J. Coetzee - The Childhood of Jesus

‘I want to speak my own language.’

‘There is no such thing as one’s own language.’

‘There is! La la fa fa yam ying tu tu .’

‘That’s just gibberish. It doesn’t mean anything.’

‘It does mean something. It means something to me.’

‘That may be so, but it doesn’t mean anything to me. Language has to mean something to me as well as to you, otherwise it doesn’t count as language.’

In a gesture that he must have picked up from Inés, the boy tosses his head dismissively. ‘ La la fa fa yam ying! Look at me!’

He looks into the boy’s eyes. For the briefest of moments he sees something there. He has no name for it. It is like — that is what occurs to him in the moment. Like a fish that wriggles loose as you try to grasp it. But not like a fish — no, like like a fish . Or like like like a fish . On and on. Then the moment is over, and he is simply standing in silence, staring.

‘Did you see?’ says the boy.

‘I don’t know. Stop for a minute, I am feeling dizzy.’

‘I can see what you are thinking!’ says the boy with a triumphant smile.

‘No you can’t.’

‘You think I can do magic.’

‘Not at all. You have no idea what I am thinking. Now pay attention. I am going to say something about language, something serious, something I want you to take to heart.

‘Everyone comes to this country as a stranger. I came as a stranger. You came as a stranger. Inés and her brothers were once strangers. We came from various places and various pasts, seeking a new life. But now we are all in the same boat together. So we have to get along with each other. One of the ways in which we get along is by speaking the same language. That is the rule. It is a good rule, and we should obey it. Not only obey it but obey it with a good heart, not like a mule that keeps digging in its heels. With a good heart and goodwill. If you refuse, if you go on being rude about Spanish and insist on speaking your own language, then you are going to find yourself living in a private world. You will have no friends. You will be shunned.’

‘What is shunned?’

‘You will have nowhere to lay your head.’

‘I don’t have friends anyway.’

‘That will change once you go to school. At school you will make lots of new friends. Anyway, you do have friends. Fidel and Elena are your friends. Álvaro is your friend.’

‘And El Rey is my friend.’

‘El Rey is your friend too.’

‘And señor Daga.’

‘Señor Daga is not your friend. Señor Daga is trying to lead you into temptation.’

‘What is temptation?’

‘He is trying to lure you away from your mother with Mickey Mouse and ice cream. Remember how sick you were from all the ice cream he fed you that day?’

‘He gave me firewater too.’

‘What do you mean, firewater?’

‘It made my throat burn. He says it is medicine for when you are feeling blue.’

‘Does señor Daga carry his medicine in a little silver flask in his pocket?’

‘Yes.’

‘Please never drink anything from señor Daga’s flask again, David. It may be medicine for grown-up people, but it’s not good for children.’

He does not report the firewater to Inés but he does tell Elena. ‘He is gaining a hold over the child,’ he tells her. ‘I can’t compete with him. He wears an earring, he carries a knife, he drinks firewater. He has a pretty girlfriend. He has Mickey Mouse at home in a box. I have no idea how to bring the boy to his senses. Inés is under the man’s spell too.’

‘What else do you expect? Look at it from her point of view. She is at an age when a woman who has not had children — children of her own — begins to feel anxious. It is a matter of biology. She is in a receptive state, biologically speaking. I’m surprised you don’t sense it.’

‘I don’t think of Inés in that way — biologically.’

‘You think too much. This has nothing to do with thinking.’

‘I don’t see why Inés should want another child, Elena. She has the boy. He came to her as a gift, out of the blue, a gift pure and simple. A gift like that ought to be enough for any woman.’

‘Yes, but he is not her natural child. She will never forget that. If you don’t do something about it, young David is going to have señor Daga as his stepfather one of these days, and then a brood of little Daga stepbrothers and stepsisters. Or if not Daga then some other man.’

‘What do you mean, if I don’t do something about it?’

‘If you don’t give her a child yourself.’

‘I? I wouldn’t dream of it. I am not the father type. I was made to be an uncle, not a father. Besides, Inés doesn’t like men — at least, that is the impression I get. Doesn’t like male loudness and rudeness and hairiness. I wouldn’t be surprised if she tried to keep David from growing up a man.’

‘Being a father isn’t a career, Simón. Nor is it some kind of metaphysical destiny. You don’t have to like the woman, she doesn’t have to like you. You have intercourse with her, and lo and behold, nine months later you are a father. It’s simple enough. Any man can do it.’

‘Not so. Fatherhood is not only a matter of having intercourse with a woman, just as motherhood is not only a matter of providing a vessel for male seed.’

‘Well, what you describe counts as fatherhood and motherhood in the real world. You can’t enter the real world unless you are sparked off by some man’s seed and gestated in some woman’s womb and come down that same woman’s birth canal. You have to be born of man and woman. No exceptions. Excuse my plain speech. So ask yourself: Is it going to be my friend señor Daga who plants his seed in Inés, or is it going to be me? ’

He shakes his head. ‘That’s enough, Elena. Can we change the subject? David tells me that Fidel threw a stone at him the other day. What is going on?’

‘It wasn’t a stone, it was a marble. It’s what David must expect if his mother won’t let him fraternize with other children, if she encourages him to think of himself as some kind of superior being. Other children will gang up on him. I spoke to Fidel, I scolded him, but it won’t have any effect.’

‘They used to be best friends.’

‘They used to be best friends before you brought Inés into the picture, with her peculiar ideas about child-raising. That is another reason why you should reassert yourself in the household.’

He sighs.

‘Can we speak in private?’ he says to Inés. ‘I have something to propose to you.’

‘Can it wait?’

‘What are you whispering about?’ the boy calls from the next room.

‘No concern of yours.’ And to Inés: ‘Please, can we step outside, just for a minute?’

‘Are you whispering about señor Daga?’ calls the boy.

‘This has nothing to do with señor Daga. It is something private between your mother and myself.’

Inés dries her hands and takes off her apron. She and he leave the apartment, cross the playground into the parkland. Perched in the window, the boy keeps watch on them.

‘What I have to say concerns señor Daga.’ He pauses, draws a breath. ‘I understand you wish to have another child. Is it true?’

‘Who told you that?’

‘David says you are going to give him a brother.’

‘I was telling him his bedtime story. It was something that came up in passing; it was just an idea.’

‘Well, ideas can become reality, just as seed can become flesh and blood. Inés, I don’t want to embarrass you, so let me simply say, with the utmost respect, that if you are considering entering into relations with a man for the purpose of childbearing, you might consider me. I am prepared to play the part. To play the part and then absent myself, while continuing to be your protector, to provide for you and any children of yours. You can call me their godfather. Or, if you prefer, their uncle. I will forget whatever passed between us, between you and me. It will be washed from memory. It will be as if it had never happened.