‘It’s my museum,’ says the boy.
‘A load of old rubbish is not a museum. Things need to have some value before they find a place in a museum.’
‘What is value?’
‘If things have value it means that people in general prize them, agree they are valuable. An old broken cup has no value. No one prizes it.’
‘I prize it. It’s my museum, not yours.’
He turns to Inés. ‘Does this have your blessing?’
‘Let him be. He says he feels sorry for old things.’
‘You can’t feel sorry for an old cup without a handle.’
The boy stares at him uncomprehendingly.
‘A cup has no feelings. If you threw it away it wouldn’t care. It wouldn’t be hurt. If you are going to feel sorry for an old cup, you may as well feel sorry for’—he casts about in exasperation—‘for the sky, the air, the earth beneath your feet. You might as well feel sorry for everything.’
The boy continues to stare.
‘Things are not meant to last for ever,’ he says. ‘Each thing has its natural term. That old cup had a good life; now it is time for it to retire and make way for a new cup.’
The stubborn look with which he is by now so familiar settles on the boy’s face. ‘No!’ he says. ‘I am going to keep it! I am not going to let you take it! It’s mine!’
As Inés gives way to him on every front, the boy grows more and more headstrong. Not a day passes without an argument, without raised voices and stamped feet.
He urges her to send him to school. ‘The apartment is becoming too small to hold him,’ he says. ‘He needs to face up to the real world. He needs wider horizons.’ But she continues to resist.
‘Where does money come from?’ asks the boy.
‘It depends on what kind of money you have in mind. Coins come from a place called the Mint.’
‘Is the Mint where you get your money?’
‘No, I get my money from the paymaster at the docks. You saw that.’
‘Why don’t you go to the Mint?’
‘Because the Mint won’t just give us money. We have to work for it. We have to earn it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that is the way the world is. If we didn’t have to work for our money, if the Mint just handed money out to everyone, it would cease to have any value.’
He takes the boy to a football match, and pays at the turnstile.
‘Why do we have to pay?’ asks the boy. ‘We didn’t have to pay before.’
‘This is the championship game, the last game of the season. At the end of the game the winners get cake and wine. Someone has to collect money to buy the cake and the wine. Unless the baker gets money for his cake, he won’t be able to buy the flour and sugar and butter for the next cake. That’s the rule: if you want to eat cake then you have to pay for it. And the same goes for wine.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? The answer to all your Why? questions, past, present and future, is: Because that is the way the world is. The world was not made for our convenience, my young friend. It is up to us to fit in.’
The boy opens his mouth to reply. Swiftly he presses a finger to his lips. ‘No,’ he says. ‘No more questions. Be quiet and watch the football.’
After the game they return to the apartment. Inés is busy at the stove; a smell of scorched meat is in the air.
‘Supper time!’ she calls out. ‘Go and wash your hands!’
‘I’ll be off now,’ he says. ‘Goodbye, I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Do you have to go?’ says Inés. ‘Wouldn’t you like to stay and watch him have his supper?’
The table is set for one, for the little prince. From the frying pan Inés transfers two slim sausages to his plate. In an arc around them she sets the halves of a boiled potato, slices of carrot, and florets of cauliflower, over which she drips grease from the pan. Bolívar, who has been sleeping by the open window, rouses himself and pads over.
‘Mm, sausages!’ says the boy. ‘Sausages are the best food.’
‘I haven’t seen sausages in a long while,’ he remarks to Inés. ‘Where did you buy them?’
‘Diego got them. He is friendly with someone in the kitchen at La Residencia.’
The boy cuts his sausages into bits, cuts his potatoes, chews vigorously. He seems quite untroubled by the two adults standing over him, or by the dog resting his head on his knee, watching his every move.
‘Don’t forget your carrots,’ says Inés. ‘They make you see in the dark.’
‘Like a cat,’ says the boy.
‘Like a cat,’ says Inés.
The boy eats his carrots. ‘What is cauliflower good for?’ he asks.
‘Cauliflower is good for your health.’
‘Cauliflower is good for your health, and meat makes you strong, right?’
‘That’s right, meat makes you strong.’
‘I must go,’ he says to Inés. ‘Meat does make you strong, but maybe you should think twice before feeding him sausages.’
‘Why?’ says the boy. ‘Why should Inés think twice?’
‘Because of what they put in sausages. What goes into sausages is not always good for you.’
‘What do they put in sausages?’
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘Meat.’
‘Yes, but what kind of meat?’
‘Kangaroo meat.’
‘Now you are being silly.’
‘Elephant meat.’
‘They put pig meat in sausages, not always but sometimes, and pigs aren’t clean animals. They don’t eat grass, like sheep and cows. They eat anything they come across.’ He glances at Inés. She glares back, tight-lipped. ‘For instance, they eat poo.’
‘Out of the toilet?’
‘No, not out of the toilet. But if they happen to come across poo in a field, they will eat it. Without thinking twice. They are omnivorous, which means they eat anything. They even eat each other.’
‘That’s not true,’ says Inés.
‘Is there poo in sausages?’ says the boy. He has laid his fork down.
‘He is talking nonsense, don’t listen to him, there is no poo in your sausage.’
‘I am not saying there is actual poo in your sausage,’ he says. ‘But there is poo meat in it. Pigs are unclean animals. Pig meat is poo meat. But that is just my opinion. Not everyone will agree. You must decide for yourself.’
‘I don’t want any more,’ says the boy, pushing his plate aside. ‘Bolívar can have it.’
‘Finish your plate and I’ll give you a chocolate,’ says Inés.
‘No.’
‘I hope you feel proud of yourself,’ says Inés, turning on him.
‘It’s a matter of hygiene. Ethical hygiene. If you eat pig you become like a pig. In part. Not wholly, but in part. You partake of the pig.’
‘You are crazy,’ says Inés. She addresses the boy. ‘Don’t listen to him, he has gone crazy.’
‘I’m not crazy. It is called consubstantiation. Why else do you think there are cannibals? A cannibal is a person who takes consubstantiation seriously. If we eat another person we embody that person. That is what cannibals believe.’
‘What is a cannibal?’ asks the boy.
‘Cannibals are savages,’ says Inés. ‘You don’t have to worry, there are no cannibals here. Cannibals are just a fable.’
‘What is a fable?’
‘A story from the old days that isn’t true any more.’
‘Tell me a fable. I want to hear a fable. Tell me a fable about the three brothers. Or about the brothers in the sky.’
‘I don’t know anything about brothers in the sky. Now finish your supper.’
‘If you won’t tell him about brothers, tell him about Little Red Riding Hood,’ he says. ‘Tell him about how the wolf gobbles up the little girl’s grandmother and turns into a grandmother, a wolf grandmother. By consubstantiation.’
The boy gets up, scrapes the food from
his plate into the dog’s bowl, and puts the plate in the kitchen sink. The dog gobbles down the sausages.
‘I’m going to be a lifesaver,’ the boy announces. ‘Diego is going to teach me in the swimming pool.’
‘That’s nice,’ he says. ‘What else are you planning to be, besides a lifesaver and an escape artist and a magician?’
‘Nothing. That’s all.’
‘Pulling people out of swimming pools and escaping from boxes and doing magic tricks are hobbies, not a career, not a life’s work. How are you going to earn an actual living?’
The boy casts a glance at his mother, as if searching for guidance. Then, emboldened, he says: ‘I don’t have to earn a living.’
‘We all have to earn a living. It’s part of the human condition.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Why? Why? That is not how we carry on a proper conversation. How are you going to eat if you spend all your time saving people and escaping from chains and refusing to work? Where will you get the food to make you strong?’
‘From the shop.’
‘You will go to the shop and they will give you food. For nothing.’
‘Yes.’
‘And what will happen when the people in the shop have given all their food away for nothing? What will happen when the shop is empty?’
Serenely, with a strange little smile on his lips, the child answers: ‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why is the shop empty?’
‘Because if you have X loaves of bread and you give them all away for nothing then you have no loaves left and no money with which to buy new loaves. Because X minus X equals zero. Equals nothing. Equals emptiness. Equals an empty stomach.’
‘What is X?’
‘X is any number, ten or a hundred or a thousand. If you have something and you give it away, you don’t have it any more.’
The boy screws his eyes shut and pulls a funny face. Then he begins to giggle. He grips his mother’s skirt and presses his face against her thigh and giggles and giggles until he is red in the face.
‘What is it, my darling?’ says Inés. But the boy will not stop laughing.
‘You had better go,’ says Inés. ‘You are upsetting him.’
‘I am educating him. If you would send him to school, there would be no need for these home lessons.’
The boy has made friends with an old man in Block E who keeps a pigeon-cote on the roof. According to the letter box in the lobby his name is Palamaki, but the boy calls him señor Paloma, Mr Dove. Señor Paloma lets the boy feed the birds by hand. He has even given him a pigeon of his own, a pure white bird whom the boy names Blanco.
Blanco is a placid, even torpid bird who allows himself to be taken for walks sitting on the boy’s outstretched wrist or sometimes on his shoulder. He shows no inclination to fly away, or indeed to fly at all.
‘I think Blanco’s wings may have been clipped,’ he says to the boy. ‘That would explain why he doesn’t fly.’
‘No,’ says the boy. ‘Look!’ He tosses the bird in the air. It flaps its wings languidly, circles once or twice, then settles on his shoulder again and preens itself.
‘Señor Paloma says Blanco can carry messages,’ says the boy. ‘He says if I get lost I can tie a message to Blanco’s leg and Blanco will fly home and then señor Paloma will come and find me.’
‘That’s very kind of señor Paloma. You will have to make sure you carry a pencil and paper around with you, and a piece of string so that you can tie the paper to Blanco’s leg. What will you write? Show me what you will write when you want to be rescued.’
They are crossing the empty playground. In the sandpit the boy squats down, smoothes the surface, and with a finger begins to write. He reads over his shoulder: O then E then a character he cannot make out then O again then X and again X.
The boy rises. ‘Read it,’ he says.
‘I am having difficulty. Is it Spanish?’
The boy nods.
‘No, I give up. What does it say?’
‘It says, Follow Blanco, Blanco is my best friend.’
‘Indeed. It used to be that Fidel was your best friend, and before that El Rey. What has happened that Fidel is no longer your friend and his place has been taken by a bird?’
‘Fidel is too old for me. Fidel is rough.’
‘I have never seen Fidel being rough. Did Inés tell you he was rough?’
The boy nods.
‘Fidel is a perfectly gentle boy. I am fond of him and you used to be fond of him too. Let me tell you something. Fidel is hurt because you no longer play with him. In my opinion you are treating Fidel badly. In fact, you are treating him roughly. In my opinion you should spend less time with señor Paloma on the roof and more time with Fidel.’
The boy strokes the bird on his arm. The rebuke is accepted without demur. Or perhaps he simply lets the words wash over him.
‘Furthermore, I think you should inform Inés it is time for you to go to school. You should insist on it. I know you are very clever and have taught yourself to read and write, but in real life you have to be able to write like other people. It is no use sending Blanco off with a message tied to his leg if no one can read it, not even señor Paloma.’
‘I can read it.’
‘You can read it because you are the one who wrote it. But the whole point about messages is that other people need to be able to read them. If you get lost and send a message to señor Paloma to come and save you, he must be able to read your message. Otherwise you will have to tie yourself to Blanco’s leg and tell him to fly you home.’
The boy gives him a puzzled look. ‘But—’ he says. Then he sees it is a joke and they both laugh and laugh.
They are in the playground of the East Blocks. He has been pushing the boy on the swings, so high that he has been crying out with fear and pleasure. Now they sit side by side, catching their breath, drinking in the last of the twilight.
‘Can Inés have twins out of her tummy?’ asks the boy.
‘Of course she can. It may be uncommon but it is possible.’
‘If Inés had twins then I could be the third brother. Do twins always have to be together?’
‘They don’t have to, but usually they prefer it. Twins are naturally fond of each other, like the star twins. If they were not, then they might go wandering off separately and be lost in the sky. But their love for each other holds them together. It will go on holding them together until the end of time.’
‘But they are not together, the star twins, not really together.’
‘No, that is true, they are not tight up against each other in the sky, there is a tiny gap between them. That is the way of nature. Think of lovers. If lovers were tight up against each other all the time they would no longer need to love each other. They would be one. There would be nothing for them to want. That is why nature has gaps. If everything were packed tightly together, everything in the universe, then there would be no you or me or Inés. You and I would not be talking to each other right now, there would just be silence—oneness and silence. So, on the whole, it is good that there should be gaps between things, that you and I should be two instead of one.’
‘But we can fall. We can fall down the gap. Down the crack.’
‘A gap is not the same thing as a crack, my boy. Gaps are part of nature, part of the way things are. You can’t fall down a gap and disappear. It just doesn’t happen. A crack is quite different. A crack is a break in the order of nature. It is like cutting yourself with a knife, or tearing a page in two. You keep saying we must watch out for cracks, but where are these cracks? Where do you see a crack between you and me? Show me.’
The boy is silent.
‘The twins in the sky are like twins on earth. They are also like numbers.’ Is this all too difficult for a child? Perhaps. But the boy will absorb his words, he must hope for that—absorb them and mull over them and perhaps begin to see the sense in them. ‘Like One and Two. One and Two are not the sa
me, there is a difference between them which is a gap but not a crack. That is what makes it possible for us to count, to get from One to Two without worrying about falling.’
‘Can we go and see them one day, the twins in the sky? Can we go in a ship?’
‘I suppose so, if we can find the right kind of ship. But it would take a long time to get there. The twins are very far away. No one has been to visit them yet, not to my knowledge. This’—he stamps his foot on the ground—‘is the only star we human beings have ever visited.’
The boy stares at him in puzzlement. ‘This isn’t a star,’ he says.
‘It is. It just doesn’t look like a star from close up.’
‘It doesn’t shine.’
‘Nothing shines from close up. From a distance, however, everything shines. You shine. I shine. The stars certainly shine.’
The boy seems pleased. ‘Are all the stars numbers?’ he asks.
‘No. I said the twins were like numbers, but that was just a way of speaking. No, the stars are not numbers. Stars and numbers are quite different things.’
‘I think the stars are numbers. I think that is Number 11’—he stabs a finger up at the sky—‘and that is Number 50 and that is Number 33333.’
‘Ah, do you mean, can we give each star a number? That would certainly be one way of identifying them, but a very dull way, very uninspired. I think it is better that they have proper names, like Bear and Evening Star and Twins.’
‘No, silly, I said each star is a number.’
He shakes his head. ‘Each star is not a number. Stars are like numbers in a few respects, but in most respects they are quite unlike them. For instance, the stars are scattered all over the heavens chaotically whereas the numbers are like a fleet of ships sailing in order, each knowing its place.’
‘They can die. Numbers can die. What happens to them when they die?’
‘Numbers can’t die. Stars can’t die. Stars are immortal.’
‘Numbers can die. They can fall out of the sky.’
‘That is not true. Stars can’t fall out of the sky. The ones that do seem to fall, the shooting stars, aren’t real stars. As for numbers, if a number were to fall out of the ranks, then there would be a crack, a break, and that is not how the numbers work. There is never any crack between the numbers. No number is ever missing.’