J. Coetzee - The Childhood of Jesus

He had intended to call at Naranjas for supplies, but he has left it too late: by the time he gets there the shop is closed. Hungry, and lonely too, he knocks once again at Elena’s door. The door is opened by Fidel, in his pyjamas. ‘Hello, young Fidel,’ he says, ‘may I come in?’

Elena is sitting at the table, sewing. She does not greet him, does not raise her eyes from her work.

‘Hello,’ he says. ‘Is something wrong? Has something happened?’

She shakes her head.

‘David can’t come here any more,’ says Fidel. ‘The new lady says he can’t come.’

‘The new lady,’ says Elena, ‘has announced that your son is not allowed to play with Fidel.’

‘But why?’

She shrugs.

‘Give her time to settle down,’ he says. ‘Being a mother is new to her. She is bound to be a little erratic at first.’

‘Erratic?’

‘Erratic in her judgments. Over-cautious.’

‘Like forbidding David to play with his friends?’

‘She does not know you or Fidel. Once she gets to know you, she will see what a good influence you are.’

‘And how do you propose that she get to know us?’

‘You and she are bound to bump into each other. You are neighbours, after all.’

‘We’ll see. Have you eaten?’

‘No. The shops were closed by the time I got there.’

‘You mean Naranjas. Naranjas is closed on Mondays, I could have told you that. I can offer you a bowl of soup, if you don’t mind a repeat of last night. Where are you living now?’

‘I have a room near the docks. It’s a bit primitive, but it will do for the time being.’

Elena warms up the pot of soup and cuts bread for him. He tries to eat slowly, though in fact his appetite is wolfish.

‘You can’t stay the night, I’m afraid,’ she says. ‘You know why.’

‘Of course. I’m not asking to stay. My new quarters are perfectly comfortable.’

‘You have been expelled, haven’t you? From your home. That’s the truth, I can see it. You poor thing. Cut off from your boy, whom you love so much.’

He gets up from the table. ‘It has to be,’ he says. ‘It’s the nature of things. Thank you for the meal.’

‘Come again tomorrow. I’ll feed you. It’s the least I can do. Feed you and console you. Though I think you have made a mistake.’

He takes his leave. He ought to go straight to his new home at the docks. But he hesitates, then crosses the courtyard, climbs the stairs, and taps softly at the door of his old apartment. There is a crack of light under the door: Inés must still be up. After a long wait he taps again. ‘Inés?’ he whispers.

A handsbreadth away on the other side he hears her: ‘Who is there?’

‘It’s Simón. Can I come in?’

‘What do you want?’

‘Can I see him? Just for a minute.’

‘He’s asleep.’

‘I won’t wake him. I just want to see him.’

Silence. He tries the door. It is locked. A moment later the light clicks off.

By taking up residence at the docks he is probably infringing some regulation or other. That does not concern him. However, he does not want Álvaro to find out, for out of the goodness of his heart Álvaro is then bound to feel he has to offer him a home. So before leaving the toolshed each morning he takes care to tuck his few possessions away in the rafters where they will not be seen.

Keeping neat and clean is a problem. He visits the gymnasium at the East Blocks to shower; he washes his clothes by hand and hangs them on the East Blocks lines. He has no qualms about this — he is, after all, still on the list of residents — but out of prudence, not wishing to run into Inés, he pays his visits only after dark.

A week passes during which he gives all his energies to his work. Then on the Friday, with his pockets full of money, he knocks at the door of his old apartment.

The door is thrown open by a smiling Inés. Her face falls when she sees him. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she says. ‘We are just on our way out.’

From behind her the boy emerges. There is something odd about his appearance. It is not just that he wears a new white shirt (in fact more blouse than shirt — it has a frilly front and hangs over his pants): he stands clutching Inés’s skirt, not responding to his greeting, staring at him with great eyes.

Has something happened? Has it been a calamitous mistake to hand him over to this woman? And why does he tolerate this eccentric, girlish blouse — he who has been so attached to his little-man outfit, his coat and cap and lace-up boots? For the boots are gone too, replaced by shoes: blue shoes with straps instead of laces, and brass buttons on the side.

‘Lucky I caught you, in that case,’ he says, trying to keep his tone light. ‘I have brought the electric heater I promised.’

Inés casts a dubious eye on the little one-bar heater he holds out. ‘At La Residencia there is an open fire in each apartment,’ she says. ‘A man brings logs every evening and makes the fire.’ She pauses abstractedly. ‘It is lovely.’

‘I am sorry. It must be a comedown, having to live in the Blocks.’ He turns to the boy. ‘So you are going out for the evening. And where is it you are going?’

The boy does not answer directly, but casts a look up to his new mother as if to say, You tell him .

‘We’re going to La Residencia for the weekend,’ says Inés. And as though to confirm her, Diego, dressed in tennis whites, comes striding up the corridor.

‘That’s nice,’ he says. ‘I thought they didn’t allow children at La Residencia. I thought that was the rule.’

‘That is the rule,’ says Diego. ‘But it’s a free weekend for the staff. There is no one to check.’

‘No one checks,’ Inés echoes.

‘Well, I just dropped by to see if everything is all right, and perhaps to help with the shopping. Here: I brought a small contribution.’

Without a word of thanks Inés accepts the money. ‘Yes, all is well with us,’ she says. She presses the child tight against her side. ‘We had a big lunch and then we had a nap, and now we are going off in the car to meet Bolívar, and in the morning we are going to play tennis and have a swim.’

‘That sounds exciting,’ he says. ‘And we have a nice new shirt too, I see.’

The boy does not reply. His thumb is in his mouth, he has not stopped staring at him with those great eyes. More and more he is convinced there is something wrong.

‘Who is Bolívar?’ he asks.

For the first time the boy speaks. ‘Bolívar is an Assación.’

‘An Alsatian,’ says Inés. ‘Bolívar is our dog.’

‘Ah yes, Bolívar,’ he says. ‘He was with you at the tennis court, wasn’t he? I don’t want to be an alarmist, Inés, but Alsatians don’t have a good reputation around children. I hope you will take care.’

‘Bolívar is the gentlest dog in the world.’

He knows she does not like him. Up to this moment he has assumed it is because she is in debt to him. But no, the dislike is more personal and more immediate than that, and therefore more intractable. What a pity! The child will learn to look on him as an enemy, the enemy of their mother — child bliss.

‘Have a wonderful time,’ he says. ‘Perhaps I will drop by again on Monday. Then you can tell me the whole story. Agreed?’

The boy nods.

‘Goodbye,’ he says.

‘Goodbye,’ says Inés. From Diego not a word.

He trudges back to the docks feeling that something has expired in him, feeling like an old man. He had one great task, and that task is discharged. The boy has been delivered to his mother. Like one of those drab male insects whose sole function is to pass on his seed to the female, he may as well wither away now and die. There is nothing left to build his life around.