The Childhood of Jesus Page 25

  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 d
octor.’

  ‘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.’

  He interrupts. ‘David has had an accident, and we are taking him to a doctor. I am afraid we can give you a ride only as far as Nueva Esperanza.’

  ‘That’s OK.’

  ‘I burned my hand,’ says the boy. ‘We are going to get medicine.’

  ‘Is it sore?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I like your glasses. I wish I had glasses like that.’

  ‘You can have them.’

  After a chilly early-morning ride on the back of a truck carrying timber, their passenger is glad of the warmth and comfort of the car. From his chatter it emerges that he is in the printing trade, and is making his way to Estrellita, where he has friends and where, if rumour is to be believed, there is plenty of work to be had.

  At the turn-off to Nueva Esperanza he stops to let the newcomer off.

  ‘Are we at the doctor?’ asks the boy.

  ‘Not yet. This is where we part company with our friend. He is going to continue his journey northward.’

  ‘No! He must stay with us!’

  He addresses Juan. ‘We can drop you here or else you can come into the town with us. The choice is yours.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  They find the surgery without difficulty. Dr García is out on a house call, the nurse informs them, but they are welcome to wait.

  ‘I’ll go and look for breakfast,’ says Juan.

  ‘No, you mustn’t go,’ says the boy. ‘You will get lost.’

  ‘I won’t get lost,’ says Juan. His hand is on the door knob.

  ‘Stay, I command you!’ the boy barks out.

  ‘David!’ he, Simón, reproves the child. ‘What has got into you this morning? You don’t speak to a stranger like that!’

  ‘He is not a stranger. And don’t call me David.’

  ‘What must I call you then?’

  ‘You must call me by my real name.’

  ‘And what may that be?’

  The boy is silent.

  He addresses Juan. ‘Feel free to go exploring. We will meet you here.’

  ‘No, I think I’ll stay,’ says Juan.

  The doctor makes his appearance, a short, burly man with an energetic air and a mass of silvery hair. He gazes upon them with mock alarm. ‘What is this? And a dog too! What can I do for all of you?’

  ‘I burned my hand,’ says the boy. ‘The lady put butter on it, but it is still sore.’

  ‘Let me look…Yes, yes…It must be painful. Come into the surgery and we will see what we can do.’

  ‘Doctor, the hand is not why we are here,’ says Inés. ‘We had an accident last night with a fire, and now my son can’t see properly. Will you examine his eyes?’

  ‘No!’ cries the boy, rising to confront Inés. The dog rouses himself too, pads across the room, and takes his place at the boy’s side. ‘I keep telling you, I can see, only you can’t see me because of the magic cloak of invisibility. It makes me invisible.’

  ‘Can I have a look?’ says Dr García. ‘Will your guardian let me?’

  The boy lays a restraining hand on the dog’s collar.

  The doctor lifts the dark glasses off the boy’s nose. ‘Can you see me now?’ he asks.

  ‘You are tiny, tiny, like an ant, and you are waving your arms and saying, Can you see me now?’

  ‘Aha, I get the picture. You are invisible and none of us can see you. But you also have a sore hand, which happens not to be invisible. So shall you and I go into my surgery, and will you let me look at the hand—look at the visible part of you?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Shall I come too?’ says Inés.

  ‘In a little while,’ says the doctor. ‘First the young man and I must have a private word.’

  ‘Bolívar must come with me,’ says the boy.

  ‘Bolívar may come with you as long as he behaves himself,’ says the doctor.

  ‘What actually happened to your son?’ asks Juan, when they are alone.

  ‘His name is David. He was playing with magnesium, and it caught fire and the flash blinded him.’

  ‘He says his name isn’t David.’

  ‘He says many things. He has a fertile imagination. David is the name he was given in Belstar. If he wants to take on some other name, let him do so.’

  ‘You came through Belstar? I came through Belstar too.’

  ‘Then you know how the system works. The names we use are the names we were given there, but we might just as well have been given numbers. Numbers, names—they are equally arbitrary, equally random, equally unimportant.’

  ‘Actually, there are no random numbers,’ says Juan. ‘You say, ‘Think of a random number,’ and I say, ‘96513,’ because that is the first number that comes into my head, but it isn’t really random, it’s my Asistencia number or my old telephone number or something like that. There is always a reason behind a number.’

  ‘So you are another of the number mystics! You and David should set up school together. You can teach the secret causes behind numbers and he can teach people how to get from one number to the next without falling down a volcano. Of course there are no random numbers under the eye of God. But we don’t live under the eye of God. In the world we live in there are random numbers and random names and random events, like being picked up at random by a car containing a man and a woman and a child named David. And a dog. What was the secret cause behind that event, do you think?’

  Before Juan can reply to his rant the door to the surgery is thrown open. ‘Please come in,’ says Dr García.

  He and Inés enter. Juan hesitates, but the clear young voice of the boy rises from inside: ‘He is my brother, he must come too.’

  The boy is sitting on the edge of the doctor’s couch, a smile of serene confidence on his lips, the dark glasses perched on top of his head.

  ‘We had a good, long talk, our young friend and I,’ says Dr García. ‘He explained to me how it comes about that he is invisible to us, and I explained to him why it is that we look to him like insects waving our feelers in the air while he flies high above. I have told him that we would prefer it if he would see us as we really are, not as insects, and in return he has told me that when he returns to visibility he would like us to see him as he really is. Is that a fair account, young man, of our conversation?’

  The boy nods.

  ‘Our young friend says furthermore that you’—he looks meaningfully at him, Simón—‘are not his real father, and you’—he turns to Inés—‘are not his real mother. I do n
ot ask you to defend yourselves. I have a family of my own, I know children can say wild things. Nonetheless, is there anything you would like to tell me?’

  ‘I am his true mother,’ says Inés, ‘and we are saving him from being sent to a reformatory school where he will be turned into a criminal.’

  Having said her say, she shuts her lips and glares defiantly.

  ‘And his eyes, Doctor?’ he, Simón, inquires.

  ‘There is nothing wrong with his eyes. I have conducted a physical examination and I have tested his vision. As organs of sight his eyes are perfectly normal. As for his hand, I have put on a dressing. The burn is not serious, it will show improvement in a day or two. Now let me ask: Should I be concerned about the story this young man tells me?’

  He glances at Inés. ‘You should pay due heed to whatever the boy says. If he says he wants to be taken away from us and returned to Novilla, return him to Novilla. He is your patient, in your care.’ He turns to the boy. ‘Is that what you want, David?’

  The boy does not reply, but gestures to him to come nearer. Cupping his hand, the boy whispers in his ear.

  ‘Doctor, David informs me that he does not want to return to Novilla, but does want to know if you will come with us.’

  ‘Come where?’

  ‘North, to Estrellita.’

  ‘To the new life,’ says the boy.

  ‘And what about my patients here in Esperanza who depend on me? Who will look after them if I leave them behind just to look after you?’

  ‘You don’t need to look after me.’

  Dr García casts him, Simón, a mystified look. He takes a deep breath. ‘David is suggesting that you abandon your practice and come north with us to start a new life. It would be for your own sake, not for his.’

  Dr García rises. ‘Ah, I understand! It is most generous of you, young man, to include me in your plans. But the life I have here in Esperanza is happy and fulfilling enough. There is nothing I need to be saved from, thank you.’

  They are in the car again, heading north. The boy is in ebullient spirits, the sore hand forgotten. He jabbers to Juan, wrestles with Bolívar in the back seat. Juan joins in too, though he is wary of the dog, who has yet to warm to him.