The Childhood of Jesus (30 page)

‘That's bad. But why won't your boy do sums the way his teacher tells him?'

‘Why should he, when a voice inside him says the teacher's way is not the true way?'

‘I don't follow. If the rules are true for you and for me and for everyone else, how can they not be true for him? And why do you call them man-made rules?'

‘Because two and two could just as well equal three or five or ninety-nine if we so decided.'

‘But two and two do equal four. Unless you give some strange, special meaning to
equal
. You can count it off for yourself: one
two
three
four
. If two and two really equalled three then everything would collapse into chaos. We would be in another universe, with other physical laws. In the existing universe two and two equal four. It is a universal rule, independent of us, not man-made at all. Even if you and I were to cease to be, two and two would go on equalling four.'

‘Yes, but
which
two and
which
two make four? Most of the time, Eugenio, I think the child simply doesn't understand numbers, the way a cat or dog doesn't understand them. But now and then I have to ask myself: Is there anyone on earth to whom numbers are more real?

‘While I was in hospital with nothing else to do, I tried, as a mental exercise, to see the world through David's eyes. Put an apple before him and what does he see? An apple: not
one
apple, just
an
apple. Put two apples before him. What does he see? An apple and an apple: not two apples, not the same apple twice, just an apple and an apple. Now along comes señor León (señor León is his class teacher) and demands:
How many apples, child?
What is the answer? What are
apples
? What is the singular of which
apples
is the plural? Three men in a car heading for the East Blocks: who is the singular of which
men
is the plural—Eugenio or Simón or our friend the driver whose name I don't know? Are we three, or are we one and one and one?

‘You throw up your hands in exasperation, and I can see why. One and one and one make three, you say, and I am bound to agree. Three men in a car: simple. But David won't follow us. He won't take the steps we take when we count:
one
step
two
step
three
. It is as if the numbers were islands floating in a great black sea of nothingness, and he were each time being asked to close his eyes and launch himself across the void.
What if I fall?
—that is what he asks himself.
What if I fall and then keep falling for ever?
Lying in bed in the middle of the night, I could sometimes swear that I too was falling—falling under the same spell that grips the boy.
If getting from one to two is so hard
, I asked myself,
how shall I
ever get from zero to one?
From nowhere to somewhere: it seemed to demand a miracle each time.'

‘The boy certainly has a lively imagination,' Eugenio muses. ‘Floating islands. But he will grow out of it. It must come out of longstanding feelings of insecurity. One can't help noticing how highly strung he is, how agitated he gets for no reason at all. Is there a history behind it, do you know? Did his parents fight a lot?'

‘His parents?'

‘His real parents. Does he carry some scar, some trauma from the past? No? Never mind. Once he begins to feel more secure in his surroundings, once it begins to dawn on him that the universe—not just the realm of numbers but everything else too—is ruled by laws, that nothing happens by chance, he will come to his senses and settle down.'

‘That is what his school psychologist said. Señora Otxoa. Once he finds his feet in the world, once he accepts who he is, his learning difficulties will disappear.'

‘I'm sure she is right. It will just take time.'

‘Perhaps. Perhaps. But what if we are wrong and he is right? What if between one and two there is no bridge at all, only empty space? And what if we, who so confidently take the step, are in fact falling through space, only we don't know it because we insist on keeping our blindfold on? What if this boy is the only one among us with eyes to see?'

‘That is like saying,
What if the mad are really sane and the
sane are really mad?
It is, if you don't mind my saying so, Simón, schoolboy philosophizing. Some things are simply true. An apple is an apple is an apple. An apple and another apple make two apples. One Simón and one Eugenio make two passengers in a car. A child doesn't find statements like that hard to accept—an ordinary child. He doesn't find them hard because they are true, because from birth we are, so to speak, attuned to their truth. As for being afraid of the empty spaces between numbers, have you ever pointed out to David that the number of numbers is infinite?'

‘More than once. There is no last number, I have told him. The numbers go on for ever. But what has that to do with it?'

‘There are good infinities and bad infinities, Simón. We talked about bad infinities before—remember? A bad infinity is like finding yourself in a dream within a dream within yet another dream, and so forth endlessly. Or finding yourself in a life that is only a prelude to another life which is only a prelude, etcetera. But the numbers aren't like that. The numbers constitute a good infinity. Why? Because, being infinite in number, they fill all the spaces in the universe, packed one against another tight as bricks. So we are safe. There is nowhere to fall. Point that out to the boy. It will reassure him.'

‘I will do so. But somehow I do not think he will be comforted.'

‘Don't misunderstand me, my friend. I am not on the side of the school system. I agree, it sounds very rigid, very old-fashioned. In my view, there is much to be said for a more practical, more vocational kind of schooling. David could learn to be a plumber or a carpenter, for instance. You don't need higher mathematics for that.'

‘Or for stevedoring.'

‘Or for stevedoring. Stevedoring is a perfectly honourable occupation, as both of us know. No, I agree with you: your youngster is getting a raw deal. Nevertheless, his teachers do have a point, don't they? It is not just a matter of following the rules of arithmetic but of learning to follow rules in general. Señora Inés is a very nice lady, but she does spoil the child excessively, anyone can see that. If a child is continually indulged and told he is special, if he is allowed to make up the rules for himself as he goes, what kind of man will he grow up to be? Perhaps a little discipline at this stage of his life won't do young David any harm.'

Though he feels the greatest goodwill towards Eugenio, though he has been touched by his readiness to befriend an older comrade as well as by his many kindnesses, though he does not blame him at all for the accident at the docks—hustled behind the controls of a crane, he himself would have done no better—he has never found it in his heart actually to like the man. He finds him prim and blinkered and self-important. His criticism of Inés makes him bristle. Nonetheless, he holds his temper in check.

‘There are two schools of thought, Eugenio, on the upbringing of children. One says that we should shape them like clay, forming them into virtuous citizens. The other says that we are children only once, that a happy childhood is the foundation of a happy later life. Inés belongs to the latter school; and, because she is his mother, because the bonds between a child and his mother are sacred, I follow her. Therefore no, I do not believe that more of the discipline of the schoolroom will be good for David.'

They drive on in silence.

At the East Blocks he asks the driver to wait while Eugenio helps him out of the car. Together they slowly make their way up the stairs. Emerging onto the second-floor corridor, they are greeted by a dismaying sight. Outside Inés's apartment stand two persons, a man and a woman, in identical dark blue uniform. The door is open; from within comes the sound of Inés's voice, high-pitched, angry. ‘No!' she is saying. ‘No, no, no! You have no right!'

What prevents the strangers from entering—he sees as they approach—is the dog, Bolívar, who crouches at the threshold, ears flattened, teeth bared, growling softly, watching their every move, ready to leap.

‘Simón!' Inés calls out to him. ‘Tell these people to go away! They want to take David back to that awful reformatory. Tell them they have no right!'

He draws a deep breath. ‘You have no rights over the boy,' he says, addressing the uniformed woman, small and neat as a bird, in contrast to her rather heavy-set companion. ‘I was the one who brought him here to Novilla. I am his guardian. I am in all respects that matter his father. Señora Inés'—he gestures towards Inés—‘is in all respects his mother. You do not know our son as we do. There is nothing wrong with him that needs to be corrected. He is a sensitive boy who has certain difficulties with the school curriculum—nothing more than that. He sees pitfalls, philosophical pitfalls, where an ordinary child would not. You cannot punish him for a philosophical disagreement. You cannot take him away from his home and his family. We will not allow it.'

His speech is followed by a long silence. From behind her watchdog, Inés glares belligerently at the woman. ‘We will not allow it,' she repeats at last.

‘And you, señor?' asks the woman, addressing Eugenio.

‘Señor Eugenio is a friend,' he, Simón, intervenes. ‘He has kindly accompanied me from the hospital. He is not part of this imbroglio.'

‘David is an exceptional child,' says Eugenio. ‘His father is devoted to him. I have seen that with my own eyes.'

‘Barbed wire!' says Inés. ‘What kind of delinquents do you have in your school that you need barbed wire to keep them in?'

‘The barbed wire is a myth,' says the woman. ‘A complete fabrication. I have no idea how it originated. There is no barbed wire at Punto Arenas. On the contrary, we have—'

‘He walked through the barbed wire!' Inés interrupts, raising her voice again. ‘It tore his clothes to shreds! And you have the cheek to say there is no barbed wire!'

‘On the contrary, we have an open-door policy,' the woman presses on gamely. ‘Our children are free to come and go. There are not even locks on the doors. David, tell us truthfully, is there barbed wire at Punto Arenas?'

Now that he looks more closely, he can see that the boy has been present throughout this altercation, half obscured behind his mother, listening solemnly, his thumb in his mouth.

‘Is there really barbed wire?' the woman repeats.

‘There is barbed wire,' the boy says slowly. ‘I walked through the barbed wire.'

The woman shakes her head, gives a little smile of disbelief. ‘David,' she says softly, ‘you know and I know that that is a fib. There is no barbed wire at Punto Arenas. I invite you all to come and see for yourselves. We can get in the car and drive there this minute. No barbed wire, none.'

‘I don't need to see,' says Inés. ‘I believe my child. If he says there is barbed wire, then it is true.'

‘But is it true?' says the woman, addressing the boy. ‘Is it real barbed wire, that we can see with our own eyes, or is it the sort of barbed wire that only certain people can see and touch, certain people with a lively imagination?'

‘It is real. It is true,' says the boy.

A silence falls.

‘So this is the issue,' says the woman at last. ‘Barbed wire. If I can prove to you that there is no barbed wire, señora, that the child is just making up stories, will you let him go?'

‘You can never prove that,' says Inés. ‘If the child says there is barbed wire then I believe him, there is barbed wire.'

‘And you?' asks the woman.

‘I believe him too,' he, Simón, replies.

‘And you, señor?'

Eugenio looks uncomfortable. ‘I would have to see for myself,' he says at last. ‘You can't expect me to commit myself, sight unseen.'

‘Well, we seem to be at an impasse,' says the woman. ‘Señora, let me put it to you. You have two choices: either you obey the law and release the child to us, or we are forced to call in the police. Which is it to be?'

‘Over my dead body will you take him away,' says Inés. She turns to him. ‘Simón! Do something!'

He stares back helplessly. ‘What must I do?'

‘This will not be a permanent separation,' says the woman. ‘David can come home every second weekend.'

Inés is grimly silent.

He makes a last appeal. ‘Señora, please reflect. What you are proposing to do will break a mother's heart. And for what? Here we have a child who happens to have ideas of his own about, of all things, arithmetic—not history, not language, but humble arithmetic—ideas that he will very likely grow out of before long. What kind of crime is it for a child to say that two and two make three? How is it going to shake the social order? Yet for that you want to tear him away from his parents and lock him up behind barbed wire! A six-year-old child!'

‘There is no barbed wire,' the woman repeats patiently. ‘And the child has been referred to Punto Arenas not because he can't do sums but because he is in need of specialized care. Pablo,' she says, addressing her silent companion, ‘wait here. I would like to have a private word with this gentleman.' And to him: ‘Señor, can I ask you to come with me?'

Eugenio takes his arm but he brushes the young man off. ‘I am all right, thank you, as long as I don't have to hurry.' To the woman he explains: ‘I have just come out of hospital. A workplace injury. I am still a little sore.'

He and she are alone in the stairwell. ‘Señor,' says the woman in a low voice, ‘please understand, I am not some kind of truant officer. By training I am a psychologist. I work with the children at Punto Arenas. During the brief time when David was with us, before he ran away, I took it upon myself to observe him closely. Because—I agree with you—he is very young to be away from home, and I was concerned that he should not feel forsaken.