The Boy in the Wardrobe

For a small boy, growing up in a country where the sun shines all day every day, where ripened fruit falls off the trees along the roadside, and where people tolerate children’s noisy play, life is good.

Jaime was five, maybe six years old and he had nothing better to do than enjoy himself. He got up early in the mornings, as soon as his Grandma told him to. He suffered her washing his face with a fresh but rough cotton towel, put on some clothes, then nick some bread on his way out where he would meet his friends on the street. Together, they chased dogs and cats around the neighborhood, and ran after the local idiot who danced for them in the street once he was high enough on cheap alcohol that some farmer distilled in his shed. Hungry, they wound their way to the markets where they tried to beg or steal whatever they could.

They were not nasty boys; they behaved just the way that small boys of poor families up and down the country were supposed to.

His mother Elsbetha worked on the market whenever she could. She fetched for the stall holders, or sometimes sold the fruits and vegetables they grew in their small garden. Grandma tended this garden, looked after the chicken and cleaned the house.

There were no men in their house. Elsbetha had never been married, Jaime being the result of a night of drunkenness, mainly the man’s. She had delivered sandwiches to the bars around the red light district, and had caught his eyes. She was a real beauty, with dark, big eyes and a smile that would light up any room. He had a wife, children and a store in town. He was bored and tempted when she sold him one of the bread rolls she carried around. When he paid his 50 cents, his hand touched hers and she blushed. The rest is, as they say, history. They fulfilled his desire in a back alley, egged on by the noise of the whores in the rooms behind the wooden planking against which he pushed her, grunting, sweating and stinking of the beer and spirits he had filled himself up with. Maybe he even had snorted some coke, Elsbetha did not know. He promised her love but when her belly got round, he no longer remembered. When the boy was born, he was the spitting image of his father and the man felt ashamed. Whenever he saw the boy and was reminded of that night, he found it in him to send some money; never enough for them to live on, but enough to quieten his sense of remorse. Over time, even that died.

Grandfather had been gone a long time. One day he had gotten up and left. Nobody knew where he was or what had happened to him. Some rumors placed him in the States, illegally, working hard, and others told of his body rotting in some ditch. Grandma no longer cared. Jaime did not even remember.

One morning, Jaime heard his Grandma in the yard, and he rolled out of his hammock. In his underpants and barefooted, he ran to the well.

‘Grandma. Grandma! Good morning, Grandma!’ he yelled but when she turned towards him, his laughter stopped.

She put a finger to her lips, her face serious and her eyes a shade of sad that he had not seen before.

‘Nino, don’t wake up your new daddy.’

Jaime froze in mid stride.

‘New daddy? I have a new daddy?’

‘Yes, my darling.’

A new daddy! A daddy! A real daddy!

Some of his friends had fathers living with their mothers, and he knew how much fun it could be. Daddys gave their boys coins for sweets, they took them hunting outside of town and taught them how to use knives to kill rabbits.

‘Where is he?’

His eyes were as wide and round as small plates. He had wanted a daddy for as long as he could remember. Now, his wish had finally come true.

Grandma nodded towards his mother’s room.

‘They are in there. And if you are quiet and a good boy, they will give you a little brother or sister to play with.’

There was a hint of something in her voice that he did not pick up on. Jaime was too excited.

That morning, he washed his face himself, scrubbing really hard to make sure that he was as clean as he could be. He put on a t-shirt that he pulled out of the clean clothes box, one that was blue and did not have too many holes. Then he grabbed a dried and crumbling sweet roll and parked his butt on a small chair outside his mother’s door. He patiently waited.

He knew that the noises he could hear winding their way to the outside were happy noises. His friends, the ones with fathers, had told him about the noises. One time, they had listened to the sounds that came from Miguel’s sister’s room; they had listened to the words of love the man had screeched at her, the grunts and ramblings and the excited banging of the headboard. Miguel told them that the man was working his sister, laying on top of her, with his thing inside her belly. That day they had decided that they would never do this to any girls, because that grunting was simply not manly. That morning, Jaime was not so sure what he should think about it all, given that the grunting came from his mother’s room. He respected his mother. He could not think badly of his new daddy.

When his mother finally emerged, she smiled at him. A weird smell wafted after her, but she handed him another sweet roll, patted his head, and assured him that things would improve from now on.

His new daddy emerged a good hour later. He was short, even for a Salvadoran, with grey stubble over a pock marked face. He burped as he stood in the yard in his underwear, scratching his balls. Jaime stared but the man did not seem to mind.

‘Eh, boy, I am hungry!’

Jaime did not know how to answer: he stood, open mouthed, gawping at this man who now was his new daddy.

‘Leave the boy alone, Sanchez!’ Grandma intervened. ‘What do you want?’

‘Eh’, he waved her away. A moment later, he came out of the room, dressed in a stained shirt and short pants. Without a word, he walked out the gate. He had not looked at Jaime or Grandmother again. He had not spoken.

They did not see Sanchez for a few days. Elsbetha did not answer any questions about him, no matter how much Jaime poked and probed about this new daddy. Grandmother frowned every time she heard the name of Sanchez mentioned. When the man finally returned, he stank like a skunk. He was drunk or high or both, grabbed Elsbetha who had been hanging washing on the line in the yard. She objected, but he simply dragged her after him to her room. The door banged shut. His mother screamed, but there was a slap or two, then nothing before the groaning and the moans started. Jaime stood in the yard, looking at the closed door, unsure of what to do.

‘Grandma?’ He whispered, but the old woman turned away.

He followed her to their room, and cradled himself into his hammock. He gently swung back and forth, wondering what went on and what he should do. He did not like to hear his mother cry and moan like this.

‘Go to sleep, mijo’, his Grandmother quietly whispered to him.

‘But …’ he started, not getting his thoughts out.

‘When you are older, you will understand’, but her words were no consolation. In the dark he cried himself to sleep.

The next morning, his mother had a swollen eye that turned blue and then black before the bruising eventually disappeared a few days later. She did not speak about what had happened.

Grandmother shook her head. ‘Get rid of him, he is not worth it if he treats you like this!’

In response, Elsbetha took out a ten-dollar bill and handed it to her.

‘Take this. This will keep us fed for a while.’

They exchanged glances above Jaime’s head, and Grandmother hid the money inside her bra.

Chewing on a dried up tortilla from the previous day, he walked out to meet his friends and to do what little boys did. It took a deflated football and a few minutes of laughter and he had forgotten his mother’s face and the name of Sanchez.

The pattern was set and continued.

Sanchez would disappear for days, then come back, stinking and in a vicious mood. He would grab Elsbetha and drag her to her room. Even when she came willingly, he would smack her about, lay on top of her till he had enough. In the morning he would simply leave.

Jaime was old enough to realize that Sanchez was not a good man. When he said so to his mother, she slapped him and he never again mentioned it. When he complained to his Grandmother, she told him that Sanchez gave them enough money so they did not have to worry about food. That he should shut up and eat while it lasted.

One night, after Sanchez beat his mother more severely than was by now usual, Jaime decided to follow him. The next morning, he was ready even before Grandma got up. He hid on the street outside their house, behind a tree that gave enough cover to a scrawny small boy like him. The place was dirty like everywhere else but Jaime was used to the trash and the stink of rotting food and excrement. Chicken picked around his feet, a few goats scrambled for anything edible. The day turned sunny and hot and humid, but Jaime waited patiently. His friends came by looking for him, but he remained in his hiding spot, undetected. They walked on whistling when he did not come out to play.

It was hours before Sanchez stepped outside the gate. He stood a moment, looking up and down the street. Few people were there, neither of them greeted him. He did not speak to them either. When he walked past, they turned away. Sanchez walked with his head high, as if the street belonged to him. And maybe, just maybe it did.

Carefully, Jaime scrambled out to the asphalt. His neighbors wanted to call to him, but when they saw his determination, their glances followed the boy’s and they noted Sanchez’s back disappearing down the street. They sensed the boy’s purpose and kept going after their own business. They knew a boy on a mission when they saw one.

Sanchez walked along, kicking the odd pebble after a dog by the wayside. One unfortunate pup on three legs could not scramble out of his way fast enough. Jaime shuddered at the sad whine when it was kicked to the curb by Sanchez’ big feet in their hefty boots.

Sanchez did not look back. The boy skipped from side to side, trying to hide behind trees and bushes, piles of rubbish and debris. The sun hung high in the sky, making the boy sweat. The man’s dirty t-shirt clung to his back, a dark sweat stain like a T darkening the skimpy cotton material. And still he walked on.

From the main road, Sanchez turned towards the harbor and for a moment, Jaime lost sight of him. When he caught up to the corner where he had last seen the man, he was panting up some stone steps.

Jaime looked around. He had never been here, to this part of town. He had heard about it, and he knew that this section was poorer than even his own. Here, none of the kids wore shoes, and they slept two and three to a hammock. Most of the girls and young women sold themselves to the men in the bars up ahead.

And this was where Sanchez was headed.

Jaime stopped when he saw the man enter one of the doors of a place that advertised to be open 24/7. At any time of day or night, girls were working here, making the men drink and seeing to their pleasure. Jaime was not sure what this meant exactly, but he had a feeling that there was moaning and headboard bashing involved, like when Sanchez visited his mother.

‘Hola, nino, what are you doing here? Aren’t you a little young for this kind of place?’

Jaime had not noticed the young woman come up behind him. She smiled, pointing towards the door of the bar with her head. Her lips were a bright shade of red, her white top spotless and tight over a trim body. Her skirt was short enough so Jaime could see her black panties. At least she wore panties. Miguel had told him that not all the girls in these places did.

‘You coming in or what?’

She stepped past him, almost reaching the doorway before he found his voice.

‘Do you know Sanchez?’ He threw at her.

The girl stopped.

‘Who wants to know?’ An eyebrow raised, she inspected him suspiciously.

‘Me.’

‘And you are?’

‘Jaime.’

She pulled a face, winked at him.

‘So. Jaime. Why do you want to know about Sanchez?’

‘Because.’ What could he have said? That Sanchez was his new daddy? For a daddy, he knew fairly little about him. That Sanchez was his mother’s new … friend? Man? He did not know what to say, so he just left off.

‘You want to come and meet him? I guess he is in here.’ The girl touched the handle but did not pull the screen door open.

Jaime shook his head.

‘Nope. Just wondered what he was doing here.’

The girl nodded.

‘You Elsbetha’s boy?’

When Jaime did not reply, she seized him up once more.

‘How old are you?’

‘I am six.’

‘Should you not be at school?’

‘I will start after the summer.’

‘You don’t want to mess with Sanchez. He is keen on your mum right now. He wants her to work here and make money for him.’ After a moment’s hesitation, she continued. ‘He owns the girls in this place.’

Jaime did not understand. How could Sanchez own anybody?

The girl opened the door to the bar, looked around, then shouted.

‘Sanchez, you got a visitor!’

Jaime turned and ran. He could hear her shrill laughter hollering after him, he could hear Sanchez’ voice. He kept running till he was back at home and hiding behind his grandmother.

The next time Sanchez came to their house, he stopped to look at Jaime. He crinkled his face, watching him through alcohol-clouded eyes.

‘So, you like girls?’

Jaime stood as tall as he could.

‘Cat caught your tongue, pendejo? That was you the other day, no? So. You came to check out my merchandise or what?’

Too many questions and Jaime could not figure out what to say. He swallowed hard and dry, his throat itching. No sound escaped. At that moment he believed that he would never speak again. Sweat pooled around his neck and tickled his skin as it dripped down. He expected a smack or a kick, but no punishment came.

Sanchez burped, shook his head back and laughed like a crazy man.

Jaime had neither moved, nor flinched. He stood stiffly, his gaze unwavering.

His Grandmother was watching from the washing line, keeping an eye out for the safety of the boy. But she should not have bothered as Sanchez simply turned and walked to Elsbetha’s room.

‘Where is my bitch?’ he hollered.

Elsbetha came running from the neighbor’s yard, shut the door behind her.

‘I am here.’

Jaime stood and kept looking at the closed door to his mother’s room. Eventually, his breathing returned to normal, his pulse slowed and the tenseness of his body diminished. When Grandma laid a kind hand on his shoulder, he shuddered.

‘Don’t be scared, mijo. This man is wicked and evil, but I know you could outrun him any day.’

Her eyes twinkled and he smiled.

One morning not long after, his mother went to fetch some water for Sanchez to drink. He stood in the doorway of her room, sweaty and fat and disgusting, watching as she bent over the well.

‘Bitch, you are growing fat!’

The words sharp as a knife, cutting Elsbetha in the back.

She stood up and was about to find words to throw at Sanchez, when his eyes shot open wide. He took one long look at her, saw the way she moved and noticed the small protrusion of her belly.

‘Get rid of it. You are no good to me like this!’

He did not wait for the water, did not wait for the words that formed in her head.

Sanchez did not show his face any more after that. Elsbetha’s stomach grew. Grandmother told Jaime that she was carrying a baby under her heart and that one day, he would have a little brother or sister – if God chose to bless them that way. When Jaime was out and about or simply not looking, the women would exchange worried looks and even more worried words. One more mouth to feed! Without the money coming in from Sanchez, what could they do? What would happen to them?

As bad as Sanchez was as a man, he knew a good business opportunity when he saw one.

With her pregnancy, he could no longer use Elsbetha for his own pleasures, and she was no good for his bordello as her good figure would be ruined forever now. She had been lucky after the first little bastard had popped, but she would not be so lucky after this second. On the other hand, there were other options.

So one day, he sent the young woman that had met Jaime at the door to his bar.

His mother was crying when she allowed for him to walk away, a small parcel of clothes under one arm, his other hand holding on to the young woman’s. In her fist, she held a wad of ten dollar bills. Elsbetha had sold her son.

Jaime was put to work. He was small and nimble, yet strong, with a pleasant personality. The girls took a shining to him, and treated him with kindness whenever they had a chance. It was his duty to fetch and carry for them and their customers, but as much as possible they shielded the boy from the brutality of the men that came to their place of business. They made sure that Jaime never saw them naked, never saw them performing their saddest duties.

The bar was open all day, every day, so there was a lot of demand on Jaime. Some days he was in and out, up and down, with hardly a moment to rest or sleep. Exhausted, he would sit in a corner, his head fallen onto his crossed arms on a box or table, taking what breaks and small naps he could.

The girls noticed, but when they talked to Sanchez about more regular hours for the boy, Sanchez roughly told them it was none of their business what he did with that boy. The boy was his, he had paid good money for him. When they continued to harass him about Jaime’s condition, he raised his hand more than once and so the girls took it on themselves to protect the boy. His mother’s situation was none of his fault.

When they felt that Sanchez was not looking, they would send Jaime to his mother’s house. They would give him a few coins or parcels of food to take so he would not reach Elsbetha’s empty handed. As her time drew closer, she appreciated these visits more and more.

Elsbetha could see that Jaime had lost weight: his shorts hung off him and when she lifted his filthy t-shirt, she could see the bones of his ribcage protruding. Tears filled her eyes.

‘I am okay, mama’, he promised her. ‘The girls are nice and Sanchez ignores me.’

She hugged him close and they would sit, holding on to each other, silently crying and hoping the other would not see.

Grandmother stayed away at those moments as she hoped that Elsbetha would see sense and demand the boy back. But the bigger her belly became, the feebler Elsbetha’s conviction grew. In the end it was Grandmother who went to the bar to speak to Sanchez.

Bold as brass she walked in, to the cackles of the men and the astonished faces of the surprised girls. Sanchez looked her up and down, spat onto the floor and continued with his bottle of beer.

‘I was wondering when you’d turn up, old crow.’

Grandmother stood, her face hard as stone, her mind made up.

‘I am here for the boy.’

Sanchez shrugged his shoulders.

‘Has the bitch dropped yet?’

Grandmother felt the sting of his words in her heart, but did not show any emotion.

‘My daughter is almost full term. We will let you know when she has had your baby.’

After a final gulp, Sanchez pounded the now empty bottle so forcefully onto the bar that a crack appeared. He swiped the damaged vessel with a theatrical flourish against the wall behind the bartender. A twitch distorted his face.

‘I don’t give a fuck about that bastard. Who even says it is mine?’

‘Nobody said it is yours. I wish to God it was not yours. I hope it comes out and looks nothing like you.’

At these words, he finally turned.

‘Watch it, old woman, many things can happen to a sad old fart like you walking out in this town.’

She looked him straight into the eyes. He could see her determination. She could see his disgust.

‘As I said, I am here for the boy.’

‘Suki’, he yelled. ‘Bring that boy!’

When Suki brought Jaime from upstairs where he had been sleeping in an empty room, Sanchez had a new beer in front of him.

‘Now fuck off, old witch. Take that bastard with you and never come back again! I don’t want to see the likes of you in here, this is a decent bordello!’

Jaime did not understand what was going on. He felt happiness at the sight of his Grandmother and worry at the same time; worry that something had happened to his mother. When the old woman reached out to him, he ran towards her. Their hands linked and she ushered him outside. Together, hand in hand, they skipped and ran up the street and around a corner where they stopped and hugged, but they should not have bothered: nobody wasted any time watching them walk away.

Jaime was not yet seven years old when his mother Elsbetha gave birth to little Martin.

The arrival of Martin was a joyous occasion. The neighbors came and there was a big party. Someone brought a radio and they played loud and noisy music. Everybody brought presents – food, clothes, gifts. The priest said a blessing over the new baby boy, the exhausted mother and the house. A couple of the girls from the bar came, greeted Jaime like a long-lost relative and best friend. He now was of great importance: he was a big brother and he was confident in his responsibilities.

Elsbetha was frail. Delivering Martin had cost her a lot of energy, and she rested often, propped up in her bed, with Jaime doing as much around the place as he could. He even learned how to clean the baby and prepare its bottle. Grandmother insisted. Jaime did not mind.

Their days were taken up with caring for the baby, looking after Elsbetha. Grandmother cooked, washed, cleaned. Jaime forgot how to play with his friends. He was not yet seven years old and his childhood had definitely ended for good.

La Union, El Salvador, late 1990s, east of town

Before the war, La Union had been a busy port town. Stories still coursed around, about foreigners coming into town, bringing gifts from other worlds, bringing money to the bars. Stories of music and singing and dance, stories of parties and as a result, children with slanty eyes or lighter skin than others; Salvadoran children with olive skin, yellow hair and blue eyes. By all accounts, Salvadorans enjoyed the mixing, and welcomed the visitors with open arms.

There used to be a railroad track that led from the cargo ships in the harbor all the way to San Salvador, the capital a few hours north and west. Goods and people were ferried to and fro. Those were exciting times, money to be made and trade to be had.

When the war came, the ships stayed away. The harbor fell into disrepair, and the railroad track was dismantled. The wood and metal were needed for the war efforts on either side.

What remained was a harsh gash through the country where the trains used to run. But this wound healed and scabbed when needy people took over: the poor and homeless had to go and live somewhere so before long, their houses were erected where formerly the rail tracks had been. Some houses were made of scrap wood, others of plastic sheeting over tree limbs. They were simple but better than what people had before.

In the west of town, Jaime’s Grandmother and her husband had built their house within their own fenced yard: two rooms to sleep in, an outdoor kitchen with a wood fired stove under the shade of a mango tree, and a well with fresh water.

In the east, along the same unused railroad track, another family lived in a similar house: two rooms to sleep in, but they had an indoor kitchen and a well up the road. Marie lived here with her husband Juan and four children: a boy and three girls; the oldest girl, Celia, only a few months older than Jaime. If either of them had decided to walk along the old, unused railroad track, the girl away from the sea, the boy towards the ocean, they would eventually have met. However, it never occurred to them that they should do this. So they had never laid eyes on each other, their paths never had crossed.

Juan was a Colonel in the army. He had served his country through the darkness that was the civil war and now was involved in the building of a new El Salvador. The past had been dangerous, but he came out of it unscathed. He had seen action, but he did not like to talk about it: the civil war had been brutal as brother had fought brother and the scars were still running deep, not healing, festering just under the skin. There were times when his thoughts got him brooding. In those moments, he looked at his young family, looked at Marie and when the sadness turned to anger and frustration and he felt he was coming close to boiling point, he simply left. If he stayed, he knew he would lash out and he knew that they did not deserve this.

He would go to the base and sit in his office or drink with the friends he had made in the jungles. The sun would descend and bathe the men in darkness. Mosquitoes would buzz around their heads, attracted by their sweat and the sweet smell of the alcohol evaporating off their skin. They would drink and remember and drink some more till they forgot all about the past and the darkness. Their voices rose, their talk grow boisterous before it ebbed down again. Juan could lose entire days like this.

After a few nights away, he returned to the house, to Marie and the children, feeling like a different man. Ashamed perhaps, but a better man. Marie looked at him strangely, then pretended nothing had happened; the kids were used to his behavior and did not seem to mind.

It was early in the morning, and he knew that his family would be getting ready for the day. The two eldest were at school, so they had to be up with the chicken. He was stinking like an old goat, but that could be remedied easily enough once he was home. He needed a wash and a shave.

When he walked down the hill to their house, it felt eerily quiet. No noises from the kitchen, no smells of breakfast. No children laughing or fighting.

He pushed through the door. The kitchen was empty. The doors to the bedrooms were open. He could see the beds and hammocks, but nobody was there. No Marie, no children.

Slightly worried, he looked around for any signs. What the heck was going on? Where were they? Wondering, he swiped his fingers across the kitchen table and noticed the dust: the house must have been empty for a while.

He called their names: no response. He stepped into the yard: still nobody.

He walked back up the hill to the house of his mother-in-law. He banged against the closed door, shouted and called for Estefania to open up and come out. Eventually, the old woman emerged.

‘O, so you are back?’

‘Where is my wife? Where are my children?’

Silently, the old woman stepped aside and he entered. Rubbing their sleepy eyes, his children stood staring up at him, silently waiting.

‘What is going on?’ He growled.

‘Papi, where were you?’ His oldest, Stefano asked.

‘Where is your mother?’

Estefania stepped in between Juan and the children.

‘How dare you come here like this! Stinking like an animal! Where have you been? With some cheap floozy? Do you even know how long you have been gone? What gives you the right to come back? Everybody would be better off if you just disappeared for good!’

Astounded at her fury, he stopped short.

‘What is this? I want to know where you have hidden my wife? Why are the children here?’

Manuela started to cry. Stefano lifted her onto his arms, holding her close. Rafaela snuggled into her big brother’s side. Celia held on to her Grandmother’s skirt tails.

‘You make me sick. You men are all the same!’

‘Choke on your venom, old woman, and tell me what is going on!’

Pure hatred and vile reflected off Estefania’s face and it was Stefano who finally spoke.

‘Mama is sick. She has been in hospital for almost a week already.’

The boy’s words struck Juan like a fist in the gut. How long had he been gone? Why did nobody tell him? Why had nobody called him back to look after the children? And what was wrong with Marie?

‘I think you better go’, Estefania suggested.

Cut down, Juan turned and slouched back to his house. After breakfast and dressed in clean clothes, the children eventually followed.