J. Coetzee - The Childhood of Jesus

Then suddenly all his woes are whisked away. From the corridor come the sounds of bright young voices. Clara appears at the door. ‘You have visitors,’ she announces. She stands aside, and Fidel and David come rushing in, followed by Inés and Álvaro. ‘Simón!’ cries David. ‘Did you really fall into the sea?’

His heart gives a leap. Gingerly he holds out his arms. ‘Come here! Yes, I had a little accident, I fell into the water, but I barely got wet. My friends pulled me out.’

The boy clambers onto the high bed, bumping him, sending stabs of pain through him. But the pain is nothing. ‘My dearest boy! My treasure! Light of my life!’

The boy pulls free of his embrace. ‘I escaped,’ he announces. ‘I told you I would escape. I walked through the barbed wire.’

Escaped? Walked through the wire? He is confused. What is the boy talking about? And why this strange new outfit: a tight turtle-neck sweater, short (very short) pants, shoes with little white socks that barely cover his ankles? ‘Thank you for coming, all of you,’ he says, ‘but David — where did you escape from? Are you talking about Punto Arenas? Did they take you to Punto Arenas? Inés, did you let them take him to Punto Arenas?’

‘I didn’t let them. They came while he was playing outside. They took him away in a car. How was I to stop them?’

‘I never dreamed it would come to that. But you escaped, David? Tell me about it. Tell me how you escaped.’

But Álvaro intervenes. ‘Before we get into that, Simón, can we discuss your move? When do you think you will be able to walk?’

‘Can’t he walk?’ asks the boy. ‘Can’t you walk, Simón?’

‘Just for the next short while I am going to need help. Until all the aches and pains have gone away.’

‘Are you going to ride in a wheelchair? Can I push you?’

‘Yes, you can push me in a wheelchair, as long as you don’t go too fast. Fidel can push too.’

‘The reason I ask,’ says Álvaro, ‘is that I have been in touch again with the nursing home. I told them you were expecting a full recovery and wouldn’t need special care. In that case, they said, they can admit you at once, as long as you don’t mind sharing a room. How would you feel about that? It would solve a lot of problems.’

Sharing a room with another old man. Who snores in the night and spits into his handkerchief. Who complains about the daughter who has abandoned him. Who is full of resentment against the newcomer, the invader of his space. ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ he says. ‘It’s a relief to have somewhere definite to go. It’s a weight off everyone’s shoulders. Thank you, Álvaro, for seeing to it.’

‘And the union will pay, of course,’ says Álvaro. ‘For your residence, for meals, for all your needs while you are there.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Well, I must get back to work now. I’ll leave you to Inés and the boys. I am sure they have lots to tell you.’

Is he imagining things, or does Inés cast Álvaro a furtive glance as he departs? Don’t leave me alone with him, this man we are in the course of betraying! Parked in some antiseptic room in the far-off West Blocks, where he knows not a soul. Left to moulder. Don’t leave me with him!

‘Sit down, Inés. David, tell me your story from beginning to end. Leave nothing out. We have lots of time.’

‘I escaped,’ says the boy. ‘I told you I would. I walked through the barbed wire.’

‘I had a phone call,’ says Inés. ‘From a complete stranger. A woman. She said she had found David wandering around the streets with no clothes.’

‘No clothes? You ran away from Punto Arenas, David, with no clothes? When was this? Did no one try to stop you?’

‘I left my clothes in the barbed wire. Didn’t I promise you I would escape? I can escape from anywhere.’

‘And where did this lady find you, the lady who telephoned Inés?’

‘She found him in the street, in the dark, cold and naked.’

‘I wasn’t cold. I wasn’t naked,’ says the boy.

‘You weren’t wearing any clothes,’ says Inés. ‘That means you were naked.’

‘Never mind about that,’ he, Simón, interrupts. ‘Why did the lady contact you, Inés? Why not the school? That was surely the obvious thing to do.’

‘She hates the school. Everyone hates it,’ says the boy.

‘Is it really such a terrible place?’

The boy nods vigorously.

For the first time Fidel speaks. ‘Did they beat you?’

‘You have to be fourteen before they can beat you. When you are fourteen they can beat you if you are insubordinate.’

‘Tell Simón about the fish,’ says Inés.

‘Every Friday they made us eat fish.’ The boy shudders theatrically. ‘I hate fish. They’ve got eyes like señor León.’

Fidel giggles. In a moment the two boys are laughing uncontrollably.

‘What else was so horrible about Punto Arenas besides the fish?’

‘They made us wear sandals. And they wouldn’t let Inés visit. They said she wasn’t my mother. They said I was a ward. A ward is someone who hasn’t got a mother or a father.’

‘That’s nonsense. Inés is your mother and I am your godfather, which is as good as a father, sometimes better. Your godfather watches over you.’

‘You didn’t watch over me. You let them take me to Punto Arenas.’

‘That’s true. I was a bad godfather. I slept while I should have watched. But I have learned my lesson. I’ll take better care of you in the future.’

‘Will you fight them if they come back?’

‘Yes, as best I can. I will borrow a sword. I’ll say, Try to steal my boy again and you will have Don Simón to deal with !’

The boy glows with pleasure. ‘Bolívar too,’ he says. ‘Bolívar can guard me in the night. Are you coming to live with us?’ He turns to his mother. ‘Can Simón come and live with us?’

‘Simón has to go to a nursing home to recuperate. He can’t walk. He can’t climb stairs.’

‘He can! You can walk, can’t you, Simón?’

‘Of course I can. Normally I can’t, because of my aches and pains. But for you I can do anything: climb stairs, ride horses, anything. You have just to say the word.’

‘Which word?’

‘The magic word. The word that will heal me.’

‘Do I know the word?’

‘Of course you do. Say it.’

‘The word is. . Abracadabra!’

He pushes aside the sheet (fortunately he is wearing the hospital’s pyjamas) and swings his wasted legs over the side of the bed. ‘I’ll need help, boys.’

Bracing himself on the shoulders of Fidel and David, he stands precariously erect, takes a tottering first step, a second. ‘See, you do know the word! Inés, can you bring the wheelchair closer?’ He subsides into the wheelchair. ‘Now let’s go for a promenade. I’d like to see what the world looks like, after all this time shut up. Who wants to push?’

‘Aren’t you going to come home with us?’ asks the boy.

‘Not for a while yet. Not until I have my strength back.’

‘But we are going to be gypsies! If you stay in the hospital you can’t be a gypsy!’

He turns to Inés. ‘What is this? I thought we had given up on the gypsy business.’

Inés stiffens. ‘He can’t go back to that school. I won’t allow it. My brothers are going to come with us, both of them. We will take the car.’

‘Four people in that old rattletrap? What if it breaks down? And where will you stay?’

‘It doesn’t matter. We will do odd jobs. We will pick fruit. Señor Daga lent us money.’

‘Daga! So he is behind this!’

‘Well, David is not going back to that terrible school.’

‘Where they make you wear sandals and eat fish. It doesn’t sound so terrible to me.’