Up to now Inés has encouraged the boy to believe that he is too clever to need schooling, that what little tutoring he may require he can receive at home. But his wilfulness over Don Quixote, his claims to be able to read and write and count when he clearly cannot, have sown doubt even in her mind. Perhaps it would be best, she now concedes, for him to have the guidance of a trained teacher. So they buy him a third, joint gift, a red leather pouch with the initial letter D stamped in gold in one corner, containing two new pencils, a pencil sharpener, and an eraser. This they present to him, along with the abacus and the sweater, on his birthday. The pouch, they tell him, is his surprise gift, to accompany the happy and surprising news that he will soon, perhaps as early as next week, be going to school.
The boy receives the news coolly. ‘I don’t want to go with Fidel,’ he says. They reassure him: being older than he, Fidel is bound to be in a different class. ‘And I want to take Don Quixote with me,’ he says.
He tries to dissuade the boy from taking the book to school. It belongs to the East Blocks library, he says; if it were to be lost he has no idea how they would replace it. Besides, the school is bound to have its own library with its own copy of the book. But the boy will have none of that.
On Monday he arrives early at the apartment to accompany Inés and the boy to the stop where he will catch the bus that will take him to his first day of school. The boy wears his new sweater, carries the red leather pouch with the initial D on it, and grips the tattered East Blocks Don Quixote under his arm. Fidel is already at the bus stop, along with half a dozen other children from the Blocks. Ostentatiously David does not greet him.
Because they want going to school to seem part of a normal life, they agree not to press the boy for tales of the classroom; and he, for his part, remains tight-lipped, unusually so. ‘Did it go well at school today?’ he dares to ask, on the fifth day. ‘Uh-huh,’ replies the boy. ‘Have you made new friends yet?’ The boy does not deign to reply.
Thus it continues for three weeks, four weeks. Then a letter arrives in the mail, with the school’s address in the top left-hand corner. Headed ‘Extraordinary Communication’, it invites the parent(s) of the pupil in question to contact the school secretary at his/her/their earliest convenience to fix a time for a consultation with the relevant class teacher in order to address certain issues that have arisen relating to his/her/their son/daughter.
Inés telephones the school. ‘I am free all day,’ she says. ‘Name a time and I will be there.’ The secretary proposes eleven o’clock the next morning, during señor León’s free period. ‘It will be best if the boy’s father comes too,’ she adds. ‘My son does not have a father,’ Inés replies. ‘I will ask his uncle to come along. His uncle takes an interest in him.’
Señor León, the first-year class teacher, turns out to be a tall, thin young man with a dark beard and only one eye. The dead eye, made of glass, does not move in its socket; he, Simón, wonders whether the children do not find this disturbing.
‘We have only a little time,’ says señor León, ‘therefore I will speak directly. I find David to be an intelligent boy, very intelligent. He has a quick mind; he grasps new ideas at once. However, he is finding it difficult to adjust to the realities of the classroom. He expects to get his own way all the time. Perhaps this is because he is a little older than the class average. Or perhaps at home he has been used to getting his own way rather too easily. In any event, it is not a positive development.’
Señor León pauses, places the fingers of one hand against the fingers of the other, tip to tip, and waits for their response.
‘A child should be free,’ says Inés. ‘A child should be able to enjoy his childhood. I had my doubts about sending David to school so young.’
‘Six is not young to be going to school,’ says señor León. ‘On the contrary.’
‘Nevertheless he is young, and used to his freedom.’
‘A child does not give up his freedom by coming to school,’ says señor León. ‘He does not give up his freedom by sitting still. He does not give up his freedom by listening to what the teacher has to say. Freedom is not incompatible with discipline and hard work.’
‘Does David not sit still? Does he not listen to what you say?’
‘He is restless, and he makes the other children restless too. He leaves his seat and roams around. He leaves the room without permission. And no, he does not pay attention to what I say.’
‘That is strange. At home he does not roam around. If he roams around at school, there must be a reason for it.’
The solitary eye bores into Inés.
‘As for the restlessness,’ she says, ‘he has always been like that. He doesn’t get enough sleep.’
‘A bland diet will cure that,’ says señor León. ‘No spices. No stimulants. I come now to specifics. In reading, David has unhappily made no progress, none at all. Other children who are not as naturally gifted read better than he does. Much better. There is something about the activity of reading that he seems unable to grasp. The same goes for figures.’
He, Simón, intervenes. ‘But he has a love for books. You must have seen that. He carries Don Quixote with him wherever he goes.’
‘He clings to the book because it has pictures,’ replies señor León. ‘It is generally not good practice to learn to read from books with pictures. The pictures distract the mind from the words. And Don Quixote, whatever else may be said about it, is not a book for beginning readers. David’s spoken Spanish is not bad, but he cannot read. He cannot even sound the letters of the alphabet. I have never come across such an extreme case. I would like to propose that we call in a specialist, a therapist. I have a feeling—and colleagues of mine whom I have consulted share my feeling—that there may be a deficit.’
‘A deficit?’
‘A specific deficit linked to symbolic activities. To working with words and numbers. He cannot read. He cannot write. He cannot count.’
‘At home he reads and writes. He spends hours at it every day. He is absorbed in his reading and writing. And he can count to a thousand, a million.’
For the first time señor León smiles. ‘He can recite all kinds of numbers, yes, but not in the right order. As for the marks he makes with his pencil, you may call them writing, he may call them writing, but they are not writing as generally understood. Whether they have some private meaning I cannot judge. Perhaps they have. Perhaps they hint at artistic talent. Which would be a second and more positive reason for him to see a specialist. David is an interesting child. It would be a pity to lose him. A specialist may be able to tell us whether there is some common factor underlying the deficit on the one hand and the inventiveness on the other.’
The bell rings. Señor León takes a notebook from his pocket, scribbles in it, tears off the page. ‘This is the name of the specialist I propose, and her telephone number. She visits the school once a week, so you can see her here. Telephone and make an appointment. In the meantime, David and I will continue with our efforts. Thank you for coming to see me. I am sure there will be a fortunate outcome.’
He seeks out Elena, reports on the interview. ‘Do you know señor León at all?’ he asks. ‘Did Fidel have him as a teacher? I find his complaints hard to credit. That David is disobedient, for instance. He may sometimes be a bit wilful, but not disobedient, not in my experience.’
Elena does not reply but calls Fidel into the room. ‘Fidel, darling, tell us about señor León. David and he don’t seem to be getting on together, and Simón is worried.’
‘Señor León is OK,’ says Fidel. ‘He’s strict.’
‘Is he strict about children speaking out of turn?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Why do you think he and David don’t get along?’
‘I don’t know. David says crazy things. Maybe señor León doesn’t like that.’
‘Crazy things? What sort of crazy things?’
‘I don’t know…He says crazy things in th
e playground. Everyone thinks he is crazy, even the big boys.’
‘But what sort of crazy things?’
‘That he can make people disappear. That he can make himself disappear. He says there are volcanoes everywhere that we can’t see, only him.’
‘Volcanoes?’
‘Not big volcanoes, little ones. That no one can see.’
‘Does he perhaps frighten the other children with his stories?’
‘I don’t know. He says he is going to be a magician.’
‘He has been saying that for a long time. He told me you and he are going to perform in the circus one day. He is going to do magic tricks and you are going to be a clown.’
Fidel and his mother exchange glances.
‘Fidel is going to be a musician, not a magician, not a clown,’ says Elena. ‘Fidel, did you tell David you were going to be a clown?’
‘No,’ says Fidel, shifting uneasily.
The interview with the psychologist takes place on the school premises. They are ushered into the well-lit, rather antiseptic room where señora Otxoa holds her consultations. ‘Good morning,’ she says, smiling and offering her hand. ‘You are the parents of David. I have met your son. He and I had a long talk together, several talks. What an interesting young man!’
‘Before we get down to business,’ he interrupts, ‘let me clarify who I am. Though I have known David for a long time, and was once a sort of guardian to him, I am not his father. However—’
Señora Otxoa raises a hand. ‘I know. David told me. David says he has never met his real father. He also says’—here she turns to Inés—‘that you are not his real mother. Let us discuss these convictions of his before all else. Because, although organic factors may be at work, dyslexia for instance, my sense is that David’s unsettled behaviour in the classroom comes out of a—to a child—mystifying family situation: out of uncertainty about who he is, where he comes from.’
He and Inés exchange glances. ‘You use the word real,’ he says. ‘You say we are not his real mother and his real father. What exactly do you mean by real? Surely there is such a thing as overvaluing the biological.’
Señora Otxoa purses her lips, shakes her head. ‘Let us not become too theoretical. Let us rather concentrate on David’s experience and David’s understanding of the real. The real, I want to suggest, is what David misses in his life. This experience of lacking the real includes the experience of lacking real parents. David has no anchor in his life. Hence his withdrawal and retreat into a fantasy world where he feels more in control.’
‘But he has an anchor,’ says Inés. ‘I am his anchor. I love him. I love him more than the world. And he knows that.’
Señora Otxoa nods. ‘He does indeed. He told me how much you love him—how much both of you love him. Your goodwill makes him happy; he feels the greatest goodwill in return, towards both of you. Nevertheless, there is still something missing, something that goodwill or love cannot supply. Because, although a positive emotional environment counts for a great deal, it cannot be enough. It is that difference, that lack of a real parental presence, that I have called us together to discuss today. Why? you ask. Because, as I say, I feel that David’s learning difficulties stem from a confusion about a world from which his real parents have vanished, a world into which he does not know how he arrived.’
‘David arrived by boat, like everyone else,’ he objects. ‘From the boat to the camp, from the camp to Novilla. None of us knows more than that about our origins. We are all washed clean of memory, more or less. What is so special about David’s case? And what has any of this to do with reading and writing, with David’s problems in the classroom? You mentioned dyslexia. Does David suffer from dyslexia?’
‘I mentioned dyslexia as a possibility. I have not tested for it. But if it is indeed present, my guess is that it is only a contributory factor. No, to come to your main question, I would say that what is special about David is that he feels himself to be special, even abnormal. Of course he is not abnormal. As for being special, let us set that question aside for the moment. Instead let us, all three of us, make an effort to see the world through his eyes, without imposing on him our way of seeing the world. David wants to know who he really is, but when he asks he receives evasive answers like “What do you mean by real?” or “We have no history, any of us, it is all washed out.” Can you blame him if he feels frustrated and rebellious, and then retreats into a private world where he is free to make up his own answers?’
‘Are you telling us that the illegible pages he writes for señor León are stories about where he comes from?’
‘Yes and no. They are stories for himself, not for us. That is why he writes them in a private script.’
‘How do you know that if you can’t read them? Has he interpreted them for you?’
‘Señor, for David’s relationship with me to flourish it is important that he should rely on me not to reveal what has passed between us. Even a child should have a right to his little secrets. But from the talks David and I have had, yes, I believe that in his own mind he is writing stories about himself and his true parentage. Which out of concern for you, for both of you, he keeps hidden, in case you will be upset.’
‘And what is his true parentage? Where, according to him, does he really come from?’
‘That is not for me to say. But there is the matter of a certain letter. He speaks of a letter containing the names of his true parents. He says you, señor, know about the letter. Is that true?’
‘A letter from whom?’
‘He says he had the letter with him when he arrived on the boat.’
‘Aha, that letter! No, you are mistaken, the letter was lost before we came ashore. It was lost during the voyage. I never saw it. It was because he had lost the letter that I took on the responsibility of helping him find his mother. Otherwise he would have been helpless. He would still be in Belstar, in limbo.’
Señora Otxoa writes a vigorous note to herself on her pad.
‘We come now,’ she says, laying down her pen, ‘to the practical problem of David’s comportment in the classroom. His insubordination. His failure to make progress. The consequences of that lack of progress, and that insubordination, for señor León and the other children in the class.’
‘Insubordination?’ He waits for Inés to add her voice, but no, she is leaving it to him to speak. ‘At home, señora, David is always polite and well behaved. I find it hard to credit these reports from señor León. What exactly does he mean by insubordination?’
‘He means continual challenges to his authority as teacher. He means refusal to accept direction. Which brings me to the main point. I would like to propose that we withdraw David from the regular class, at least for the time being, and enrol him instead in a programme of tuition adapted to his individual needs. Where he can proceed at his own pace, given his difficult family situation. Until he is ready to rejoin his class. Which I am confident he will be able to do, since he is an intelligent child with a quick mind.’
‘And this programme of tuition…?’
‘The programme I have in mind is run at the Special Learning Centre at Punto Arenas, not far from Novilla, on the coast, in a very attractive setting.’
‘How far?’
‘Fifty kilometres, more or less.’
‘Fifty kilometres! That’s a lot of travelling for a small child to do every day, back and forth. Is there a bus?’
‘No. David will reside at the Learning Centre, spending every second weekend at home, if he so chooses. Our experience is that it works best if the child is in residence. It allows a certain distance from a domestic situation that may be contributing to the problem.’
He and Inés exchange looks. ‘And what if we decline?’ he says. ‘What if we prefer him to stay in señor León’s class?’
‘What if we prefer to take him out of this school where he is learning nothing?’ Inés now enters, her voice rising. ‘Where he is too young to be anyway. That is the r
eal reason why he is having difficulty. He is too young.’
‘Señor León is no longer prepared to have David in his class, and after making my own inquiries I can see why. As for his age, David is of normal school-going age. Señor, señora, I offer my advice with David’s interests in mind. He is making no progress at school. He is a disruptive influence. To remove him from school and return him to a home environment which he clearly finds unsettling cannot be the solution. Therefore we must take some alternative, bolder step. Which is why I recommend Punto Arenas.’
‘And if we refuse?’
‘Señor, I wish you would not put it in those terms. Take my word for it, Punto Arenas is the best option before us. If you and señora Inés would like to visit Punto Arenas beforehand, I can arrange it, so that you can see for yourselves what a first-rate institution it is.’
‘But if we visit this institution and still refuse, what then?’
‘What then?’ Señora Otxoa spreads her hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘You told me, at the beginning of this consultation, that you are not the boy’s father. There is nothing in his papers about his parentage, his real parentage. I would say…I would say that your qualifications to dictate where he should receive his education are extremely weak.’
‘So you are going to take our child away from us.’
‘Please don’t look at it in that way. We are not taking the child away from you. You will see him regularly, every second week. Your home will continue to be his home. In all practical respects you will continue to be his parents, unless he decides that he wishes to be separated from you. Which he does not indicate in any way. On the contrary, he is extremely fond of you, both of you—fond of you and attached to you.
‘I repeat, Punto Arenas is in my opinion the best solution to the problem we face, and a generous solution too. Think about it. Take your time. Visit Punto Arenas, if you wish. Then, along with señor León, we can discuss details.’
‘And in the meantime?’
‘In the meantime I suggest that David go home with you. It is not doing him any good to be in señor León’s class, and it is certainly not doing any good to his classmates.’