The Childhood of Jesus Read online

‘There is a meeting of senior staff this morning. Señora Weiss is at the meeting. She will be back in the afternoon.’

  CHAPTER 2

  ON THE 29 bus he examines the vale de trabajo he has been given. It is nothing but a leaf torn from a notepad, on which is scribbled: ‘Bearer is a new arrival. Please consider him for employment.’ No official stamp, no signature, simply the initials P.X. It all seems very informal. Will it be enough to get him a job?

  They are the last passengers to dismount. Considering how extensive the docks are—wharves stretch upriver as far as the eye can see—they are strangely desolate. On only one quay does there seem to be activity: a freighter is being loaded or unloaded, men are ascending and descending a gangplank.

  He approaches a tall man in overalls who seems to be supervising operations. ‘Good day,’ he says. ‘I am looking for work. The people at the Relocation Centre said I should come here. Are you the right person to speak to? I have a vale.’

  ‘You can speak to me,’ says the man. ‘But are you not a little old for an estibador?’

  Estibador? He must look baffled, for the man (the foreman?) mimes swinging a load onto his back and staggering under the weight.

  ‘Ah, estibador!’ he exclaims. ‘I am sorry, my Spanish is not good. No, not too old at all.’

  Is it true, what he has just heard himself say? Is he really not too old for heavy work? He does not feel old, just as he does not feel young. He does not feel of any particular age. He feels ageless, if that is possible.

  ‘Try me out,’ he proposes. ‘If you decide I am not up to it, I will quit at once, with no hard feelings.’

  ‘Good,’ says the foreman. He screws the vale into a ball and lobs it into the water. ‘You can start at once. The youngster is with you? He can wait here with me, if you like. I’ll keep an eye on him. As for your Spanish, don’t worry, persist. One day it will cease to feel like a language, it will become the way things are.’

  He turns to the boy. ‘Will you stay with this gentleman while I help carry the bags?’

  The boy nods. He has his thumb in his mouth again.

  The gangplank is wide enough for only one man. He waits while a stevedore, bearing a bulging sack on his back, descends. Then he climbs up to the deck and down a stout wooden ladder into the hold. It takes a while for his eyes to adjust to the half-light. The hold is heaped with identical bulging sacks, hundreds of them, maybe thousands.

  ‘What is in the sacks?’ he asks the man beside him.

  The man regards him oddly. ‘Granos,’ he says.

  He wants to ask what the sacks weigh, but there is no time. It is his turn.

  Perched on top of the heap is a big fellow with brawny forearms and a wide grin whose job it evidently is to drop a sack onto the shoulders of the stevedore waiting in line. He turns his back, the sack descends; he staggers, then grips the corners as he sees the other men do, takes a first step, a second. Is he really going to be able to climb the ladder bearing this heavy weight, as the other men are doing? Does he have it in him?

  ‘Steady, viejo,’ says a voice behind him. ‘Take your time.’

  He places his left foot on the lowest rung of the ladder. It is a matter of balance, he tells himself, of keeping steady, of not letting the sack slide or the contents shift. Once things begin to shift or slide, you are lost. You go from being a stevedore to being a beggar shivering in a tin shelter in a stranger’s backyard.

  He brings up his right foot. He is beginning to learn something about the ladder: that if you rest your chest against it then the weight of the sack, instead of threatening to topple you off balance, will stabilize you. His left foot finds the second rung. There is a light ripple of applause from below. He grits his teeth. Eighteen rungs to go (he has counted them). He will not fail.

  Slowly, a step at a time, resting at each step, listening to his racing heart (What if he has a heart attack? What an embarrassment that will be!), he ascends. At the very top he teeters, then slumps forward so that the sack sags onto the deck.

  He gets to his feet again, indicates the sack. ‘Can someone give me a hand?’ he says, trying to control his panting, trying to sound casual. Willing hands heave the sack onto his back.

  The gangplank presents its own difficulties: it rocks gently from side to side as the ship moves, offering none of the support that the ladder did. He tries his best to hold himself erect as he descends, even though this means he cannot see where he is placing his feet. He fixes his eyes on the boy, who stands stock-still beside the foreman, observing. Let me not shame him! he says to himself.

  Without a stumble he reaches the quayside. ‘Turn left!’ calls out the foreman. Laboriously he turns. A cart is in the process of drawing up, a low flat-bottomed cart hauled by two huge horses with shaggy fetlocks. Percherons? He has never seen a Percheron in the flesh. Their rank, urinous smell envelops him.

  He turns and lets the sack of grain fall into the bed of the cart. A young man wearing a battered hat leaps lightly aboard and drags the sack forward. One of the horses drops a load of steaming dung. ‘Out of the way!’ calls out a voice behind him. It is the next of the stevedores, the next of his workmates, with the next sack.

  He retraces his steps into the hold, returns with a second load, then a third. He is slower than his mates (they have sometimes to wait for him), but not much slower; he will improve as he gets used to the work and his body toughens. Not too old, after all.

  Though he is holding them up, he senses no animus from the other men. On the contrary, they give him a cheery word or two, and a friendly slap on the back. If this is stevedoring, it is not such a bad job. At least one is accomplishing something. At least one is helping to move grain, grain that will be turned into bread, the staff of life.

  A whistle blows. ‘Break-time,’ explains the man beside him. ‘If you want to—you know.’

  The two of them urinate behind a shed, wash their hands at a tap. ‘Is there someplace one can get a cup of tea?’ he asks. ‘And perhaps something to eat?’

  ‘Tea?’ says the man. He seems amused. ‘Not that I know of. If you are thirsty you can use my mug; but bring your own tomorrow.’ He fills his mug at the tap, proffers it. ‘Bring a loaf too, or half a loaf. It’s a long day on an empty stomach.’

  The break lasts only ten minutes, then the work of unloading resumes. By the time the foreman blows his whistle for the end of the day, he has carried thirty-one sacks out of the hold onto the wharf. In a full day he could carry perhaps fifty. Fifty sacks a day: two tonnes, more or less. Not a great deal. A crane could move two tonnes in one go. Why do they not use a crane?

  ‘A good young man, this son of yours,’ says the foreman. ‘No trouble at all.’ No doubt he calls him a young man, un jovencito, to make him feel good. A good young man who will grow up to be a stevedore too.

  ‘If you were to bring in a crane,’ he observes, ‘you could get the unloading done in a tenth of the time. Even a small crane.’

  ‘You could,’ agrees the foreman. ‘But what would be the point? What would be the point of getting things done in a tenth of the time? It is not as if there is an emergency, a food shortage, for example.’

  What would be the point? It sounds like a genuine question, not a slap in the face. ‘So that we could devote our energies to some better task,’ he suggests.

  ‘Better than what? Better than supplying our fellow man with bread?’

  He shrugs. He should have kept his mouth shut. He is certainly not going to say: Better than lugging heavy loads like beasts of burden.

  ‘The boy and I need to hurry,’ he says. ‘We must be back at the Centre by six, otherwise we will have to sleep in the open. Shall I come back tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Of course, of course. You have done well.’

  ‘And can I get an advance on my pay?’

  ‘Not possible, I’m afraid. The paymaster doesn’t do his round until Friday. But if you are short of money’—he burrows into his pocket and comes out with a handful of
coins—‘here, take what you need.’

  ‘I am not sure what I need. I am new here, I have no idea of prices.’

  ‘Take it all. You can pay me back on Friday.’

  ‘Thank you. It is very kind of you.’

  It is true. To keep an eye on your jovencito while you work and then to cap it all by lending you money: not what you would expect of a foreman.

  ‘It’s nothing. You would do the same. Goodbye, young man,’ he says, turning to the boy. ‘See you bright and early in the morning.’

  They reach the office just as the woman with the dour face is closing up. Of Ana there is no sign.

  ‘Any news of our room?’ he asks. ‘Have you found the key?’

  The woman frowns. ‘Follow the road, take the first turn right, look for a long, flat building, it is called C Building. Ask for señora Weiss. She will show you your room. And ask señora Weiss whether you can use the laundry room to wash your clothes.’

  He picks up the hint and flushes. After a week without a bath the child has begun to smell; no doubt he smells even worse.

  He shows her his money. ‘Can you tell me how much is this?’

  ‘Can’t you count?’

  ‘I mean, what can I buy with it? Can I buy a meal?’

  ‘The Centre does not provide meals, only breakfast. But speak to señora Weiss. Explain your situation. She may be able to help you.’

  C-41, señora Weiss’s office, is closed and locked as before. But in the basement, in a nook under the stairs lit by a single bare bulb, he comes upon a young man sprawled in a chair reading a magazine. As an addition to the chocolate-coloured Centre uniform the fellow wears a tiny round hat with a strap under the chin, like a performing monkey’s.

  ‘Good evening,’ he says. ‘I am looking for the elusive señora Weiss. Have you any idea where she is? We have been allocated a room in this building, and she has the key, or at least the master key.’

  The young man gets to his feet, clears his throat, and responds. His response is polite but in the end not helpful. If señora Weiss’s office is locked then the señora has probably gone home. As for any master key, if one exists then it is likely to be in the same locked office. Similarly for the key to the laundry room.

  ‘Can you at least direct us to room C-55?’ he asks. ‘C-55 is the room allocated to us.’

  Without a word the young man leads them down a long corridor, past C-49, C-50…C-54. They reach C-55. He tries the door. It is not locked. ‘Your troubles are over,’ he remarks with a smile, and withdraws.

  C-55 is small, windowless, and exceedingly simply furnished: a single bed, a chest of drawers, a washbasin. On the chest of drawers is a tray holding a saucer with two and a half cubes of sugar in it. He gives the sugar to the boy.

  ‘Do we have to stay here?’ asks the boy.

  ‘Yes, we have to stay here. It will only be for a short time, while we look for something better.’

  At the far end of the corridor he locates a shower cubicle. There is no soap. He undresses the child, undresses himself. Together they stand under a thin stream of tepid water while he does his best to wash them. Then, while the child waits, he holds their underwear under the same stream (which soon turns cool and then cold) and wrings it out. Defiantly naked, with the child beside him, he pads down the bare corridor back to their room and bolts the door. With their one and only towel he dries the boy. ‘Now get into bed,’ he says.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ complains the boy.

  ‘Be patient. We will have a big breakfast in the morning, I promise. Think about that.’ He tucks him into bed, gives him a goodnight kiss.

  But the boy is not sleepy. ‘What are we here for, Simón?’ he asks quietly.

  ‘I told you: we are here just for a night or two, till we find a better place to stay.’

  ‘No, I mean, why are we here?’ His gesture takes in the room, the Centre, the city of Novilla, everything.

  ‘You are here to find your mother. I am here to help you.’

  ‘But after we find her, what are we here for?’

  ‘I don’t know what to say. We are here for the same reason everyone else is. We have been given a chance to live and we have accepted that chance. It is a great thing, to live. It is the greatest thing of all.’

  ‘But do we have to live here?’

  ‘Here as opposed to where? There is nowhere else to be but here. Now close your eyes. It is time to sleep.’

  CHAPTER 3

  HE WAKES up in a good mood, full of energy. They have a place to stay, he has a job. It is time to set about the chief task: finding the boy’s mother.

  Leaving the boy asleep, he steals out of the room. The main office has just opened. Ana, behind the counter, greets him with a smile. ‘Did you have a good night?’ she asks. ‘Have you settled in?’

  ‘Thank you, we have settled in. But now I have another favour to ask. You may remember, I asked you about tracking down family members. I need to find David’s mother. The trouble is, I don’t know where to start. Do you keep records of arrivals in Novilla? If not, is there some central registry I can consult?’

  ‘We keep a record of everyone who passes through the Centre. But records won’t help if you don’t know what you are looking for. David’s mother will have a new name. A new life, a new name. Is she expecting you?’

  ‘She has never heard of me so she has no reason to expect me. But as soon as the child sees her he will recognize her, I am sure of that.’

  ‘How long have they been separated?’

  ‘It is a complicated story, I won’t burden you with it. Let me simply say I promised David I would find his mother. I gave him my word. So may I have a look at your records?’

  ‘But without a name, how will that help you?’

  ‘You keep copies of passbooks. The boy will recognize her from a photograph. Or I will. I will know her when I see her.’

  ‘You have never met her but you will recognize her?’

  ‘Yes. Separately or together, he and I will recognize her. I am confident of that.’

  ‘What about this anonymous mother herself? Are you sure she wants to be reunited with her son? It may seem heartless to say, but most people, by the time they get here, have lost interest in old attachments.’

  ‘This case is different, truly. I can’t explain why. Now: may I look at your records?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No, that I can’t permit. If you had the mother’s name it would be a different matter. But I can’t let you hunt through our files at will. It is not just against regulations, it is absurd. We have thousands of entries, hundreds of thousands, more than you can count. Besides, how do you know she passed through the Novilla centre? There is a reception centre in every city.’

  ‘I concede, it makes no sense. Nevertheless, I plead with you. The child is motherless. He is lost. You must have seen how lost he is. He is in limbo.’

  ‘In limbo. I don’t know what that means. The answer is no. I am not going to give in, so don’t press me. I am sorry for the boy, but this is not the correct way to proceed.’

  There is a long silence between them.

  ‘I can do it late at night,’ he says. ‘No one will know. I will be quiet, I will be discreet.’

  But she is not attending to him. ‘Hello!’ she says, looking over his shoulder. ‘Have you just got up?’

  He turns. In the doorway, tousle-haired, barefoot, in his underwear, his thumb in his mouth, still half asleep, stands the boy.

  ‘Come!’ he says. ‘Say hello to Ana. Ana is going to help us in our quest.’

  The boy ambles across to them.

  ‘I will help you,’ says Ana, ‘but not in the way you ask. People here have washed themselves clean of old ties. You should be doing the same: letting go of old attachments, not pursuing them.’ She reaches down, ruffles the boy’s hair. ‘Hello, sleepy head!’ she says. ‘Aren’t you washed clean yet? Tell your dad you are washed clean.’

  The boy looks from her to him and back again. �
��I’m washed clean,’ he mumbles.

  ‘There!’ says Ana. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’

  They are in the bus, on their way to the docks. After a substantial breakfast the boy is decidedly more cheerful than yesterday.

  ‘Are we going to see Álvaro again?’ he says. ‘Álvaro likes me. He lets me blow his whistle.’

  ‘That’s nice. Did he say you could call him Álvaro?’

  ‘Yes, that’s his name. Álvaro Avocado.’

  ‘Álvaro Avocado? Well, remember, Álvaro is a busy man. He has lots of things to do besides child-minding. You must take care not to get in his way.’

  ‘He’s not busy,’ says the boy. ‘He just stands and looks.’

  ‘It may seem to you like standing and looking, but in fact he is supervising us, seeing to it that ships get unloaded in time, seeing to it that everyone does what he is supposed to do. It is an important job.’

  ‘He says he is going to teach me chess.’

  ‘That’s good. You will like chess.’

  ‘Will I always be with Álvaro?’

  ‘No, soon you will find other boys to play with.’

  ‘I don’t want to play with other boys. I want to be with you and Álvaro.’

  ‘But not all the time. It’s not good for you to be with grownups all the time.’

  ‘I don’t want you to fall into the sea. I don’t want you to drown.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take great care not to drown, I promise you. You can shoo away dark thoughts like that. You can let them fly away like birds. Will you do that?’

  The boy does not respond. ‘When are we going to go back?’ he says.

  ‘Back across the sea? We are not going back. We are here now. This is where we live.’

  ‘For ever?’

  ‘For good. Soon we will begin our search for your mother. Ana will help us. Once we have found your mother, you won’t have any more thoughts about going back.’

  ‘Is my mother here?’

  ‘She is somewhere nearby, waiting for you. She has been waiting a long time. All will become clear as soon as you lay eyes on her. You will remember her and she will remember you. You may think you are washed clean, but you aren’t. You still have your memories, they are just buried, temporarily. Now we must get off. This is our stop.’