The Childhood of Jesus by J. M. Coetzee Read Free Book Online

Rather than building up his strength, the daily labour of lifting and carrying seems to be draining him. He is beginning to feel quite wraithlike; he fears he is going to faint in front of his comrades and shame himself.
    He seeks out Álvaro again. ‘I’m not feeling well,’ he says. ‘I haven’t been feeling well for a while. Is there a doctor you can recommend?’
    â€˜There is a clinic on Wharf Seven that is open in the afternoons. Go there at once. Tell them you work here; then you won’t have to pay.’
    He follows the signs to Wharf Seven, where there is indeed a little clinic, called simply Cliìnica . The door is open, the counter unmanned. He presses the buzzer, but it does not work.
    â€˜Hello!’ he calls out. ‘Is anyone here?’
    Silence.
    He crosses behind the counter and raps on the closed door marked Cirugía . ‘Hello!’ he calls.
    The door opens and he is confronted by a large, florid-faced man in a white laboratory coat on whose collar there is a lush smear of what looks like chocolate. The man is sweating heavily.
    â€˜Good afternoon,’ he says. ‘Are you the doctor?’
    â€˜Come in,’ says the man. ‘Sit down.’ He indicates a chair, removes his glasses, wipes the lenses carefully with a tissue. ‘Do you work here at the docks?’
    â€˜On Wharf Two.’
    â€˜Ah, Wharf Two. And what can I do for you?’
    â€˜For the past week or two I have not been feeling well. There are no specific symptoms except that I get tired easily and now and again have dizzy spells. I think it is probably because of my diet, the lack of nourishment in my diet.’
    â€˜When do you have these dizzy spells? At any particular time of day?’
    â€˜No particular time. They come when I am tired. I work as a stevedore, loading and unloading, as I told you. It is not work I am accustomed to. In the course of a day I have to cross a gangplank many times. Sometimes as I look down into the space between the quay and the ship’s side, at the waves slapping against the quay, I feel dizzy. I feel I am going to slip and fall and perhaps hit my head and drown.’
    â€˜That doesn’t sound to me like undernourishment.’
    â€˜Maybe not. But if I were better nourished I would be better able to resist the dizziness.’
    â€˜Have you ever had such fears before, fears of falling and drowning?’
    â€˜This is not a psychological matter, Doctor. I am a labourer. I do hard work. I carry heavy loads hour after hour. My heart hammers. I am continually at the limit of my powers. It is only natural, surely, that my body should sometimes get to the point of failing, of letting me down.’
    â€˜Of course it is natural. But if it is natural why have you come to the clinic? What do you expect from me?’
    â€˜Don’t you think you should listen to my heart? Don’t you think you should test me for anaemia? Don’t you think we should discuss possible deficiencies in my diet?’
    â€˜I will check your heart as you suggest but I cannot test you for anaemia. This is not a medical laboratory, it is just a clinic, a first-aid clinic for dock workers. Take off your shirt.’
    He removes his shirt. The doctor presses a stethoscope to his chest, directs his gaze to the ceiling, listens. His breath smells of garlic. ‘There is nothing wrong with your heart,’ he says at last. ‘It is a good heart. It will last you many years. You can go back to work.’
    He rises. ‘How can you say that? I am exhausted. I am not myself. My general health deteriorates with every passing day. This was not what I expected when I arrived. Illness, exhaustion, unhappiness—I expected none of these. I have presentiments—not mere intellectual presentiments but actual bodily presentiments—that I am about to collapse. My body is signalling to me, in every way it can, that it is failing. How can you