Kit de Waal - My Name Is Leon

“I used to use walnut or mahogany or ziricote. I had some skill, used to have some skill. Look.”

He gestures to the wall behind him and for the first time Leon notices lots of carved things, a lion and an elephant, a truck and the life-size head of a woman with plaits. And then, at the very front, little heads of children. All boys.

“Miguel, Lorenzo, Gustavo, José, Enzo. And Gabriel,” he continues, but he has a different accent like he’s talking in another language.

Mr. Devlin looks behind him and points at the different heads.

“Pedro Gabriel Devlin. I wanted Gabriel. She wanted Pedro. Every other child in Brazil is Pedro.”

He laughs and Leon sees that he didn’t brush his teeth properly. Mr. Devlin carries on chipping away at the wood and Leon watches him. Mr. Devlin has to hurry up because it’s getting uncomfortable on the floor and Leon’s thirsty. Tufty always has a drink for him but Mr. Devlin doesn’t.

“Are they your children?”

Mr. Devlin begins to giggle. It starts in his belly and then goes up to his shoulders and then it’s in his throat and his nose and finally he starts to laugh so that he can’t carve anymore and his hands are shaking.

“What? All of them? Forty-seven children?”

“Why did you carve them?”

“After school. I would take one or two of the boys. I had a workshop. Like this. I was loved. They loved me.”

Mr. Devlin starts peeling the wood away. It comes clean away from the sharp blade.

“Shuffle forward. Here, to me,” says Mr. Devlin and Leon does as he’s told.

“Think you can do this?”

“Yes.”

“Here.”

Mr. Devlin gives him the knife and the block of wood. Leon is just about to start when Mr. Devlin covers Leon’s small hand with his own. He guides it along the curve of the forehead.

“Like this. Slowly. But firmly. Along the grain. Slowly.”

A rind of wood curls away and falls on the ground.

Leon looks up and Mr. Devlin grips his hand tighter.

“I wouldn’t change a thing,” he says. “Better to have loved.”

The wooden handle digs into Leon’s palm and the blade is pressing down on the wooden head, making a mark. Mr. Devlin grinds his teeth together and shouts.

“Keep the fucking rules! Isn’t that what I said? Isn’t that what I told him? Isn’t it? Slow down, I said. Over and over, I said it.”

He leans forward and covers Leon in a damp blanket of sourness.

“Don’t run!”

He stands up suddenly and Leon drops the knife and the wood on the floor. Mr. Devlin stumbles against the shelf and picks up one of the heads and holds it to his chest.

“Look at him! Look!”

Leon stands up and takes the head. It’s a baby’s head and the baby is asleep. Leon hands it back. Mr. Devlin puts it back on the shelf next to another head that is the same baby but a bit older. He picks it up and points to his nose.

“Does he look like me, do you think?”

There are four heads altogether of the same baby getting older and older.

“It’s my fault, she said. My fault for shouting. He wasn’t looking. My fault. Always my fault. Always will be my fault. Forever and ever. Amen.”

Mr. Devlin picks up the biggest baby’s head. It’s different from the others; it has more hair and its eyes are open. He sits back down in his leather chair. He puts the baby on the table next to him, picks up his blue glass, fills it with his whiskey, and gulps it down.

“This is my favorite. I like to sit here with him. I tell him stories.”

He fills the glass again and, just before he drinks it, he points at the door.

“Go home,” he says. “Go on. Get out.”

Leon backs away. He stops at the door and watches Mr. Devlin throw his drink to the back of his throat. He drops the blue glass on the carpet, closes his eyes, and slumps back in his chair.

Leon walks slowly to his plot. He understands why Tufty doesn’t like Mr. Devlin. It must have been Tufty who did all the work on Leon’s plot.

The allotments are quiet. This would be a good time to go and put his things in the secret shed. He looks around. There are one or two people in faraway plots but they won’t notice. But then maybe Mr. Devlin might come out and catch him. He picks up his backpack and walks slowly. If anyone asks him where he’s going he’ll just say he’s looking for ideas of what to plant. As soon as Leon gets near his shed, he crouches in the long grass and opens the door. He rushes inside and closes it behind him. It’s dark inside. He can hear birds flapping nearby, a scratching noise on the roof. Leon picks up the tins he left and stacks them in the corner by the heavy weights from Mr. Devlin. He forgot the broom. Maureen would say his shed was a pigsty. She would make him tidy up and make it spick-and-span. He uses one of the plastic trays to scrape the leaves and dirt into a pile by the door. He picks up the chair and sits down. There are still a lot of things to bring. A bed, something to eat with, spoons, a bowl and a plate, more food. He uses his fingers to keep count and then takes the two trifle mixes out of his bag and puts them on the chair. He stacks the tins underneath and folds the blanket over them. He will fix the window another day. He closes the door behind him.

Leon uses his little spade and his little fork to dig the soil in his raised beds. He plants his Scarlet Emperor seeds at the base of each cane the way Mr. Devlin did. He places them in the little hole and covers them over with soil, presses it down softly. He waters them from Tufty’s water barrel, taking care to let the water trickle and not flow. It takes a lot of going to and from and when he’s finished he sees there’s still lots of space for other seeds. If he grew carrots, he could take them home to show Sylvia and she would be surprised, because all of her carrots come out of tins. And he could show Maureen when she gets better and she’d smile and say how clever he was. And if he saw Carol again he could cook them and make her eat them so she could get better. But all his Scarlet Emperor seeds have gone and he doesn’t want to spend any of his money on carrot seeds because he’s going to need every penny. He looks at the padlock on Tufty’s shed and wonders if he could get inside. Tufty wouldn’t mind.

The door isn’t locked. The padlock is just hooked on the outside for show so Leon pulls the door open. Someone grabs him, pulls him inside. It’s Castro.

“Shut the door,” he whispers and he shoves Leon against the wall so hard that the door slams and makes a noise.

“And keep quiet. Quiet, you hear me?”

The whole shed smells sour and bad. And he doesn’t look like he looked when Leon first saw him. His red hair sticks out from under a dusty woolen hat and his clothes are dirty but his face has changed the most. He has blood on his lips and one of his eyes is swollen and closed. There are Tufty’s cans of soda all over the floor and Castro has made a bed out of Tufty’s clothes.

Castro rubs the dirty window and looks outside.

“You see Tufty?”

“No,” says Leon.

“Where you live?”

“On College Road.”

“Where is Tufty, man? I thought he come up here every day? He don’t come every day?”

Castro turns and looks at Leon and points to his bag.

“You got food in there?”

“No.” Leon stands with his back to the door with his backpack squeezing against it. He thinks of his precious things and what he will do if Castro tries to take them.

Castro rubs his hands over his face.

“I need a drink.”

Castro is close. Leon can smell pee on his trousers.

“I know where there is a bottle of whiskey,” he says.

“Where?”

Leon points. “In the shed over there.”

“Somebody in there?”