They are greeted at the door by Bolívar, in his usual stately fashion. ‘Sit close to Bolívar,’ he instructs the boy. ‘Let him warm you. Let him give you some of his heat.’
‘What is going to happen to Ana Magdalena?’
‘She will be at the hospital by now. I am not going to talk about it any further. It has been enough for one day.’
‘Did Dmitri kill her?’
‘I have no idea. I don’t know how she died. Now, there is something I want you to tell me. That little room where we found her—was that the room where Dmitri took you to show you pictures of women?’
‘Yes.’
CHAPTER 12
THE NEXT day, the first day of clear skies after the big rains, Dmitri turns himself in. He presents himself at the front desk of police headquarters. ‘It was I,’ he announces to the young woman behind the desk, and when she fails to understand produces the morning’s newspaper and taps the headline ‘DEATH OF BALLERINA’, with a photograph of Ana Magdalena, head and shoulders, beautiful in her rather icy way. ‘It was I who killed her,’ he says. ‘I am the guilty one.’
In the hours that follow he writes for the police a full and detailed account of what happened: how, on a pretext, he persuaded Ana Magdalena to accompany him to the basement of the museum; how he forced himself on her and afterwards strangled her; how he locked the body in the cubicle; how for two days and two nights he wandered the streets of the city, indifferent to cold and rain, mad, he writes, though mad with what he does not say (with guilt? with grief?), until, coming upon the newspaper on a newsstand, with the photograph whose eyes, as he puts it, pierced him to the soul, he came to his senses and gave himself up, ‘resolved to pay his debt’.
All of this comes out at the first hearing, which is held amid intense public interest, nothing so extravagant having occurred in Estrella within living memory. Señor Arroyo is not present at the hearing: he has bolted the doors of the Academy and will speak to no one. He, Simón, tries to attend, but the throng outside the tiny courtroom is packed so tight that he gives up. From the radio he learns that Dmitri has admitted his guilt and refused legal assistance, even though the magistrate has explained to him that this is neither the time nor the place to enter a plea. ‘I have done the worst thing in the world, I have killed the person I love,’ he is reported to have said. ‘Lash me, hang me, break my bones.’ From the courtroom he has been conveyed back to his cell, enduring on the way a barrage of gibes and insults from onlookers.
Responding to his call, Inés has returned from Novilla, accompanied by her elder brother, Diego. David moves back into the apartment with them. Since there are no classes to attend, he is free to play football with Diego all day. Diego, he reports, is ‘brilliant’ at football.
He, Simón, meets Inés for lunch. They discuss what is to be done about David. ‘He seems his normal self, he seems to have got over the shock,’ he tells her, ‘but I have my doubts. No child can be exposed to a sight like that and not suffer after-effects.’
‘He should never have gone to that Academy,’ says Inés. ‘We should have hired a tutor, like I said. What a calamity those Arroyos have turned out to be!’
He demurs. ‘It was hardly señora Arroyo’s fault that she was murdered, or her husband’s, for that matter. One can cross paths with a monster like Dmitri anywhere. To look on the positive side, at least David has learned a lesson about adults and where their passions can lead them.’
Inés sniffs. ‘Passions? Do you call rape and murder passions?’
‘No, rape and murder are crimes, but you cannot deny that Dmitri was driven to them by passion.’
‘So much the worse for passion,’ says Inés. ‘If there were less passion around, the world would be a safer place.’
They are in a café across the street from Modas Modernas, with tables packed tightly together. Their neighbours, two well-dressed women who may well belong to Inés’s clientele, have fallen silent and are listening in to what has begun to sound like a quarrel. Therefore he withholds what he had been about to say (Passion, he had been about to say—what do you know about passion, Inés?) and remarks instead: ‘Let us not stray into deep water. How is Diego? What does he think of Estrella? How long will he be staying? Is Stefano going to join you?’
No, he learns, Stefano will not be coming to Estrella. Stefano is entirely under the thumb of his girlfriend, who does not want him to leave her. As for Diego, he has not formed a favourable impression of Estrella. He calls it atrasada, backward; he cannot understand what Inés is doing here; he wants her to come back to Novilla with him.
‘And might you do that?’ he asks. ‘Might you move back to Novilla? I need to know because where David goes I go.’
Inés does not reply, plays with her teaspoon.
‘What about the shop?’ he says. ‘How will Claudia feel if you suddenly abandon her?’ He leans closer across the table. ‘Tell me honestly, Inés, are you still as devoted to David as ever?’
‘What do you mean, Am I still devoted?’
‘I mean, are you still the boy’s mother? Do you still love him or are you growing away from him? Because, I must warn you, I cannot be both father and mother.’
Inés rises. ‘I have to get back to the shop,’ she says.
The Academy of Singing is a very different place from the Academy of Dance. Housed in an elegant glass-fronted building, it is situated on a leafy square in the most expensive quarter of the town. He and David are ushered into the office of señora Montoya, the vice-principal, who greets them coolly. Following the closure of the Academy of Dance, she informs him, the Academy of Singing has received a small flood of applications from ex-students. David’s name can be added to the list, but his prospects are not favourable: preference will be given to the applicants who have had formal instruction in music. Furthermore, he, Simón, should take note that fees at the Academy of Singing are considerably higher than at the Academy of Dance.
‘David took music lessons with señor Arroyo himself,’ he says. ‘He has a good voice. Will you not give him a chance to prove himself? He excelled at dancing. He could excel at singing too.’
‘Is that what he wants to be in life: a singer?’
‘David, you heard the señora’s question. Do you want to be a singer?’
The boy does not reply, but stares evenly out of the window.
‘What do you want to do with your life, young man?’ asks señora Montoya.
‘I don’t know,’ says the boy. ‘It depends.’
‘David is six years old,’ says he, Simón. ‘One can’t expect a six-year-old to have a life plan.’
‘Señor Simón, if there is one trait that unites all students at our Academy, from the youngest to the oldest, it is a passion for music. Do you have a passion for music, young man?’
‘No. Passions are bad for you.’
‘Indeed! Who told you that—that passions are bad for you?’
‘Inés.’
‘And who is Inés?’
‘Inés is his mother,’ he, Simón, intervenes. ‘I think you misunderstood Inés, David. She was referring to physical passion. A passion for singing is not a physical passion. Why don’t you sing for señora Montoya, so that she can hear what a good voice you have? Sing that English song you used to sing to me.’
‘No. I don’t want to sing. I hate singing.’
He takes the boy to visit the three sisters on their farm. They are as warmly received as ever, and treated to little iced cakes and Roberta’s home-made lemonade. The boy sets off on a circuit of the stables and the stalls, reacquainting himself with old friends. During his absence he, Simón, relates the story of the interview with señora Montoya. ‘A passion for music,’ he says: ‘imagine asking a six-year-old whether he has a passion for music. Children may have enthusiasms but they can’t yet have passions.’
He has grown to like the sisters. To them he feels he can pour out his heart.
‘I have always thought the Academy of Singing a rath
er pretentious institution,’ says Valentina. ‘But they have high standards, there is no doubt about that.’
‘If by some miracle David were to be admitted, would you be prepared to assist with his fees?’ He repeats the figure he has been given.
‘Of course,’ says Valentina without hesitation. Consuelo and Alma nod in agreement. ‘We are fond of David. He is an exceptional child. He has a great future ahead of him. Though not necessarily on the operatic stage.’
‘How is he coping with the shock, Simón?’ asks Consuelo. ‘He must have found it terribly distressing.’
‘He has dreams about señora Arroyo. He had grown very close to her, which surprised me, because I found her rather cold, cold and forbidding. But he took to her from the beginning. There must have been some quality he found in her that I missed.’
‘She was very beautiful. Very classical. Didn’t you find her beautiful?’
‘Yes, she was beautiful. But to a small boy beauty is hardly a consideration.’
‘I suppose not. Tell me: do you think she was blameless in the whole sad affair?’
‘Not wholly. There had been a long history between her and Dmitri. Dmitri was obsessed with her, he worshipped the ground she trod on. So he told me, so he told everyone who would listen to him. Yet she treated him without consideration. She treated him like dirt, in fact. I saw it myself. Is it any wonder that he went berserk in the end? Of course I am not trying to excuse him…’
David comes back from his tour. ‘Where is Rufo?’ he demands.
‘He was ill, we had him put to sleep,’ answers Valentina. ‘Where are your shoes?’
‘Roberta made me take them off. Can I see Rufo?’
‘Putting someone to sleep is a euphemism, my boy. Rufo is dead. Roberta is going to find us a puppy who will grow up to be a watchdog in his place.’
‘But where is he?’
‘I can’t say. I don’t know. We left that to Roberta to take care of.’
‘She didn’t treat him like dirt.’
‘I’m sorry—who didn’t treat whom like dirt?’
‘Ana Magdalena. She didn’t treat Dmitri like dirt.’
‘Have you been eavesdropping? That’s not nice, David. You shouldn’t eavesdrop.’
‘She didn’t treat him like dirt. She was just pretending.’
‘Well, you know better than I do, I am sure. How is your mother?’
He, Simón, intervenes. ‘I am sorry Inés can’t be here, but she has a brother visiting from Novilla. He is staying in our apartment. I have moved out for the time being.’
‘His name is Diego,’ says the boy. ‘He hates Simón. He says Simón is una manzana podrida. He says Inés should run away from Simón and come back to Novilla. What does it mean, una manzana podrida?’
‘A rotten apple.’
‘I know, but what does it mean?’
‘I don’t know. Do you want to tell him, Simón, what una manzana podrida is, since you are the manzana in question?’
The three sisters dissolve in laughter.
‘Diego has been cross with me for a long time for taking his sister away from him. In his view of things, he and Inés and their younger brother were living happily together until I appeared on the scene and stole Inés. Which is entirely false, of course, a complete misrepresentation of the facts.’
‘Oh? And what is the truth?’ says Consuelo.
‘I didn’t steal Inés. Inés has no feelings for me. She is David’s mother. She watches over him, and I watch over the two of them. That is all.’
‘Very strange,’ says Consuelo. ‘Very unusual. But we believe you. We know you and we believe you. We don’t think you are una manzana podrida at all.’ Her sisters nod in agreement. ‘Therefore you, young man, should go back to this brother of Inés and inform him that he has made a big mistake about Simón. Will you do that?’
‘Ana Magdalena had a passion for Dmitri,’ says the boy.
‘I don’t think so,’ says he, Simón. ‘It was the other way around. It was Dmitri who had the passion. It was his passion for Ana Magdalena that led him to do bad things.’
‘You always say that passion is bad,’ says the boy. ‘Inés too. You both hate passion.’
‘Not at all. I don’t hate passion, that is a complete untruth. Nevertheless, one can’t ignore the bad consequences of passion. What do you think, Valentina, Consuelo, Alma: is passion good or bad?’
‘I think passion is good,’ says Alma. ‘Without passion the world would stop going round. It would be a dull and empty place. In fact’—she looks to her sisters—‘without passion we wouldn’t be here at all, not one of us. Nor the pigs nor the cows nor the chickens. We are all here because of passion, someone’s passion for someone else. You hear it in the springtime, when the air is thick with birdcalls, each bird searching for a mate. If that isn’t passion, what is? Even the molecules. We wouldn’t have water if oxygen didn’t have a passion for hydrogen.’
Of the three sisters it is Alma he likes best, though not with a passion. She has no trace of her sisters’ good looks. She is short, even dumpy; her face is round and pleasant but without character; she wears little wire-rimmed glasses that do not suit her. Is she a full sister to the other two or only a half-sister? He does not know them well enough to ask.
‘You don’t think there are two kinds of passion, Alma, good passion and bad passion?’ says Valentina.
‘No, I think there is just one kind of passion, the same everywhere. What are your thoughts, David?’
‘Simón says I am not allowed to have thoughts,’ says the boy. ‘Simón says I am too young. He says I have to be old like him before I can have thoughts.’
‘Simón is full of nonsense,’ says Alma. ‘Simón is turning into a shrivelled old manzana.’ Again the sisters dissolve in laughter. ‘Pay no attention to Simón. Tell us what you think.’
The boy steps to the middle of the floor and without preamble, in his socks, begins to dance. At once he, Simón, recognizes the dance. It is the same dance that the elder Arroyo boy performed at the concert; but David is doing it better, with more grace and authority and conviction, even though the other boy was the son of the master of the dance. The sisters watch in silence, absorbed, as the boy traces his complex hieroglyph, avoiding with ease the fussy little tables and stools of the parlour.
You dance for these women yet you won’t dance for me, he thinks. You dance for Inés. What do they have that I do not?
The dance comes to its end. David does not take a bow—that is not the way of the Academy—but for a moment he does stand erect and still before them with his eyes closed and a rapt little smile on his lips.
‘Bravo!’ says Valentina. ‘Was that a dance of passion?’
‘It is a dance to call down Three,’ says the boy.
‘And passion?’ says Valentina. ‘Where does passion come into the picture?’
The boy does not answer but, in a gesture that he, Simón, has not seen before, places three fingers of his right hand over his mouth.
‘Is this a charade?’ asks Consuelo. ‘Must we guess?’
The boy does not stir, but his eyes sparkle mischievously.
‘I understand,’ says Alma.
‘Then perhaps you can explain it to us,’ says Consuelo.
‘There is nothing to explain,’ says Alma.
When he told the sisters the boy was having dreams of Ana Magdalena, it was less than the whole truth. In all their time together, first with him, then with Inés, the boy had been able to fall asleep at night without a fuss, to sleep deeply and wake up bright and full of energy. But since the discovery in the basement of the museum there has been a change. Now he regularly appears at Inés’s bedside during the night, or at his bedside when he is visiting him, whimpering, complaining of bad dreams. In his dreams Ana Magdalena appears to him, blue from head to foot and carrying a baby which is ‘tiny, tiny, tiny, as tiny as a pea’; or else she opens her hand and the baby is revealed in her palm, curled up like a li
ttle blue slug.
He tries his best to console the boy. ‘Ana Magdalena loved you very much,’ he says. ‘That is why she visits you in your dreams. She comes to say goodbye and to tell you not to have any more dark thoughts because she is at peace in the next life.’
‘I had a dream about Dmitri too. His clothes were all wet. Is Dmitri going to kill me, Simón?’
‘Of course not,’ he reassures him, ‘why would he want to do that? Besides, it is not the real Dmitri you are seeing, just a Dmitri made of smoke. Wave your hands like this’—he waves his hands—‘and he will go away.’
‘But did his penis make him kill people? Did his penis make him kill Ana Magdalena?’
‘Your penis doesn’t make you do things. Something else entered Dmitri to make him do what he did, something strange that none of us understand.’
‘I’m not going to have a penis like Dmitri when I grow up. If my penis grows big I am going to cut it off.’
He reports the conversation to Inés. ‘He seems to be under the impression that grown-ups are trying to kill each other when they make love, that strangling is the culmination of the act. He also seems to have seen Dmitri naked at some time. Everything is confused in his mind. If Dmitri says he loves him, it means he wants to rape him and strangle him. How I wish we had never laid eyes on the man!’
‘The mistake was in sending him to their so-called Academy in the first place,’ says Inés. ‘I never trusted that Ana Magdalena.’
‘Have a little charity,’ he says. ‘She is dead. We are alive.’
He bids Inés have more charity, but was there not, in truth, something strange about Ana Magdalena—stranger than strange, inhuman? Ana Magdalena and her pack of children, like a wolf mother with her cubs. Eyes that saw straight through you. Even in the all-devouring fire, hard to believe those eyes will ever be consumed.
‘When I die will I go blue like Ana Magdalena?’ asks the boy.
The Schooldays of Jesus Page 12
