The Schooldays of Jesus Read Online Free

a made-up memory can feel just as true as a true memory, particularly when we want the memory to be true. So, for example, someone may wish to have been a king or a lord before he crossed the ocean, and he may wish it so much that he convinces himself he truly was a king or a lord. Yet the memory is probably not a true memory. Why not? Because being a king is quite a rare thing. Only one person in a million becomes a king. So the chances are that someone who remembers being a king is just making up a story and then forgetting he made it up. And similarly with other memories. We just have no way of telling for sure whether a memory is true or false.’
    â€˜But was I born out of Inés’s tummy?’
    â€˜You are forcing me to repeat myself. Either I can reply, “Yes, you were born out of Inés’s tummy,” or I can reply, “No, you weren’t born out of Inés’s tummy.” But neither reply will bring us any closer to the truth. Why not? Because, like everyone else who came on the boats, you can’t remember and nor can Inés. Unable to remember, all you can do, all she can do, all any of us can do is to make up stories. So, for instance, I can tell you that on my last day in the other life I was among a huge crowd waiting to embark, so huge that they had to telephone the retired pilotsand ships’ masters and tell them to come to the docks to help out. And in that crowd, I could say, I saw you and your mother—saw you with my own eyes. Your mother was clutching your hand, looking worried, unsure of where to go. Then, I could say, I lost sight of the pair of you in the crowd. When at last it was my turn to step on board, whom did I see but you, all by yourself, clinging to a rail, calling, “Mummy, mummy, where are you?” So I went over and took you by the hand and said, “Come, little friend, I will help you find your mother.” And that was how you and I met.
    â€˜That is a story I could tell, about my first vision of you and your mother, as I remember it.’
    â€˜But is it true ? Is it a true story?’
    â€˜Is it true? I don’t know. It feels true to me. The more often I tell it to myself, the truer it feels. You feel true, clutching the rail so tightly that I had to loosen your fingers; the crowd at the docks feels true—hundreds of thousands of people, all lost, like you, like me, with empty hands and anxious eyes. The bus feels true—the bus that delivered the superannuated pilots and ships’ masters at the docks, wearing the navy-blue uniforms they had brought down from trunks in the attic, still smelling of naphtha. It all feels true from beginning to end. But maybe it feels so true because I have repeated it to myself so often. Does it feel true to you? Do you remember how you were separated from your mother?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜No, of course you don’t. But do you not remember because it didn’t happen or because you have forgotten? We will never know for sure. That is the way things are. That is what we must live with.’
    â€˜I think I am a huérfano .’
    â€˜And I think you are just saying so because it seems romantic to you to be alone in the world without parents. Well, let me inform you that in Inés you have the best mother in the world, and if you have the best mother in the world you are certainly not a huérfano .’
    â€˜If Inés has a baby will he be my brother?’
    â€˜Your brother or your sister. But Inés isn’t going to have a baby because Inés and I are not married.’
    â€˜If I put my penis in Maite’s thing and she has a baby, will it be a huérfano ?’
    â€˜No. Maite is not going to have a baby of any kind. You and she are too young to make babies, just as you and she are too young to understand why grown-up people get married and have sexual intercourse. Grown-up people get married because they have passionate feelings for each