‘Well, I just dropped by to see if everything is all right, and perhaps to help with the shopping. Here: I brought a small contribution.’
Without a word of thanks Inés accepts the money. ‘Yes, all is well with us,’ she says. She presses the child tight against her side. ‘We had a big lunch and then we had a nap, and now we are going off in the car to meet Bolívar, and in the morning we are going to play tennis and have a swim.’
‘That sounds exciting,’ he says. ‘And we have a nice new shirt too, I see.’
The boy does not reply. His thumb is in his mouth, he has not stopped staring at him with those great eyes. More and more he is convinced there is something wrong.
‘Who is Bolívar?’ he asks.
For the first time the boy speaks. ‘Bolívar is an Assación.’
‘An Alsatian,’ says Inés. ‘Bolívar is our dog.’
‘Ah yes, Bolívar,’ he says. ‘He was with you at the tennis court, wasn’t he? I don’t want to be an alarmist, Inés, but Alsatians don’t have a good reputation around children. I hope you will take care.’
‘Bolívar is the gentlest dog in the world.’
He knows she does not like him. Up to this moment he has assumed it is because she is in debt to him. But no, the dislike is more personal and more immediate than that, and therefore more intractable. What a pity! The child will learn to look on him as an enemy, the enemy of their mother–child bliss.
‘Have a wonderful time,’ he says. ‘Perhaps I will drop by again on Monday. Then you can tell me the whole story. Agreed?’
The boy nods.
‘Goodbye,’ he says.
‘Goodbye,’ says Inés. From Diego not a word.
He trudges back to the docks feeling that something has expired in him, feeling like an old man. He had one great task, and that task is discharged. The boy has been delivered to his mother. Like one of those drab male insects whose sole function is to pass on his seed to the female, he may as well wither away now and die. There is nothing left to build his life around.
He misses the boy. Waking up the next morning with the empty weekend before him is like waking after surgery to find a limb has been cut off—a limb or perhaps even his heart. He spends the day drifting about, killing time. He wanders around the empty docks; he roams back and forth across the parklands, where hosts of children are throwing balls or flying kites.
The feel of the boy’s sweaty little hand in his is still vividly alive to him. Whether the boy loved him he does not know, but certainly he needed and trusted him. A child belongs with his mother: he would not for a moment deny that. But what if the mother is not a good mother? What if Elena is right? Out of what complex of private needs did this Inés, of whose history he knows not a jot, grasp a chance to have a child of her own? Perhaps there is wisdom in the law of nature which says that, before it can emerge into the world as a living soul, the embryonic being, the being-to-be, must for a term be borne in its mother’s womb. Perhaps, like the weeks of inwardness that the mother bird spends sitting on her eggs, a period of seclusion and self-absorption is necessary not only for an animalcule to turn into a human being but also for a woman to turn from virgin into mother.
Somehow the day passes. He thinks of calling in at Elena’s, then at the last minute changes his mind, unable to face the nagging interrogation that awaits him there. He has not eaten, has no appetite. He settles down on his bed of sacks, restless, fretting.
The next morning, at the crack of dawn, he is at the bus station. An hour passes before the first bus arrives. From the terminus he follows the uphill track to La Residencia, to the tennis court. The court is deserted. He sits down and waits.
At ten o’clock the second brother, the one he has not yet had the pleasure of being introduced to, arrives in his whites and begins to set up the net. He pays no attention to the stranger in plain sight not thirty paces away. After a while the rest of the party makes its appearance.
The boy sees him at once. In his knock-kneed way (he is an awkward runner) he dashes across the court. ‘Simón! We are going to play tennis!’ he calls out. ‘Do you want to play too?’
He grips the boy’s fingers through the mesh. ‘I’m not much of a tennis player,’ he says, ‘I’d rather watch. Are you enjoying yourself? Are you getting enough to eat?’
The boy nods vigorously. ‘I had tea for breakfast. Inés says I am big enough to drink tea.’ He turns and calls out, ‘I can drink tea, can’t I, Inés?’ then without a pause plunges on: ‘And I gave Bolívar his food and Inés says we can take Bolívar for a walk after tennis.’
‘Bolívar the Alsatian? Please be careful around Bolívar. Don’t provoke him.’
‘Alsatians are the best dogs. When they catch a thief they never let go. Would you like to watch me play tennis? I’m not very good yet, I have to practise first.’ With that he whirls around and dashes back to where Inés and her brothers stand conferring. ‘Can we practise now?’
They have outfitted him in brief white shorts. So, with the white blouse, he is all in white, save for the blue shoes with the straps. But the tennis racquet they have given him is far too large: even with two hands he can barely swing it.
Bolívar the Alsatian slinks across the court and settles down in the shade. Bolívar is a male, with huge shoulders and a black ruff. In looks he is not far removed from a wolf.
‘Come here, big man!’ calls Diego. He stands over the boy, his hands enclosing the boy’s hands as they hold the racquet. The other brother lobs a ball. Together they swing; they hit the ball cleanly. The brother lobs another ball. Again they hit it. Diego backs away. ‘There’s nothing I can teach him,’ he calls to his sister. ‘He is a natural.’ The brother lobs a third ball. The boy swings the heavy racquet and misses, almost falling over in the effort.
‘You two play,’ calls Inés to her brothers. ‘David and I will go and throw balls.’
With easy competence the two brothers knock a ball back and forth over the net, while Inés and the boy disappear behind the little wooden pavilion. He, el viejo, the silent watcher, is simply ignored. It could not be made more clear that he is unwanted.
CHAPTER 12
HE HAS vowed to keep his woes to himself, but when Álvaro asks a second time what has become of the boy (‘I miss him—we all miss him’), the whole story comes pouring out.
‘We went searching for his mother and—behold!—we found her,’ he says. ‘Now the two of them are reunited, and they are very happy together. Unfortunately the kind of life Inés has in mind for him doesn’t include hanging around the docks with the menfolk. It includes nice clothes and good manners and regular meals. Which is fair enough, I suppose.’
Of course it is fair enough. What right has he to complain?
‘It must come as a blow to you,’ says Álvaro. ‘The youngster is special. Anyone can see that. And you and he were close.’
‘Yes, we were close. But it’s not as if I won’t see him again. It’s just that his mother feels that he and she will restore their bond more easily if I stay out of the picture for a while. Which, again, is fair enough.’
‘Indeed,’ says Álvaro. ‘But it does ignore the urgings of the heart, doesn’t it?’
The urgings of the heart: who would have thought Álvaro had it in him to talk like that? A man strong and true. A comrade. Why can he not bare his heart frankly to Álvaro? But no: ‘I have no right to make demands,’ he hears himself say. Hypocrite! ‘Besides, the rights of the child always trump the rights of grown-ups. Isn’t that a principle in law? The rights of the child as bearer of the future.’
Álvaro gives him a sceptical look. ‘I’ve never heard of such a principle.’
‘A law of nature then. Blood is thicker than water. A child belongs with his mother. Particularly a young child. By comparison, my claims are very abstract, very artificial.’
‘You love him. He loves you. That isn’t artificial. It’s the law that is artificial. He should be with you. He needs you.’
‘It’s good of you to say so, Álvaro, but does he truly need me? Perhaps the truth is, I am the one who needs him. Perhaps I lean on him more than he leans on me. Who knows how we elect those we love anyway? It is all a great mystery.’
That afternoon he has a surprise visitor: young Fidel, who arrives at the docks on his bicycle, bearing a scrawled note: We have been expecting you. I hope there is nothing wrong. Would you like to come to dinner this evening? Elena.
‘Say to your mother, Thank you, I’ll be there,’ he tells Fidel.
‘Is this your work?’ asks Fidel.
‘Yes, this is what I do. I help to load and unload ships like this one. I’m sorry I can’t take you on board, but it is a bit dangerous. One day when you are older, perhaps.’
‘Is it a galleon?’
‘No, it doesn’t have sails so it can’t qualify as a galleon. It is what we call a coal-fired ship. That means it burns coal to work the engines that make it go. Tomorrow they will be loading coal for the return voyage. That will be done at Wharf Ten, not here. I won’t be involved. I’m glad of it. It’s a nasty job.’
‘Why?’
‘Because coal leaves black dust all over you, including in your hair. Also because coal is very heavy to carry.’
‘Why can’t David play with me?’
‘It’s not that he can’t play with you, Fidel. It’s just that his mother wants him to herself for a while. She hasn’t seen him in a long time.’
‘I thought you said she had never seen him.’
‘In a manner of speaking. She saw him in her dreams. She knew he was coming. She was waiting for him. Now he has come, and she is overjoyed. Her heart is full.’
The boy is silent.
‘Fidel, I have to get back to work now. I’ll see you and your mother this evening.’
‘Is her name Inés?’
‘David’s mother? Yes, her name is Inés.’
‘I don’t like her. She’s got a dog.’
‘You don’t know her. Once you get to know her you will like her.’
‘I won’t. It’s a fierce dog. I’m scared of it.’
‘I have seen the dog. Its name is Bolívar, and I agree, you should steer clear of it. It is an Alsatian. Alsatians tend to be unpredictable. I’m surprised she has brought it to the Blocks.’
‘Does it bite?’
‘It can.’
‘And where exactly are you living,’ asks Elena, ‘now that you have given up your nice apartment?’
‘I told you: I have taken a room near the docks.’
‘Yes, but where exactly? In a boarding house?’
‘No. It doesn’t matter where it is or what kind of room. It is good enough for my purposes.’
‘Does it have cooking facilities?’
‘I don’t need cooking facilities. I wouldn’t use them if I had them.’
‘So you are living on bread and water. I thought you were sick of bread and water.’
‘Bread is the staff of life. He who has bread shall not want. Elena, please stop this interrogation. I am perfectly capable of caring for myself.’
‘I doubt that. I doubt it very much. Can the people at the arrivals centre not find you a new apartment?’
‘As far as the Centre is aware, I am still happily situated in my old apartment. They are not about to award me a secondary residence.’
‘And Inés—did you not say that Inés has rooms at La Residencia? Why can’t she and the child stay there?’
‘Because children aren’t allowed at La Residencia. La Residencia is a kind of resort, as far as I can work out.’
‘I know La Residencia. I have visited there. Do you know she has brought a dog with her? It’s one thing keeping a small dog in an apartment, but this is a great big wolfhound. It’s not hygienic.’
‘It’s not a wolfhound, it’s an Alsatian. I admit, it makes me nervous. I’ve warned David to be careful. I’ve warned Fidel too.’
‘I will certainly not allow Fidel anywhere near it. Are you sure you have done the right thing, giving your child away to a woman like that?’
‘To a woman with a dog?’
‘To a childless woman in her thirties. A woman who spends her time playing sports with men. A woman who keeps dogs.’
‘Inés plays tennis. Lots of women play tennis. It’s enjoyable. It keeps you fit. And she has only one dog.’
‘Has she told you anything about her background, her past?’
‘No. I didn’t ask her.’
‘Well, in my opinion you are out of your mind, handing over your child to a stranger who for all you know has a dubious past.’
‘That’s nonsense, Elena. Inés has no past, none that counts. None of us has a past. We start anew here. We start with a blank slate, a virgin slate. And Inés is not a stranger. I recognized her as soon as I set eyes on her, which means I must have some kind of prior knowledge.’
‘You arrive here with no memories, with a blank slate, yet you claim to recognize faces from the past. It makes no sense.’
‘It is true: I have no memories. But images still persist, shades of images. How that is I can’t explain. Something deeper persists too, which I call the memory of having a memory. It is not from the past that I recognize Inés but from elsewhere. It is as if the image of her were embedded in me. I have no doubts about her, no second thoughts. At least, I have no doubt that she is the boy’s true mother.’
‘Then what doubts do you have?’
‘I only hope she will be good for him.’
CHAPTER 13
IN RETROSPECT that day, the day when Elena sent her son to the docks to call him, marks the moment when he and she, whom he had thought of as two ships on a near-windless ocean, adrift perhaps, but drifting on the whole towards each other, began to drift apart. There is much that he still likes about Elena, not least her readiness to give ear to his complaints. But the feeling hardens that something that ought to be between them is missing; and if Elena does not share that feeling, if she believes that nothing is missing, then she cannot be what is missing from his life.
Sitting on a bench outside the East Blocks, he writes a note to Inés.
‘I have grown friendly with a woman who lives across the courtyard, in Block C. Her name is Elena. She has a son named Fidel who has become David’s closest friend and a steadying influence on him. For a youngster Fidel has a good heart, you will find.
‘David has been taking music lessons with Elena. See if you can persuade him to sing for you. He sings beautifully. My feeling is that he should go on with his lessons, but of course the decision is yours.
‘David also gets on well with my foreman at work, Álvaro, another good friend. Having good friends encourages one to be good too, or so I find. To follow in the ways of goodness—isn’t that what we both desire for David?
‘If there is any way in which I can help,’ he concludes, ‘you have only to raise a finger. I am at the docks most days, on Wharf Two. Fidel will take messages; David knows the way too.’
He drops the note in Inés’s letter box. He expects no reply and indeed receives none. He has no clear sense of what kind of woman Inés is. Is she the kind of woman prepared to accept well-meant advice, for instance, or is she the kind that gets irritated when strangers tell her how to run her life, and tosses their communications in the trash? Does she even check her letterbox?
Located in the basement of Block F of East Village, the same block that houses the communal gymnasium, is a bakery outlet for which his private name is the Commissariat. Its doors are open on weekday mornings from nine until noon. Besides bread and other baked goods, it sells at laughably low prices such basic foodstuffs as sugar, salt, flour, and cooking oil.
From the Commissariat he buys a stock of canned soup, which he carries back to his hideout at the docks. His evening meal, when he is by himself, is bread and bean soup, cold. He grows used to its unvaryingness.
Since most tenants of the Blocks use the Commissariat, he guesses that Inés will use
it too. He toys with the idea of hanging around there of a morning in the hope of seeing her and the boy, but then thinks better of it. It would be too humiliating if she stumbled on him lurking among the shelves, spying on her.
He does not want to turn into a ghost unable to quit its old haunts. He is ready to accept that the best way for Inés to build up trust with the child is to have him for a while all to herself. But there is a nagging fear he cannot dismiss: that the child may be lonely and unhappy, pining for him. He cannot forget the look in the child’s eyes when he visited, full of mute doubt. He longs to see him again as he used to be, wearing his little peaked cap and black boots.
Now and again he gives in to temptation and dawdles around the outskirts of the Blocks. On one such visitation he glimpses Inés gathering up the washing from the line. Though he cannot be sure, she seems tired, tired and perhaps sad. Can it be that things are going badly with her?
He recognizes the boy’s clothing on the line, including the blouse with the frilly front.
On another—and, as it turns out, the last—of these surreptitious visits he observes the family trio—Inés, the child, the dog—emerge from the block and set off across the lawns in the direction of the parklands. What surprises him is that the boy, clad in his grey coat, is not walking but being pushed in a stroller. Why does a five-year-old need to be wheeled? Why indeed does he permit it?
He catches up with them in the wildest part of the parklands, where a wooden footbridge crosses a stream choked with rushes. ‘Inés!’ he calls out.
Inés stops and turns. The dog turns too, cocking its ears, tugging at its leash.
He puts on a smile as he approaches. ‘What a coincidence! I was on my way to the shops when I saw you. How are you getting on?’ And then, without waiting for her reply, ‘Hello,’ he says to the child, ‘I see you are going for a ride. Like a young prince.’
The child’s eyes fix on his and lock. A sense of peace invades him. All is well. The link between them is not broken. But the thumb is in the mouth again. Not a promising sign. The thumb in the mouth means insecurity, means a troubled heart.
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