The Schooldays of Jesus (24 page)

Softness. Mercedes hardly strikes him as soft, with her sharp beak of a nose and her bony, arthritic hands. He pays, rises. ‘I must go,' he says. ‘It is David's birthday tomorrow. He will be seven. There are preparations to be made.'

CHAPTER 18

INÉS IS determined that the boy's birthday will be celebrated fittingly. To the party have been invited as many of his classmates from the old Academy as she has been able to track down, as well as the boys from the apartment block with whom he plays football. From the
pastelería
she has ordered a cake shaped like a football; she has brought home a gaily painted
piñata
in the form of a donkey and from her friend Claudia borrowed the paddles with which the children will beat it to pieces; she has engaged a conjuror to put on a magic show. She has not revealed to him, Simón, what her birthday gift will be, but he knows she has spent a lot of money on it.

His first impulse is to match Inés in munificence, but he checks that impulse: as he is the minor parent, so his gift should be the minor gift. In the back room of an antiques store he finds exactly the right thing: a model ship much like the ship they came on, with a smokestack and a propeller and a captain's bridge and tiny passengers carved in wood leaning on the rails or promenading on the upper deck.

While he is exploring the shops of the old quarter of Estrella he looks out for the book Mercedes mentioned, Arroyo's book on music. He fails to find it. None of the booksellers have heard of it. ‘I have been to some of his recitals,' says one of them. ‘He is an amazing pianist, a true virtuoso. I had no idea he wrote books too. Are you sure of it?'

By arrangement with Inés, the boy spends the night before the party with him in his rented room so that she can ready the apartment.

‘Your last night as a small boy,' he remarks to the boy. ‘As of tomorrow you will be a seven-year-old, and a seven-year-old is a big boy.'

‘Seven is a noble number,' says the boy. ‘I know all the noble numbers. Do you want me to recite them?'

‘Not tonight, thank you. What other branches of numerology have you studied besides the noble numbers? Have you studied fractions, or are fractions off limits? Don't you know the term
numerology
? Numerology is the science that señor Arroyo practises in his Academy. Numerologists are people who believe that numbers exist independently of us. They believe that even if a great flood came and drowned all living creatures, the numbers would survive.'

‘If the flood was really big, up to the sky, the numbers would be drowned too. Then there would be nothing left, only the dark stars and the dark numbers.'

‘The dark stars? What are they?'

‘The stars between the bright stars. You can't see them because they are dark.'

‘Dark stars must be one of your discoveries. There is no mention of dark stars or dark numbers in numerology as I understand it. Furthermore, according to the numerologists, numbers cannot drown, no matter how high the floodwaters rise. They cannot drown because they neither breathe nor eat nor drink. They just exist. We human beings come and we go, we voyage from this life to the next, but the numbers stay the same forever and ever. That is what people like señor Arroyo write in their books.'

‘I found out a way of coming back from the new life. Shall I tell you? It's brilliant. You tie a rope to a tree, a long, long rope, then when you get to the next life you tie the other end of the rope to a tree, another tree. Then when you want to come back from the next life you just hold on to the rope. Like the man in the
larebinto
.'

‘
Laberinto
. That's a very clever plan, very ingenious. Unfortunately I see a flaw in it. The flaw is that while you are swimming back to this life, holding on to the rope, the waves will reach up and wash you clean of your memories. So when you reach this side you will remember nothing of what you saw on the other side. It will be as if you had never visited the other side at all. It will be as if you had slept without dreaming.'

‘Why?'

‘Because, as I said, you will have been immersed in the waters of forgetting.'

‘But why? Why do I have to forget?'

‘Because that is the rule. You cannot come back from the next life and report what you saw there.'

‘Why is it the rule?'

‘A rule is just a rule. Rules don't have to justify themselves. They just are. Like numbers. There is no
why
for numbers. This universe is a universe of rules. There is no
why
for the universe.'

‘Why?'

‘Now you are being silly.'

Later, when David has fallen asleep on the sofa and he himself is lying in bed listening to the scurrying of mice in the ceiling, he wonders how the boy will look back on these conversations of theirs. He, Simón, thinks of himself as a sane, rational person who offers the boy a sane, rational elucidation of why things are the way they are. But are the needs of a child's soul better served by his dry little homilies than by the fantastic fare offered at the Academy? Why not let him spend these precious years dancing the numbers and communing with the stars in the company of Alyosha and señor Arroyo, and wait for sanity and reason to arrive in their own good time?

A rope from land to land: he should tell Arroyo about that, send him a note. ‘My son, the one who says you know his true name, has come up with a plan for our general salvation: a rope bridge from shore to shore; souls pulling themselves hand over hand across the ocean, some toward the new life, some back toward the old one. If there were such a bridge, says my son, it would mean the end of forgetfulness. We would all know who we are, and rejoice.'

He ought really to write to Arroyo. Not just a note but something longer and fuller that would say what he might have said had he not stormed out of their meeting. If he were not so sleepy, so lethargic, he would switch on the light and do it. ‘Esteemed
Juan Sebastián, forgive my show of petulance this morning. I am going through a troubled time, though of course the burden under which I labour is far lighter than yours. Specifically, I find myself at sea (I use a common metaphor), drifting further and further from solid land. How so? Allow me to be candid. Despite strenuous efforts of the intellect, I cannot believe in the numbers, the higher numbers, the numbers on high, as you do and as everyone connected with your Academy seems to do, including my son David. I understand nothing about the numbers, neither a jot nor a tittle, from beginning to end. Your faith in them has helped you (I surmise) to get through these difficult times, whereas I, who do not share that faith, am touchy, irascible, prone to outbursts (you beheld one this morning)—am in fact becoming hard to bear, not only to those around me but to myself.

‘
The answer will come to you when you least expect it
.
Or not.
I have a distaste for paradoxes, Juan Sebastián, which you seem not to share. Is that what I must do to attain peace of mind: swallow paradoxes as they arise? And while you are about it, help me to understand why a child schooled by you, when asked to explain the numbers, should reply that they cannot be explained, can only be danced. The same child, before attending your Academy, was afraid of stepping from one paving stone to the next lest he fall through the gap and disappear into nothingness. Yet now he dances across gaps without a qualm.
What magical powers does dancing have?
'

He should do it. He should write the note. But will Juan Sebastián write back? Juan Sebastián does not strike him as the kind of man who will get out of bed in the middle of the night to
throw a rope to a man who, if not drowning, is at least floundering.

As he descends into sleep an image comes to him from the football games in the park: the boy, head down, fists clenched, running and running like an irresistible force. Why, why, why, when he is so full of life—of this life, this present life—is he so interested in the next one?

The first arrivals at the party are two boys from one of the apartments below, brothers, uncomfortable in their neat shirts and shorts with their wetted-down hair. They hurry to offer their colourfully wrapped present, which David deposits in a space he has cleared in a corner: ‘This is my present pile,' he announces. ‘I am not going to open my presents until everyone has gone.'

The present pile already contains the marionettes from the sisters on the farm and his, Simón's, gift, the ship, packed in a cardboard box and tied with a ribbon.

The doorbell rings; David rushes off to greet new guests and accept more gifts.

Since Diego has taken on the task of passing round refreshments, there is little for him to do. He suspects that most of their guests take Diego to be the boy's father and him, Simón, to be a grandfather or some even more remote relative.

The party goes well, though the handful of children from the Academy are wary of the more boisterous children from the apartments and cluster together, whispering among themselves. Inés—her hair fashionably waved, wearing a smart black and white frock, in every respect a mother of whom a boy can feel
proud—looks pleased with the proceedings.

‘That's a nice dress,' he remarks to her. ‘It suits you.'

‘Thank you,' she says. ‘It is time for the birthday cake. Can you bring it in?'

So it is his privilege to bear to the table the giant football cake, set in its bed of green marzipan, and to smile benevolently as with a single
whoosh
David blows out all seven candles.

‘Bravo!' says Inés. ‘Now you have to wish.'

‘I already made my wish,' says the boy. ‘It's a secret. I'm not going to tell anyone.'

‘Not even me?' says Diego. ‘Not even in my ear?' And he inclines his head intimately.

‘No,' says the boy.

There is a setback with the cutting of the cake: as the knife sinks in, the chocolate shell cracks and the cake breaks into two unequal halves, one of which rolls off the board and tumbles in fragments on the tabletop, knocking over a glass of lemonade.

With a cry of triumph David brandishes the knife over his head: ‘It's an earthquake!'

Inés hastens to mop up the mess. ‘Be careful with that knife,' she says. ‘You could hurt someone.'

‘It's my birthday, I can do what I want.'

The telephone rings. It is the conjuror. He is running late, he will be another forty-five minutes, perhaps an hour. Inés slams down the receiver in a fury. ‘What way is that to run a business!' she cries.

There are too many children for the apartment. Diego has twisted a balloon into the shape of a manikin with huge ears; this
becomes the object of a chase among the boys. They tear through the rooms, knocking over furniture. Bolívar rouses himself and emerges from his lair in the kitchen. The children recoil in alarm. It falls to him, Simón, to hold the dog back by the collar.

‘His name is Bolívar,' announces David. ‘He won't bite, he only bites bad people.'

‘Can I pat him?' asks one of the girls.

‘Bolívar isn't in a friendly mood right now,' replies he, Simón. ‘He is used to sleeping in the afternoons. He is very much a creature of habit.' And he manhandles Bolívar back into the kitchen.

Blessedly, Diego persuades the rougher boys, David among them, to go out to the park for a game of football. He and Inés are left behind to entertain the timid ones. Then the footballers return in a rush to gobble up the last of the cake and biscuits.

There is a knock at the door. The conjuror stands there, a flustered-looking little man with rosy cheeks, wearing a top hat and tails, carrying a wicker basket. Inés does not give him a chance to speak. ‘Too late!' she cries. ‘What way is this to treat customers? Go! You are not getting a penny from us!'

The guests leave. Armed with a pair of scissors, David begins to open his gifts. He unwraps the gift from Inés and Diego. ‘It's a guitar!' he says.

‘It's a ukulele,' says Diego. ‘There's a booklet too that tells you how to play it.'

The boy strums the ukulele, producing a jangled chord.

‘It has first to be tuned,' says Diego. ‘Let me show you how.'

‘Not now,' says the boy. He opens his, Simón's present. ‘It's
brilliant!' he cries out. ‘Can we take it to the park and sail it?'

‘It's a model,' he replies. ‘I am not sure it will float without tipping. We can experiment in the bathtub.'

They fill the bathtub. The boat floats gaily on the surface, with no sign of tipping. ‘It's brilliant!' repeats the boy. ‘It's my best present.'

‘Once you have learned to play it, the ukulele will grow to be your best present,' he says. ‘The ukulele isn't just a model, it is the real thing, a real musical instrument. Have you said thank you to Inés and Diego?'

‘Juan Pablo says the Academy is a sissy school. He says only sissies go to the Academy.'

He knows who Juan Pablo is: one of the boys from the apartments, older and bigger than David.

‘Juan Pablo has never been through the doors of the Academy. He has no idea what goes on there. If you were a sissy, would Bolívar let you boss him around—Bolívar who in the next life will be a wolf?'

Inés catches him at the door as he is leaving, thrusts some papers into his hands. ‘There's a letter here from the Academy, and yesterday's newspaper, the Tuition Offered pages. We must decide on a tutor for David. I have marked the likely ones. We can't wait any longer.'

The letter, addressed jointly to Inés and him, is not from Arroyo's academy but from the Academy of Singing. Due to the exceptionally high standard of applications for the coming quarter, it informs them, there will regrettably be no place for David. They are thanked for their interest.

With the letter in his hand he returns the next morning to the Academy of Dance.

Grimly he seats himself in the refectory. ‘Tell señor Arroyo I am here,' he instructs Alyosha. ‘Say I will not leave until I have spoken to him.'