The Tuner of Silences

by Mia Couto

  Time and time again, we would ask why we were there, so far away from everything and everyone. My father would reply:

  —The world has come to an end, my children. Jezoosalem is all that’s left.

  I believed what my father said. But Ntunzi thought the whole story crazy. Embittered, he probed persistently:

  —So there’s no one else in the world?

  Silvestre Vitalício took a deep breath, as if the answer required a great effort, and with a long, slow sigh, he murmured:

  —We are the only ones left.

  Vitalício was diligent, and devoted himself to our upbringing with great care and attention. But he made sure that his cares never gave way to tenderness. He was a man. And we were being schooled for manhood. We were the last and the only men. I remember that he would gently but firmly push me away when I tried to hug him:

  —Do you close yours eyes when you hug me?

  —I’m not sure, Father, I’m not sure.

  —You shouldn’t do that.

  —Close my eyes, Father?

  —No, hug me.

  In spite of his physical reserve, Silvestre Vitalício always fulfilled the role of maternal father, an ancestor in the present. I found his devotion strange. For his zeal contradicted everything that he preached. His dedication would only make any sense if there were, in some undisclosed place, a time full of future.

  —But, Father, tell us, how did the world die?

  —To tell you the truth, I can’t remember.

  —But Uncle Aproximado . . .

  —Uncle tells a lot of stories . . .

  —Well then, you tell us, Father.

  —It happened like this: the world finished even before the end of the world . . .

  The universe had come to an end without a spectacle, with neither thunderclaps nor flashes of lightning. It had withered away, exhausted by despair. This was how my father prevaricated on the subject of the cosmos’s extinction. First, the female places had begun to die: the springs, the beaches, the lagoons. Then, the male places had died: the towns, the roads, the ports.

  —This was the only place left. This is where we’ve come to live for good.

  To live? Surely, to live is to see dreams fulfilled, to look forward to receiving news. Silvestre didn’t dream, nor was he waiting for news. In the beginning, all he wanted was a place where no one would recall his name. Now, he himself could no longer remember who he was.

  Uncle Aproximado would douse the flames of these paternal musings. His brother-in-law had left the city for banal reasons common to those who felt overcome by age.

  —Your father complained that he could feel himself growing old.

  Old age isn’t about one’s years: it’s fatigue. When we are old, everyone seems the same. That was Silvestre Vitalício’s lamentation. People and places had become impossible to differentiate from each other when he undertook his final journey. Other times — and there were so many other times — Silvestre would declare: life is too precious to be squandered in a disenthralled world.

  —Your father is being very psychological—Uncle concluded.—He’ll get over it one of these days.

  Days and years passed and father’s ravings continued. In time, Uncle showed up less and less. As for me, his growing absences pained me, but my brother disabused me:

  —Uncle Aproximado isn’t the person you think he is—he warned me.

  —I don’t understand.

  —He’s a jailer. That’s what he is, a jailer.

  —What do you mean by that?

  —That dear little uncle of yours is the one who’s guarding this prison we’re being kept in.

  —And why should we be in prison?

  —Because of the crime.

  —What crime, Ntunzi?

  —The crime our father committed.

  —Don’t say such a thing, brother.

  All those tales our father invented about why we had abandoned the world, all those cock-and-bull stories had one purpose in mind: to befuddle us and remove us from our memories of the past.

  —There’s only one truth: our old man is running away from the law.

  —So what crime did he commit, then?

  —One day I’ll tell you.

  Whatever the reason for our exile, it was Aproximado who had led our retreat to Jezoosalem eight years before, driving us there in his rickety old truck. Uncle knew the place we were heading for. He had once worked on this reserve as a game warden. Uncle knew all about wild animals and guns, bush-lands and forests. While he drove us along in his old wreck, his arm dangling out of the window, he lectured us on the wiles of animals and the secrets of the bush.

  That truck — the new Noah’s Ark — reached its destination, but breathed its last at the door of what would become our home. It was there that it rotted away, and there that it became my favourite toy, the refuge for my dreams. Sitting behind the wheel of the lifeless machine, I could have invented infinite journeys, conquered distances and obstacles. Like any other child, I could have travelled right round the planet until the whole world hung on my word. But this never happened: my dream had never learnt to travel. He who has always lived stuck in one place doesn’t know how to dream of anywhere else.

  With my capacity for illusion diminished, I eventually perfected other defences against nostalgia. In order to deceive the slowness of the hours, I would declare:

  —I’m off to the river!

  What usually happened was that no one heard me. Even so, I got so much pleasure from the announcement that I went on repeating it while I headed towards the valley. On the way there, I would pause in front of a lifeless telegraph pole that had been erected, but had never got as far as working. All the other poles that had been stuck in the ground had turned into green shoots and were now trees with magnificent foliage. This particular pole was the only one standing there like a skeleton, solitary in the face of infinity. That pole, according to Ntunzi, wasn’t a post stuck in the ground: it was the mast of a ship that had lost its sea. That was why I always gave it a hug, as if seeking comfort from an old member of the family.

  I would linger by the river in far-ranging reveries. I would wait for my brother who, at the end of the afternoon, would come down to bathe. Ntunzi would strip off his clothes and stand there, defenceless, gazing at the water with exactly the same look of yearning as when I saw him contemplating the suitcase that he packed and unpacked every day. Once, he asked me:

  —Have you ever been under the water, sonny boy?

  I shook my head, aware that I didn’t understand the depth of his question.

  —Under the water—Ntunzi said, —you see things you’d just never imagine.

  I couldn’t decipher my brother’s words. But little by little, I got the idea: the most truly living thing in Jezoosalem was that nameless river. When it came down to it, the ban on tears and prayers had a purpose. My father wasn’t as unhinged as we thought. If we had to pray or weep, it was to be right there, on the riverbank, upon bended knee on the wet sand.

  —Father always says the world has died, doesn’t he? Ntunzi asked.

  —But Father says so many things.

  —It’s the opposite, Mwanito. It’s not the world that died. We’re the ones who died.

  I shivered. I felt a chill pass through me, from my soul to my flesh, and from my flesh to my skin. So was death itself the place where we lived?

  —Don’t say such a thing, Ntunzi. It scares me.

  —Well, get this into your head: we didn’t leave the world. We were pushed out, just like a thorn expelled by the body.

  His words pained me, as if life had skewered me, and in order to grow, I would have to prise its barb out of my body.

  —One day, I’ll tell you everything—Ntunzi drew the conversation to a close. But for now, wouldn’t my little brother like to take a look at the other side?

  —What other side?

  —You know, the other side: the world, Over There!

  I looked around me before a
nswering. I was afraid our father might be watching us. I peeped up at the top of the hill, at the backs of the outbuildings. I feared Zachary might be passing by.

  —Go on, take your clothes off.

  —You’re not going to hurt me, are you, brother?

  I remembered he had once thrown me into the muddy waters of a pool and I’d got stuck, my feet tangled in the hidden roots of bulrushes.

  —Come with me—he beckoned.

  Ntunzi sank his feet in the mud and entered the river. He waded out until the water was up to his chest, and urged me to join him. I felt the current swirling around my body. Ntunzi gave me his hand, fearing I might be swept away by the waters.

  —Are we going to run away, brother?—I asked, trying to contain my enthusiasm.

  I couldn’t understand why it had never occurred to me before: the river was an open highway, a channel that had been cleaved without let or hindrance. Our escape was right there and we hadn’t been able to spot it. As my resolve grew stronger and stronger, I began to make plans out loud: who knows, maybe we should return to the riverbank and make a dugout? Yes, a little dugout would be enough for us to escape that prison and flow out into the wide world. I looked at Ntunzi, who remained impassive in the face of my daydreaming.

  —There’ll be no dugout. Never. So forget it.

  Had I by any chance forgotten the crocodiles and hippos that infested the river further down? And the rapids and waterfalls, in a word, the countless dangers and traps that lay concealed in the river?

  —But has anyone been there? It’s only what we’ve been told . . .

  —Just calm down and be quiet.

  I followed him against the current and we waded our trail through the undulations until we reached a part where the river meandered ruefully, and the bed was carpeted with smooth pebbles. In this calm stretch, the waters were surprisingly clear. Ntunzi let go of my hand: I was to do as he did. Thereupon, he plunged in and then, while totally submerged, opened his eyes and looked up into the light as it reverberated off the surface of the water. I followed suit: from the river’s womb, I contemplated the sparkling light of the sun. And its radiance fascinated me, enveloping me in a gentle daze. If there was such a thing as a mother’s embrace, it must be something like this, this dizzying of the senses.

  —Did you like it?

  —Did I hell? It’s so beautiful, Ntunzi, they’re like liquid stars, so bright!

  —See, little brother? That’s the other side for you.

  I dived in again, seeking to sate myself in that spirit of wonderment. But this time I had a fit of giddiness. I suddenly lost all notion of myself, confusing the depths with the surface. There I was, twisting around like a blind fish, unable to swim up to the surface. I would have ended up drowning if Ntunzi hadn’t dragged me to the shore. Having recovered, I confessed that I had been seized by the chill of fear while underwater.

  —Could it be that someone is watching us from the other side?

  —Yes, we’re being watched. By those who will come and fish us.

  —Did you say ‘fetch us’?

  —Fish us.

  I shuddered. The idea of our being fished, caught in the water, drew me to the horrifying conclusion that the others, those on the side of the sun, were the living, the only human creatures.

  —Brother, is it really true that we’re dead?

  —Only the living can know that, little brother. Only they.

  The accident in the river didn’t inhibit me. On the contrary, I returned again and again to that bend in the river, and allowed myself to dive into the calm waters. And I would stay there endlessly, my eyes astonished, as I visited the other side of the world. My father never found out, but it was there, more than anywhere else, that I perfected my art as a tuner of silences.

  MY FATHER, SILVESTRE

  VITALÍCIO

  […]

  You lived on the reverse

  Endless traveller of the inverse

  Free of your own self

  Your own self’s widower.

  Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen

  I knew my father before I knew myself. That’s why I’ve got a bit of him in me. Deprived of a mother’s presence, Silvestre Vitalício’s bony chest was my only source of comfort, his old shirt my handkerchief, his scrawny shoulder my pillow. A monotone snore was my only lullaby.

  For years, my father was a gentle soul, his arms enveloped the earth, and the most time-honoured tranquillities nestled in their embrace. Even though he was such a strange and unpredictable creature, I saw old Silvestre as the only harbinger of truth, the sole foreteller of futures.

  Now, I know: my father had lost his marbles. He noticed things that no one else acknowledged. These apparitions occurred mainly during the great winds that sweep across the savannah in September. For Silvestre, the wind was ghosts dancing. Windswept trees became people, the lamenting dead and trying to pull their own roots up. That’s what Silvestre Vitalício said, shut away in his room and barricaded behind windows and doors, waiting for calmer weather.

  —The wind is full of sickness, the wind is just one big contagious disease.

  On those tempestuous days, the old man would not allow anyone to leave the room. He would call me to remain by his side, while I tried in vain to nourish silence. I was never able to calm him down. In the rustling of the leaves, Silvestre heard engines, trains, cities in movement. Everything that he tried so hard to forget was brought to him by the whistling of the wind in the branches.

  —But Father—I ventured,—why are you so scared?

  —I’m a tree—he explained.

  A tree, yes, but without its natural roots. He was anchored in alien soil, in that fluid country he had invented for himself. His fear of apparitions worsened as time progressed. From trees, it spread to night’s dark corners and to the earth’s womb. At one stage, my father ordered the well to be covered over when the sun went down. Fearsome and malevolent creatures might emerge from such a gaping hole. This vision of monsters bursting from the ground filled me with fear.

  —But Father, what things can come out of the well?

  There were certain reptiles I didn’t know about, that scratch around in tombs and bring back bits of Death itself under their nails and between their teeth. These lizards climb up the dank sides of wells, invade one’s sleep and moisten the bed sheets of grown-ups.

  —That’s why you can’t sleep next to me.

  —But I’m scared, Father. I just wanted you to let me sleep in your room.

  My brother never commented on my wish to sleep close to my father. In the dead of night, he would watch me creep furtively along the hall and stake out my place near the forbidden entrance to my father’s quarters. Many times Ntunzi came and fetched me, lying like a rag on the floor and fast asleep.

  —Come back to your bed. Father mustn’t find you here.

  I would follow him, too dazed to be grateful. Ntunzi would lead me back to bed and once, he even took my hand and said:

  —Do you think you’re scared? Well you may as well know that Father is much more scared.

  —Father?

  —Do you know why Father doesn’t want you there in his room? Because he’s scared to death that you’ll catch him talking in his sleep.

  —Talking about what?

  —Inadmissible things.

  Once again, it was Dona Dordalma, our absent mother, who was the cause of such strange behaviour. Instead of fading away into the distant past, she invaded the fissures of silence within night’s recesses. And there was no way of putting the ghost to rest. Her mysterious death, without cause or visibility, had not stolen her from the world of the living.

  —Father, has mother died?

  —Four hundred times.

  —What?

  —I’ve told you, four hundred times: your mother died, every little bit of her, it’s as if she was never alive.

  —So where’s she buried?

  —She’s buried everywhere, of course.

&nb
sp; So maybe that was it: my father had emptied the world so as to be able to fill it with his inventions. At first, we were bewitched by the flighty birds that emerged from his speech and curled upwards like smoke.

  —The world: do you want to know what it’s like?

  Our eyes answered by themselves. Yes of course, we yearned to know about it, as if the ground on which we stood depended on it.

  —Well, the world, children . . .

  And he would pause, his head swaying as if his ideas were being weighed, now this way, now that. Then, he would get to his feet, repeating with a cavernous voice:

  —The world, my children . . .

  In the beginning, I was afraid of these ruminations. Maybe my father just didn’t know how to answer, and I found such weakness difficult to bear. Silvestre Vitalício knew everything and his absolute knowledge was the home that gave me protection. It was he who conferred names on things, it was he who baptized trees and snakes, it was he who foresaw winds and floods. My father was the only God we’d been given.

  —All right, you deserve to know, I’m going to tell you about the world . . .

  He began to sigh, and I began to sigh. Words had returned to him after all, and the light he cast brought me back once more to the firm ground of certainty.

  —Well it’s all perfectly simple, children: the world has died, and all that’s left is Jezoosalem.

  —Don’t you think there might be a woman survivor out there?—My brother once suggested.

  Silvestre raised an eyebrow. Ntunzi backed off, knowing his question was provocative: without women, we would have no seeds left. Father raised his arms and covered his head with them in an almost childlike response. Ntunzi repeated his theme, as if he were scraping a fingernail across glass.

  —Without women, there’s no seed left . . .

  Silvestre’s abruptness re-affirmed the old, but never openly stated prohibition: women were a forbidden subject, more so even than prayer, more sinful than tears or song.