he will give me refuge. I don’t have to say why. That is his philosophy. There is no why.’

  ‘His philosophy! Do you know what the words mean, cosas malas, bad things, what implication they carry, or do you just pick them up like stones and fling them around to hurt people?’

  ‘I don’t have to tell. You know.’

  Inés breaks in again. ‘What is it that Simón knows, David? Has Simón been doing something to you?’

  It is as though he has been struck a blow. Out of nothing a rift has opened between Inés and himself.

  ‘Turn the car around, Inés,’ he says. ‘We have to confront that man. We cannot allow him to pour poison into the child’s ears.’

  Inés speaks. ‘Answer me, David. This is a serious matter. Has Simón been doing things to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? He has not been doing things to you? Then why are you making these accusations?’

  ‘I am not explaining. A child does not have to explain. You want me to follow rules. That is the rule.’

  ‘If Simón gets out of the car, will you tell me?’

  The boy does not reply. He, Simón, gets out of the car. They have reached the bridge that links the south-east quarter of the city to the south-west. He leans over the parapet above the river. A solitary heron, perched on a rock below, ignores him. What a morning! First the travesty of a football game, now this reckless, destructive accusation from the child. I don’t have to tell you what you have done. You know. What has he done? He has never laid an impure finger on the boy, never entertained an impure thought.

  He knocks at the car. Inés turns the window down. ‘Can we go back to the orphanage?’ he says. ‘I need to speak to that odious man.’

  ‘We are having a little talk, David and I,’ says Inés. ‘I will let you kno
w when we are finished.’

  The heron has flown. He clambers down the embankment, kneels, drinks.

  Then, from the bridge above, David is waving and calling: ‘Simón! What are you doing?’

  ‘Getting a drink of water.’ He climbs up. ‘David,’ he says, ‘surely you know this is not true. How can you believe I would ever harm you?’

  ‘Things don’t have to be true to be true. All you ever say is: Is it true? Is it true? That is why you don’t like Don Quixote. You think he isn’t true.’

  ‘I do like Don Quixote. I like him even if he is not true. I just don’t like him in the same way as you do. But what has Don Quixote to do with all of this—this mess?’

  The boy does not answer, but gives him an amused, insolent look.

  He gets back into the car, speaks to Inés as calmly as he can. ‘Before you do anything rash, reflect on what you have heard. David says that because he is a child he does not have to follow the same standards of truthfulness as other people. So he is free to make up stories—about me, about anyone in the world. Think about that. Think about it and beware. Tomorrow he will be making up stories about you.’

  Inés stares straight ahead. ‘What do you want me to do?’ she says. ‘I have wasted a whole morning watching football. I have things to attend to at the shop. David needs to have a warm bath and put on clean clothes. If you want me to drive you back to the orphanage to have it out with Dr Fabricante, say so. But in that case you will have to find your own way home. I am not waiting. So tell me what you want.’

  He reflects. ‘Let us go home,’ he says. ‘On Monday I will pay Dr Fabricante a visit.’

  CHAPTER 5

  FIRST THING on Monday he telephones the orphanage and makes an appointment to see the director. Since Inés is using the car, he has to ride there on the ponderous delivery bicycle, which takes him the best part of an hour, then has to kick his heels in an anteroom under the eye of Fabricante’s formidable secretary-gatekeeper.

  At last he is ushered into the director’s office. Fabricante shakes his hand, offers him a chair. The sunlight that pours in at the window exposes the crow’s feet at the corners of Fabricante’s eyes; his hair, brushed tightly back, is so unrelievedly black that it may well be dyed. Nevertheless, his figure is trim and radiates a palpable energy.