J. Coetzee: The Childhood of Jesus

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 grown-ups 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?’