J. Coetzee - The Childhood of Jesus

‘It is only when you put it that way that it seems absurd. In itself it is not absurd. It cannot be absurd, since it is a natural desire of the natural body. It is nature speaking in us. It is the way things are. The way things are cannot be absurd.’

‘Really? What if I were to say that to me it seems not just absurd but ugly too?’

He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘You cannot mean that. I myself may seem old and unattractive — I and my desires. But surely you cannot believe that nature itself is ugly.’

‘Yes, I can. Nature can partake of the beautiful but nature can partake of the ugly too. Those parts of our bodies that you modestly do not name, not in your godson’s hearing: do you find them beautiful?’

‘In themselves? No, in themselves they are not beautiful. It is the whole that is beautiful, not the parts.’

‘And these parts that are not beautiful — you want to push them inside me! What should I think of that?’

‘I don’t know. Tell me what you think.’

‘That all your fine talk of paying tribute to beauty is una tontería . If you found me to be an incarnation of the good, you would not want to perform such an act upon me. So why wish to do so if I am an incarnation of the beautiful? Is the beautiful inferior to the good? Explain.’

‘ Una tontería : what’s that?’

‘Nonsense. Rubbish.’

He gets to his feet. ‘I am not going to excuse myself further, Ana. I don’t find this to be a profitable discussion. I don’t believe you know what you are talking about.’

‘Really? You think I am some ignorant child?’

‘You may not be a child but, yes, I do think you are ignorant of life. Come,’ he says to the boy, taking his hand. ‘We have had our picnic, now it is time to thank the lady and go off and find ourselves something to eat.’

Ana reclines, stretches out her legs, folds her hands in her lap, smiles up at him mockingly. ‘Too close to the bone, was it?’ she says.

Under a blazing sun he strides across the empty parklands, the boy trotting to keep up with him.

‘What is a padrino ?’ asks the boy.

‘A padrino is someone who acts as your father when for some reason your father cannot be there.’

‘Are you my padrino ?’

‘No, I am not. No one invited me to be your padrino . I am just your friend.’

‘I can invite you to be my padrino .’

‘That is not up to you, my boy. You can’t choose a padrino for yourself, as you can’t choose your father. There isn’t a proper word for what I am to you, just as there isn’t a proper word for what you are to me. However, if you like, you can call me Uncle. When people say, Who is he to you? you can say, He is my uncle. He is my uncle and he loves me. And I will say, He is my boy .’

‘But is that lady going to be my mother?’

‘Ana? No. Being a mother would not interest her.’

‘Are you going to marry her?’

‘Of course not. I am not here to find a wife, I am here to help you find your mother, your real mother.’

He is trying to keep his voice even, his tone light; but the truth is, the attack by the girl has shaken him.

‘You were cross with her,’ says the boy. ‘Why were you cross?’

He halts in his tracks, lifts the boy up, gives him a kiss on the brow. ‘I’m sorry I was cross. I wasn’t cross with you.’

‘But you were cross with the lady and she was cross with you.’

‘I was cross with her because she treats us badly and I don’t understand why. We had an argument, she and I, a heated argument. But it’s all over now. It was not important.’

‘She said you wanted to push something inside her.’

He is silent.

‘What did she mean? Do you really want to push something inside her?’

‘It was only a manner of speaking. She meant that I was trying to force my ideas on her. And she was right. One should not try to force ideas upon people.’

‘Do I force ideas on you?’

‘No, of course not. Now let us find something to eat.’

They scour the streets east of the parkland, hunting for an eating place of some kind. It is a neighbourhood of modest villas, with now and again a low apartment building. They happen on only a single shop. NARANJAS says the sign, in large letters. The steel shutters are closed, so he cannot see whether it indeed sells oranges or whether Naranjas is just a name.

He stops a passer-by, an elderly man walking a dog on a lead. ‘Excuse me,’ he says, ‘my boy and I are looking for a café or restaurant where we can get a meal, or failing that a provisions shop.’

‘On a Sunday afternoon?’ says the man. His dog sniffs the boy’s shoes, then his crotch. ‘I don’t know what to suggest, unless you are prepared to go in to the city.’

‘Is there a bus?’

‘Number 42, but it doesn’t run on Sundays.’

‘So we cannot in fact go in to the city. And there is nowhere nearby where we can eat. And all the shops are closed. What then do you suggest we do?’

The man’s features harden. He tugs at the dog’s lead. ‘Come, Bruno,’ he says.

In a sour mood he heads back to the Centre. Their progress is slow, since the boy keeps hesitating and hopping to avoid cracks in the paving.

‘Come on, hurry up,’ he says irritably. ‘Keep your game for another day.’

‘No. I don’t want to fall into a crack.’

‘That’s nonsense. How can a big boy like you fall down a little crack like that?’

‘Not that crack. Another crack.’

‘Which crack? Point to the crack.’

‘I don’t know! I don’t know which crack. Nobody knows.’

‘Nobody knows because nobody can fall through a crack in the paving. Now hurry up.’

‘I can! You can! Anyone can! You don’t know!’

During the midday break at work the next day he takes Álvaro aside. ‘Forgive me if I raise a private matter,’ he says, ‘but I am becoming more and more concerned about the youngster’s health, and specifically about his diet, which — as you can see — consists of bread and bread and yet more bread.’

And indeed they can see the boy, sitting among the stevedores in the lee of the shed, munching dolefully on his half-loaf moistened with water.

‘It seems to me,’ he continues, ‘that a growing child needs more variety, more nourishment. One cannot live on bread alone. It is not a universal food. You don’t know where I can buy meat, do you, without making a trip to the city centre?’

Álvaro scratches his head. ‘Not around here, not around the docklands. There are people who catch rats, I have heard tell. There is no shortage of rats. But for that you will need a trap, and I don’t know offhand where you would lay your hands on a good rat trap. You would probably have to make it yourself. You could use wire, with some kind of trip mechanism.’

‘Rats?’

‘Yes. Haven’t you seen them? Wherever there are ships there are rats.’

‘But who eats rats? Do you eat rats?’

‘No, I wouldn’t dream of it. But you asked where you could get meat, and that is all I can suggest.’

He stares long into Álvaro’s eyes. He can see no sign that he is joking. Or if it is a joke, it is a very deep joke.

After work he and the boy make their way straight back to the enigmatic Naranjas. They arrive as the proprietor is about to let down the shutters. Naranjas is indeed a shop, as it turns out, and does indeed sell oranges, as well as other fruits and vegetables. While the proprietor waits impatiently, he selects as much as the two of them can carry: a small pocket of oranges, half a dozen apples, some carrots and cucumbers.