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

but refrains from airing them. Perhaps, in this world that is the only world, it would be prudent to put irony behind him.

CHAPTER 6
    AS HE promised, Álvaro has been teaching the boy chess. When work is slack, they can be seen hunched over a pocket set in some patch of shade, absorbed in a game.
    â€˜He has just beaten me,’ reports Álvaro. ‘Only two weeks and already he is better than me.’
    Eugenio, the most bookish of the stevedores, issues the boy with a challenge. ‘A lightning game,’ he says. ‘We each have five seconds to make our move. One-two-three-four-five.’
    Ringed by spectators, they play their lightning game. In a matter of minutes the boy has Eugenio backed into a corner. Eugenio gives his king a tap and it falls on its side. ‘I’ll think twice before taking you on again,’ he says. ‘You’ve got a real devil in you.’
    In the bus that evening he tries to discuss the game, and Eugenio’s strange remark; but the boy is reticent.
    â€˜Would you like me to buy you a chess set of your own?’ he offers. ‘Then you can practise at home.’
    The boy shakes his head. ‘I don’t want to practise. I don’t like chess.’
    â€˜But you are so good at it.’
    The boy shrugs.
    â€˜If one is blessed with a talent, one has a duty not to hide it,’ he presses on doggedly.
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Why? Because the world is a better place, I suppose, if each of us can excel at something.’
    The boy stares moodily out of the window.
    â€˜Are you upset about what Eugenio said? You shouldn’t be. He didn’t mean it.’
    â€˜I’m not upset. I just don’t like chess.’
    â€˜Well, Álvaro will be disappointed.’
    The next day a stranger makes his appearance at the docks. He is small and wiry; his skin is burned a deep walnut shade; his eyes are deep set, his nose hooked like a hawk’s beak. He wears faded jeans streaked with machine oil, and scarred leather boots.
    From his breast pocket he takes a scrap of paper, hands it to Álvaro, and without a word stands staring into the distance.
    â€˜Right,’ says Álvaro. ‘We will be unloading for the rest of the day and most of tomorrow. When you are ready, join the line.’
    From the same breast pocket the stranger produces a pack of cigarettes. Without offering it around, he lights himself one and takes a deep puff.
    â€˜Remember,’ says Álvaro, ‘no smoking on the hold.’
    The man gives no sign that he has heard. Tranquilly he gazes around. The smoke from his cigarette rises into the still air.
    His name, Álvaro lets it be known, is Daga. No one calls him anything else, not ‘the new man,’ not ‘the new guy.’
    Despite his small stature, Daga is strong. He staggers not a millimetre when the first sack is dropped onto his shoulders; he ascends the ladder swiftly and steadily; he lopes down the gangplank and heaves the sack into the waiting cart with no sign of effort. But then he retreats into the shadow of the shed, squats on his heels, and lights another cigarette.
    Ãlvaro marches up to him. ‘No breaks, Daga,’ he says. ‘Get on with it.’
    â€˜What’s the quota?’ says Daga.
    â€˜There is no quota. We are paid by the day.’
    â€˜Fifty sacks a day,’ says Daga.
    â€˜We move more than that.’
    â€˜How many?’
    â€˜More than fifty. No quota. Each man carries what he can.’
    â€˜Fifty. No more.’
    â€˜Get up. If you have to smoke, wait for the break.’
    Things come to a head at noon that Friday, when they are being paid. As Daga approaches the wooden board that serves as a table, Álvaro leans down and whispers in the paymaster’s ear. The paymaster nods. He sets Daga’s money on the board before him.
    â€˜What’s this?’ says Daga.
    â€˜Your pay for the days you have worked,’ says