The Childhood of Jesus

Chapter 15

For a while, after his speech against the rats, he finds the atmosphere at work constrained. Though his comrades are as kindly as ever, a hush seems to fall when he is around.

And indeed, as he looks back on his outburst, he flushes with shame. How could he have belittled the work of which his friends are so proud, work in which he is grateful to be allowed to join?

But then gradually things become easier again. During a morning break Eugenio comes up to him proffering a paper bag. ‘Biscuits,’ he says. ‘Take one. Take two. A gift from a neighbour.’ And when he expresses his appreciation (the biscuits are delicious, he can taste ginger in them and perhaps cinnamon too), Eugenio adds, ‘You know, I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day, and maybe you have a point. Why should we feed rats when they do nothing to feed us? There are some people who eat rat, but I certainly don’t. Do you?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘I don’t eat rat either. I much prefer your biscuits.’

At the end of the work day Eugenio returns to the subject. ‘I have been worried that we might have hurt your feelings,’ he says. ‘Believe me, there was no animus. We all feel the utmost goodwill towards you.’

‘I am not hurt at all,’ he replies. ‘We had a philosophical disagreement, that is all.’

‘A philosophical disagreement,’ agrees Eugenio. ‘You live in the East Blocks, don’t you? I’ll walk with you as far as the bus stop.’ So to keep up the fiction that he lives at the Blocks he has to accompany Eugenio to the bus stop.

‘There is a question that has been preoccupying me,’ he remarks to Eugenio as they wait for the Number 6 bus. ‘It is entirely non-philosophical. How do you and the other men spend your free time? I know many of you are interested in football, but what about the evenings? You don’t seem to have wives and children. Do you have girlfriends? Do you go to clubs? Álvaro tells me there are clubs one can join.’

Eugenio colours. ‘I don’t know anything about clubs. I go to the Institute, mainly.’

‘Tell me about that. I have heard mention of an Institute, but I have no idea of what goes on there.’

‘The Institute offers classes. It offers lectures, films, discussion groups. You should join up. You would enjoy it. It’s not just for young people, there are lots of older people too, and it’s free. Do you know how to get there?’

‘No.’

‘It’s on New Street, near the big intersection. A tall white building with glass doors. You have probably passed by many times without knowing. Come tomorrow night. You can join our group.’

‘All right.’

As it turns out, the course in which Eugenio is enrolled, along with three other of the stevedores, is on philosophy. He takes a seat in the back row, apart from his comrades, so that he can slip out if he gets bored.

The teacher arrives and silence falls. She is a woman of middle age, rather dowdily dressed, to his eye, with tightly cropped iron-grey hair and no make-up. ‘Good evening,’ she says. ‘Let us resume where we left off last week, and continue our exploration of the table — the table and its close relative the chair. As you will remember, we were discussing the diverse kinds of table that exist in the world, and the diverse kinds of chair. We were asking ourselves what unity lies behind all the diversity, what it is that makes all tables tables, all chairs chairs.’

Quietly he rises and slips out of the room.

The corridor is empty save for a figure in a long white robe hurrying in his direction. As the figure comes nearer he sees it is none other than Ana from the Centre. ‘Ana!’ he calls out. ‘Hello,’ replies Ana — ‘sorry, I can’t stop, I’m late.’ But then she does stop. ‘I know you, don’t I? I have forgotten your name.’

‘Simón. We met at the Centre. I had a young boy with me. You kindly gave us shelter on our first night in Novilla.’

‘Of course! How is your son doing?’

The white robe is in fact a white towelling bathrobe; her feet are bare. Strange attire. Is there a swimming pool in the Institute?

She notes his puzzled look and laughs. ‘I’m modelling,’ she says. ‘I do modelling two evenings a week. For a life class.’

‘A life class?’

‘A drawing class. Drawing from life. I am the class model.’ She stretches out her arms as if yawning. The fold of the robe at her throat opens; he catches a glimpse of the breasts he had so admired. ‘You should come along. If you want to learn about the body, there is no better way.’ And then, before he can overcome his confusion: ‘Goodbye — I’m late. Say hello to your son.’

He wanders down the empty corridor. The Institute is larger than he had guessed from outside. From behind a closed door comes music, a woman singing mournfully to the accompaniment of a harp. He pauses before a noticeboard. A long list of courses on offer. Architectural Drawing. Bookkeeping. Calculus. Course after course on Spanish: Beginner’s Spanish (twelve sections), Intermediate Spanish (five sections), Advanced Spanish, Spanish Composition, Spanish Conversation. He should have come here instead of struggling with the language all alone. No Spanish literature that he can see. But perhaps literature falls under Advanced Spanish.

No other language courses. No Portuguese. No Catalan. No Galician. No Basque.

No Esperanto. No Volapük.

He looks for Life Drawing. There it is: Life Drawing, Mondays to Fridays 7 to 9 p.m., Saturdays 2 to 4 p.m.; enrolment per section 12; Section 1 CLOSED, Section 2 CLOSED, Section 3 CLOSED. Clearly a popular course.

Calligraphy. Weaving. Basketwork. Flower Arranging. Pottery. Puppetry.

Philosophy. Elements of Philosophy. Philosophy: Selected Topics. Philosophy of Labour. Philosophy and Everyday Life.

A bell rings to mark the hour. Students emerge into the corridor, first a trickle, then a torrent, not just young folk but people of his age too and older, just as Eugenio said. No wonder the city is like a morgue after dark! Everyone is here at the Institute, improving themself. Everyone is busy becoming a better citizen, a better person. Everyone save he.

A voice hails him. It is Eugenio, waving from out of the human tide. ‘Come! We are going to get something to eat! Come and join us!’

He follows Eugenio down a flight of stairs into a brilliantly lit cafeteria. Already there are long lines of people waiting to be served. He helps himself to a tray, to cutlery. ‘It’s Wednesday, which means it’s noodles,’ says Eugenio. ‘Do you like noodles?’

‘Yes, I do.’

Their turn comes. He holds out a plate and a counter hand slaps a big helping of spaghetti onto it. A second hand adds a dollop of tomato sauce. ‘Take a bread roll as well,’ says Eugenio. ‘In case you need to fill up.’

‘Where do we pay?’

‘We don’t pay. It’s free.’

They find a table and are joined by the other young stevedores.

‘How was your class?’ he asks them. ‘Did you work out what a chair is?’

It is meant as a joke, but the young men stare at him blankly.

‘Don’t you know what a chair is?’ says one of them finally. ‘Look down. You are sitting on one.’ He glances around at his companions. They all burst out laughing.

He tries to join in, to show he is a good sport. ‘I meant,’ he says, ‘did you find out what constitutes. . I don’t know how to say it. .’

‘Sillicidad,’ offers Eugenio. ‘Your chair’ — he gestures towards the chair — ‘embodies sillicidad, or partakes of it, or realizes it, as our teacher likes to say. That is how you know it is a chair and not a table.’

‘Or a stool,’ adds his companion.

‘Has your teacher ever told you,’ says he, Simón, ‘about the man who, when asked how he knew a chair was a chair, gave the chair in question a kick and said, That, sir, is how I know?’

‘No,’ says Eugenio. ‘But that isn’t how you learn a chair is a chair. That is how you learn it is an object. The object of a kick.’

He is silent. The truth is, he is out of place in this Institute. Philosophizing just makes him impatient. He does not care about chairs and their chairness.

The spaghetti lacks seasoning. The tomato sauce is simply pureed tomatoes, warmed up. He looks around for a salt cellar, but there is none. Nor is there pepper. But at least spaghetti is a change. Better than everlasting bread.

‘So — which courses do you think you will enrol in?’ asks Eugenio.

‘I haven’t decided yet. I had a look at the list. Quite a range of offerings. I thought of Life Drawing, but I see it is full.’

‘So you won’t be joining our class. That’s a pity. The discussion grew more interesting after you left. We talked about infinity and the perils of infinity. What if, beyond the ideal chair, there is a yet more ideal chair, and so forth for ever and ever? But Life Drawing is interesting too. You could take Drawing this semester — ordinary Drawing. Then you would get preference for Life Drawing next semester.’

‘Life Drawing is always very popular,’ explains another of the boys. ‘People want to learn about the body.’

He searches for the irony, but there is none, as there is no salt.

‘If you want to learn about the human body, wouldn’t a course in anatomy be better?’ he asks.

The boy disagrees. ‘Anatomy tells you only about the parts of the body. If you want to learn about the whole you need to take something like Life Drawing or Modelling.’

‘By the whole you mean. .?’

‘I mean first the body as body, then later the body in its ideal form.’

‘Won’t ordinary experience teach you that? I mean, won’t spending a few nights with a woman teach you all you need to know about the body as body?’

The boy blushes and looks around for help. He curses himself. These stupid jokes of his!

‘As for the body in its ideal form,’ he presses on, ‘we will probably have to wait for the next life before we get to see that.’ He pushes the spaghetti aside half-eaten. It is too much for him, too much stodge. ‘I must go,’ he says. ‘Goodnight. I’ll see you at the docks tomorrow.’

‘Goodnight.’ They make no effort to detain him. And rightly so. How must he seem to them, to these fine young men, hard-working, idealistic, innocent? What can they possibly learn from the bitter miasma he gives off?

‘How is your boy doing?’ asks Álvaro. ‘We miss him. Have you found a school for him?’

‘He isn’t old enough for school yet. He is with his mother. She doesn’t want him to spend too much time with me. His affections will remain divided, she says, as long as there are two adults laying claim to him.’

‘But there are always two adults laying claim to us: our father and our mother. We are not bees or ants.’

‘That may be so. But in any case I am not David’s father. His mother is the mother but I am not the father. That is the difference. Álvaro, I find this a painful subject. Can we drop it?’

Álvaro grips him by the arm. ‘David is no ordinary boy. Believe me, I have watched him, I know what I am speaking about. Are you sure you are acting in his best interests?’

‘I have handed him over to his mother. He is in her care. Why do you say he is no ordinary boy?’

‘You say you have handed him over, but does he really want to be handed over? Why did his mother abandon him in the first place?’

‘She did not abandon him. He and she were parted. For a while they lived in different spheres. I helped him to find her. He found her, and they were united. Now they have a natural relationship, that of mother and son. Whereas he and I don’t have a natural relationship. That’s all.’

‘If his relationship with you is not natural, what is it?’

‘Abstract. He has an abstract relationship with me. A relationship with someone who cares for him in the abstract but has no natural duty of care to him. What did you mean by saying he was not an ordinary boy?’

Álvaro shakes his head. ‘Natural, abstract. . It makes no sense to me. How do you think a mother and a father come together in the first place — the mother and father of the future child? Because they owe each other a natural duty? Of course not. Their paths cross haphazardly, and they fall in love. What could be less natural, more arbitrary, than that? Out of their random conjuncture a new being comes into the world, a new soul. Who, in this story, owes what to whom? I can’t say, and I’m sure you can’t either.

‘I used to watch you and your boy together, Simón, and I could see: he trusts you utterly. He loves you. And you love him. So why give him away? Why cut yourself off from him?’

‘I haven’t cut myself off from him. His mother has cut him off from me, as is her right. If I could choose, I would be with him still. But I can’t choose. I don’t have the right to choose. I have no rights in this matter.’

Álvaro is silent, seems to withdraw into himself. ‘Tell me where I can find this woman,’ he says at last. ‘I would like to have a word with her.’

‘Be careful. She has a brother who is a nasty piece of work. You shouldn’t tangle with him. In fact she has two brothers, one as unpleasant as the other.’

‘I can take care of myself,’ says Álvaro. ‘Where will I find her?’

‘Her name is Inés and she has taken over my old apartment in the East Blocks: block B, number 202 on the second floor. Don’t say I sent you because that would not be true. I don’t send you. This is not my idea at all, it is your idea.’

‘Don’t worry, I will make it clear to her it is my idea, you have nothing to do with it.’

The next day, during the midday break, Álvaro beckons him over. ‘I spoke to your Inés,’ he says without preamble. ‘She accepts that you can see the boy, only not yet. At the end of the month.’

‘That is wonderful news! How did you persuade her?’

Álvaro waves a dismissive hand. ‘It doesn’t matter how. She says you can take him for walks. She will inform you when. She asked for your telephone number. I didn’t know it, so I gave her mine. I said I would pass on messages.’

‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Please assure her that I won’t upset the boy — I mean, I won’t upset his relationship with her.’