The Schooldays of Jesus

  ‘But she didn’t recognize me. Señor Arroyo recognizes me.’

  ‘If you go to señor Arroyo you will no longer have a room of your own. You will have to sleep in a dormitory with the other children. When you feel lonely in the middle of the night you will have no one to go to for comfort. Señor Arroyo and Ana Magdalena certainly won’t let you climb into their bed. There will be no one to play football with in the afternoons. For supper you will get carrots and cauliflower, which you hate, instead of mashed potatoes and gravy. And what of Bolívar? Bolívar won’t know what has happened. Where is my young master? Bolívar will say. Why has he abandoned me?’

  ‘Bolívar can visit me,’ says the boy. ‘You can bring him.’

  ‘It’s a big decision, becoming a boarder. Can’t we leave it until the next quarter, and give ourselves time to think it over properly?’

  ‘No. I want to be a boarder now.’

  He speaks to Inés. ‘I don’t know what Ana Magdalena could have promised him,’ he says. ‘I think it is a bad idea. He is far too young to leave home.’

  To his surprise, Inés disagrees. ‘Let him go. He will soon be begging to come home again. It will teach him a lesson.’

  It is the last thing he would have expected of her: to give up her precious son to the Arroyos.

  ‘It will be expensive,’ he says. ‘Let us at least discuss it with the sisters, see how they feel. It is, after all, their money.’

  Though they have not been invited to the sisters’ residence in Estrella, they have been careful to maintain the link with Roberta on the farm, and to pay the occasional call when the sisters are there, as a token that they have not forgotten their generosity. On these visits David is unusually forthcoming about the Academy. The sisters have heard him expound on the noble numbers and the auxiliary numbers and watched him perform some of the movements from the simpler dances, the Two and the Three, dances which if done justly call down their respective noble numbers from the stars. They have been charmed by his physical grace and impressed by the gravity with which he presents the unusual teachings of the Academy. But on this new visit the boy is faced with a challenge of another kind: to explain to them why he wants to leave home and live with the Arroyos.

  ‘Are you sure that señor and señora Arroyo will have room for you?’ asks Consuelo. ‘As I understand it—correct me if I am wrong, Inés—there are just the two of them, and they have quite a complement of boarders as well as children of their own. What have you got against living at home with your parents?’

  ‘They don’t understand me,’ says the boy.

  Consuelo and Valentina exchange glances. ‘My parents don’t understand me,’ says Consuelo ruminatively. ‘Where have I heard those words before? Pray tell me, young man: why is it so important that your parents should understand you? Is it not enough that they are good parents?’

  ‘Simón doesn’t understand the numbers,’ says the boy.

  ‘I don’t understand numbers either. I leave that sort of thing to Roberta.’

  The boy is silent.

  ‘Have you thought carefully about this, David?’ asks Valentina. ‘Is your mind made up? Are you sure that after a week with the Arroyos you won’t change your mind and ask to come home?’

  ‘I won’t change my mind.’

  ‘Very well,’ says Consuelo. She glances at Valentina, at Alma. ‘You can have your wish and become a boarder at the Academy. We will discuss the fees with señora Arroyo. But your complaint about your parents, that they don’t understand you, pains us. It seems to be asking a lot that they should not only be good parents but understand you as well. I certainly don’t understand you.’

  ‘Nor I,’ says Valentina. Alma is silent.

  ‘Aren’t you going to thank señora Consuelo and señora Valentina and señora Alma?’ says Inés.

  ‘Thank you,’ says the boy.

  The next morning, instead of going to Modas Modernas, Inés accompanies them to the Academy. ‘David says he wants to become a boarder here,’ she tells Ana Magdalena. ‘I don’t know who put the idea in his head, and I’m not asking you to tell. I just want to know: Do you have room for him?’

  ‘Is this true, David? You want to board with us?’

  ‘Yes,’ says the boy.

  ‘And you are opposed, señora?’ says Ana Magdalena. ‘If you are opposed to the idea, why not simply say so?’

  She is addressing Inés, but he, Simón, is the one who replies. ‘We don’t oppose this latest desire of his for the simple reason that we don’t have the strength,’ he says. ‘With us David always gets his way, in the end. That is the kind of family we are: one master and two servants.’

  Inés does not find this amusing. Nor does Ana Magdalena. But David smiles serenely.

  ‘Girls like security,’ says Ana Magdalena, ‘but for boys it is different. For boys, some boys, leaving home is a great adventure. However, David, I must warn you, if you come and live with us you won’t be master any longer. In our home señor Arroyo is the master and the boys and girls listen to what he says. Do you accept that?’

  ‘Yes,’ says the boy.

  ‘But just during the week,’ says Inés. ‘At weekends he comes home.’

  ‘I will write down a list of the things you should pack for him,’ says Ana Magdalena. ‘Don’t worry. If I see he is lonely and pining for his parents I will give you a call. Alyosha will keep an eye on him too. Alyosha is sensitive to such things.’

  ‘Alyosha,’ says he, Simón. ‘Who is Alyosha?’

  ‘Alyosha is the man who takes care of the boarders,’ says Inés. ‘I told you. Weren’t you listening?’

  ‘Alyosha is the young man who helps us,’ says Ana Magdalena. ‘He is a product of the Academy, so he knows our way of doing things. The boarders are his special responsibility. He takes his meals with them and has a room of his own off the dormitory. He is very sensitive, very good-natured, very sympathetic. I will introduce you to him.’

  The transition from day student to boarder proves to be the simplest of matters. Inés buys a little suitcase into which they pack a few toiletries and changes of clothing. The boy adds Don Quixote. The next morning he matter-of-factly kisses Inés goodbye and marches off down the street with him, Simón, trailing behind carrying the suitcase.

  Dmitri is, as usual, waiting at the door. ‘Aha, so the young master is coming to assume residence,’ says Dmitri, taking over the suitcase. ‘A great day, to be sure. A day for singing and dancing and killing the fatted calf.’

  ‘Goodbye, my boy,’ says he, Simón. ‘Be good, and I will see you on Friday.’

  ‘I am good,’ says the boy. ‘I am always good.’

  He watches as Dmitri and the boy disappear up the staircase. Then, on an impulse, he follows. He arrives in the studio in time to catch a glimpse of the boy trotting off to the interior reaches of the apartment, holding Ana Magdalena’s hand. A feeling of loss rolls through him like a fog. Tears come, which he tries in vain to hide.

  Dmitri puts a consoling arm around his shoulder. ‘Be calm,’ says Dmitri.

  Instead of being calm he bursts into sobs. Dmitri draws him to his breast; he offers no resistance. He allows himself a huge sob, another, a third, inhaling with deep, shuddering breaths the smells of tobacco smoke and serge. Letting go, he thinks: I am letting go. It is excusable, in a father.

  Then the time for tears is over. He pulls himself free, clears his throat, whispers a word that is meant to be a word of gratitude but comes forth as a kind of gargle, and rushes down the stairs.

  At home, that evening, he tells Inés of the episode, an episode that in retrospect seems stranger and stranger—more than strange, bizarre.

  ‘I don’t know what got into me,’ he says. ‘After all, it is not as if the child is being taken away and locked up in a prison. If he feels lonely, if he doesn’t get along with this Alyosha man, he can, as Ana Magdalena says, be home in half an hour. So why was I so heartbroken? And in front of Dmitri, of all people! Dmitri!’

/>   But Inés’s mind is elsewhere. ‘I should have packed his warm pyjamas,’ she says. ‘If I give them to you, will you take them tomorrow?’

  Next morning he hands over to Dmitri the pyjamas in a brown paper packet with David’s name written on it. ‘Warm clothing, from Inés,’ he says. ‘Don’t give it to David himself, he is too scatter-brained. Give it to Ana Magdalena, or better, give it to the young man who looks after the boarders.’

  ‘Alyosha. I will give it to him without fail.’

  ‘Inés frets that David might be cold at night. That is her nature—to fret. By the way, let me apologize for the spectacle I made of myself yesterday. I don’t know what got into me.’

  ‘It was love,’ says Dmitri. ‘You love the boy. It broke your heart to see him turn his back on you like that.’

  ‘Turn his back? You misunderstand. David is not turning his back on us. Far from it. Boarding at the Academy is just temporary, a whim of his, an experiment. When he gets bored with it, or unhappy, he will come home again.’

  ‘Parents always feel heartsore when their young flee the nest,’ says Dmitri. ‘It’s natural. You have a soft heart, I can see that. I have a soft heart too, despite the rough exterior. No need to be ashamed. It is our nature, yours and mine. It is how we were born. We are softies.’ He grins. ‘Not like that Inés of yours. Un corazón de cuero.’

  ‘You have no idea what you are talking about,’ he says stiffly. ‘There has never been a more devoted mother than Inés.’

  ‘Un corazón de cuero,’ repeats Dmitri. ‘A heart of leather. If you don’t believe me, wait and see.’

  He stretches out the day’s bicycle round for as long as he can, pedalling slowly, dawdling on street corners. The evening yawns before him like a desert. He finds a bar and orders a vino de paja, the rough wine he acquired a taste for on the farm. By the time he leaves he is feeling pleasantly befuddled. But before long the oppressive gloom returns. I must find something to do! he tells himself. One cannot live like this, killing time!

  Un corazón de cuero. If anyone is hard of heart it is David, not Inés. Of Inés’s love for the child, and his own, there can be no doubt. But is it good for the child that, out of love, they give in so easily to his wishes? Maybe in the institutions of society there resides a blind wisdom. Maybe, instead of treating the boy like a little prince, they should return him to the public schools and let his teachers tame him, turn him into a social animal.

  His head aching, he returns to the apartment, shuts himself in his room, and falls asleep. When he wakes it is evening and Inés is home.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘I was exhausted, I haven’t made supper.’

  ‘I have already eaten,’ says Inés.

  CHAPTER 9

  IN THE weeks that follow, the fragility of their domestic set-up becomes more and more apparent. Simply put, with the child gone there is no reason why Inés and he should be living together. They have nothing to say to each other; they have next to nothing in common. Inés fills in the silences with chatter about Modas Modernas to which he barely listens. When he is not on his bicycle rounds he keeps to his room, reading the newspaper or dozing. He does not shop, does not cook. Inés begins staying out late, he presumes with Claudia, though she offers no information. Only during the boy’s weekend visits is there any semblance of family life.

  Then one Friday, when he arrives at the Academy to pick up the boy, he finds the doors locked. After a long hunt he tracks down Dmitri in the museum.

  ‘Where is David?’ he demands. ‘Where are the children? Where are the Arroyos?’

  ‘They have gone swimming,’ says Dmitri. ‘Didn’t they tell you? They have gone on a trip to Lake Calderón. It’s a treat for the boarders, now that the weather is warming up. I would have liked to go too, but alas, I have my duties.’

  ‘When will they be back?’

  ‘If the weather stays fine, on Sunday afternoon.’

  ‘Sunday!’

  ‘Sunday. Don’t worry. Your boy will have a wonderful time.’

  ‘But he can’t swim!’

  ‘Lake Calderón is the most placid sheet of water in all the wide world. No one has ever drowned there.’

  This is the news with which Inés is greeted when she comes home: that the boy has gone off to Lake Calderón on an outing, that they will not see him this weekend.

  ‘And where is Lake Calderón?’ she demands.

  ‘Two hours’ drive to the north. According to Dmitri, Lake Calderón is an educational experience not to be missed. The children are taken out in boats with glass bottoms to see the underwater life.’

  ‘Dmitri. So now Dmitri is an expert on education.’

  ‘We can drive to Lake Calderón first thing in the morning, if you like. Just to make sure everything is in order. We can say hello to David; if he is unhappy we can bring him back.’

  This is what they do. They drive out to Lake Calderón with Bolívar snoozing on the back seat. The sky is cloudless, the day promises to be hot. They miss the turn-off; it is noon before they find the little settlement on the lake, with its single rooming-house and its one shop selling ice-cream and plastic sandals and fishing tackle and bait.

  ‘I am looking for the place where school groups go,’ he says to the girl behind the counter.

  ‘El centro recreativo. Follow the road along the lake front. It is about a kilometre further on.’

  El centro recreativo is a low, sprawling building giving onto a sandy beach. Disporting themselves on the beach are scores of people, men and women, adults and children, all in the nude. Even at a distance he has no difficulty in recognizing Ana Magdalena.

  ‘Dmitri said nothing about this—this nudism,’ he says to Inés. ‘What shall we do?’

  ‘Well, I am certainly not taking off my clothes,’ she replies.

  Inés is a good-looking woman. She has no reason to be ashamed of her body. What she does not say is: I am not taking off my clothes in front of you.

  ‘Then let me be the one,’ he says. While the dog, set free, lopes off toward the beach, he retires to the back seat and divests himself of his clothes.

  Picking his way delicately over the stones, he arrives on the sandy beach just as a boat full of children comes in. A young man with a sweep of dark hair like a raven’s wing holds it steady while the children tumble out, splashing in the shallow water, whooping and laughing, naked, David among them. With a start the boy recognizes him. ‘Simón!’ he calls out, and comes running. ‘Guess what we saw, Simón! We saw an eel, and it was eating a baby eel, the baby eel’s head was sticking out of the big eel’s mouth, it was so funny, you should have seen it! And we saw fishes, lots of fishes. And we saw crabs. That’s all. Where is Inés?’

  ‘Inés is waiting in the car. She isn’t feeling well, she has a headache. We came to find out what your plans are. Do you want to come home with us or do you want to stay?’

  ‘I want to stay. Can Bolívar stay too?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Bolívar isn’t used to strange places. He might wander off and get lost.’

  ‘He won’t get lost. I will look after him.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll discuss it with Bolívar and see what he wants to do.’

  ‘All right.’ And without a further word the boy turns and scampers off after his friends.

  The boy does not seem to find it strange that he, Simón, should be standing here in the nude. And indeed his own self-consciousness is evaporating fast among all these naked folk, young and old. But he is aware that he has avoided looking directly at Ana Magdalena. Why? Why is it she alone before whom he feels his nakedness? He has no sexual feeling for her. He is simply not her equal, sexual or otherwise. Yet it is as if something would flash from his eyes if he were to look straight at her, something like an arrow, hard as steel and unmistakable, something he cannot afford.

  He is not her equal: of that he is sure. If she were blindfolded and put on exhibition, like one of the statues in Dmitri’s museum or like an animal
in a cage in a zoo, he could spend hours gazing at her, rapt in admiration at the perfection she represents of a certain kind of creaturely form. But that is not the whole story, not by far. It is not just that she is young and vital while he is old and spent; not just that she is, so to speak, carved out of marble while he is, so to speak, put together from clay. Why did that phrase come at once to mind: not her equal? What is the more fundamental difference between the two of them that he senses but cannot put his finger on?

  A voice speaks behind him, her voice: ‘Señor Simón.’ He turns and reluctantly raises his eyes.

  On her shoulders there is a dusting of sand; her breasts are rosy, burnt by the sun; at her crotch there is a patch of fur, the lightest shade of brown, so fine that it is near to invisible.

  ‘Are you here alone?’ she says.

  High shoulders, a long waist. Long legs, firmly muscled, a dancer’s legs.

  ‘No—Inés is waiting in the car. We were concerned about David. We were told nothing about this outing.’

  She frowns. ‘But we sent a note to all the parents. Didn’t you receive it?’

  ‘I know of no note. Anyway, all is well that ends well. The children seem to be having a good time. When will you be bringing them back?’

  ‘We haven’t decided yet. If the weather stays fine, we may be here the whole weekend. Have you met my husband? Juan, this is señor Simón, David’s father.’

  Señor Arroyo, master of music and director of the Academy of Dance: this is not how he expected to meet him, in the nude. A large man, not corpulent, not exactly, but no longer young: his flesh, at throat and breast and belly, has begun to sag. His complexion, the whole complexion of his body, even of his bald skull, is a uniform brick red, as if the sun were his natural element. His idea it must have been, this excursion to the beach.

  They shake hands. ‘It is your dog?’ says señor Arroyo, gesturing.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A handsome beast.’ His voice is low and easy. Together they contemplate the handsome beast. Gazing over the water, Bolívar pays them no heed. A pair of spaniels edge up to him, take turns to smell his genitals; he does not deign to smell theirs.