Why does the boy ask that? For a moment it seems as if there is more than idle curiosity in such a question, perhaps even concern. 'Latin is not a popular subject anymore. People no longer respect learning for the sake of learning.'
'Do you teach any other subjects?'
'English. But who speaks English well these days?'
Thus I fall into bitterness, self-deprecation that cries out for the response that sure enough follows. 'You're a very good teacher. I've ... learned a lot from you.'
'I was a good teacher ... once. Nowadays I just offer a little help here and there. A remedial tutor paid to raise some child's grades. I lost my vocation a long time ago.'
'But you've taught me. You've taught me Latin from scratch.'
'That I have. And I've enjoyed doing it. You've made me feel like a teacher again.'
Silence, broken only by the whirring of the ceiling fan. I cannot speak, nor meet the boy's gaze. I try, yes I do, to bring things to a close, to avoid further embarrassment. 'I should be going. Just run through the texts over the next few days by yourself, and you'll be fine. I don't suppose I'll see you before you leave for England.'
'No, probably not. You said you've never been there, right?'
'No. I haven't. I have a friend who went to England. Married an Englishman. A judge now, you know.' Richard stands up. I look at him and for some reason continue speaking, as if seeking to impress him.
'You know something. You know what that Englishman once said?' Richard shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head, but looks interested in the answer.
'He said he thought at first that I had been educated at Oxford.'
'The boy smiles, almost in amusement.
'But I wasn't, you know. I never was an Englishman. Never wanted to be. I wanted only to be a Singaporean.'
'But you are.'
'I'm just an old man.' Confusion and pain cloud the boy's features. I cannot leave on that note, and so continue in a lighter tone of voice. 'No, don't mind me. You, you're full of promise. You can do great things. Buy you have to be strong. It's not good enough just to do the right thing. You have to be strong enough to make what you do count. Maybe you can do that. But only if you will yourself to be strong enough. You can't depend on anyone else to help, not even someone you love, least of all someone you love.'
'That can't be right. What's the point of love then?'
What am I thinking of, talking in such a fashion? I can only confuse the boy, and what really do I mean? I think of the boy's mother, of the illness she is struggling with, think of how much she must mean to him. He is quiet and sensitive, a mother's boy, weak, ultimately weak.
'Tell me what you mean.' He has resumed his seat. I must finish.
'Some things can only be learned, not taught. These things can't be put into words. Loving someone is good, a wonderful thing, but it makes you weaker, more vulnerable. You love your mother so the pain she suffers becomes your pain.'
'So I shouldn't love...' Despair fills his voice. I struggle to dispel it.
'No, no. Once more, no. That's why I say these things cannot be taught. You should love, you will love, you won't be able to stop yourself and you shouldn't try. Just will yourself to be strong enough to survive your love. I see from your eyes that you still don't understand. You mistrust my words. You think I am too old.'
'No.'
'Yes, you do. Perhaps I am.' So finally, perhaps only to change the subject, I come to a point of which I have become almost convinced in recent days. 'Listen. You know my name?'
'I'm sorry?'
'My name?'
'Mr Isaac. So?'
'My first name is Abraham. Do you know the story of Abraham and Isaac?'
'Yes. Sure I do. God tested Abraham's obedience—asked him to sacrifice his only son, Isaac. Abraham obeyed. He went up to the mountain with Isaac, tied him to the altar. At the last moment, when Abraham was about to ... you know ... God stopped him. He provided a ram for Abraham to slaughter instead.'
'That's right. But have you ever thought of Isaac? At some point he must have realised what his father planned. Did he have such faith in God that He would intervene? How could he? He did not even know that God had spoken to his father. No, Isaac was ready to die. Why? Because he loved his father. He lay passively on the altar table, waiting for the knife. Love, boy, it leads you to sacrifice.'
'Even Abraham, he was caught between two loves.'
'Exactly. Sacrifice his son for the love of God. Or lose his soul for the love of his son. He was doubly vulnerable. And even though Isaac's life was spared by God, had not Abraham already betrayed his son?'
—Philip Jeyaretnam, Abraham's Promise
No comments:
Post a Comment