The Schooldays of Jesus (27 page)

‘A census is a count,' he, Simón, explains. ‘Tomorrow night they are going to count all the people in Estrella and make a list of their names. Inés and I have decided to keep you hidden from the census officers. You won't be alone. Señor Arroyo will be hiding his sons too.'

‘Why?'

‘Why? For various reasons. Señor Arroyo believes that attaching numbers to people turns them into ants. We want to keep you off the official lists. As for the reception, a reception is a party for grown-ups. You can come along. There will be stuff to eat. If you find it too boring you can go and visit Alyosha's animal menagerie. You haven't visited them in a long while.'

‘If they count me in the census will they recognize me?'

‘Maybe. Maybe not. We don't want to take the risk.'

‘But are you going to hide me forever?'

‘Of course not—just during the census. We don't want to give them a reason to pack you off to that dreary school of theirs at Punta Arenas. Once you are past school age you can relax and be your own master.'

‘And I can have a beard too, can't I?'

‘You can wear a beard, you can change your name, you can do all kinds of things to avoid being recognized.'

‘But I want to be recognized!'

‘No, you don't want to be recognized, not yet, you don't want to take that risk. David, I don't think you understand what it means to recognize or be recognized. But let us not argue about
it. When you are grown up you can be whoever you wish, do whatever you like. Until then, Inés and I would like you to do as you are told.'

He and the boy arrive late at the reception. He is surprised at how many guests there are. The distinguished philosopher and guest of honour must have quite a following.

They greet the three sisters.

‘We heard maestro Moreno speak during his last visit,' says Consuelo. ‘When was that, Valentina?'

‘Two years ago,' says Valentina.

‘Two years ago,' says Consuelo. ‘Such an interesting man. Good evening, David, don't we get a kiss?'

Dutifully the boy kisses each of the sisters on the cheek.

Arroyo joins them, accompanied by his sister-in-law Mercedes, who wears a grey silk dress with a striking scarlet mantilla, and by maestro Moreno himself, a short, squat little man with flowing locks, pock-marked skin, and wide, thin lips like a frog's.

‘Javier, you know señora Consuelo and her sisters, but let me introduce you to señor Simón. Señor Simón is a philosopher in his own right. He is also the father of this excellent young man, whose name is David.'

‘David is not my real name,' says the boy.

‘David is not his real name, I should have mentioned that,' says señor Arroyo, ‘but it is the name under which he passes while he is in our midst. Simón, I believe you have already met my sister-in-law Mercedes, who is visiting from Novilla.'

He bows to Mercedes, who gives him a smile in return. Her aspect has softened since they last spoke. A handsome woman,
in her rather fierce way. He wonders what the other sister was like, the dead one.

‘And what brings you to Estrella, señor Moreno?' he asks, making conversation.

‘I do a lot of travelling, señor. My profession makes of me an itinerant, a peripatetic. I give talks all over the country, at the various Institutes. But, to tell the truth, I am in Estrella to see my old friend Juan Sebastián. He and I share a long history. In the old days we ran a clock-repair business together. We also played in a quartet.'

‘Javier is a first-rate violinist,' says Arroyo. ‘First-rate.'

Moreno shrugs. ‘Perhaps, but an amateur nevertheless. As I said, the two of us ran a business, but then Juan Sebastián began to have doubts about it, so, to cut a long story short, we closed down. He created his Academy of Dance while I went my own way. But we remain in contact. We have our disagreements, but broadly speaking we see the world in the same way. If we didn't, how would we have been able to work together all those years?'

It comes back to him. ‘Ah, you must be the señor Moreno who gave the lecture on land surveying! We saw the advertisement, David and I.'

‘Land surveying?' says Moreno.

‘Topographical measurement.'

‘
Man the Measure of All Things
,' says Moreno. ‘That is the title of the talk I will be giving tonight. It will not be about land surveying at all. It will be about Metros and his intellectual legacy. I thought that was clear.'

‘My apologies. The confusion is mine. We are looking forward
to hearing you. But
Man the Measurer
was definitely the title under which the lecture was advertised—I know because I distributed the leaflets myself, that is my business. Who is Metros?'

Moreno is about to reply, but a couple who have impatiently been waiting their turn break in. ‘Maestro, we are so excited that you are back! In Estrella we feel so cut off from the true life of the mind! Will this be your only appearance?'

He drifts away.

‘Why did señor Arroyo call you a philosopher?' asks the boy.

‘It was a joke. Surely you know señor Arroyo's manner by now. It is because I am not a philosopher that he calls me a philosopher. Have something to eat. It is going to be a long evening. After the reception there is still señor Moreno's lecture. You will enjoy it. It will be like a story-reading. Señor Moreno will stand on a platform and tell us about a man named Metros, whom I have never heard of but who is evidently important.'

The refreshments promised in the invitation turn out to be a big pot of tea, warm rather than hot, and some plates of hard little biscuits. The boy bites into one of them, pulls a face, spits it up. ‘It's horrible!' he says. He, Simón, quietly cleans up the mess.

‘There is too much ginger in the biscuits.' It is Mercedes, who has appeared noiselessly at their side. Of the cane there is no sign; she seems to move quite easily. ‘But don't tell Alyosha. You don't want to hurt him. He and the boys were baking all afternoon. So you are the famous David! The boys tell me you are a good dancer.'

‘I can dance all the numbers.'

‘So I hear. Is there any other kind of dancing you do besides number-dancing? Can you do human dancing?'

‘What is human dancing?'

‘You are a human being, aren't you? Can you do any of the dances that human beings do, such as dancing for joy or dancing breast to breast with someone you are fond of?'

‘Ana Magdalena didn't teach us that.'

‘Would you like me to teach you?'

‘No.'

‘Well, until you learn to do what human beings do you can't be a full human being. What else don't you do? Do you have friends you play with?'

‘I play football.'

‘You play sports, but do you ever just play? Joaquín says you never talk to the other children at school, you just give orders and tell them what to do. Is that true?'

The boy is silent.

‘Well, it is certainly not easy conducting a human conversation with you, young David. I think I will look for someone else to talk to.' Teacup in hand, she drifts off.

‘Why don't you go and say hello to the animals?' he suggests to David. ‘Take Alyosha's biscuits along. Maybe the rabbits will eat them.'

He makes his way back to the circle around Moreno.

‘About Metros the man we know nothing,' Moreno is saying, ‘and not much more about his philosophy, since he left no written record. Nevertheless, he looms large over the modern world. That, at least, is my opinion.

‘According to one strand of legend, Metros said there is nothing in the universe that cannot be measured. According to another
strand, he said that there can be no absolute measurement—that measurement is always relative to the measurer. Philosophers are still arguing about whether the two claims are compatible.'

‘And which do you believe?' asks Valentina.

‘I straddle the gap, as I will try to explain in tonight's talk. After which my friend Juan Sebastián will have a chance to respond. We have set up the evening as a debate—we thought that would make it more lively. Juan Sebastián has in the past been critical of my interest in Metros. He is critical of metra in general, of the idea that everything in the universe can be measured.'

‘That everything in the universe should be measured,' says Arroyo. ‘There is a difference.'

‘That everything in the universe should be measured—thank you for correcting me. That is why my friend decided to quit clock-making. What is a clock, after all, but a mechanism for imposing a metron on the flux of time?'

‘A metron?' says Valentina. ‘What is that?'

‘The metron is named after Metros. Any unit of measurement qualifies as a metron: a gram, for example, or a metre, or a minute. Without metra the natural sciences would not be possible. Take the case of astronomy. We say that astronomy concerns itself with the stars, but that is not strictly true. In fact it concerns itself with the metra of the stars: their mass, their distance from each other, and so forth. We can't put the stars themselves into mathematical equations, but we can perform mathematical operations on their metra and thereby uncover the laws of the universe.'

David has reappeared at his side, tugging at his arm. ‘Come and see, Simón!' he whispers.

‘The mathematical laws of the universe,' says Arroyo.

‘The mathematical laws,' says Moreno.

For a man so unappealing in his exterior, Moreno speaks with remarkable self-assurance.

‘How fascinating,' says Valentina.

‘Come and see, Simón!' the boy whispers again.

‘In a minute,' he whispers back.

‘Fascinating indeed,' echoes Consuelo. ‘But it is getting late. We should be making our way to the Institute. A quick question, señor Arroyo: When will you be reopening the Academy?'

‘The date is not yet settled,' says Arroyo. ‘What I can tell you is that, until we find a teacher of dance, the Academy will be solely an academy of music.'

‘I thought señora Mercedes was going to be the new dance teacher.'

‘Alas, no, Mercedes has duties in Novilla that she cannot escape. She visited Estrella to see her nephews, my sons, not to do any teaching. We have yet to appoint a teacher of dance.'

‘You have yet to appoint a teacher of dance,' says Consuelo. ‘I know nothing about this Dmitri person beyond what I read in the newspaper, but—excuse me for saying so—I hope that in future you will be more careful about the staff you appoint.'

‘Dmitri was not employed by the Academy,' says he, Simón. ‘He worked as an attendant in the museum downstairs. It is the museum that should be more careful about the staff it appoints.'

‘A homicidal maniac in this very building,' says Consuelo. ‘The thought makes me shiver.'

‘He was indeed a homicidal maniac. He was also personable.
The children of the Academy loved him.' He is standing up not for Dmitri but for Arroyo, the man who was so wrapped up in his music that he allowed his wife to drift into a fatal entanglement with an underling. ‘Children are innocent. Being innocent means taking things at face value. It means opening your heart to someone who smiles at you and calls you his fine little man and dishes out sweets.'

David speaks. ‘Dmitri says he couldn't help himself. He says passion made him kill Ana Magdalena.'

There is a moment of frozen silence. With a frown Moreno examines the strange boy.

‘Passion is no defence,' says Consuelo. ‘We all feel passion at one time or another, but we don't go killing people because of it.'

‘Dmitri has gone away to the salt mines,' says David. ‘He is going to dig up lots of salt to make up for killing Ana Magdalena.'

‘Well, we will make sure we don't use any of Dmitri's salt on the farm, won't we?' She glances sternly at her two sisters. ‘How much salt is a human life worth? Perhaps you could ask that of your Metra man.'

‘Metros,' says Moreno.

‘I beg your pardon:
Metros
. Simón, can we give you a lift?'

‘Thank you, but no—I have my bicycle here.'

As the gathering disperses, David takes him by the hand and leads him down a dark stairway to the little enclosed garden behind the museum. A light rain is falling. By moonlight the boy unlatches a gate and on hands and knees crawls into a hutch. There is an explosion of squawking among the hens. He emerges
with a struggling creature in his arms: a lamb.

‘Look, it's Jeremiah! He used to be so big that I couldn't lift him, but Alyosha forgot to give him milk to drink and now he has grown small!'

He strokes the lamb. It tries to suck his finger. ‘No one in this world grows small, David. If he has turned small, it is not because Alyosha hasn't been feeding him, it is because he is not the real Jeremiah. He is a new Jeremiah who has taken the place of the old Jeremiah because the old Jeremiah has grown up and turned into a sheep. People find young Jeremiahs endearing, but not old Jeremiahs. No one wants to cuddle old Jeremiahs. That is their misfortune.'

‘Where is the old Jeremiah? Can I see him?'

‘The old Jeremiah is back in the meadows with the other sheep. One day when we have time we can go and search for him. But right now we have a lecture to attend.'

Out on Calle Hugo it has begun to rain more heavily. As he and the boy hesitate in the doorway there is a hoarse whisper: ‘Simón!' A figure wrapped in a cloak or blanket looms before them, a hand beckons. Dmitri! The boy dashes forward and clasps him around the thighs.

‘What on earth are you doing here, Dmitri?' he, Simón, demands.

‘
Ssh!
' says Dmitri; and, in an exaggerated whisper: ‘Is there somewhere we can go?'

‘We are not going anywhere,' he says, not lowering his voice. ‘What are you doing here?'

Without replying Dmitri grasps his arm and propels him across
the empty street—he is astonished at the man's strength—into the doorway of the tobacconist's.