This is not a book review, though it may be a review of a book. Let me expand. It´s all in the title, which is, of course, “The Childhood of Jesus”. But then you already know that, since you have got this far. Jesus does not appear in this childhood of Jesus, but David does. David is a boy. He is a just a toddler at the start, but his mere presence seems to dominate the lives of those around him. This is probably about par for the course for any toddler, but in David’s case, there is always something intangibly special.
David is of unknown parentage. He arrives from afar, on a boat as a refugee, perhaps, fleeing conflict, perhaps, exchanging the poverty of origin for a poverty of destination, perhaps, in a port city called Novilla, where everyone speaks Spanish. Perhaps Novilla is in Spain. He arrives by sea with Simón, who is not a fisherman, but a stevedore. At least this is what he becomes to earn a living sufficient to keep himself and the boy.
Simón is middle-aged, unmarried and childless and along the way has godfathered David. He cares for the boy selflessly, houses him, feeds him, tries apparently unsuccessfully to educate him. But who is he? Simón seems to have both a past and an identity, though he chooses to share neither. David, on the other hand, seems to have sprung from nothing. He admits to neither mother nor father, nor origin. He is tabula rasa, or here perhaps pizarra en blanco. But he always seems in control of his own anonymity. Who is he? We will never know, so please do not read The Childhood of Jesus thinking it´s going to tell you. The boy’s documents, if they ever existed, are decidedly lost. Quite normal, I hear you say. What self-respecting refugee is likely to retain an identity to which one might be returned?
By page ten of The Childhood of Jesus many a reader may ask if it might be worth continuing. The text is sparse. The characters seem strangely unreal, like flat cut-outs crossing a two dimensional landscape, which is hardly described and almost never figures beyond the functional. There seems to be no plot. Equally, despite everyone speaking Spanish, there is little sense of place. Readers, like the principal characters, seem to be outsiders. Until, that is, we become drawn in, almost teased into believing that this little boy is indeed special, as he himself starts to claim.
He can´t read. He can´t write. He has no sense of number and can´t count. He needs a mother. And, while out one day trying to find one, Simón and he stumble upon Inés, playing tennis with her brothers and her dog. “You are the boy’s mother,” she is told. “No, I am not,” she replies, before becoming that mother. This is surely a divine calling from an angel, an annunciation, though not one depicted by any old master, but merely directed by a middle-aged stevedore-guandian-angel. Inés becomes devoted and doting, but regularly in need of help and direction from Simón, who persists in his mission to care.
The Childhood of Jesus thus gradually transforms itself into an allegory of the biblical story. At the start, we hover between a mundane list of events and a preparation for what might become a dystopic vision of refugee experience. But as the book develops, we recognise the emerging allegory. Our realisation is as subtle as the writing. At no point do we feel dragged unwillingly into a parallel story. J.M. Coetzee achieves his ends via subtlety and suggestion, despite the introduction of a vice-loving character called Mr. Dagger. I wonder whose temptation he might represent? There is no census, but there is school and assessment, and both go wrong, so there is flight. And along the way, disciples start to adhere. Thus the nominated mother, the protecting godfather and the boy become the house of David.
And suddenly he can read. He can write and do sums. Aged six, David reads Don Quixote, that tale of good deeds by Benengeli, itself allegorised by another, whose name we will not mention. Or was that the other way round? Will we ever know the truth?
J.M. Coetzee in this novel has achieved what few great writers have even attempted. Through allegory he invents both a style and a form. A simple unadorned style weaves monochrome threads into a brilliant tapestry. And, like the characters in the book, we feel we too begin to believe in David´s special status. We recognise the dagger of temptation when we see it, but like David we also feel we are better trying to reform it rather than rejecting it. Whether we are sufficiently convinced to become disciples is an open question, and is probably the point of the book.
And here is the ultimate in allegory. The message conveyed and illustrated by these characters may be debated. But the book´s ability to convey it will be accepted, utterly.
