The Old Man, The Boy and Santa Claus

Old man D’Souza sat huddled over his glass of tea and a buttered bun at the Irani restaurant. Christmas is coming, he thought, as he carefully chewed the morsel he had dipped in the tea moments earlier. Not that Christmas meant anything more to him now than the need to line his ragged coat with newspapers to keep out the cold. The tea soaked bun he was chewing jabbed into his bad tooth and he winced.

It hadn’t always been like this. There was a time when Christmas meant family gatherings round the Christmas Tree, presents being exchanged, squeals of delight from his grandchildren as they tore open presents and their frugal mothers tried to save the wrapping. A brief smile flicked across his face as he remembered that a generation before, his girl had squealed in that exact fashion and Fiona was the one trying to save the wrappings. Maybe her daughter got that paper saving habit from her, he mused. It was like a dream now. The decorations, the cake, the wine and the rum and the whisky that had flowed. He felt his pocket to check if his bottle of cheap, countrymade liquor was there, the only thing he could afford on his meagre pension. He’d need the bottle tonight. The memories would not let him sleep otherwise.

How nice it was before the Big Fight. When Fiona was there, and they watched together with pride as their daughter grew, married, had children of her own. Why did we fight, I don’t even remember that, he mused. But fight they had and he had lost count of the number of Christmases that had gone by without those family gatherings. Or rather, of the number of family gatherings gone by with him absent. For she was surely carrying on the tradition of the family gathering. Fiona had taught her too well for her to forget that. If Fiona had been there the big fight probably wouldn’t even have happened. Even if it had happened, she would have got it all straightened out. She had been a strong woman and he missed her strength sometimes. That’s life, he thought, then corrected himself. No, that’s death. I’ll be coming soon, Fiona, he whispered.

The waiter roused him from his reverie, demanding to know if he was going to go soon, there were people waiting for the table space. He paid up and left, shuffling down the street. He wasn’t going anywhere in particular. There was nowhere to go. But he had learned long ago that as long as you keep moving, the urchins and the police don’t harass you. Every once in a while he stopped to rest and to retie the cord around his waist to keep his trousers up. He reminded himself to be on the lookout for a cotton cord. Nylon knots kept slipping and loosened the cord.

He was scurrying past a sidestreet when he heard a sound. He looked into the sidestreet and saw a boy apparently struggling with a large man. “Hey,” he shouted instinctively, the sight stirring up a protective paternal reflex. Without regard for his own safety, he stumbled into the sidestreet as fast as his arthritic knees would let him, shouting all the time.

* * * * *

The boy scrambled to help the fat lady pick up her groceries, effortlessly elbowing the other boys out of the way. He generally didn’t like to help the fat ones. They always haggled over the price. Somehow, the thinner ones seemed to be more generous. Well, whatever it was that this one gave, at least he would have enough to buy his next bottle of glue. He had lost the last bottle in a fight. He needed the glue for the times there was no food and for the nights when sleep wouldn’t come. Then a few sniffs from the bottle gave him enough of a high to forget himself until he could either get something to eat or fall asleep. He loaded the groceries into the car and she gave him a Rupee coin. “Five”, he demanded. “Are you crazy?” yelled the woman, “get going before I use my hand.” “Please,” said the boy. The woman raised her hand and the boy slunk away. That was another problem with the fat ones, he mused. They used their hands as readily as they used their loud voices. He looked around. Not many people around, and no one who looked as if they’d need help. He’d have to cross over to the other side, to the vegetable section.

He entered the sidestreet, on the lookout for the other boys who might decide to gang up on him and snatch his coin. He saw the bike and automatically looked at the petrol pipe. No lock! He looked around for a bottle. If there was no glue to sniff, petrol was just as good. He saw a discarded water bottle and, scooping it up, ran to the bike. He had just tugged the petrol pipe off the tap when he sensed a movement behind him. He turned, poised for fight or flight. If it was one of the smaller boys, he’d fight. It would increase his status among the urchins. But if it was one of the bigger boys or a drunkard looking for a quick buck, he’d have to run.

The figure loomed large over the boy, dressed in some kind of bright red costume. Too large to fight. He had turned to run when he felt a firm, yet curiously gentle grip on his shoulder. “Look at me,” rumbled a voice in a tone that was strangely familiar to him. It recalled to him the times his mother had called him for a cuddle. When he had a mother. He turned slowly and saw a huge bearded figure in a red suit. It reminded him of that fat man he had seen some years ago, when some well-meaning socialite had tried to organise a Christmas party for urchins. The fat man had been brought in to distribute gifts, but he’d turned up drunk, lurching between the women and generally making a nuisance of himself till someone wisely called the security guard, who took him into a back room to cool off. Was this one drunk too? The boy gripped the coin tightly, determined to retain it at any cost. His eyes flicked from side to side, looking for a stone, a stick, anything he could use as a weapon. Then he looked up again, straight into the fat man’s face.

Somehow, he sensed that this was no drunk or fancy dressed fool. The beard was all too real, the costume somehow not at all incongruous on the huge figure. He’d never seen anyone dressed like that in the relatively warm weather of his town. The suit seemed to be padded enough to make a man sweat, but the figure was cool and comfortable in it. The huge man smiled and the boy relaxed. He knew he would not be harmed.

* * * * *

Old man D’Souza picked up a stick he saw lying on the ground and shuffled towards the two figures, shouting all the time. He didn’t know if he would have the courage to actually use the stick, but maybe the man would let the boy go if he made sufficient noise. He came closer to the pair and the large man turned. “Don’t recognise me, Mr. D’Souza?” he said, chortling. D’Souza stopped short. It looked like… it couldn’t be! And then, like the boy, D’Souza somehow knew this was the real Santa Claus.

“But you can’t be,” he spluttered, “you aren’t real. You’re just a Christmas myth.” “If you believe,” said the figure, “everything is real. If you don’t, nothing is. Now won’t you help me entertain this young man? It’s Christmas season, and he needs to know life can be good even without glue.” “Entertain?” stuttered the old man, “how?” “Just like you entertained your grandchildren. They’re grown now aren’t they? I believe Alex has even started working”

“I don’t know,” mumbled the old man, “I haven’t seen them for a while.” “Oh, but you can,” said the figure, “all it takes is for you to reopen the dialogue. I know you want to, and the universe always helps someone who wants to do something good. Now come, let’s show little Xavier a wee bit of Christmas. Remember the Christmas cards you used to get?”

And suddenly, the old man, the boy and Santa Claus were in a winter wonderland. They saw snow for the first time in their lives. The old man felt like he was in a Christmas card as he and the boy romped in the snow. They had snow fights, the boy shrieking and the old man chuckling in delight. They rode a toboggan down a gentle slope and went on a sleigh ride, the silver bells on the horses’ collars keeping up a cheerful accompaniment to the boy’s squeals of pleasure. At his begging, the figure in red pulled a silver bell off one of the collars and gave it to the boy, who promptly began waving it near the old man’s ear. The Christmas carols came alive for them and the old man and the boy wished it would last forever.

* * * * *

The old man woke up, and sensed the warm little body nestled against him. He looked around. They had fallen asleep against a door in the sidestreet. “What a dream,” he muttered to himself. He couldn’t figure out how he’d got in the sidestreet, but that was nothing new. He’d woken up in strange gullies after drunken binges before. He just presumed he was waking after another binge. But at least he seemed to have made a friend, this little bundle of energy who, even now, was smiling and kicking in his sleep. “I must figure out a way to buy a present for the little chap,” thought old man D’Souza, “if I can’t give my grandson a present, at least I can give this boy one.”

The boy stirred and woke up, stretching. “What a dream,” he said, “what a strange dream.” Then he looked up at the old man. “You were in it too. Am I still dreaming?”

“No,” said the old man, “this is real. But… I have a job to do. I have to reopen a dialogue.”

“What does that mean?” asked the boy.

“Just that I have to find someone. They moved house long ago and I never bothered to find out where. But this is a small city. I’m sure I’ll be able to find them.”

“Who are they? Maybe I can find them for you.”

The old man smiled. “I doubt it,” he said, “but I’ll tell you anyway. It’s my daughter and her family I have to find.”

“What’s her name?” queried the boy.

“Margaret Fernandes,” said the old man, preparing to rise.

“Oh, I can take you to her!” said the boy excitedly, “I do odd jobs for her every weekend!” And as the boy jumped up to take the old man to his daughter, something fell from his pocket and rolled, tinkling, between the old man’s feet. The old man picked it up.

“A bell,” he said in wonder to no one in particular, “a silver bell!”

Copyright (c) Deepak Morris, 1998-2005