The Childhood of Jesus Read online

  ‘Stop!’ says señor León. ‘How did you learn to read in two weeks?’

  ‘He has spent a lot of time on Don Quixote,’ he, Simón, intervenes.

  ‘Let the boy speak for himself,’ says señor León. ‘If you could not read two weeks ago, how is it that you can read today?’

  The boy shrugs his shoulders. ‘It’s easy.’

  ‘Very well, if reading is so easy, tell me what you have been reading. Tell me a story from Don Quixote.’

  ‘He falls into a hole in the ground and no one knows where he is.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Then he escapes. With a rope.’

  ‘And what else?’

  ‘They lock him up in a cage and he makes poo in his pants.’

  ‘And why do they do that—lock him up?’

  ‘Because they won’t believe he is Don Quixote.’

  ‘No. They do it because there is no such person as Don Quixote. Because Don Quixote is a made-up name. They want to take him home so that he can recover his senses.’

  The boy casts him, Simón, a dubious glance.

  ‘David has his own reading of the book,’ he says to señor León. ‘He has a lively imagination.’

  Señor León does not deign to respond. ‘Juan and Pablo go fishing,’ he says. ‘Juan catches five fish. Write that on the blackboard: five. Pablo catches three fish. Write that underneath the five: three. How many fish do they catch together, Juan and Pablo?’

  The boy stands before the blackboard, his eyes screwed shut, as if listening for a far-off word to be spoken. The chalk does not move.

  ‘Count. Count one-two-three-four-five. Now count three more. How many does that give you?’

  The boy shakes his head. ‘I can’t see them,’ he says in a tiny voice.

  ‘You can’t see what? You don’t need to see fish, you just need to see the numbers. Look at the numbers. Five and then three more. How many is that?’

  ‘This time…this time…’ says the boy in the same tiny, lifeless voice, ‘it is…eight.’

  ‘Good. Make a line below the three, and write eight. So you were pretending all the time you said you could not count. Now show us how you write. Write, Conviene que yo diga la verdad, I must tell the truth. Write it. Con-viene.’

  Writing from left to right, forming the letters clearly if slowly, the boy writes: Yo soy la verdad, I am the truth.

  ‘You see,’ says señor León, turning to Inés. ‘This is what I had to deal with day after day while your son was in my class. I say, there can be only one authority in the classroom, there cannot be two. Do you disagree?’

  ‘He is an exceptional child,’ says Inés. ‘What kind of school are you running if you cannot cope with a single exceptional child?’

  ‘Refusing to listen to his teacher does not mean a child is exceptional, it just means he is disobedient. If you insist the boy must have special treatment, let him go to Punto Arenas. They know how to deal with exceptional children there.’

  Inés comes erect, her eyes blazing. ‘Over my dead body will he go to Punto Arenas!’ she says. ‘Come, my darling!’

  Carefully the boy replaces the chalk in its box. Glancing neither left nor right, he follows his mother out of the room.

  At the door Inés turns and hurls a last shaft at señor León: ‘You are not fit to teach children!’

  Señor León shrugs indifferently.

  As the days pass, Inés’s sense of outrage only grows stronger. She spends hours on the telephone to her brothers, making and remaking plans to leave Novilla and start a new life elsewhere, beyond the reach of the education authorities.

  As for him, mulling over the episode in the classroom, he finds it harder to feel ill used. He does not like the autocratic señor León; he agrees with Inés that he should not be in charge of small children. But why does the boy resist instruction? Is it just some inborn spirit of rebelliousness flaring up in him, fanned by his mother; or has the bad feeling between pupil and teacher a more specific cause?

  He takes the boy aside. ‘I know señor León can sometimes be very strict,’ he says, ‘and you and he have not always got along well. I am trying to understand why. Has señor León ever said anything nasty to you that you haven’t reported to us?’

  The boy gives him a puzzled look. ‘No.’

  ‘As I said, I am blaming no one, I am only trying to understand. Is there some reason why you don’t like señor León, besides the fact that he is strict?’

  ‘He has a glass eye.’

  ‘I am aware of that. He probably lost it in an accident. He probably feels sensitive about it. But we don’t make enemies of people just because they have glass eyes.’

  ‘Why does he say there is no Don Quixote? There is a Don Quixote. He is in the book. He saves people.’

  ‘True, there is a man in the book who calls himself Don Quixote and saves people. But some of the people he saves don’t really want to be saved. They are happy just as they are. They get cross with Don Quixote and shout at him. They say he doesn’t know what he is doing, he is upsetting the social order. Señor León likes order, David. He likes calm and order in his classroom. He likes order in the world. There is nothing wrong with that. Chaos can be very disturbing.’

  ‘What is chaos?’

  ‘I told you the other day. Chaos is when there is no order, no laws to hold on to. Chaos is just things whirling around. I can’t describe it any better.’

  ‘Is it like when the numbers open up and you fall?’

  ‘No, it isn’t, not at all. The numbers never open up. We are safe with the numbers. The numbers are what hold the universe together. You should make friends with the numbers. If you were more friendly to them, they would be more friendly to you. Then you would not have to fear they will give way beneath your feet.’

  He speaks as earnestly as he can, and the boy appears to hear that. ‘Why was Inés fighting with señor León?’ he asks.

  ‘They were not fighting. There was a flare-up between them, which they probably both regret, now that they have had time to reflect. But that isn’t the same as fighting. Strong words aren’t fighting. There are times when we have to stand up for those we love. Your mother was standing up for you. That is what a good mother, a brave mother, will do for her children: stand up for them, protect them, as long as there is breath left in her body. You should be proud to have a mother like that.’

  ‘Inés isn’t my mother.’

  ‘Inés is your mother. She is a true mother to you. She is your true mother.’

  ‘Are they going to take me away?’

  ‘Is who going to take you away?’

  ‘The people from Punto Arenas.’

  ‘Punto Arenas is a school. The teachers at Punto Arenas don’t kidnap children. That’s not how the education system works.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to Punto Arenas. Promise you won’t let them take me.’

  ‘I promise. Your mother and I won’t allow anyone to send you to Punto Arenas. You have seen what a tiger your mother is when it comes to defending you. No one will get past her.’

  The hearing takes place at the headquarters of the Office of Education in Novilla. He and Inés are there at the appointed time. After a short wait they are escorted into a huge, echoing chamber, with row upon row of empty seats. At the head, on a raised bench, sit two men and a woman, judges or examiners. Señor León is already in attendance. No greetings pass.

  ‘You are the parents of the boy David?’ says the judge in the centre.

  ‘I am his mother,’ says Inés.

  ‘And I am his godfather,’ says he. ‘He does not have a father.’

  ‘His father is deceased?’

  ‘His father is unknown.’

  ‘With which of you does the boy live?’

  ‘The boy lives with his mother. His mother and I do not live together. We do not have a connubial relationship. Nevertheless the three of us are a family. Of sorts. We are both devoted to David. I see him every day, almost.’
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br />   ‘We understand that David attended school for the first time in January, and was assigned to señor León’s class. Then after some weeks had passed you were called in together for a consultation. Is that correct?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And what did señor León report to you?’

  ‘He said that David was making poor academic progress, also that he was insubordinate. He recommended that he be removed from the class.’

  ‘Señor León, is that correct?’

  Señor León nods. ‘I discussed the case with señora Otxoa, the school psychologist. We agreed that David would benefit from being transferred to the school at Punto Arenas.’

  The judge looks around. ‘Is señora Otxoa present?’

  A court official whispers in his ear. The judge speaks: ‘Señora Otxoa cannot be present but has submitted a report which’—he shuffles through his papers—‘which, as you say, señor León, recommends a transfer to Punto Arenas.’

  The judge on the left speaks. ‘Señor León, can you explain why you feel such a move is necessary? It seems a very stern measure, to send a six-year-old to Punto Arenas.’

  ‘Señora, I have twelve years’ experience as a teacher. In all that time I have not had a like case. The boy David is not stupid. He is not handicapped. On the contrary, he is both gifted and intelligent. But he will not accept direction and he will not learn. I devoted many hours to him, at the expense of the other children in the class, trying to coax into him the elements of reading, writing, and arithmetic. He made no progress. He grasped nothing. Or rather, he pretended to grasp nothing. I say pretended because in fact he could already read and write by the time he came to school.’

  ‘Is this true?’ asks the presiding judge.

  ‘Read and write, yes, intermittently,’ he, Simón, responds. ‘He has good days and bad days. In the case of arithmetic he is experiencing certain difficulties, philosophical difficulties I like to call them, that hinder his progress. He is an exceptional child. Exceptionally intelligent, and exceptional in other ways too. He taught himself to read out of the book Don Quixote, in an abridged version for children. I became aware of this only very recently.’

  ‘The point at issue,’ says señor León, ‘is not whether the boy can read and write, or who taught him, it is whether he can be accommodated in an ordinary school. I do not have the time to deal with a child who refuses to learn and who by his behaviour disrupts the normal activities of the class.’

  ‘He is barely six years old!’ Inés bursts out. ‘What kind of teacher are you that you cannot control a six-year-old child?’

  Señor León stiffens. ‘I did not say I cannot control your son. What I cannot do is fulfil my duties to the other children while he is in the classroom. Your son is in need of special attention of a kind that we cannot provide in a normal school. That is why I recommended Punto Arenas.’

  A silence falls.

  ‘Do you have anything more to say, señora?’ asks the presiding judge.

  Inés tosses her head angrily.

  ‘Señor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I would ask you to retire—you too, señor León—and wait for our decision.’

  They retire to the waiting room, the three of them together. Inés cannot bring herself to look at señor León. After a few minutes they are recalled. ‘The decision of this tribunal,’ says the presiding judge, ‘is that the recommendation of señor León, seconded and supported by the school psychologist and by his principal, be upheld. The boy David will be transferred to the school at Punto Arenas, the transfer to take place as soon as possible. That is all. Thank you for attending.’

  ‘Your honour,’ he says, ‘may I ask whether we have a right of appeal?’

  ‘You may take the matter to the civil courts, of course, that is your right. But an appeal procedure may not be used as a means of forestalling this tribunal’s decision. That is to say, the transfer to Punto Arenas will take effect whether or not you go to the courts.’

  ‘Diego will pick us up tomorrow evening,’ says Inés. ‘It is all settled. He just has to finish off some business.’

  ‘And where are you planning to go?’

  ‘How must I know? Somewhere out of the reach of these people and their persecutions.’

  ‘Are you really going to let a band of school administrators hound you out of the city, Inés? How are you going to live, you and Diego and the child?’

  ‘I don’t know. Like gypsies, I suppose. Why don’t you help instead of just raising objections?’

  ‘What are gypsies?’ intervenes the boy.

  ‘Living like gypsies is just a way of speaking,’ he says. ‘You and I were gypsies of a kind while we lived in the camp at Belstar. Being a gypsy means that you don’t have a proper home, a place to lay your head. It’s not much fun being a gypsy.’

  ‘Will I have to go to school?’

  ‘No. Gypsy children don’t go to school.’

  ‘Then I want to be a gypsy with Inés and Diego.’

  He turns to Inés. ‘I wish you had discussed this with me. Do you really mean to sleep under hedges and eat berries while you hide from the law?’

  ‘This has nothing to do with you,’ replies Inés icily. ‘You don’t care if David goes to a reformatory. I do.’

  ‘Punto Arenas is not a reformatory.’

  ‘It is a dumping ground for delinquents—delinquents and orphans. My child is not going to that place, never, never, never.’

  ‘I agree with you. David does not deserve to be sent to Punto Arenas. Not because it is a dumping ground but because he is too young to be separated from his parents.’

  ‘Then why did you not stand up against those judges? Why did you bow and scrape and say Sí señor, Sí señor? Don’t you believe in the boy?’

  ‘Of course I believe in him. I believe he is exceptional and merits exceptional treatment. But those people have the law behind them, and we are in no position to challenge the law.’

  ‘Even when the law is bad?’

  ‘It is not a question of good or bad, Inés, it is a question of power. If you run away they will send the police after you and the police will catch you. You will be declared an unfit mother and the child will be taken away from you. He will be sent to Punto Arenas and you will have a battle on your hands ever to regain custody.’

  ‘They will never take my child away from me. I will die first.’ Her breast heaves. ‘Why don’t you help me instead of taking their side all the time?’

  He reaches out to placate her but she shakes him off, sinks down on the bed. ‘Leave me alone! Don’t touch me! You don’t really believe in the child. You don’t know what it means to believe.’

  The boy leans over her, strokes her hair. On his lips there is a smile. ‘Ssh,’ he says; ‘ssh.’ He lies down beside her; his thumb goes into his mouth; his eyes take on a glassy, absent look; within minutes he is asleep.

  CHAPTER 27

  ÁLVARO CALLS the stevedores together. ‘Friends,’ he says, ‘there is a matter we need to discuss. As you will remember, our comrade Simón proposed that we give up unloading cargoes by hand and resort instead to a mechanical crane.’

  The men nod. Some glance in his direction. Eugenio flashes him a smile.

  ‘Well, today I have news for you. A comrade from Roadworks tells me there is a crane at their depot that has been standing idle for months. If we wish to borrow it for a trial, he says, we are welcome to have it.

  ‘What shall we do, friends? Shall we accept his offer? Shall we see whether, as Simón claims, a crane will change our lives? Who wants to speak first? Simón, you?’

  He is taken completely by surprise. His mind is occupied with Inés and her plans for flight; not in weeks has he given a thought to cranes or rats or the economics of grain transport; indeed, he has come to depend on the unvarying grind of labour to exhaust him and bring him the boon of deep, dreamless sleep.

  ‘Not me,’ he says. ‘I have said my say.’

 
; ‘Who else?’ says Álvaro.

  Eugenio speaks up. ‘I say we should try the crane. Our friend Simón has a wise head on his shoulders. Who knows, he may be right. Maybe we should indeed move with the times. We will never know for sure unless we try.’

  There is a murmur of agreement from the men.

  ‘Shall we try the crane then?’ says Álvaro. ‘Shall I tell our comrade in Roadworks to bring it along?’

  ‘Aye!’ says Eugenio, and raises his hand. ‘Aye!’ say the stevedores in chorus, raising their hands. Even he, Simón, raises a hand. The vote is unanimous.

  The crane arrives the next morning on the back of a truck. It was once painted white, but the paint has flaked and the metal is rusted. It looks as if it has stood outdoors in the rain for a very long time. It is also smaller than he had expected. It runs on clattering steel tracks; the driver sits in a cab over the tracks, operating the controls that rotate the arm and turn the winch.

  It takes the best part of an hour to ease the machine off the back of the truck. Álvaro’s friend from Roadworks is impatient to leave. ‘Who is going to drive?’ he asks. ‘I’ll give him a quick tour of the controls, then I must be off.’

  ‘Eugenio!’ Álvaro calls out. ‘You spoke in favour of the crane. Would you like to drive it?’

  Eugenio looks around. ‘If no one else wants to, I will.’

  ‘Good! Then you are the man.’

  Eugenio proves a quick learner. In no time at all he is racing the little crane back and forth along the quay and rotating the arm, on which the hook swings gaily.

  ‘I’ve taught him what I can,’ the operator reports to Álvaro. ‘Let him go carefully for the first few days and he’ll be all right.’

  The arm of the crane is just long enough to reach up to the ship’s deck. The stevedores bring the bags up one by one from the hold, as before; but now, instead of carrying them down the gangplank, they drop them into a canvas sling. When the sling is full for the first time they give Eugenio a shout. The hook catches the sling; the steel rope tightens; the sling rises over the deck rails; and with a flourish Eugenio swings the load around and down in a wide arc. The men give a cheer; but their cheers turn to cries of alarm as the sling bumps the dockside and begins to spin and lurch out of control. The men scatter, all save he, Simón, who is either too self-absorbed to see what is going on or too sluggish to move. He has a glimpse of Eugenio staring down at him from the cab, mouthing words he cannot hear. Then the swinging load strikes him in the midriff and knocks him backwards. He staggers against a stanchion, trips over a rope, and tumbles into the space between the quay and the steel plates of the freighter. For a moment he is held there, gripped so tightly that it hurts to breathe. He is intensely aware that the ship has to drift only an inch and he will be crushed like an insect. Then the pressure slackens and he drops feet first into the water.