‘Your mother tells me you had an accident while you were playing football,’ he says. ‘Can you tell me exactly what happened?’
‘I fell. It was not only when I was playing football. I fell lots of times, only I didn’t tell anyone.’
‘You did not tell your parents?’
Now is the time for David to repeat that Inés and he are not his real parents, that he is an orphan alone in the world. But no: facing Dr Ribeiro squarely, he says: ‘I did not tell my parents. They would have worried.’
‘Very well. Tell me about the falling. Does it happen only when you are running, or when you are walking too?’
‘It happens all the time. It happens when I am lying in bed.’
‘And before you fall, when you are about to fall, do you feel you are losing your balance?’
‘It feels as if the world is tilting and I am falling off and all the air is going out of me.’
‘Does it frighten you when the world tilts?’
‘No. I am not frightened of anything.’
‘Nothing frightens you? Wild animals? Robbers with guns?’
‘No.’
‘Then you are a brave boy. When you fall, do you lose consciousness? Do you know what that means—to lose consciousness?’
‘I don’t lose consciousness. I can see everything that is happening.’
‘And how do you feel when you are about to fall, when you are beginning to fall?’
‘I feel nice. It is like being drunk. I hear sounds.’
‘What sounds do you hear?’
‘Singing. And chimes that go clink in the wind.’
‘Tell the doctor about your knees,’ says Inés—‘about the pain in your knees.’
Dr Ribeiro holds up a cautioning hand. ‘We will come to the knees in a minute. First I want to hear more about the falling. When did you fall for the first time? Do you remember?’
‘I was in bed. Everything tilted. I had to hold tight so that I would not fall out of bed.’
‘Was this a long time ago?’
‘Quite long.’
‘All right. Now let us have a look at these knees of yours. Undress and lie down on your back. I will help you. Perhaps your parents can leave the room.’
He and Inés wait on a bench in the corridor. After a while the door opens and Dr Ribeiro beckons them in.
‘It is quite a puzzle that young David presents us with,’ says Dr Ribeiro. ‘You must be wondering whether it is what used to be called the falling sickness. My first inclination is to say no; but that will have to be confirmed by further observation. David’s joints are stiff and inflamed—not only the knees but the hips and ankles too. I am not surprised they are painful, and I am not surprised that he sometimes falls. One sees a similar condition in elderly patients. Has there been any recent change in his diet that might be causing this reaction?’
He and Inés glance at each other. ‘He has not been having meals at home,’ says Inés. ‘He has been staying at the orphanage on the river.’
‘The orphanage on the river. Perhaps you can put me in contact with this orphanage, so that we can find out whether they have had other cases besides David’s.’
‘It is called Las Manos,’ says he, Simón. ‘The person in charge of the infirmary is a certain Sister Luisa. She told us she was not competent to treat David and asked us to take him home. She should be able to tell you what you want to know.’
Dr Ribeiro makes a note on his pad. ‘I would like David to spend a day or two under observation in the city hospital,’ he says. ‘I will give you a note admitting him. Bring him in tomorrow morning. We will begin by testing his reaction to various foodstuffs. Do you agree, David? Shall we do that?’
‘Am I going to be a cripple?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Are the other children going to catch what I have?’
‘No. What you have is not transmissible, not catchable. Now stop worrying, young man. We are going to fix you up. Soon you will be playing football again.’
‘And dancing,’ says he, Simón. ‘David is a great dancer. He is studying dance at the Academy of Music.’
‘Indeed,’ says Dr Ribeiro. ‘So you like to dance?’
The boy ignores the question. ‘I am not falling because of foodstuffs,’ he says.
‘We do not always know what is in the foodstuffs we eat,’ says Dr Ribeiro. ‘Particularly with canned and preserved foodstuffs.’
‘No one else falls. I am the only one who falls.’
Dr Ribeiro glances at his watch. ‘I will see you tomorrow, David. Then we can take our investigation further.’
The next morning they deliver David to the city hospital, where they are instructed in the enlightened regime followed in the children’s ward: visits are permitted at any hour of the day or night save during the doctors’ rounds.
David is assigned to a bed by the window, then whisked off for a first set of tests. He returns hours later looking pleased. ‘Dr Ribeiro is going to give me an injection to make me better,’ he announces. ‘The injection is going to come from Novilla, by train, in an ice-box.’
‘That is good to hear,’ says he, Simón. ‘But I thought Dr Ribeiro was going to test you for allergies. Has he changed his mind?’
‘I’ve got neuropathy in my legs. The injection is going to kill the neuropathy.’
He speaks the word neuropatía confidently, as though he knows what it means. But what does it mean?
He, Simón, slips away and catches the only doctor at hand, the duty doctor. ‘Our son says he has been diagnosed with neuropatía. Can you tell me what that is?’
The duty doctor is non-committal. ‘Neuropatía is a general neurological condition,’ he says. ‘It is best that you speak to Dr Ribeiro. He will be able to explain.’
A nurse comes in. ‘Doctors’ rounds!’ she calls out. ‘Time for visitors to say their goodbyes!’
David bids them a brisk farewell. They must bring Don Quixote, he says. And they must tell Dmitri to come and visit him.
‘Dmitri? What makes you think of Dmitri?’
‘Don’t you know? Dmitri is here in the hospital. The doctors are giving him shocks so that he won’t kill anyone again.’
‘You certainly will not be seeing Dmitri. If Dmitri is indeed here, he will be in a part of the hospital that is locked off like a prison, with bars over the windows, a part reserved for dangerous people.’
‘Dmitri is not dangerous. I want him to visit me.’
Inés is unable to control herself. ‘Absolutely not!’ she bursts out. ‘You are a child! You will have nothing to do with that abominable creature!’
He and Inés stroll in the hospital grounds, waiting for the doctors to finish their rounds, debating this new complication.
‘I can’t believe we have anything to fear from Dmitri,’ he says. ‘He is safely locked up in the psychiatric wing. The question is, what if the treatment has succeeded? What if the drugs or the electric shocks have genuinely turned him into a new man? In that case, can we really forbid David to see him?’
‘The time has come to be firm with the child, to put an end to his nonsense, both the Dmitri nonsense and the orphanage nonsense,’ replies Inés. ‘If we don’t assert ourselves now we will lose control of him for good. I blame myself. I am going to take more time off from the shop. I have been leaving things to you, and you are too lax, too easygoing. He can twist you around his little finger—I see it every day. He needs a firm hand. He needs to be given direction in his life.’
There is much that he could say in reply, but he holds himself in.
What he would like to say is: Giving direction to David’s life may have been possible when he was six years old; but now it would need a circus master with a pistol and a whip to bring him under control. What he would like to say further is: We should face the possibility that you and I were meant to be his parents only for a short while; that we have outlived our usefulness to him; that the time has come for us to release him to go h
is own way.
CHAPTER 10
IN HIS office Dr Ribeiro sits them down and briefs them further. The first round of tests suggests that David is suffering not from an allergic reaction—that hypothesis can now be set aside—but from the Saporta syndrome, a neuropathy of the adynamic variety, that is to say, a pathology of the neural pathways along which signals are sent to the limbs. Unfortunately not much is known about the causes of Saporta. It is thought to be of genetic origin. It can exist in a dormant form for years before emerging acutely, as has happened with David. He must ask: Did David exhibit these or similar symptoms in his early years, perhaps as a baby: involuntary muscular contractions, unexplained stabs of pain in the limbs? Is there any history in the family, on either side, of neurological disorders or paralysis? And has he ever needed a blood transfusion? Are they aware that he has a rare blood type?
Inés speaks: ‘David is an adopted child. He came to us late. We are not acquainted with his family history. We know nothing about his blood type. His blood has not been tested before now.’
‘He is adopted, you say. You have no means of contacting the parents?’
‘No.’
Dr Ribeiro makes a note on his pad, then continues. At present David’s left side is more severely affected than the right, but Saporta is progressive and if not checked can lead to paralysis. In the very worst case—the worst and rarest—the ability to swallow or breathe may be lost, in which case the patient will die. (He does not use the word die: the patient will lose life functions, he says.) However, David is a strong, healthy youngster; there is no reason to believe he will not respond to treatment.
Inés speaks. ‘How long will he have to stay in hospital?’
Dr Ribeiro taps his lower lip with his pen. ‘Señora, we will do our best for the boy. We will monitor his progress closely. In the meantime, he will be put on a regime of physiotherapy to maintain muscle tone and counteract the effects of prolonged bed stay.’
He, Simón: ‘David speaks of medicine that is on its way from Novilla.’
‘We are in touch with colleagues in Novilla. I will be candid. This is an unusual case. We have not had much experience of Saporta here in Estrella. Should young David be sent to Novilla for treatment? Facilities are certainly better there. So sending him to Novilla remains an option. On the other hand, his family is here—yourselves—his young friends are here, so it is on balance preferable that he stay. For the moment.’
‘And the medicine itself?’
‘That too has its potential. We are adopting a multi-pronged response to the challenge that David presents. He may have to be here for quite a while. Fortunately we have someone on our staff to help young patients who are missing school. She is quite a livewire. I will introduce you to her.’
‘I hope your livewire does not have strange ideas,’ says Inés. ‘David has had enough of teachers with strange ideas. I want him to be treated like any normal child.’
Dr Ribeiro gives her a quizzical look. ‘David is a bright lad,’ he says. ‘He and I have not had time to chat properly, but even so I can see he is exceptional. I am sure he will get along with señora Devito.’
‘David has suffered enough from being treated as an exception, thank you, doctor. A normal schooling—that is all we ask for him. If he wants to be an exception, an artist or a rebel or whatever else is in fashion, he can do so later, when he is grown up.’
Señora Devito is young and so tiny, so fine-boned, that she barely reaches to Inés’s shoulder. Her curly blonde hair stands out in a nimbus around her head. She receives them eagerly in her cramped little office, no more than a cupboard really.
‘So you are David’s parents! He tells me he is an orphan, but you know how children are at that age, full of stories. You have seen Dr Ribeiro, therefore you know David may be with us for quite a while. It is important that we keep his mind active. It is also important that he not lose too much school time, particularly in science and mathematics. It is so easy to fall behind in mathematics and never catch up again. You can be a great help by bringing in David’s schoolbooks.’
He glances at Inés. ‘There are no schoolbooks to bring,’ he says. ‘I will not explain why, it is too complicated. Let me simply say that, despite not being an orphan, David has of late been attending classes at Las Manos orphanage. The people who run Las Manos are not great believers in books.’
‘My opinion,’ says Inés, ‘is that he should start his schooling all over again, with ABC and one-two-three, as if his mind were blank, as if he were a baby. He should be drilled in the basics, so that his time in hospital will not be wasted. That is what I would suggest, as a parent.’
They have been in señora Devito’s tiny office only a few minutes, but already it feels airless. His head is swimming. ‘Do you mind if I open the door?’ he says, and opens the door.
Señora Devito’s golden locks gleam under the light. ‘I will do my best for your son,’ she says. ‘But I must tell you, even now…’ She leans over her narrow desk, bare of everything save a toy bird made of beads and wire, perched on a bar, that stares at them through its little shining black eyes. ‘I must tell you…’
‘What must you tell us?’ he asks.
‘I must tell you that at a difficult time like this…’ She shakes her head. ‘Of course David needs his ABC and so forth. But at a time like this a child needs more than ABC. He needs an arm to lean on.’
She waits, looking at them meaningfully, waiting for her words to sink in.
Inés speaks. ‘Señora, during his brief lifetime David has been offered plenty of arms to lean on, all of which he has refused. What he has not been offered is a proper education. It is easy for someone who does not have children of her own—you do not have children, do you?’
‘No.’
‘It is easy for someone like you to tell us what David needs and does not need. But I know him better than you do, and I tell you that what he needs is to learn his lessons like any normal child. That is all. I have had my say.’ She grips her bag and rises. ‘Good day.’
He catches up with Inés as she strides down the corridor. She looks magnificent. Self-righteous perhaps, wrongheaded perhaps, belligerent perhaps, but magnificent nonetheless, the woman whom, from the moment he first set eyes on her, he knew to be the true mother for the boy.
‘Inés!’ he calls.
She stops and wheels on him. ‘What is it?’ she says. ‘How are you planning to undermine me now?’
‘I am not planning to undermine you. On the contrary, I want to tell you I am behind you, fully behind you. Where you lead I will follow.’
‘Really? Are you sure you don’t want to follow the pretty girl you were ogling?’
‘It is you I will follow, you I will defer to, and no one else. What more can I say?’
Nearing the children’s ward, they hear David’s voice, even, confident. ‘He knew it was a cage, not a chariot, but he allowed the sorcerer to lock him up anyway,’ he is saying. ‘Because he knew that whenever he wanted to…’
He and Inés pause in the doorway. Perched at the foot of David’s bed, listening as he speaks, is a young woman, plump as a pigeon, in a nurse’s uniform. Around her cluster the other children from the ward.
‘He knew that whenever he wanted to, he could escape, because the lock that could defeat him had not been invented. Then the sorcerer gave a crack of the whip, and the two big horses began to pull the cart on which was the cage holding the noble knight. The names of the horses were Ivory and Shadow. Ivory was white and Shadow was black, they were equal in strength, but Ivory was a quiet horse, his mind was elsewhere, he was always thinking, while Shadow was fierce and wayward, which means that he wanted to go his own way, so that sometimes the sorcerer had to use his whip to make him obey. Hello, Inés! Hello, Simón! Are you listening to my story?’
The young nurse jumps up and, ducking her head, scurries guiltily past them.
The children, all dressed in the hospital’s sky-blue pyjamas, pay
them no attention, but wait impatiently for David to resume. The youngest, a little girl with pigtails, is no older than four or five; the oldest, a sturdy boy, already shows the outline of a moustache.
‘They rode and they rode until at last they came to the border of a strange new land. “Here I am going to forsake you, Don Quixote,” said the sorcerer. “Beyond lies the realm of the Black Prince, where even I fear to tread. I will leave it to the white horse Ivory and the dark horse Shadow to conduct you further on your adventures.” Then the sorcerer gave a last crack of his whip and the two horses set off, drawing Don Quixote in his cage into the unknown land.’
David pauses, staring into the distance.
‘And?’ pipes up the little girl with pigtails.
‘Tomorrow I will see more, and say what happened next to Don Quixote.’
‘But nothing bad happened to him, did it?’ says the little girl.
‘Nothing bad happens to Don Quixote because he is master of his fate,’ says David.
‘That’s good,’ says the little girl.
CHAPTER 11
HE IS taking Bolívar for his customary walk in the park when a child comes running up to him, a little boy from one of the upstairs apartments for whom he has always had a fondness—a child crazy about football but still too young to take part in the games. His name is Artemio, but the boys have nicknamed him El Perrito, the puppy.
‘Señor, señor!’ he calls out. ‘Is it true that David is going to die?’
‘No, of course not. I have never heard such nonsense. David is in hospital because his knees hurt. As soon as his knees are better he will be back with us playing football. You will see.’
‘So he is not going to die?’
‘Certainly not. Nobody dies of sore knees. Who told you he was going to die?’
‘The other boys. When is he going to come back?’
‘I told you: as soon as he is well again.’
The Death of Jesus Page 5