The Childhood of Jesus (3 page)

‘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.'

The boy has befriended one of the carthorses, to whom he has given the name El Rey. Though he is tiny compared with El Rey, he is quite unafraid. Standing on tiptoe, he proffers handfuls of hay, which the huge beast bends down lazily to accept.

Álvaro cuts a hole in one of the bags they have unloaded, allowing grain to trickle out. ‘Here, feed this to El Rey and his friend,' he tells the boy. ‘But be careful not to feed them too much, otherwise their tummies will blow up like balloons and we will have to prick them with a pin.'

El Rey and his friend are in fact mares, but Álvaro, he notes, does not correct the boy.

His fellow stevedores are friendly enough but strangely incurious. No one asks where they come from or where they are staying. He guesses that they take him to be the boy's father—or perhaps, like Ana at the Centre, his grandfather.
El viejo.
No one asks where the boy's mother is or why he has to spend all day hanging around the docks.

There is a small wooden shed at the quayside which the men use as a dressing room. Though the door has no lock, they seem happy to store their overalls and boots there. He asks one of the men where he can buy overalls and boots of his own. The man writes an address on a scrap of paper.

What can one expect to pay for a pair of boots? he asks.

‘Two, maybe three reals,' says the man.

‘That seems very little,' he says. ‘By the way, my name is Simón.'

‘Eugenio,' says the man.

‘May I ask, Eugenio, are you married? Do you have children?'

Eugenio shakes his head.

‘Well, you are still young,' he says.

‘Yes,' says Eugenio non-committally.

He waits to be asked about the boy—the boy who may seem to be his son or grandson but in fact is not. He waits to be asked the boy's name, his age, why he is not at school. He waits in vain.

‘David, the child I am looking after, is still too young to go to school,' he says. ‘Do you know anything about schools around here? Is there'—he hunts for the term—‘
un jardin para los niños
?'

‘Do you mean a playground?'

‘No, a school for the younger children. A school before proper school.'

‘Sorry, I can't help you.' Eugenio rises. ‘Time to get back to work.'

The next day, just as the whistle blows for the lunch break, a stranger comes riding up on a bicycle. With his hat, black suit and tie he looks out of place on the quayside. He dismounts, greets Álvaro familiarly. His trouser-cuffs are pinned back with bicycle clips, which he neglects to remove.

‘That's the paymaster,' says a voice beside him. It is Eugenio.

The paymaster slackens the straps on his bicycle rack and removes an oilcloth, revealing a green-painted metal cashbox, which he sets down on an upended drum. Álvaro beckons the men over. One by one they step forward, speak their names, and are given their wages. He joins the end of the line, waits his turn. ‘Simón is the name,' he says to the paymaster. ‘I am new, I may not be on your list yet.'

‘Yes, here you are,' says the paymaster, and ticks off his name. He counts out the money in coins, so many that they weigh down his pockets.

‘Thank you,' he says.

‘You're welcome. It's your due.'

Álvaro rolls the drum away. The paymaster straps the cashbox back on his bicycle, shakes hands with Álvaro, dons his hat, and pedals off down the quay.

‘What are your plans for the afternoon?' asks Álvaro.

‘I have no plans. I might take the boy for a walk; or if there is a zoo, I might take him there, to see the animals.'

It is Saturday, noon, the end of the working week.

‘Would you like to come along to the football?' asks Álvaro. ‘Does your young man like football?'