‘There is! You don’t understand! You don’t remember anything! A number can fall out of the sky like Don Quixote when he fell down the crack.’
‘Don Quixote didn’t fall down a crack. He descended into a cave, using a ladder made of rope. Anyhow, Don Quixote isn’t relevant. He isn’t real.’
‘He is! He is a hero!’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say what I said. Of course the Don is a hero and of course he is real. What I meant to say is that what happened to him doesn’t happen to people any more. People live their lives from beginning to end without falling down cracks.’
‘They do fall! They fall down cracks and you can’t see them any more because they can’t get out. You said so yourself.’
‘Now you are confusing cracks with holes. You are thinking of people dying and getting buried in graves, in holes in the ground. A grave is made by gravediggers using spades. It is not something unnatural like a crack.’
There is a rustle of clothing and Inés materializes out of the dark. ‘I have been calling and calling,’ she says crossly. ‘Does no one ever listen?’
CHAPTER 21
THE NEXT time he comes knocking at the apartment, the door is flung open by the boy in a flushed, excited state. ‘Simón, guess what!’ he shouts. ‘We saw señor Daga! He’s got a magic pen! He showed me!’
He has almost forgotten about Daga, the man who humiliated Álvaro and the paymaster at the docks. ‘A magic pen!’ he says. ‘That sounds interesting. May I come in?’
Bolívar approaches him magisterially and sniffs his crotch. Inés is sitting hunched over her sewing: he has a momentary, unsettling vision of what she will be like as an old woman. Without greeting him she speaks. ‘We went into the city, to the Asistencia, to get the child allowance, and this man was there, this friend of yours.’
‘He is no friend of mine. I have never so much as exchanged a word with him.’
‘He’s got a magic pen,’ says the boy. ‘There’s a lady inside it, and you think it is a picture, but it isn’t, it’s a real lady, a tiny tiny lady, and when you turn the pen upside down her clothes fall off and she is naked.’
‘Mm. What else did señor Daga show you, besides the tiny lady?’
‘He said it wasn’t his fault that Álvaro got his hand cut. He said Álvaro started it. He said it was Álvaro’s fault.’
‘That’s what people always say. It’s always someone else who started it. It’s always someone else’s fault. Did señor Daga by any chance tell you what has become of the bicycle that he took?’
‘No.’
‘Well, next time you see him, ask him. Ask him whose fault it is that the paymaster has no bicycle and has to do his tour on foot.’
There is silence. It surprises him that Inés has so little to say about men who take little boys aside and show them pens with naked ladies inside them.
‘Whose fault is it?’ says the boy.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You said it is always someone else’s fault. Is it señor Daga’s fault?’
‘That the bicycle is gone? Yes, it is his fault. But when I say it is always someone else’s fault I am talking more generally. When something goes wrong we at once claim it is not our fault. We have been taking that line since the beginning of the world. It seems to be ingrained in us, part of our nature. We are never prepared to admit it is our fault.’
‘Is it my fault?’ asks the boy.
‘Is what your fault? No, it isn’t your fault. You are just a child, how can it be your fault? But I do think you should steer clear of señor Daga. He is not a good model for a young person to follow.’ He speaks slowly and seriously: the warning is directed as much to Inés as to the boy.
A few days later, coming up out of the hold of a ship at the docks, he is surprised to see Inés herself on the quayside, deep in conversation with Álvaro. His heart gives a lurch. She has never been to the docks before: it can only be bad news.
The boy is gone, says Inés, stolen away by señor Daga. She has called the police but they will not help. No one will help. Álvaro must come; he, Simón, must come. They must track Daga down—it cannot be hard, he works with them—and restore her child to her.
Women are a rare enough sight on the dockside. The men glance curiously at the distraught woman with her wild hair and her city clothes.
By degrees he and Álvaro get the story out of her. The queue at the Asistencia was long, the boy was restless, señor Daga chanced to be there, he offered to buy the boy an ice cream, and when next she looked they were gone, as if they had vanished from the face of the earth.
‘But how could you have let him go off with a man like that?’ he protests.
She brushes the question away with a peremptory toss of the head. ‘A growing boy needs a man in his life. He can’t be with his mother all the time. And I thought he was a nice man. I thought he was sincere. David is fascinated by his earring. He wants an earring too.’
‘Did you say you would buy him one?’
‘I told him he can wear an earring when he is older, but not yet.’
‘I’ll leave you to your discussion,’ says Álvaro. ‘Call me if you need me.’
‘What about your own part in this?’ he asks, when they are alone. ‘How could you have entrusted your child to that man? Is there something you are not telling me? Is it possible you too find him fascinating, with his gold earrings and his naked ladies in pens?’
She pretends not to hear. ‘I waited and waited,’ she says. ‘Then I caught the bus because I thought they might have come back home. Then when they weren’t there I phoned my brother, and he said he would phone the police, but then he phoned back to say the police wouldn’t help because I am not…because I don’t have the right papers for David.’
She pauses, staring fixedly into the distance. ‘He told me…’ she says, ‘he told me he would give me a child. He didn’t tell me… he didn’t tell me he would take my child away.’ Suddenly she is sobbing helplessly. ‘He didn’t tell me…he didn’t tell me…’
His anger does not fade, but his heart goes out to the woman nonetheless. Careless of the watching stevedores, he takes her in his arms. She sobs on his shoulder. ‘He didn’t tell me…’
He told me he would give me a child. His head is whirling. ‘Come away,’ he says. ‘Let us go somewhere private.’ He leads her behind the shed. ‘Listen to me, Inés. David is safe, I am sure of that. Daga would not dare to do anything to him. Go back to the apartment and wait there. I will find out where he lives and pay him a call.’ He pauses. ‘What did he mean when he said he would give you a child?’
She pulls herself free. The sobs cease. ‘What do you suppose he meant?’ she says, a hard edge to her voice.
Half an hour later he is at the Relocation Centre. ‘I need some information urgently,’ he says to Ana. ‘Do you know a man named Daga? He is in his thirties, slim, wears an earring. Worked at the docks briefly.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because I need to speak to him. He has taken David from his mother and disappeared. If you won’t help me I will have to go to the police.’
‘His name is Emilio Daga. Everyone knows him. He lives in the City Blocks. At least, that is where he is registered.’
‘Where exactly in the City Blocks?’
She retires to the bank of card drawers, comes back with an address on a scrap of paper. ‘Next time you are here,’ she says, ‘tell me how you tracked down his mother. I would like to know, if you have the time.’
The City Blocks are the most desirable of the complexes administered by the Centre. The address Ana has given leads him to an apartment on the top floor of the main block. He knocks. The door is opened by an attractive young woman, rather too heavily made up, teetering unsteadily on high heels. In fact not a woman at all—he doubts she is older than sixteen.
‘I am looking for someone named Emilio Daga,’ he says. ‘Does he live here?’
‘Sure,’ says the girl. ??
?Come in. Have you come to fetch David?’
The interior smells of stale cigarette smoke. Daga, dressed in a cotton T-shirt and jeans, barefoot, sits facing a large window with a view of the city and the setting sun. He swivels in his chair, raises a hand in greeting.
‘I’ve come for David,’ he says.
‘He’s in the bedroom watching television,’ says Daga. ‘Are you the uncle? David! Your uncle is here!’
The boy rushes in from the adjoining room in great excitement. ‘Simón, come and see! It’s Mickey Mouse! He has a dog named Plato, and he is driving a train, and the Red Indians are shooting arrows at him. Come quickly!’
He ignores the boy, addresses Daga. ‘His mother has been frantic with worry. How could you do this?’
He has not been so close to Daga before. The bold head of hair, with its mass of golden curls, turns out to be coarse and greasy. The T-shirt has a hole at the armpit. To his surprise, he feels no fear of the man.
Daga does not rise. ‘Calm down, viejo,’ he says. ‘We had a good time together. Then the youngster took a nap. He slept like a log, like an angel. Now he is watching the kids’ show. Where is the harm in that?’
He does not reply. ‘Come, David!’ he says. ‘We’re leaving. Say goodbye to señor Daga.’
‘No! I want to look at Mickey Mouse!’
‘You can look at Mickey next time,’ says Daga. ‘I promise. We will keep him here just for you.’
‘And Plato?’
‘And Plato. We can keep Plato too, can’t we, sweetie?’
‘Sure,’ says the girl. ‘We’ll keep them locked up in the mouse-box till next time.’
‘Come,’ he says to the child. ‘Your mother has been worrying herself sick.’
‘She’s not my mother.’
‘Of course she is your mother. She loves you very much.’
‘Who is she, young fellow, if she isn’t your mother?’ says Daga.
‘She is just a lady. I haven’t got a mother.’
‘You have got a mother. Inés is your mother,’ he, Simón, says. ‘Give me your hand.’
‘No! I haven’t got a mother and I haven’t got a father. I just am.’
‘That’s nonsense. Every one of us has a mother. Every one of us has a father.’
‘Have you got a mother?’ says the boy, addressing Daga.
‘No,’ says Daga. ‘I haven’t got a mother either.’
‘See!’ says the boy triumphantly. ‘I want to stay with you, I don’t want to go to Inés.’
‘Come here,’ says Daga. The boy trots over; he lifts him onto his knee. The boy nestles against his chest, his thumb in his mouth. ‘You want to stay with me?’ The boy nods. ‘You want to live with me and Frannie, just the three of us?’ The boy nods again. ‘That OK with you, sweetheart—that David comes and lives with us?’
‘Sure,’ says the girl.
‘He is not competent to choose,’ says he, Simón. ‘He is just a child.’
‘You are right. He is just a child. It is up to his parents to decide. But, as you heard, he hasn’t got parents. So what do we do?’
‘David has a mother who loves him as much as any mother in the world. As for me, I may not be his father but I care about him. Care about him and care for him and take care of him. He is coming with me.’
Daga hears this little speech in silence and then, to his surprise, gives him a smile, a rather attractive smile, showing off his excellent teeth. ‘That’s good,’ he says. ‘You take him back to his lady mother. Tell her he had a good time. Tell her he is always safe with me. You do feel safe with me, don’t you, young man?’
The boy nods, his thumb still in his mouth.
‘Right, then maybe it’s time to go off with your gentleman guardian.’ He lifts the boy from his lap. ‘Come again soon. Promise? Come and watch Mickey.’
CHAPTER 22
‘WHY DO I have to speak Spanish all the time?’
‘We have to speak some language, my boy, unless we want to bark and howl like animals. And if we are going to speak some language, it is best we all speak the same one. Isn’t that reasonable?’
‘But why Spanish? I hate Spanish.’
‘You don’t hate Spanish. You speak very good Spanish. Your Spanish is better than mine. You are just being contrary. What language do you want to speak?’
‘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 e
xpect? 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?’