you know what, Desiree? I think I will try to catch your father at his school, if you can tell me how to get there.'
The school is of a piece with the housing estate: a low building in face-brick with steel windows and an asbestos roof, set in a dusty quadrangle fenced with barbed wire. F.S. MARAIS says the writing on the one entrance pillar, MIDDLE SCHOOL says the writing on the other.
The grounds are deserted. He wanders around until he comes upon a sign reading OFFICE. Inside sits a plump middle-aged secretary doing her nails. 'I'm looking for Mr Isaacs,' he says.
'Mr Isaacs!' she calls: 'Here's a visitor for you!' She turns to him. Just go in.'
Isaacs, behind his desk, half-rises, pauses, regards him in a puzzled way.
`Do you remember me? David Lurie, from Cape Town.'
'Oh,' says Isaacs, and sits down again. He is wearing the same overlarge suit: his neck vanishes into the jacket, from which he peers out like a sharp-beaked bird caught in a sack. The windows are closed, there is a smell of stale smoke.
‘If you don't want to see me I'll leave at once,' he says.
'No,' says Isaacs. 'Sit. I'm just checking attendances. Do you mind if I finish first?'
'Please.'
There is a framed picture on the desk. From where he sits he cannot see it, but he knows what it will be: Melanie and Desiree, apples of their father's eye, with the mother who bore them.
'So,' says Isaacs, closing the last register. 'To what do I owe this pleasure?'
He had expected to be tense, but in fact finds himself quite calm.
'After Melanie lodged her complaint,' he says, 'the university held an official inquiry. As a result I resigned my post. That is the history; you must be aware of it.'
Isaacs stares at him quizzically, giving away nothing.
'Since then I have been at a loose end. I was passing through George today, and I thought I might stop and speak to you. I remember our last meeting as being . . . heated. But I thought I would drop in anyway, and say what is on my heart.'
That much is true. He does want to speak his heart. The question is, what is on his heart?
Isaacs has a cheap Bic pen in his hand. He runs his fingers down the shaft, inverts it, runs his fingers down the shaft, over and over, in a motion that is mechanical rather than impatient. He continues. 'You have heard Melanie's side of the story. I would like to give you mine, if you are prepared to hear it.
'It began without premeditation on my part. It began as an adventure, one of those sudden little adventures that men of a certain kind have, that I have, that keep me going. Excuse me for talking in this way. I am trying to be frank.
'In Melanie's case, however, something unexpected happened. I think of it as a fire. She struck up a fire in me.'
He pauses. The pen continues its dance. A sudden little adventure. Men of a certain kind. Does the man behind the desk have adventures? The more he sees of him the more he doubts it. He would not be surprised if Isaacs were something in the church, a deacon or a server, whatever a server is.
'A fire: what is remarkable about that? If a fire goes out, you strike a match and start another one. That is how I used to think. Yet in the olden days people worshipped fire. They thought twice before letting a flame die, a flame-god. It was that kind of flame your daughter kindled in me. Not hot enough to burn me up, but real: real fire.'
Burned - burnt - burnt up.
The pen has stopped moving. `Mr Lurie,' says the girl's father, and there is a crooked, pained smile on his face, 'I ask myself what on earth you think you are up to, coming to my school and telling me stories - '
'I'm sorry, it's outrageous, I know. That's the end. That's all I wanted to say, in self-defence. How is Melanie?'
'Melanie is well, since you ask. She phones every week. She has resumed her studies, they gave her a special dispensation to do that, I'm sure you can understand, under the circumstances. She is going on with theatre work in her spare time, and doing well. So Melanie is all right. What about you? What are your plans now that you have left the profession?'
'I have a daughter myself, you will be interested to hear. She owns a farm; I expect to spend some of my time with her, helping out. Also I have a book to complete, a sort of book. One way or another I will keep myself busy.'
He pauses. Isaacs is regarding him with what strikes him as piercing attention.
'So,' says Isaacs softly, and the word leaves his lips like a sigh: 'how are the mighty fallen!'
Fallen? Yes, there has been a fall, no doubt about that. But mighty? Does mighty describe him? He thinks of himself as obscure and growing obscurer. A figure from the margins of history.
`Perhaps it does us good', he says, 'to have a fall every now and then. As long as we don't break.'
'Good. Good. Good,' says Isaacs, still fixing him with that intent look. For the first time he detects a trace of Melanie in him: a shapeliness of the mouth and lips. On an impulse he reaches across the desk, tries to shake the man's hand, ends up by stroking the back of it. Cool, hairless skin.
'Mr Lurie,' says Isaacs: 'is there something else you want to tell me, besides the story of yourself and Melanie? You mentioned there was something on your heart.'
‘On my heart? No. No, I just stopped by to find out how Melanie was.' He rises. 'Thank you for seeing me, I appreciate it.' He reaches out a hand, straightforwardly this time. 'Goodbye.'
