The Childhood of Jesus (17 page)

He pushes the door open. He is in a bare anteroom. Along one wall is a padded bench. The desk, marked
RECEPTION
, is bare save for a telephone. He takes a seat and waits.

After a long while someone emerges from a back room, a woman of middle age. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,' she says. ‘How can I help you?'

‘I'd like to become a member.'

‘Certainly. I'll just get you to fill out these two forms, and then I will need proof of identity.' She passes him a clipboard and a pen.

He glances at the first form. Name, address, age, employment. ‘You must get sailors coming in off ships,' he remarks. ‘Do they have to fill out forms too?'

‘Are you a sailor?' asks the woman.

‘No, I work at the docks but I am not a sailor. I mention sailors because they are on shore for only a night or two. Do they have to become members if they visit you?'

‘You have to be approved as a member to use the facility.'

‘And how long does it take, being approved?'

‘To be approved, not long. But after that you have to establish a slot with a therapist.'

‘
I
have to establish a slot?'

‘You have to be accepted on the list of one of our therapists. That may take time. Often their lists are full.'

‘So if I were one of the sailors I was talking about, a sailor with only a night or two on shore, there would be no point in coming here. My ship would be back on the high seas by the time I could get an appointment.'

‘Salón Confort isn't here for the benefit of sailors, señor. Sailors will have their own facilities back where they come from.'

‘They may have their own facilities back home, but they cannot make use of them. Because they are here, not there.'

‘Yes indeed: we have our facilities, they have theirs.'

‘I understand. If you don't mind my saying so, you speak like a graduate of the Institute—the Institute for Further Studies, I think it is called—in the city.'

‘Really.'

‘Yes. Of one of their philosophy courses. Logic maybe. Or rhetoric.'

‘No, I am not a graduate of the Institute. Now: have you made up your mind? Are you going to apply? If so, please go ahead and fill out the forms.'

The second form gives him more trouble than the first.
Application for Personal Therapist
, it is headed.
Use the space below to
describe yourself and your needs.

‘I am an ordinary man with ordinary needs,' he writes. ‘That is to say, my needs are not extravagant. Until recently I was full-time guardian to a child. Since giving up the child (terminating the guardianship) I have been somewhat lonely. Have not known what to do with myself.' He is repeating himself. That is because he is using a pen. If he had a pencil with an eraser he could present himself more economically. ‘I find myself in need of a friendly ear, to unburden myself. I have a close female friend, but her mind has been elsewhere of late. My relations with her lack true intimacy. It is only in conditions of intimacy that one can unburden oneself, I find.'

What else?

‘I am starved of beauty,' he writes. ‘Feminine beauty. Somewhat starved. I crave beauty, which in my experience awakens awe and also gratitude—gratitude at one's great good fortune to be holding in one's arms a beautiful woman.'

He considers crossing out the whole paragraph about beauty, but then does not. If he is going to be judged, let it be on the movements of his heart rather than the clarity of his thought. Or his logic.

‘Which is not to say that I am not a man, with a man's needs,' he concludes robustly.

Qué tontería
! What a farrago! What moral confusion!

He hands over the two forms. The receptionist peruses them—does not pretend not to be perusing them—from beginning to end. She and he are alone in the waiting room. Not a busy time of day. Beauty awakens awe: does he detect the faintest of smiles when she comes to that pronouncement? Is she a receptionist pure and simple, or does she have a background of her own in gratitude and awe?

‘You haven't ticked a box,' she says. ‘
Length of sessions: 30
minutes, 45 minutes, 60 minutes, 90 minutes.
Which length would you prefer?'

‘Let us say the maximum of relief: ninety minutes.'

‘You may have to wait some time to get a ninety-minute session. For reasons of scheduling. Nonetheless, I'll put you down for a long first session. You can change that later, should you so decide. Thank you, that is all. We will be in touch. We will write, informing you of when your first appointment will be.'

‘Quite a procedure. I can see why sailors are not welcome.'

‘Yes, the Salón is not set up for transients. But being a transient is itself a transient state. Someone who is a transient here will be at home where he comes from, just as someone whose home is here would be a transient elsewhere.'

‘
Per definitionem
,' he says. ‘Your logic is impeccable. I will await your letter.'

On the form he has given Elena's apartment as his address. The days pass. He checks with Elena: there is no letter for him.

He returns to the Salón. The same receptionist is on duty. ‘Do you remember me?' he says. ‘I was here the week before last. You said I would hear from you. I have heard nothing.'

‘Let me take a look,' she says. ‘Your name is…?' She opens a filing cabinet and brings out a file. ‘No problem with the application itself that I can see. The delay seems to be in marrying you to the right therapist.'

‘
Marrying
me? Perhaps I haven't made myself clear. Ignore what I wrote on the form about beauty and so forth. I am not looking for some ideal match, I am simply looking for company, female company.'

‘I understand. I will inquire. Give me a few days.'

Days pass. No letter. He should not have used the word
awe
. What young woman trying to earn a few reals on the side wants such a responsibility thrust upon her? The truth may be good, but less than the truth is sometimes better. Thus:
Why are you applying
for membership of Salón Confort?
Answer:
Because I am new in town
and lack contacts.
Question:
What sort of therapist are you looking for?
Answer:
Someone young and pretty.
Question:
How long do you want
sessions to be?
Answer:
Thirty minutes will do.

Eugenio seems intent on showing that their disagreement about rats, history, and the organization of dockside labour has left no hard feelings. More often than not, when he leaves work, he finds Eugenio dogging his steps, and has then to repeat the charade of catching the number 6 bus to the Blocks.

‘Have you made up your mind yet about the Institute?' asks Eugenio during one of their treks to the bus stop. ‘Do you think you will sign up?'

‘I'm afraid I haven't given the Institute much thought of late. I have been trying to enrol at a recreation centre.'

‘A recreation centre? You mean, like Salón Confort? Why would you want to join a recreation centre?'

‘Don't you and your friends use them? What do you do about—what shall I call them?—physical urges?'

‘Physical urges? Urges of the body? We were discussing those in class. Would you like to hear what conclusion we came to?'

‘Please.'

‘We started by noting that the urges in question have no specific object. That is to say, it is not some particular woman towards whom they impel us but towards woman in the abstract, the womanly ideal. Thus when, in order to still the urge, we resort to a so-called recreation centre, we in fact traduce the urge. Why so? Because the manifestations of the ideal on offer at such places are inferior copies; and union with an inferior copy can only leave the searcher disappointed and saddened.'

He tries to imagine Eugenio, this earnest young man with his owlish glasses, in the arms of an inferior copy. ‘You blame your disappointment on the women you meet at the Salón,' he replies, ‘but perhaps you should reflect on the urge itself. If it is of the nature of desire to reach for what lies beyond its grasp, should we be surprised if it is not satisfied? Did your teacher at the Institute not tell you that embracing inferior copies may be a necessary step in the ascent towards the good and the true and the beautiful?'

Eugenio is silent.

‘Think about it. Ask yourself where we would be if there were no such things as ladders. Here is my bus. Until tomorrow, my friend.'

‘Is there something wrong with me that I am not aware of?' he asks Elena. ‘I am referring to the club I tried to join. Why did they turn me down, do you think? You can be frank.'

In the last violet light of evening he and she are sitting by the window watching the swallows swoop and dive. Companionable: that is what they have become, over time.
Compañeros
by mutual agreement. Companionate marriage: if he offered, would Elena consent? Living with Elena and Fidel in their flat would certainly be more comfortable than making do in his lonely shed at the docks.

‘You can't be sure they have turned you down,' says Elena. ‘They probably have a long waiting list. Though I am surprised you persist with them. Why not try another club? Or why not simply withdraw?'

‘Withdraw?'

‘Withdraw from sex. You are old enough to do so. Old enough to seek your satisfactions elsewhere.'

He shakes his head. ‘Not yet, Elena. One more adventure, one more failure, then perhaps I will think of retiring. You did not answer my question. Is there something about me that alienates people? The way I speak, for example: does it put people off? Is my Spanish all wrong?'

‘Your Spanish is not perfect, but it improves every day. I hear plenty of new arrivals whose Spanish is not as good as yours.'

‘It's sweet of you to say so, but the fact is I don't have a good ear. Often I can't make out what people are saying, and have to resort to guessing. The woman at the club, for instance: I thought she was saying she wanted to marry me to one of the girls working there; but maybe I misheard her. I told her I wasn't hunting for a bride, and she looked at me as if I were crazy.'

Elena is silent.

‘It is the same with Eugenio,' he presses on. ‘I am beginning to think there is something in my speech that marks me as a man stuck in the old ways, a man who has not forgotten.'

‘Forgetting takes time,' says Elena. ‘Once you have properly forgotten, your sense of insecurity will recede and everything will become much easier.'

‘I look forward to that blessed day. The day when I will be made welcome in Salón Confort and Salón Relax and all the other salons of Novilla.'

Elena regards him sharply. ‘Or else you can cling to your memories, if that is what you prefer. But then don't come complaining to me.'

‘Please, Elena, don't mistake me. I place no value on my tired old memories. I agree with you: they are just a burden. No, it is something else that I am reluctant to yield up: not memories themselves but the feel of residence in a body with a past, a body soaked in its past. Do you understand that?'

‘A new life is a new life,' says Elena, ‘not an old life all over again in new surroundings. Look at Fidel—'

‘But what is the good of a new life,' he interrupts her, ‘if we are not transformed by it, transfigured, as I certainly am not?'

She gives him time to say more, but he is done.

‘Look at Fidel,' she says. ‘Look at David. They are not creatures of memory. Children live in the present, not the past. Why not take your lead from them? Instead of waiting to be transfigured, why not try to be like a child again?'

CHAPTER 18

HE AND the boy are taking a walk in the parklands, on the first of the excursions sanctioned by Inés. The gloom has lifted from his heart, there is a spring in his step. When he is with the child the years seem to fall away.

‘And how is Bolívar getting on?' he asks.

‘Bolívar ran away.'

‘Ran away! That's a surprise! I thought Bolívar was devoted to you and Inés.'

‘Bolívar doesn't like me. He only likes Inés.'

‘But surely you can like more than one person.'

‘Bolívar only likes Inés. He is her dog.'

‘You are Inés's son, but you don't love only Inés. You love me too. You love Diego and Stefano. You love Álvaro.'

‘No, I don't.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that. So Bolívar has departed. Where do you think he has gone?'

‘He came back. Inés put his food outside and he came back. Now she won't let him out at all.'

‘I'm sure he is just unused to his new home.'

‘Inés says it is because he smells lady dogs. He wants to mate with a lady dog.'

‘Yes, that is one of the trials of keeping a gentleman dog—he wants to be with the lady dogs. It's the way of nature. If gentleman dogs and lady dogs no longer wanted to mate, there would be no baby dogs born, and then after a while there would be no dogs at all. So it may be best to allow Bolívar a little freedom. How about your sleeping? Are you sleeping better? Have the bad dreams gone away?'

‘I dreamed about the boat.'

‘Which boat?'

‘The big boat. Where we saw the man with the hat. The pirate.'

‘The pilot, not the pirate. What did you dream?'

‘It sank.'

‘It sank? And what happened next?'

‘I don't know. I can't remember. The fishes came.'

‘Well, I'll tell you what happened. We were saved, you and I. We must have been saved, otherwise how would we be here now? So it was just a bad dream. Fishes don't eat people anyway. Fishes are harmless. Fishes are good.'

It is time to turn back. The sun is setting, the first stars are coming out.

‘Do you see those two stars there, where I am pointing—the two bright ones? They are the Twins, so called because they are always together. And that star there, just above the horizon, with the reddish tinge—that is the evening star, the first star to appear when the sun goes down.'