The Childhood of Jesus by J. M. Coetzee Page B

the boy’s mother has been found. But then, mindful of Elena’s reaction to the very same news, he checks himself and tells a lie: David has been taken by his teacher to a big music concourse.
    A music concourse, says Álvaro, looking dubious: what is that, and where is it being held?
    No idea, he replies, and changes the subject.
    It would be a pity, it seems to him, if the boy were to lose touch with Álvaro and never again see his friend El Rey the draft horse. He hopes that, once she has strengthened her bond with him, Inés will allow the boy to visit the docks. The past is so shrouded in clouds of forgetting that he cannot be sure his memories are true memories rather than mere stories he makes up; but he does know that he would have loved it if, as a child, he had been allowed to set off of a morning in the company of grown men and spend the day helping them load and unload great ships. A dose of the real cannot but be good for the child, it seems to him, so long as the dose is not too sudden or too large.
    He had intended to call at Naranjas for supplies, but he has left it too late: by the time he gets there the shop is closed. Hungry, and lonely too, he knocks once again at Elena’s door. The door is opened by Fidel, in his pyjamas. ‘Hello, young Fidel,’ he says, ‘may I come in?’
    Elena is sitting at the table, sewing. She does not greet him, does not raise her eyes from her work.
    â€˜Hello,’ he says. ‘Is something wrong? Has something happened?’
    She shakes her head.
    â€˜David can’t come here any more,’ says Fidel. ‘The new lady says he can’t come.’
    â€˜The new lady,’ says Elena, ‘has announced that your son is not allowed to play with Fidel.’
    â€˜But why?’
    She shrugs.
    â€˜Give her time to settle down,’ he says. ‘Being a mother is new to her. She is bound to be a little erratic at first.’
    â€˜Erratic?’
    â€˜Erratic in her judgments. Over-cautious.’
    â€˜Like forbidding David to play with his friends?’
    â€˜She does not know you or Fidel. Once she gets to know you, she will see what a good influence you are.’
    â€˜And how do you propose that she get to know us?’
    â€˜You and she are bound to bump into each other. You are neighbours, after all.’
    â€˜We’ll see. Have you eaten?’
    â€˜No. The shops were closed by the time I got there.’
    â€˜You mean Naranjas. Naranjas is closed on Mondays, I could have told you that. I can offer you a bowl of soup, if you don’t mind a repeat of last night. Where are you living now?’
    â€˜I have a room near the docks. It’s a bit primitive, but it will do for the time being.’
    Elena warms up the pot of soup and cuts bread for him. He tries to eat slowly, though in fact his appetite is wolfish.
    â€˜You can’t stay the night, I’m afraid,’ she says. ‘You know why.’
    â€˜Of course. I’m not asking to stay. My new quarters are perfectly comfortable.’
    â€˜You have been expelled, haven’t you? From your home. That’s the truth, I can see it. You poor thing. Cut off from your boy, whom you love so much.’
    He gets up from the table. ‘It has to be,’ he says. ‘It’s the nature of things. Thank you for the meal.’
    â€˜Come again tomorrow. I’ll feed you. It’s the least I can do. Feed you and console you. Though I think you have made a mistake.’
    He takes his leave. He ought to go straight to his new home at the docks. But he hesitates, then crosses the courtyard, climbs the stairs, and taps softly at the door of his old apartment. There is a crack of light under the door: Inés must still be up. After a long wait he taps again. ‘Inés?’ he whispers.
    A hand’s breadth away on the other side he hears her: ‘Who is there?’
    â€˜It’s Simón. Can I come