The Childhood of Jesus

  They are the last passengers to get off, and the sole walkers on the footpath. The countryside through which they pass is empty. Though the land seems lush and fertile, there is no sign of human habitation.

  ‘Isn’t it peaceful here in the country!’ he remarks to the boy, though in truth the emptiness strikes him as desolate rather than peaceful. It would be better if there were animals he could point out, cattle or sheep or pigs, going about their animal business. Even rabbits would do.

  Now and again they see birds in flight, but too far away and too high in the sky for him to be sure what kind they are.

  ‘I’m tired,’ announces the boy.

  He inspects the map. They are halfway to the lake, he guesses. ‘I will carry you for a while,’ he says, ‘until your strength comes back.’ He swings the boy onto his shoulders. ‘Sing out as soon as you see a lake. That will be where the water comes from that we drink. Sing out if you see it. In fact, sing out if you see any water. Or if you see any country folk.’

  They press on. But either he has misread the map or the map itself is at fault, for after rising sharply and then plunging as steeply, the track terminates without warning at a brick wall and a rusty gate overgrown with ivy. Beside the gate is a weather-beaten painted sign. He pushes aside the ivy. ‘La Residencia,’ he reads.

  ‘What is a residencia?’ asks the boy.

  ‘A residencia is a house, a grand one. But this particular residencia may be nothing but a ruin.’

  ‘Can we look?’

  They try the gate, but it will not budge. Just as they are about to turn back, there comes, carried on the breeze, the faint sound of laughter. Following the sound, beating their way through heavy undergrowth, they come to a point where the brick wall gives way to a high wire-netting fence. On the other side of the fence is a tennis court, and on the court are three players, two men and a woman, dressed in white, the men in shirts and long trousers, the woman in a full skirt and a blouse with the collar turned up, and a cap with a green visor.

  The men are tall, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped; they look like brothers, perhaps even twin brothers. The woman has teamed up with one of them to play against the other. They are all practised players, he sees that at once, dextrous and swift of foot. The sole man is particularly good, holding his own with ease.

  ‘What are they doing?’ whispers the boy.

  ‘It’s a game,’ he replies in a low voice. ‘It is called tennis. You try to hit the ball past your opponent. Like scoring a goal in football.’

  The ball thuds into the fence. Turning to retrieve it, the woman sees them. ‘Hello,’ she says, and gives the boy a smile.

  Something stirs inside him. Who is this woman? Her smile, her voice, her bearing—there is something obscurely familiar about her.

  ‘Good morning,’ he says, his throat dry.

  ‘Come, hurry up!’ her partner calls. ‘Game point!’

  No further words pass. In fact, when her partner comes a minute later to fetch a ball, he gives the pair of them a glowering look, as if to make it clear they are not welcome, not even to watch.

  ‘I’m thirsty,’ whispers the boy.

  He offers the flask of water he has brought.

  ‘Haven’t we got anything else?’

  ‘What do you want—nectar?’ he hisses back, then at once regrets his irritation. From his pack he takes an orange and tears a hole in the peel. The boy sucks greedily.

  ‘Is that better?’ he asks.

  The boy nods. ‘Are we going to the Residencia?’

  ‘This must be the Residencia. The tennis court must be part of it.’

  ‘Can we go in?’

  ‘We can try.’

  Leaving the tennis players behind, they plunge on through the undergrowth, following the wall, until they emerge onto a dirt road leading to a pair of high iron gates. Behind the bars, through trees, they can glimpse an imposing building in dark stone.

  Though closed, the gates are not locked. They slip through and walk up a driveway ankle-deep in fallen leaves. A sign with an arrow points to an arched entranceway that opens into a courtyard at whose centre stands a marble statue, a larger-than-life figure of a woman or perhaps an angel in flowing robes gazing at the horizon, holding up a flaming torch.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ says a voice. ‘Can I help you?’

  The speaker is an elderly man, his face lined, his back bent. He wears a faded black uniform; he has emerged from a little office or lodge in the entranceway.

  ‘Yes. We have just come from the city. I wonder if we may have a word with one of the residents, a lady who is playing tennis on the court at the back.’

  ‘And would the lady in question wish to speak to you, sir?’

  ‘I believe so. There is a matter of importance that I need to discuss with her. A family matter. But we can wait until their game is over.’

  ‘And the lady’s name?’

  ‘That I can’t tell you, because I don’t know it. But I can describe her. I would say she is about thirty years old, of medium height, with dark hair which she wears swept away from her face. She is in the company of two young men. And she is dressed all in white.’

  ‘There are a number of ladies of that general appearance in La Residencia, sir, several of whom play tennis. Tennis is quite a popular recreation.’

  The boy tugs at his sleeve. ‘Tell him about the dog,’ he whispers.

  ‘The dog?’

  The boy nods. ‘The dog they had with them.’

  ‘My young friend says they have a dog,’ he repeats. He himself cannot recollect any dog.

  ‘Aha!’ says the porter. He retreats into his lair, pulling the glass door to behind him. In the dim light they can make him out shuffling through papers. Then he picks up a telephone, dials a number, listens, lays down the receiver, and returns. ‘I’m sorry, sir, there is no reply.’

  ‘That is because she is out on the tennis court. Can’t we just go to the courts?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but that is not allowed. Our facilities are off limits to visitors.’

  ‘Then may we wait here until she has finished playing?’

  ‘You may.’

  ‘May we walk in the garden while we wait?’

  ‘You may.’

  They wander off into the overgrown garden.

  ‘Who is the lady?’ asks the boy.

  ‘Didn’t you recognize her?’

  The boy shakes his head.

  ‘Didn’t you feel a strange movement in your breast when she spoke to us, when she said hello—a kind of tug at the heartstrings, as if you might have seen her before, in some other place?’

  Doubtfully the boy shakes his head.

  ‘I ask because the lady may be the very person we are looking for. That, at least, is the feeling I have.’

  ‘Is she going to be my mother?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure. We will have to ask her.’

  They complete a circuit of the garden. Back at the porter’s lodge, he taps at the glass. ‘Would you mind ringing the lady again?’ he asks.

  The porter dials a number. This time there is a reply. ‘A gentleman at the gate to see you,’ he hears him say. ‘Yes…yes…’ He turns to them. ‘You did say it was a family matter, did you not, sir?’

  ‘Yes, a family matter.’

  ‘And the name?’

  ‘The name is of no concern.’

  The porter closes the door and resumes his conversation. At last he emerges. ‘The lady will see you, sir,’ he says. ‘However, there is a slight difficulty. Children are not allowed into the Residencia. I am afraid your little boy will have to wait here.’

  ‘That’s strange. Why are children not allowed?’

  ‘No children in the Residencia, sir. That’s the rule. I don’t make the rules, I just apply them. He will have to stay behind while you pay your family visit.’

  ‘Will you stay with this gentleman?’ he asks the boy. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  ‘I don’t want
to,’ says the boy. ‘I want to come with you.’

  ‘I understand that. But I am sure, as soon as the lady hears you are waiting out here, she will want to come out and meet you. So will you make a big sacrifice and stay behind with this gentleman, just for a short while?’

  ‘Will you come back? Do you promise?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The boy is silent, will not meet his eye.

  ‘Can’t you make an exception in this case?’ he asks the porter. ‘He will be very quiet, he won’t disturb anyone.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, no exceptions. Where would we be if we began making exceptions? Soon everyone would want to be an exception, and then there would be no rules left, would there?’

  ‘You can play in the garden,’ he tells the boy. To the porter: ‘He can play in the garden, can’t he?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Go and climb a tree,’ he tells the boy. ‘There are lots of trees good for climbing. I’ll be back in no time.’

  Following the porter’s instructions, he crosses the quadrangle, passes through a second entranceway, and knocks at a door with the word Una on it. There is no reply. He enters.

  He is in a waiting room. The walls are papered in white, with a motif of a lyre and lily in pale green. From hidden lamps white light is cast discreetly upward. There is a sofa in white imitation leather, and two easy chairs. On a small table by the door are half a dozen bottles, and glasses of all shapes.

  He sits down, waits. The minutes pass. He rises and peers down the corridor. No sign of life. Idly he examines the bottles. Cream sherry, Dry sherry. Vermouth. Alcohol content by volume 4%. Oblivedo. Where is Oblivedo?

  Then suddenly she is there, still in her tennis clothes, solider than she had seemed on the court, almost heavy-set. She bears a plate, which she places on the table. Without greeting him she seats herself on the sofa, crosses her legs under her long skirt. ‘You wanted to see me?’ she says.

  ‘Yes.’ His heart is beating fast. ‘Thank you for coming. My name is Simón. You don’t know me, I am of no importance. I come on behalf of someone else, bearing a proposal.’

  ‘Won’t you sit?’ she says. ‘Something to eat? A glass of sherry?’

  With an unsteady hand he pours a glass of sherry and takes one of the flimsy little triangular sandwiches. Cucumber. He sits opposite her, downs the sweet liquor. It goes straight to his head. The tension lifts, and words come in a rush.

  ‘I have brought someone here. In fact the child you saw at the tennis court. He is outside, waiting. The porter would not allow him in. Because he is a child. Will you come and meet him?’

  ‘You have brought a child to meet me?’

  ‘Yes.’ He rises and pours himself another glass of the liberating sherry. ‘I am sorry—this must be confusing, strangers arriving without announcement. But I can’t tell you how important it is. We have been—’

  Without warning the door swings open and the boy himself is before them, out of breath, panting.

  ‘Come here,’ he beckons to the boy. ‘Do you recognize the lady now?’ He turns to her. Her face is frozen in alarm. ‘May he take your hand?’ And to the boy: ‘Come, take the lady’s hand.’

  The boy stands stock-still.

  Now the porter himself arrives on the scene, clearly upset. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he says, ‘but this is against the rules, as I warned you. I must ask you to leave.’

  He turns to the woman in appeal. Surely she does not have to submit to this porter and his rules. But she utters no word of protest.

  ‘Have a heart,’ he says to the porter. ‘We have travelled a long way. What if we all retired to the garden? Would that still be against the rules?’

  ‘No, sir. But note, the gates close at five o’clock sharp.’

  He addresses the woman. ‘Can we go out into the garden? Please! Give me a chance to explain.’

  In silence, the boy holding his hand, the three of them cross the quadrangle into the tangled garden.

  ‘This must once have been a magnificent establishment,’ he remarks, trying to clear the air, trying to sound like a sensible adult. ‘A pity the garden is so neglected.’

  ‘We have only one full-time gardener. It is too much for him.’

  ‘And you yourself? Have you been resident here long?’

  ‘For a while. If we follow that path there, we come out at a pond with goldfish. Your son may like that.’

  ‘In fact I am not his father. I look after him. I am a guardian of sorts. Temporarily.’

  ‘Where are his parents?’

  ‘His parents…That is the reason why we are here today. The boy does not have parents, not in the usual way. There was a mishap on board the boat during the voyage here. A letter went missing that might have explained everything. As a result, his parents are lost, or, more accurately, he is lost. He and his mother have been separated, and we are trying to find her. His father is a different matter.’

  They have reached the promised pond, in which there are indeed goldfish, both small and large. The boy kneels down at the edge, using a frond of sedge in an attempt to lure them.

  ‘Let me be more precise,’ he says, speaking softly and rapidly. ‘The boy has no mother. Ever since we got off the boat we have been searching for her. Will you consider taking him?’

  ‘Taking him?’

  ‘Yes, being a mother to him. Being his mother. Will you take him as your son?’

  ‘I don’t understand. In fact I understand nothing at all. Are you suggesting that I adopt your boy?’

  ‘Not adopt. Be his mother, his full mother. We have only one mother, each of us. Will you be that one and only mother to him?’

  Up to this point she has been listening attentively. But now she begins to glance around a little wildly, as if hoping that someone—the porter, one of her tennis companions, anyone—will come to her rescue.

  ‘What of his real mother?’ she says. ‘Where is she? Is she still alive?’

  He had thought the child was too absorbed in the goldfish to be listening. But now he suddenly pipes up: ‘She’s not dead!’

  ‘Then where is she?’

  The child is silent. For a while he too is silent. Then he speaks. ‘Please believe me—please take it on faith—this is not a simple matter. The boy is without mother. What that means I cannot explain to you because I cannot explain it to myself. Yet I promise you, if you will simply say Yes, without forethought, without afterthought, all will become clear to you, as clear as day, or so I believe. Therefore: will you accept this child as yours?’

  She glances at her wrist, on which there is no wristwatch. ‘It’s getting late,’ she says. ‘My brothers will be expecting me.’ She turns and strides swiftly back towards the residence, her skirt swishing through the grass.

  He runs after her. ‘Please!’ he says. ‘One moment more. Here. Let me write down his name. His name is David. That is the name he goes by, the name he was given in the camp. And this is where we live, just outside the city, in the East Village. Please think about it.’ He presses the scrap of paper into her hand. Then she is gone.

  ‘Doesn’t she want me?’ asks the child.

  ‘Of course she wants you. You are such a handsome, clever boy, who would not want you? But first she must get used to the idea. We have planted the seed in her mind; now we must be patient and allow it to grow. As long as you and she like each other, it is certain to grow and flower. You do like the lady, don’t you? You can see how kind she is, kind and gentle.’

  The boy is silent.

  By the time they have found their way back to the terminus it is nearly dark. In the bus the boy falls asleep in his arms; he has to carry him, asleep, from the bus stop to the apartment.

  In the middle of the night he is roused from a deep sleep. It is the boy, standing by his bedside, tears streaming down his face. ‘I’m hungry!’ he whines.

  He gets up, warms some milk, butters a slice of bread.

  ‘Are we going to live there?’ asks the boy, h
is mouth full.

  ‘At La Residencia? I don’t think so. There would be nothing for me to do. I would become like one of those bees that just hangs around the hive waiting for mealtimes. But we can discuss it in the morning. There is lots of time.’

  ‘I don’t want to live there. I want to live here, with you.’

  ‘No one is going to force you to live where you don’t want to. Now let us go back to bed.’

  He sits with the child, stroking him softly until he is asleep. I want to live with you. What if that wish comes bitterly true? Does he have it in him to be both father and mother to the child, to bring him up in the ways of goodness while all the time holding down a job at the docks?

  He curses himself inwardly. If only he had presented their case more calmly, more rationally! But no, he must behave like a madman, bursting in upon the poor woman with his pleas and his demands. Take this child! Be his one and only mother! Better if he had found a way of giving the boy into her arms, body to body, flesh to flesh. Then memories lying deeper than all thought might have been reawoken, and all would have been well. But alas, it came too suddenly for her, this great moment, as it had come too suddenly for him. It had burst on him like a star, and he had failed it.

  CHAPTER 10

  AS IT turns out, however, all is not lost. Just as noon is striking, the boy comes rushing upstairs in a state of great excitement. ‘They are here, they are here!’ he shouts.

  ‘Who is here?’

  ‘The lady from the Residencia! The lady who is going to be my mother! She came in a car.’

  The lady, who arrives at the door wearing a rather formal dark blue dress, a curious little hat with a gaudy gold hatpin, and—he cannot believe his eyes—white gloves, as if she were visiting a lawyer, does not come alone. She is accompanied by the tall, rangy young man who had so capably taken on two adversaries on the tennis court. ‘My brother Diego,’ she explains.

  Diego nods to him but says no word.

  ‘Please sit down,’ he says to his guests. ‘If you don’t mind using the bed…We haven’t bought furniture yet. Can I offer you a glass of water? No?’