The Childhood of Jesus (25 page)

The bell rings. Señor León takes a notebook from his pocket, scribbles in it, tears off the page. ‘This is the name of the specialist I propose, and her telephone number. She visits the school once a week, so you can see her here. Telephone and make an appointment. In the meantime, David and I will continue with our efforts. Thank you for coming to see me. I am sure there will be a fortunate outcome.'

He seeks out Elena, reports on the interview. ‘Do you know señor León at all?' he asks. ‘Did Fidel have him as a teacher? I find his complaints hard to credit. That David is disobedient, for instance. He may sometimes be a bit wilful, but not disobedient, not in my experience.'

Elena does not reply but calls Fidel into the room. ‘Fidel, darling, tell us about señor León. David and he don't seem to be getting on together, and Simón is worried.'

‘Señor León is OK,' says Fidel. ‘He's strict.'

‘Is he strict about children speaking out of turn?'

‘I suppose so.'

‘Why do you think he and David don't get along?'

‘I don't know. David says crazy things. Maybe señor León doesn't like that.'

‘Crazy things? What sort of crazy things?'

‘I don't know…He says crazy things in the playground. Everyone thinks he is crazy, even the big boys.'

‘But what sort of crazy things?'

‘That he can make people disappear. That he can make himself disappear. He says there are volcanoes everywhere that we can't see, only him.'

‘Volcanoes?'

‘Not big volcanoes, little ones. That no one can see.'

‘Does he perhaps frighten the other children with his stories?'

‘I don't know. He says he is going to be a magician.'

‘He has been saying that for a long time. He told me you and he are going to perform in the circus one day. He is going to do magic tricks and you are going to be a clown.'

Fidel and his mother exchange glances.

‘Fidel is going to be a musician, not a magician, not a clown,' says Elena. ‘Fidel, did you tell David you were going to be a clown?'

‘No,' says Fidel, shifting uneasily.

The interview with the psychologist takes place on the school premises. They are ushered into the well-lit, rather antiseptic room where señora Otxoa holds her consultations. ‘Good morning,' she says, smiling and offering her hand. ‘You are the parents of David. I have met your son. He and I had a long talk together, several talks. What an interesting young man!'

‘Before we get down to business,' he interrupts, ‘let me clarify who I am. Though I have known David for a long time, and was once a sort of guardian to him, I am not his father. However—'

Señora Otxoa raises a hand. ‘I know. David told me. David says he has never met his real father. He also says'—here she turns to Inés—‘that you are not his real mother. Let us discuss these convictions of his before all else. Because, although organic factors may be at work, dyslexia for instance, my sense is that David's unsettled behaviour in the classroom comes out of a—to a child—mystifying family situation: out of uncertainty about who he is, where he comes from.'

He and Inés exchange glances. ‘You use the word
real
,' he says. ‘You say we are not his real mother and his real father. What exactly do you mean by real? Surely there is such a thing as overvaluing the biological.'

Señora Otxoa purses her lips, shakes her head. ‘Let us not become too theoretical. Let us rather concentrate on David's experience and David's understanding of the real. The real, I want to suggest, is what David misses in his life. This experience of lacking the real includes the experience of lacking real parents. David has no anchor in his life. Hence his withdrawal and retreat into a fantasy world where he feels more in control.'

‘But he has an anchor,' says Inés. ‘I am his anchor. I love him. I love him more than the world. And he knows that.'

Señora Otxoa nods. ‘He does indeed. He told me how much you love him—how much both of you love him. Your goodwill makes him happy; he feels the greatest goodwill in return, towards both of you. Nevertheless, there is still something missing, something that goodwill or love cannot supply. Because, although a positive emotional environment counts for a great deal, it cannot be enough. It is that difference, that lack of a real parental presence, that I have called us together to discuss today. Why? you ask. Because, as I say, I feel that David's learning difficulties stem from a confusion about a world from which his real parents have vanished, a world into which he does not know how he arrived.'

‘David arrived by boat, like everyone else,' he objects. ‘From the boat to the camp, from the camp to Novilla. None of us knows more than that about our origins. We are all washed clean of memory, more or less. What is so special about David's case? And what has any of this to do with reading and writing, with David's problems in the classroom? You mentioned dyslexia. Does David suffer from dyslexia?'

‘I mentioned dyslexia as a possibility. I have not tested for it. But if it is indeed present, my guess is that it is only a contributory factor. No, to come to your main question, I would say that what is special about David is that he feels himself to be special, even abnormal. Of course he is not abnormal. As for being special, let us set that question aside for the moment. Instead let us, all three of us, make an effort to see the world through his eyes, without imposing on him our way of seeing the world. David wants to know who he really is, but when he asks he receives evasive answers like “What do you mean by real?” or “We have no history, any of us, it is all washed out.” Can you blame him if he feels frustrated and rebellious, and then retreats into a private world where he is free to make up his own answers?'

‘Are you telling us that the illegible pages he writes for señor León are stories about where he comes from?'

‘Yes and no. They are stories for himself, not for us. That is why he writes them in a private script.'

‘How do you know that if you can't read them? Has he interpreted them for you?'

‘Señor, for David's relationship with me to flourish it is important that he should rely on me not to reveal what has passed between us. Even a child should have a right to his little secrets. But from the talks David and I have had, yes, I believe that in his own mind he is writing stories about himself and his true parentage. Which out of concern for you, for both of you, he keeps hidden, in case you will be upset.'

‘And what is his true parentage? Where, according to him, does he really come from?'

‘That is not for me to say. But there is the matter of a certain letter. He speaks of a letter containing the names of his true parents. He says you, señor, know about the letter. Is that true?'

‘A letter from whom?'

‘He says he had the letter with him when he arrived on the boat.'

‘Aha,
that
letter! No, you are mistaken, the letter was lost before we came ashore. It was lost during the voyage. I never saw it. It was because he had lost the letter that I took on the responsibility of helping him find his mother. Otherwise he would have been helpless. He would still be in Belstar, in limbo.'

Señora Otxoa writes a vigorous note to herself on her pad.

‘We come now,' she says, laying down her pen, ‘to the practical problem of David's comportment in the classroom. His insubordination. His failure to make progress. The consequences of that lack of progress, and that insubordination, for señor León and the other children in the class.'

‘Insubordination?' He waits for Inés to add her voice, but no, she is leaving it to him to speak. ‘At home, señora, David is always polite and well behaved. I find it hard to credit these reports from señor León. What exactly does he mean by insubordination?'

‘He means continual challenges to his authority as teacher. He means refusal to accept direction. Which brings me to the main point. I would like to propose that we withdraw David from the regular class, at least for the time being, and enrol him instead in a programme of tuition adapted to his individual needs. Where he can proceed at his own pace, given his difficult family situation. Until he is ready to rejoin his class. Which I am confident he will be able to do, since he is an intelligent child with a quick mind.'

‘And this programme of tuition…?'

‘The programme I have in mind is run at the Special Learning Centre at Punto Arenas, not far from Novilla, on the coast, in a very attractive setting.'

‘How far?'

‘Fifty kilometres, more or less.'

‘Fifty kilometres! That's a lot of travelling for a small child to do every day, back and forth. Is there a bus?'

‘No. David will reside at the Learning Centre, spending every second weekend at home, if he so chooses. Our experience is that it works best if the child is in residence. It allows a certain distance from a domestic situation that may be contributing to the problem.'

He and Inés exchange looks. ‘And what if we decline?' he says. ‘What if we prefer him to stay in señor León's class?'

‘What if we prefer to take him out of this school where he is learning nothing?' Inés now enters, her voice rising. ‘Where he is too young to be anyway. That is the real reason why he is having difficulty. He is too young.'

‘Señor León is no longer prepared to have David in his class, and after making my own inquiries I can see why. As for his age, David is of normal school-going age. Señor, señora, I offer my advice with David's interests in mind. He is making no progress at school. He is a disruptive influence. To remove him from school and return him to a home environment which he clearly finds unsettling cannot be the solution. Therefore we must take some alternative, bolder step. Which is why I recommend Punto Arenas.'

‘And if we refuse?'

‘Señor, I wish you would not put it in those terms. Take my word for it, Punto Arenas is the best option before us. If you and señora Inés would like to visit Punto Arenas beforehand, I can arrange it, so that you can see for yourselves what a first-rate institution it is.'

‘But if we visit this institution and still refuse, what then?'

‘What then?' Señora Otxoa spreads her hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘You told me, at the beginning of this consultation, that you are not the boy's father. There is nothing in his papers about his parentage, his real parentage. I would say…I would say that your qualifications to dictate where he should receive his education are extremely weak.'

‘So you are going to take our child away from us.'

‘Please don't look at it in that way. We are not taking the child away from you. You will see him regularly, every second week. Your home will continue to be his home. In all practical respects you will continue to be his parents, unless he decides that he wishes to be separated from you. Which he does not indicate in any way. On the contrary, he is extremely fond of you, both of you—fond of you and attached to you.

‘I repeat, Punto Arenas is in my opinion the best solution to the problem we face, and a generous solution too. Think about it. Take your time. Visit Punto Arenas, if you wish. Then, along with señor León, we can discuss details.'

‘And in the meantime?'

‘In the meantime I suggest that David go home with you. It is not doing him any good to be in señor León's class, and it is certainly not doing any good to his classmates.'

CHAPTER 25

‘WHY ARE we going home early?'

They are on the bus, the three of them, heading back to the Blocks.

‘Because it was all a mistake,' says Inés. ‘They are too old for you, those boys in your class. And that teacher, that señor León, doesn't know how to teach.'

‘Señor León has a magic eye. He can take it out and put it in his pocket. One of the boys saw him.'

Inés is silent.

‘Am I going back to school tomorrow?'

‘No.'

‘To be specific,' he intervenes, ‘you will not be going back to señor León's school. Your mother and I will be discussing a different kind of school for you. Maybe.'

‘We are not discussing any other schools,' says Inés. ‘School was a bad idea from the beginning. I don't know why I allowed it. What was that woman saying about dyslexia? What is dyslexia?'

‘Not being able to read words in the right order. Not being able to read from left to right. Something like that. I don't know.'

‘I haven't got dyslexia,' says the boy. ‘I haven't got anything. Are they sending me to Punto Arenas? I don't want to go.'

‘What do you know about Punto Arenas?' he says.

‘It has got barbed wire and you have to sleep in a dormitory and you're not allowed to go home.'

‘You are not being sent to Punto Arenas,' says Inés. ‘Not as long as I am alive.'

‘Are you going to die?' says the boy.

‘No, of course not. It is just a manner of speaking. You are not going to Punto Arenas.'

‘I forgot my book. My writing book. It's in my desk. Can we go back and fetch it?'

‘No. Not now. I'll fetch it some other day.'

‘And my pouch.'

‘The pencil pouch we gave you for your birthday?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'll fetch that too. Don't worry.'

‘Do they want to send me to Punto Arenas because of my stories?'

‘It's not that they want to send you to Punto Arenas,' he says. ‘It's more that they don't know what to do with you. You are an exceptional child, and they don't know what to do with exceptional children.'

‘Why am I exceptional?'

‘That is not a question for you to ask. You just are exceptional, and you will have to live with the fact. Sometimes it will make your way easier, and sometimes it will make it more difficult. This is one of the cases when it makes it more difficult.'