The Childhood of Jesus (11 page)

Considering that the doves nesting in the gutter scratch and rustle and coo without cease, he sleeps quite well that night, on his bed of sacks in his little hideout. He goes without breakfast, yet is able to work a full day and feel fine at the end of it, if a little ethereal, a little ghostly.

Álvaro asks after the boy, and so touched is he by Álvaro's concern that for a moment he considers telling him the good news, the news that the boy's mother has been found. But then, mindful of Elena's reaction to the very same news, he checks himself and tells a lie: David has been taken by his teacher to a big music concourse.

A music concourse, says Álvaro, looking dubious: what is that, and where is it being held?

No idea, he replies, and changes the subject.

It would be a pity, it seems to him, if the boy were to lose touch with Álvaro and never again see his friend El Rey the draft horse. He hopes that, once she has strengthened her bond with him, Inés will allow the boy to visit the docks. The past is so shrouded in clouds of forgetting that he cannot be sure his memories are true memories rather than mere stories he makes up; but he does know that he would have loved it if, as a child, he had been allowed to set off of a morning in the company of grown men and spend the day helping them load and unload great ships. A dose of the real cannot but be good for the child, it seems to him, so long as the dose is not too sudden or too large.

He had intended to call at Naranjas for supplies, but he has left it too late: by the time he gets there the shop is closed. Hungry, and lonely too, he knocks once again at Elena's door. The door is opened by Fidel, in his pyjamas. ‘Hello, young Fidel,' he says, ‘may I come in?'

Elena is sitting at the table, sewing. She does not greet him, does not raise her eyes from her work.

‘Hello,' he says. ‘Is something wrong? Has something happened?'

She shakes her head.

‘David can't come here any more,' says Fidel. ‘The new lady says he can't come.'

‘The new lady,' says Elena, ‘has announced that your son is not allowed to play with Fidel.'

‘But why?'

She shrugs.

‘Give her time to settle down,' he says. ‘Being a mother is new to her. She is bound to be a little erratic at first.'

‘Erratic?'

‘Erratic in her judgments. Over-cautious.'

‘Like forbidding David to play with his friends?'

‘She does not know you or Fidel. Once she gets to know you, she will see what a good influence you are.'

‘And how do you propose that she get to know us?'

‘You and she are bound to bump into each other. You are neighbours, after all.'

‘We'll see. Have you eaten?'

‘No. The shops were closed by the time I got there.'

‘You mean Naranjas. Naranjas is closed on Mondays, I could have told you that. I can offer you a bowl of soup, if you don't mind a repeat of last night. Where are you living now?'

‘I have a room near the docks. It's a bit primitive, but it will do for the time being.'

Elena warms up the pot of soup and cuts bread for him. He tries to eat slowly, though in fact his appetite is wolfish.

‘You can't stay the night, I'm afraid,' she says. ‘You know why.'

‘Of course. I'm not asking to stay. My new quarters are perfectly comfortable.'

‘You have been expelled, haven't you? From your home. That's the truth, I can see it. You poor thing. Cut off from your boy, whom you love so much.'

He gets up from the table. ‘It has to be,' he says. ‘It's the nature of things. Thank you for the meal.'

‘Come again tomorrow. I'll feed you. It's the least I can do. Feed you and console you. Though I think you have made a mistake.'

He takes his leave. He ought to go straight to his new home at the docks. But he hesitates, then crosses the courtyard, climbs the stairs, and taps softly at the door of his old apartment. There is a crack of light under the door: Inés must still be up. After a long wait he taps again. ‘Inés?' he whispers.

A hand's breadth away on the other side he hears her: ‘Who is there?'

‘It's Simón. Can I come in?'

‘What do you want?'

‘Can I see him? Just for a minute.'

‘He's asleep.'

‘I won't wake him. I just want to see him.'

Silence. He tries the door. It is locked. A moment later the light clicks off.

CHAPTER 11

BY TAKING up residence at the docks he is probably infringing some regulation or other. That does not concern him. However, he does not want Álvaro to find out, for out of the goodness of his heart Álvaro is then bound to feel he has to offer him a home. So before leaving the toolshed each morning he takes care to tuck his few possessions away in the rafters where they will not be seen.

Keeping neat and clean is a problem. He visits the gymnasium at the East Blocks to shower; he washes his clothes by hand and hangs them on the East Blocks lines. He has no qualms about this—he is, after all, still on the list of residents—but out of prudence, not wishing to run into Inés, he pays his visits only after dark.

A week passes during which he gives all his energies to his work. Then on the Friday, with his pockets full of money, he knocks at the door of his old apartment.

The door is thrown open by a smiling Inés. Her face falls when she sees him. ‘Oh, it's you,' she says. ‘We are just on our way out.'

From behind her the boy emerges. There is something odd about his appearance. It is not just that he wears a new white shirt (in fact more blouse than shirt—it has a frilly front and hangs over his pants): he stands clutching Inés's skirt, not responding to his greeting, staring at him with great eyes.

Has something happened? Has it been a calamitous mistake to hand him over to this woman? And why does he tolerate this eccentric, girlish blouse—he who has been so attached to his little-man outfit, his coat and cap and lace-up boots? For the boots are gone too, replaced by shoes: blue shoes with straps instead of laces, and brass buttons on the side.

‘Lucky I caught you, in that case,' he says, trying to keep his tone light. ‘I have brought the electric heater I promised.'

Inés casts a dubious eye on the little one-bar heater he holds out. ‘At La Residencia there is an open fire in each apartment,' she says. ‘A man brings logs every evening and makes the fire.' She pauses abstractedly. ‘It is lovely.'

‘I am sorry. It must be a comedown, having to live in the Blocks.' He turns to the boy. ‘So you are going out for the evening. And where is it you are going?'

The boy does not answer directly, but casts a look up to his new mother as if to say,
You tell him
.

‘We're going to La Residencia for the weekend,' says Inés. And as though to confirm her, Diego, dressed in tennis whites, comes striding up the corridor.

‘That's nice,' he says. ‘I thought they didn't allow children at La Residencia. I thought that was the rule.'

‘That is the rule,' says Diego. ‘But it's a free weekend for the staff. There is no one to check.'

‘No one checks,' Inés echoes.

‘Well, I just dropped by to see if everything is all right, and perhaps to help with the shopping. Here: I brought a small contribution.'

Without a word of thanks Inés accepts the money. ‘Yes, all is well with us,' she says. She presses the child tight against her side. ‘We had a big lunch and then we had a nap, and now we are going off in the car to meet Bolívar, and in the morning we are going to play tennis and have a swim.'

‘That sounds exciting,' he says. ‘And we have a nice new shirt too, I see.'

The boy does not reply. His thumb is in his mouth, he has not stopped staring at him with those great eyes. More and more he is convinced there is something wrong.

‘Who is Bolívar?' he asks.

For the first time the boy speaks. ‘Bolívar is an Assación.'

‘An Alsatian,' says Inés. ‘Bolívar is our dog.'

‘Ah yes, Bolívar,' he says. ‘He was with you at the tennis court, wasn't he? I don't want to be an alarmist, Inés, but Alsatians don't have a good reputation around children. I hope you will take care.'

‘Bolívar is the gentlest dog in the world.'

He knows she does not like him. Up to this moment he has assumed it is because she is in debt to him. But no, the dislike is more personal and more immediate than that, and therefore more intractable. What a pity! The child will learn to look on him as an enemy, the enemy of their mother–child bliss.

‘Have a wonderful time,' he says. ‘Perhaps I will drop by again on Monday. Then you can tell me the whole story. Agreed?'

The boy nods.

‘Goodbye,' he says.

‘Goodbye,' says Inés. From Diego not a word.

He trudges back to the docks feeling that something has expired in him, feeling like an old man. He had one great task, and that task is discharged. The boy has been delivered to his mother. Like one of those drab male insects whose sole function is to pass on his seed to the female, he may as well wither away now and die. There is nothing left to build his life around.

He misses the boy. Waking up the next morning with the empty weekend before him is like waking after surgery to find a limb has been cut off—a limb or perhaps even his heart. He spends the day drifting about, killing time. He wanders around the empty docks; he roams back and forth across the parklands, where hosts of children are throwing balls or flying kites.

The feel of the boy's sweaty little hand in his is still vividly alive to him. Whether the boy loved him he does not know, but certainly he needed and trusted him. A child belongs with his mother: he would not for a moment deny that. But what if the mother is not a good mother? What if Elena is right? Out of what complex of private needs did this Inés, of whose history he knows not a jot, grasp a chance to have a child of her own? Perhaps there is wisdom in the law of nature which says that, before it can emerge into the world as a living soul, the embryonic being, the being-to-be, must for a term be borne in its mother's womb. Perhaps, like the weeks of inwardness that the mother bird spends sitting on her eggs, a period of seclusion and self-absorption is necessary not only for an animalcule to turn into a human being but also for a woman to turn from virgin into mother.

Somehow the day passes. He thinks of calling in at Elena's, then at the last minute changes his mind, unable to face the nagging interrogation that awaits him there. He has not eaten, has no appetite. He settles down on his bed of sacks, restless, fretting.

The next morning, at the crack of dawn, he is at the bus station. An hour passes before the first bus arrives. From the terminus he follows the uphill track to La Residencia, to the tennis court. The court is deserted. He sits down and waits.

At ten o'clock the second brother, the one he has not yet had the pleasure of being introduced to, arrives in his whites and begins to set up the net. He pays no attention to the stranger in plain sight not thirty paces away. After a while the rest of the party makes its appearance.

The boy sees him at once. In his knock-kneed way (he is an awkward runner) he dashes across the court. ‘Simón! We are going to play tennis!' he calls out. ‘Do you want to play too?'

He grips the boy's fingers through the mesh. ‘I'm not much of a tennis player,' he says, ‘I'd rather watch. Are you enjoying yourself? Are you getting enough to eat?'

The boy nods vigorously. ‘I had tea for breakfast. Inés says I am big enough to drink tea.' He turns and calls out, ‘I can drink tea, can't I, Inés?' then without a pause plunges on: ‘And I gave Bolívar his food and Inés says we can take Bolívar for a walk after tennis.'

‘Bolívar the Alsatian? Please be careful around Bolívar. Don't provoke him.'

‘Alsatians are the best dogs. When they catch a thief they never let go. Would you like to watch me play tennis? I'm not very good yet, I have to practise first.' With that he whirls around and dashes back to where Inés and her brothers stand conferring. ‘Can we practise now?'

They have outfitted him in brief white shorts. So, with the white blouse, he is all in white, save for the blue shoes with the straps. But the tennis racquet they have given him is far too large: even with two hands he can barely swing it.

Bolívar the Alsatian slinks across the court and settles down in the shade. Bolívar is a male, with huge shoulders and a black ruff. In looks he is not far removed from a wolf.

‘Come here, big man!' calls Diego. He stands over the boy, his hands enclosing the boy's hands as they hold the racquet. The other brother lobs a ball. Together they swing; they hit the ball cleanly. The brother lobs another ball. Again they hit it. Diego backs away. ‘There's nothing I can teach him,' he calls to his sister. ‘He is a natural.' The brother lobs a third ball. The boy swings the heavy racquet and misses, almost falling over in the effort.

‘You two play,' calls Inés to her brothers. ‘David and I will go and throw balls.'

With easy competence the two brothers knock a ball back and forth over the net, while Inés and the boy disappear behind the little wooden pavilion. He,
el viejo
, the silent watcher, is simply ignored. It could not be made more clear that he is unwanted.

CHAPTER 12

HE HAS vowed to keep his woes to himself, but when Álvaro asks a second time what has become of the boy (‘I miss him—we all miss him'), the whole story comes pouring out.

‘We went searching for his mother and—behold!—we found her,' he says. ‘Now the two of them are reunited, and they are very happy together. Unfortunately the kind of life Inés has in mind for him doesn't include hanging around the docks with the menfolk. It includes nice clothes and good manners and regular meals. Which is fair enough, I suppose.'