The Childhood of Jesus Page 22

  ‘Help!’ he gasps. ‘Help me!’

  A lifebuoy slaps into the water beside him, painted in bright red and white bands. From above comes the voice of Álvaro: ‘Simón! Listen! Hold on and we will pull you clear.’

  He grips the buoy; like a fish he is drawn along the quayside into open water. Again Álvaro’s voice: ‘Hold tight, we are going to pull you up!’ But when the buoy begins to rise the pain is suddenly too much. His grip fails and he falls back into the water. There is oil all over him, in his eyes, in his mouth. Is this then how it ends? he says to himself. Like a rat? How ignominious!

  But now Álvaro is beside him, bobbing in the water, his hair plastered to his scalp with oil. ‘Relax, old friend,’ says Álvaro. ‘I will hold you.’ Gratefully he relaxes into Álvaro’s arms. ‘Haul!’ calls Álvaro; and the two of them, in tight embrace, rise out of the water.

  He comes to himself in confusion. He is on his back looking up into an empty sky. There are vague figures around him, and a buzz of talk, but he cannot make out a word. His eyes close and he is gone again.

  He wakes again to a thudding noise. The noise seems to be coming from inside him, from inside his head. ‘Wake up, viejo!’ says a voice. He opens one eye, sees a fat, sweating face above him. I am awake, he would like to say, but his voice has gone dead.

  ‘Look at me!’ say the fat lips. ‘Can you hear me? Blink your eyes if you can hear me.’

  He blinks.

  ‘Good. I am going to give you a shot of painkiller, then we will get you out of here.’

  Painkiller? I have no pain, he wants to say. Why should I have pain? But whatever it is that speaks for him will not speak today.

  Because he is a member of the stevedores’ union—an affiliation of which he was not aware—he is entitled to a private room in the hospital. He is tended in his room by a team of kindly nurses, to one of whom, a middle-aged woman named Clara with grey eyes and a quiet smile, he grows quite attached in the weeks that follow.

  The consensus seems to be that he got off lightly from his accident. He has broken three ribs. A sliver of bone had punctured a lung, and a small surgical operation was needed to remove it (would he like to keep the bone as a memento?—it is in a phial by his bedside). There are cuts and bruises on his face and upper body, and he has lost some skin, but there is no evidence of injury to the brain. A few days under observation, a few weeks more of taking things easy, and he should be himself again. In the meantime, controlling the pain will be the first priority.

  His most constant visitor is Eugenio, who is full of remorse for his incompetence with the crane. He tries his best to comfort the younger man—‘How could you be expected to master a new machine in so short a time?’—but Eugenio will not be comforted. When he surfaces from his slumbers it is more often than not Eugenio who swims into his vision, watching over him.

  Álvaro visits too, as do other comrades from the docks. Álvaro has spoken to the doctors, and bears the news that, even though he may expect a full recovery, it would be unwise for him, at his age, to go back to a life of stevedoring.

  ‘Perhaps I can become a crane operator,’ he suggests. ‘I couldn’t do worse than Eugenio.’

  ‘If you want to be a crane operator you will have to transfer to Roadworks,’ replies Álvaro. ‘Cranes are too dangerous. They have no future at the docks. Cranes were always a bad idea.’

  He hopes that Inés will come visiting, but she does not. He fears the worst: that she has carried out her plan to take the boy and flee.

  He mentions his concern to Clara. ‘I have a woman friend,’ he says, ‘whose young son I am very fond of. For reasons I won’t go into, the education authorities have been threatening to take him away from her and send him to a special school. Could I ask you a favour? Could you telephone her and find out if there have been any developments?’

  ‘Of course,’ says Clara. ‘But wouldn’t you like to speak to her yourself? I can bring a telephone to your bed.’

  He calls the Blocks. The telephone is answered by a neighbour, who goes off, comes back, and reports that Inés is not at home. He calls later in the day, again without success.

  Early the next morning, in the nameless space between sleeping and waking, he has a dream or vision. With uncommon clarity he sees a two-wheeled chariot hovering in the air at the foot of his bed. The chariot is made of ivory or some metal inlaid with ivory, and is drawn by two white horses, neither of whom is El Rey. Grasping the reins in one hand, holding the other hand aloft in a regal gesture, is the boy, naked save for a cotton loincloth.

  How the chariot and the two horses fit into the little hospital room is a mystery to him. The chariot seems to hang in the air without any effort on the part of horses or charioteer. Far from being frozen, the horses now and then paw the air or toss their heads and snort. As for the boy, he does not seem to tire of holding his arm up. The look on his face is a familiar one: self-satisfaction, perhaps even triumph.

  At one point the boy looks straight at him. Read my eyes, he seems to be saying.

  The dream, or vision, lasts for two or three minutes. Then it fades, and the room is as it was before.

  He tells Clara about it. ‘Do you believe in telepathy?’ he asks. ‘I had a feeling David was trying to tell me something.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘I am not sure. Perhaps that he and his mother need help. Or perhaps not. The message was—how shall I put it?—dark.’

  ‘Well, remember that the painkiller you are taking is an opiate. Opiates give us dreams, opium dreams.’

  ‘It wasn’t an opium dream. It was the real thing.’

  From then onward he declines the painkillers, and suffers accordingly. The nights are worst: even the slightest movement brings an electric stab of pain in his chest.

  He has nothing to distract him, nothing to read. The hospital has no library, offers only old numbers of popular magazines (recipes, hobbies, women’s fashions). He complains to Eugenio, who responds by bringing him the textbook from his philosophy course (‘I know you are a serious person’). The book is, as he feared, about tables and chairs. He lays it aside. ‘I’m sorry, it’s not my kind of philosophy.’

  ‘What kind of philosophy would you like instead?’ asks Eugenio.

  ‘The kind that shakes one. That changes one’s life.’

  Eugenio gives him a puzzled look. ‘Is there something wrong with your life then?’ he asks. ‘Aside from your injuries.’

  ‘Something is missing, Eugenio. I know it should not be so, but it is. The life I have is not enough for me. I wish someone, some saviour, would descend from the skies and wave a magic wand and say, Behold, read this book and all your questions will be answered. Or, Behold, here is an entirely new life for you. You don’t understand that kind of talk, do you?’

  ‘No, I can’t claim that I do.’

  ‘Never mind. It’s just a passing mood. Tomorrow I will be my old self again.’

  He should plan for his discharge, his doctor tells him. Does he have somewhere to stay? Is there someone who will cook for him, care for him, help him to get around while he mends? Would he like to speak to a social worker? ‘No social worker,’ he replies. ‘Let me discuss the matter with my friends and see what can be arranged.’

  Eugenio offers him a room in the apartment that he shares with two comrades. He, Eugenio, will be happy to sleep on the sofa. He thanks Eugenio but declines.

  At his request, Álvaro investigates nursing homes. The West Blocks, he reports, have a facility which, though intended for the care of the aged, also takes in convalescents. He asks Álvaro to put his name down on the facility’s waiting list. ‘It’s a bit shameful to say,’ he says, ‘but I hope there will be a vacancy before too long.’ ‘If there is no ill will in your heart,’ Álvaro reassures him, ‘that qualifies as a permissible hope.’ ‘Permissible?’ he queries. ‘Permissible,’ Álvaro confirms.

  Then suddenly all his woes are whisked away. From the corridor come the sounds of
bright young voices. Clara appears at the door. ‘You have visitors,’ she announces. She stands aside, and Fidel and David come rushing in, followed by Inés and Álvaro. ‘Simón!’ cries David. ‘Did you really fall into the sea?’

  His heart gives a leap. Gingerly he holds out his arms. ‘Come here! Yes, I had a little accident, I fell into the water, but I barely got wet. My friends pulled me out.’

  The boy clambers onto the high bed, bumping him, sending stabs of pain through him. But the pain is nothing. ‘My dearest boy! My treasure! Light of my life!’

  The boy pulls free of his embrace. ‘I escaped,’ he announces. ‘I told you I would escape. I walked through the barbed wire.’

  Escaped? Walked through the wire? He is confused. What is the boy talking about? And why this strange new outfit: a tight turtle-neck sweater, short (very short) pants, shoes with little white socks that barely cover his ankles? ‘Thank you for coming, all of you,’ he says, ‘but David—where did you escape from? Are you talking about Punto Arenas? Did they take you to Punto Arenas? Inés, did you let them take him to Punto Arenas?’

  ‘I didn’t let them. They came while he was playing outside. They took him away in a car. How was I to stop them?’

  ‘I never dreamed it would come to that. But you escaped, David? Tell me about it. Tell me how you escaped.’

  But Álvaro intervenes. ‘Before we get into that, Simón, can we discuss your move? When do you think you will be able to walk?’

  ‘Can’t he walk?’ asks the boy. ‘Can’t you walk, Simón?’

  ‘Just for the next short while I am going to need help. Until all the aches and pains have gone away.’

  ‘Are you going to ride in a wheelchair? Can I push you?’

  ‘Yes, you can push me in a wheelchair, as long as you don’t go too fast. Fidel can push too.’

  ‘The reason I ask,’ says Álvaro, ‘is that I have been in touch again with the nursing home. I told them you were expecting a full recovery and wouldn’t need special care. In that case, they said, they can admit you at once, as long as you don’t mind sharing a room. How would you feel about that? It would solve a lot of problems.’

  Sharing a room with another old man. Who snores in the night and spits into his handkerchief. Who complains about the daughter who has abandoned him. Who is full of resentment against the newcomer, the invader of his space. ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ he says. ‘It’s a relief to have somewhere definite to go. It’s a weight off everyone’s shoulders. Thank you, Álvaro, for seeing to it.’

  ‘And the union will pay, of course,’ says Álvaro. ‘For your residence, for meals, for all your needs while you are there.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Well, I must get back to work now. I’ll leave you to Inés and the boys. I am sure they have lots to tell you.’

  Is he imagining things, or does Inés cast Álvaro a furtive glance as he departs? Don’t leave me alone with him, this man we are in the course of betraying! Parked in some antiseptic room in the far-off West Blocks, where he knows not a soul. Left to moulder. Don’t leave me with him!

  ‘Sit down, Inés. David, tell me your story from beginning to end. Leave nothing out. We have lots of time.’

  ‘I escaped,’ says the boy. ‘I told you I would. I walked through the barbed wire.’

  ‘I had a phone call,’ says Inés. ‘From a complete stranger. A woman. She said she had found David wandering around the streets with no clothes.’

  ‘No clothes? You ran away from Punto Arenas, David, with no clothes? When was this? Did no one try to stop you?’

  ‘I left my clothes in the barbed wire. Didn’t I promise you I would escape? I can escape from anywhere.’

  ‘And where did this lady find you, the lady who telephoned Inés?’

  ‘She found him in the street, in the dark, cold and naked.’

  ‘I wasn’t cold. I wasn’t naked,’ says the boy.

  ‘You weren’t wearing any clothes,’ says Inés. ‘That means you were naked.’

  ‘Never mind about that,’ he, Simón, interrupts. ‘Why did the lady contact you, Inés? Why not the school? That was surely the obvious thing to do.’

  ‘She hates the school. Everyone hates it,’ says the boy.

  ‘Is it really such a terrible place?’

  The boy nods vigorously.

  For the first time Fidel speaks. ‘Did they beat you?’

  ‘You have to be fourteen before they can beat you. When you are fourteen they can beat you if you are insubordinate.’

  ‘Tell Simón about the fish,’ says Inés.

  ‘Every Friday they made us eat fish.’ The boy shudders theatrically. ‘I hate fish. They’ve got eyes like señor León.’

  Fidel giggles. In a moment the two boys are laughing uncontrollably.

  ‘What else was so horrible about Punto Arenas besides the fish?’

  ‘They made us wear sandals. And they wouldn’t let Inés visit. They said she wasn’t my mother. They said I was a ward. A ward is someone who hasn’t got a mother or a father.’

  ‘That’s nonsense. Inés is your mother and I am your godfather, which is as good as a father, sometimes better. Your godfather watches over you.’

  ‘You didn’t watch over me. You let them take me to Punto Arenas.’

  ‘That’s true. I was a bad godfather. I slept while I should have watched. But I have learned my lesson. I’ll take better care of you in the future.’

  ‘Will you fight them if they come back?’

  ‘Yes, as best I can. I will borrow a sword. I’ll say, Try to steal my boy again and you will have Don Simón to deal with!

  The boy glows with pleasure. ‘Bolívar too,’ he says. ‘Bolívar can guard me in the night. Are you coming to live with us?’ He turns to his mother. ‘Can Simón come and live with us?’

  ‘Simón has to go to a nursing home to recuperate. He can’t walk. He can’t climb stairs.’

  ‘He can! You can walk, can’t you, Simón?’

  ‘Of course I can. Normally I can’t, because of my aches and pains. But for you I can do anything: climb stairs, ride horses, anything. You have just to say the word.’

  ‘Which word?’

  ‘The magic word. The word that will heal me.’

  ‘Do I know the word?’

  ‘Of course you do. Say it.’

  ‘The word is…Abracadabra!’

  He pushes aside the sheet (fortunately he is wearing the hospital’s pyjamas) and swings his wasted legs over the side of the bed. ‘I’ll need help, boys.’

  Bracing himself on the shoulders of Fidel and David, he stands precariously erect, takes a tottering first step, a second. ‘See, you do know the word! Inés, can you bring the wheelchair closer?’ He subsides into the wheelchair. ‘Now let’s go for a promenade. I’d like to see what the world looks like, after all this time shut up. Who wants to push?’

  ‘Aren’t you going to come home with us?’ asks the boy.

  ‘Not for a while yet. Not until I have my strength back.’

  ‘But we are going to be gypsies! If you stay in the hospital you can’t be a gypsy!’

  He turns to Inés. ‘What is this? I thought we had given up on the gypsy business.’

  Inés stiffens. ‘He can’t go back to that school. I won’t allow it. My brothers are going to come with us, both of them. We will take the car.’

  ‘Four people in that old rattletrap? What if it breaks down? And where will you stay?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. We will do odd jobs. We will pick fruit. Señor Daga lent us money.’

  ‘Daga! So he is behind this!’

  ‘Well, David is not going back to that terrible school.’

  ‘Where they make you wear sandals and eat fish. It doesn’t sound so terrible to me.’

  ‘There are boys there who smoke and drink and carry knives. It’s a school for criminals. If David goes back he will be scarred for life.’

  The boy speaks. ‘What does that mean, scarred fo
r life?’

  ‘It’s just a way of speaking,’ says Inés. ‘It means the school will have a bad effect on you.’

  ‘Like a wound?’

  ‘Yes, like a wound.’

  ‘I’ve got lots of wounds already. I got them from the barbed wire. Do you want to see my wounds, Simón?’

  ‘Your mother meant something else. She means a wound to your soul. The kind of wound that does not heal. Is it true that boys at the school carry knives? Are you sure it isn’t just one boy?’

  ‘It’s lots of boys. And they’ve got a mother duck and ducklings and one of the boys trod on a duckling and its inside came out of its bum and I wanted to push them back but the teacher wouldn’t let me, he said I must let the duckling die, and I said I wanted to breathe into it, but he wouldn’t let me. And we had to do gardening. Every afternoon after school they made us dig. I hate digging.’

  ‘Digging is good for you. If no one were prepared to dig, we would have no crops, no food. Digging makes you strong. It gives you muscles.’

  ‘You can grow seeds on blotting paper. Our teacher showed us. You don’t need to dig.’

  ‘One or two seeds, yes. But if you want a proper crop, if you want to grow enough wheat to make bread and feed people, the seed has to go into the ground.’

  ‘I hate bread. Bread is boring. I like ice cream.’