The Childhood of Jesus (32 page)

‘I am sure he will. He is an exceptional child, with an exceptional future. We both know it.'

The headlights pick out a painted sign at the roadside.
Cabañas
5 km
. Soon afterwards there is another sign:
Cabañas 1 km
.

The
cabañas
in question are set off from the road, in total darkness. They find the office; he gets out and raps on the door. It is opened by a woman in a dressing gown holding a lantern. For the past three days the electricity has been cut off, she informs them. No electricity, therefore no
cabañas
for hire.

Inés speaks. ‘We have a child in the car. We are exhausted. We can't go on driving all night. Don't you have candles we can use?'

He returns to the car, shakes the child. ‘Time to wake up, my precious.'

In a single fluid moment the dog rises and slips out of the car, the heavy shoulders brushing him aside like a straw.

The boy rubs his eyes sleepily. ‘Are we there?'

‘No, not yet. We are going to stop for the night.'

By the light of her lantern the woman shows them over the nearest of the
cabañas
. It is skimpily furnished but it has two beds. ‘We will take it,' says Inés. ‘Is there anywhere we can get a meal?'

‘The
cabañas
are self-catering,' the woman replies. ‘You have a gas cooker over there.' She waves the lantern in the direction of the cooker. ‘Have you brought no supplies?'

‘We have a loaf of bread, and some fruit juice for the child,' says Inés. ‘We didn't have time to shop. Can we buy food from you? Perhaps some chops or sausages. Not fish. The child doesn't eat fish. And some fruit. And whatever scraps you have for the dog.'

‘Fruit!' says the woman. ‘It's a long time since we last saw fruit. But come, let us see what we can find.'

The two women depart, leaving them in darkness.

‘I do eat fish,' says the boy, ‘only not if it has eyes.'

Inés returns with a can of beans, a can of what the label calls cocktail sausages in brawn, and a lemon, as well as a candle and matches.

‘What about Bolívar?' asks the boy.

‘Bolívar will have to eat bread.'

‘He can eat my sausages,' says the boy. ‘I hate sausages.'

They eat a frugal meal by candlelight, sitting side by side on the bed.

‘Brush your teeth, then it is bedtime,' says Inés.

‘I'm not tired,' says the boy. ‘Can we play a game? Can we play Truth or Consequences?'

It is his turn to baulk. ‘Thank you, David, but I have had enough consequences for one day. I need to rest.'

‘Then can I open señor Daga's present?'

‘What present?'

‘Señor Daga gave me a present. He said I must open it in time of need. It's time of need now.'

‘Señor Daga gave him a present to take along,' says Inés, avoiding his eyes.

‘It's time of need, so can I open it?'

‘This is not the real time of need, the real time of need is yet to come,' he says, ‘but yes, open it.'

The boy runs out to the car and returns bearing a cardboard box, which he tears open. It contains a black satin gown. He lifts this out and unfolds it. Not a gown but a cape.

‘There is a note,' says Inés. ‘Read it.'

The boy brings the paper closer to the candle and reads:
Behold the magic cloak of invisibility
.
Whoever wears it shall walk the
world unseen.
‘I told you!' he cries, dancing with excitement. ‘I told you señor Daga knows magic!' He wraps the cape around himself. It is much too large. ‘Can you see me, Simón? Am I invisible?'

‘Not quite. Not yet. You didn't read the whole note. Listen.
Instructions to the wearer. To attain invisibility, wearer shall don the cloak
before a mirror, then set fire to the magic powder and utter the secret spell.
Whereupon the earthly body shall vanish into the mirror leaving only the
traceless spirit behind.'

He turns to Inés. ‘What do you think, Inés? Shall we let our young friend don the cloak of invisibility and utter the secret spell? What if he vanishes into the mirror and never returns?'

‘You can wear the cloak tomorrow,' says Inés. ‘It is too late now.'

‘No!' says the boy. ‘I am going to wear it now! Where is the magic powder?' He rummages in the box, comes up with a glass jar. ‘Is this the magic powder, Simón?'

He opens the jar and smells the silvery powder. It has no smell.

There is a full-length mirror, spotted with fly droppings, on the wall of the
cabaña
. He sets the boy before the mirror, buttons the cape at his throat. It descends in heavy folds around his feet. ‘Here: hold the candle in one hand. Hold the magic powder in the other. Are you ready with the magic spell?'

The boy nods.

‘Very well. Sprinkle the powder over the candle flame and utter the spell.'

‘Abracadabra,' says the boy, and sprinkles the powder. It falls to the floor in a brief rain. ‘Am I invisible yet?'

‘Not yet. Try more of the powder.'

The boy dips the candle flame into the jar. There is a huge eruption of light, then utter darkness. Inés utters a cry; he himself recoils, blinded. The dog begins barking like a thing possessed.

‘Can you see me?' comes the boy's voice, tiny, unsure. ‘Am I invisible?'

Neither of them speaks.

‘I can't see,' says the boy. ‘Save me, Simón.'

He gropes his way to the boy, raises him from the floor, kicks the cloak aside.

‘I can't see,' says the boy. ‘My hand hurts. Am I dead?'

‘No, of course not. You are neither invisible nor dead.' He gropes on the floor, finds the candle, lights it. ‘Show me your hand. I don't see anything wrong with your hand.'

‘It hurts.' The boy sucks his fingers.

‘You must have burned it. I will go and see if the lady is still awake. Perhaps she can give us some butter to take away the burn.' He passes the boy into Inés's arms. She embraces him, kisses him, lays him down on the bed, croons softly over him.

‘It's dark,' says the boy. ‘I can't see anything. Am I inside the mirror?'

‘No, my darling,' says Inés, ‘you aren't inside the mirror, you are with your mother, and everything is going to be all right.' She turns to him, Simón. ‘Fetch a doctor!' she hisses.

‘It must have been magnesium powder,' he says. ‘I fail to understand how your friend Daga could have given a child such a dangerous present. But then'—malice overcomes him—‘there is much that I fail to understand about your friendship with that man. And please shut the dog up—I am sick of his insane barking.'

‘Stop complaining! Do something! Señor Daga is none of your business. Go!'

He leaves the cabin, follows the moonlit path to the señora's office.
Like an old married couple
, he thinks to himself.
We have never
been to bed together, not even kissed, yet we quarrel as if we have been
married for years!

CHAPTER 30

THE CHILD sleeps soundly, but when he wakes it is clear that his sight is still impaired. He describes rays of green light travelling across his field of vision, cascades of stars. Far from being upset, he seems enthralled by these manifestations.

He knocks at señora Robles' door. ‘We had an accident last night,' he tells her. ‘Our son needs to see a doctor. Where is the nearest hospital?'

‘Novilla. We can call for an ambulance, but it would have to come from Novilla. It will be quicker to take him yourself.'

‘Novilla is quite a distance. Is there no doctor nearby?'

‘There is a surgery in Nueva Esperanza, about sixty kilometres from here. I will look up the address for you. The poor child. What happened?'

‘He was playing with inflammable material. It caught fire and the glare blinded him. We thought his sight might come back overnight but it hasn't.'

Señora Robles clucks sympathetically. ‘Let me come and take a look,' she says.

They find Inés chafing to go. The boy sits on the bed, wearing the black cloak, his eyes closed, a rapt smile on his face.

‘Señora Robles says there is a doctor an hour's drive from here,' he announces.

Señora Robles kneels down stiffly before the boy. ‘Sweetheart, your father says you can't see. Is it true? Can't you see me?'

The boy opens his eyes. ‘I can see you,' he says. ‘You've got stars coming out of your hair. If I close my eyes'—he closes his eyes—‘I can fly. I can see the whole world.'

‘That's wonderful, being able to see the whole world,' says señora Robles. ‘Can you see my sister? She lives in Margueles, near Novilla. Her name is Rita. She looks like me, only younger and prettier.'

The boy frowns with concentration. ‘I can't see her,' he says at last. ‘My hand is too sore.'

‘He burned his fingers last night,' he, Simón, explains. ‘I was going to ask you for some butter to put on the burn, but it was late and I didn't want to wake you.'

‘I'll fetch the butter. Have you tried washing his eyes with salt?'

‘It is the sort of blindness you get from looking into the sun. Salt won't help. Inés, are we ready to leave? Señora, how much do we owe you?'

‘Five reals for the cabin and two for the supplies last night. Would you like some coffee before you leave?'

‘Thank you, but we don't have time.'

He takes the boy's hand, but the boy tugs himself free. ‘I don't want to go,' he says. ‘I want to stay here.'

‘We can't stay. You need to see a doctor and señora Robles needs to clean the
cabaña
for her next visitors.'

The boy folds his arms tightly, refusing to budge.

‘I'll tell you what,' says señora Robles. ‘You go off to the doctor and on the way back you and your parents can come and stay with me again.'

‘They are not my parents and we are not coming back. We are going to the new life. Will you come with us to the new life?'

‘Me? I don't think so, sweetheart. It's kind of you to invite me, but I have too many things to do here, and anyway I get carsick. Where are you going to find this new life?'

‘In Estell…In Estrellita del Norte.'

Señora Robles shakes her head dubiously. ‘I don't think you will find much of a new life in Estrellita. I have friends who moved there, and they say it is the most boring place in the world.'

Inés intervenes. ‘Come,' she commands the boy. ‘If you don't come I will have to carry you. I am counting to three. One. Two. Three.'

Without a word the boy rises and, lifting the hem of his cloak, trudges down the path to the car. Pouting, he takes his place on the back seat. The dog leaps in easily after him.

‘Here is the butter,' says señora Robles. ‘Smear it on your sore fingers and wrap a handkerchief around them. The burn will soon go away. Also, here is a pair of dark glasses that my husband doesn't use any more. Wear them until your eyes get better.'

She puts the glasses on the boy. They are far too large, but he does not remove them.

They wave goodbye and take the road north.

‘You shouldn't tell people we are not your parents,' he remarks. ‘In the first place, it is not true. In the second place, they may think we are kidnapping you.'

‘I don't care. I don't like Inés. I don't like you. I only like brothers. I want to have brothers.'

‘You are in a bad mood today,' says Inés.

The boy pays no heed. Through the señora's dark glasses he stares into the sun, fully risen now above the line of blue mountains in the distance.

A road sign comes into view:
Estrellita del Norte 475 km,
Nueva Esperanza 50 km
. Beside the sign stands a hitchhiker, a young man wearing an olive-green poncho with a rucksack at his feet, looking very lonely in the empty landscape. He slows down.

‘What are you doing?' says Inés. ‘We don't have time to pick up strangers.'

‘Pick up who?' says the boy.

In the rear-view mirror he can see the hitchhiker trotting towards the car. Guiltily he accelerates away from him.

‘Pick up who?' says the boy. ‘Who are you talking about?'

‘Just a man begging for a lift,' says Inés. ‘We don't have space in the car. And we don't have time. We have to get you to a doctor.'

‘No! If you don't stop I am going to jump out!' And he opens the door nearest him.

He, Simón, brakes sharply and switches off the engine. ‘Don't ever do that again! You can fall and kill yourself.'

‘I don't care! I want to go to the other life! I don't want to be with you and Inés!'

A stunned silence falls. Inés stares at the road ahead. ‘You don't know what you are saying,' she whispers.

A crunch of footsteps, and a bearded face appears at the driver's window. ‘Thank you!' the stranger pants. He yanks open the back door. ‘Hello, young man!' he says, then freezes as the dog, stretched out on the seat beside the boy, raises his head and gives a low growl.

‘What a huge dog!' he says. ‘What's his name?'

‘Bolívar. He is an Alsatian. Be quiet, Bolívar!' Wrapping his arms around the dog, the boy wrestles him off the seat. Reluctantly the dog settles on the floor at his feet. The stranger takes his place; the car is suddenly full of the sour smell of unwashed clothing. Inés winds down her window.

‘Bolívar,' says the young man. ‘That's an unusual name. And what is your name?'

‘I haven't got a name. I've still got to get my name.'

‘Then I'll call you señor Anónimo,' says the young man. ‘Greetings, señor Anónimo, I am Juan.' He holds out a hand, which the boy ignores. ‘Why are you wearing a cloak?'

‘It's magic. It makes me invisible. I'm invisible.'