The Tuner of Silences

by Mia Couto

  —Father, please, let me sleep with you just this once.

  —People sleep together in the cemetery.

  I returned to my bed, unprotected, and listened to the roars of the big cats, which came ever nearer. At that moment, as I stumbled around defenceless in the dark, I hated my father for the first time. As I settled down in bed, my heart was seething with fury.

  —Shall we kill him?

  Ntunzi was leaning on his elbow in bed, waiting for my answer. He waited in vain. My voice had stuck in my throat. He pressed on:

  —The bastard killed our mother.

  I shook my head, desperately refuting the idea. I didn’t want to listen. I wished I could hear the lions roaring again so that they might block out my brother’s voice.

  —Don’t you believe it?

  —No—I murmured.

  —Don’t you trust me?

  —Maybe.

  —Maybe?

  That “maybe” was an added burden on my conscience. How could I admit the possibility that my father might be a murderer? For a long time I tried to assuage this guilt. And I mulled over possible underlying reasons: if something had happened, my father must have acted against his will. Who knows, perhaps he had done so in illegitimate defence? Or maybe he had killed out of love and, in carrying out the crime, half of him had died as well?

  The truth is that, as an absolutist ruler over his own solitude, my father was losing his wits, a refugee from the world and from the rest of humanity, but unable to escape from himself. Perhaps it was this despair that made him surrender to a personal religion, a very special interpretation of the sacred. Generally speaking, the role of God is to forgive us our sins. For Silvestre, God’s existence allowed us to hold Him responsible for the sins of humanity. In this reverse version of faith, there were no prayers or rituals: a simple cross at the entrance to the camp guided God on his arrival at our reserve. And there was a welcome sign above the cross, which read: “Welcome, illustrious visitor!”

  —That’s so that God knows we’ve forgiven him.

  This hope of a divine apparition provoked a scornful smile from my brother:

  —God? We’re so far from anywhere, that God would get lost on the way here.

  On our way to the river the following morning, we were not accosted by celestial creatures, but by my father, spitting anger. He was with Zachary Kalash, who kept himself out of it while Silvestre was getting ready to be taken over by violence.

  —I know what you’re up to down by the river. The two of you, all naked . . .

  —We’re not doing anything, Father—I hastened to answer, puzzled by his insinuation.

  —Keep out of this, Mwanito. Go back home with Zaca.

  Over and above my own sobbing, I could hear the blows Silvestre was directing against his own son. Kalash even made a move to go back. But he ended up pushing me into the darkness of my room. That night, Ntunzi slept lashed to the fence. Next morning, he was ill, shivering with fever. It was Zachary who walked through the mist and carried him back to the room, while our dear Ntunzi was being brushed by death. It was barely light when I heard Silvestre, Zachary and Uncle Aproximado their footsteps whirling around the room. As morning progressed, I could no longer pretend I was asleep. Ntunzi, my only brother, only companion of my childhood, was slipping away towards the beyond. I left my room and armed with a stick, I began to write in the sand all around the house. I wrote and wrote, feverishly, as if I were set on occupying the entire landscape with my scribbling. The ground round about gradually became a page upon which I sowed my hope for a miracle. It was a supplication to God to hasten his arrival in Jezoosalem and save my poor brother. Exhausted, I fell asleep, prostrate over my own writing.

  It was already day when Zachary Kalash shook me from my sleep, and tugged at my elbow:

  —Your brother is burning. Help me take him down to the river.

  —I’m sorry, Zachary, but wouldn’t it be better for Father to do that?

  —Keep quiet, Mwanito, I know what I’m doing.

  The river was the last hope of a cure. The soldier and I transported Ntunzi in a little handcart. His swaying legs looked as if they were already dead. Zachary immersed my poor brother’s lifeless body in the waters, plunging him in and out of the current seven times. But Ntunzi didn’t show any improvement, nor did the fever cease burning his scrawny body.

  Faced with the likely outcome, Uncle Aproximado wanted to take the boy to a hospital in the city.

  —I beg you, Silvestre. Go back to the city.

  —What city? There is no city.

  —Put an end to this. This madness can’t go on any longer.

  —There’s nothing to put an end to.

  —You know the pain of losing your wife. Well, you’d never get over the death of a son.

  —Leave me alone.

  —If he dies you’ll never be left alone. You’ll be haunted by your second tormented spirit . . .

  Silvestre only just managed to restrain himself. His brother-in-law had gone too far. My father gripped the arms of his chair so hard that it was as if the opposite were the case and the wood were securing him to the seat. Gradually his chest relaxed, and he gave a deep, long sigh:

  —Well now, let me ask you this, my dear Orlando, or rather, my dear Brother-in-law: did you wash yourself when you reached the entrance to Jezoosalem?

  —I won’t even bother to answer.

  —So it was you who brought Ntunzi’s illness with you.

  He picked Uncle up by the scruff of his neck and shook him around in his clothes like a rattle. Did he know how and why the family had escaped wild animals, snakes, illnesses and accidents up until then? It was simple: in Jezoosalem, there were no dead, no one risked encountering graves, the weeping of the bereaved, or the wailing of orphans. Here, there was no yearning for anything. In Jezoosalem, life didn’t owe anyone an apology. And at that moment, he felt no obligation to provide any more explanations.

  —So you can go back to your stinking city. Get out of here.

  Aproximado still slept with us that night. Before he fell asleep, I went over to his bed, determined to confess something to him:

  —Uncle, I think it’s my fault.

  —What’s your fault?

  —I was the one who made dear Ntunzi fall ill.

  This was why: I’d gone along with his wish that we should kill our old man. Aproximado rested his big round hand on my head, and smiled kindly:

  —I’m going to tell you a story.

  And he spoke of some father or other who didn’t know how to give his son enough love. One night, the hovel in which they lived caught fire. The man picked the child up in his arms and left the scene of the tragedy, trudging through the night. He must have crossed the borders of this world, for when he eventually put the child down on the ground, he noticed that there was no more earth. All that remained was emptiness upon emptiness, shredded clouds among faded skies. The man concluded to himself:

  —Well now, my son will only ever find ground on my lap.

  That little boy never realized that the vast territory where he later lived, grew up and made children, was no more than his old father’s lap. Many years later, when he opened up his father’s grave, he called his son and said to him:

  —Do you see the soil, son? It looks like sand, stones and clumps of earth. But it’s arms as well, and its arms will embrace you.

  I patted Uncle’s hand, and returned to my bed, where I lay wide awake for the rest of the night. I was listening to Ntunzi’s heavy breathing. And it was then that I noticed he was coming back to life. Suddenly, his hands stretched out feeling the darkness, as if he were looking for something. Then he moaned, almost on cue:

  —Water!

  I rushed over, holding back my emotions. Aproximado woke up and switched on a torch. The focus of its light veered away from us and meandered down the hall. The next moment, the three adults came into the room and hurried over to Ntunzi’s bed. Silvestre’s trembling hand sought out hi
s son’s face and he saw that he was no longer feverish.

  —The river saved him—Zachary exclaimed.

  The soldier sank to his knees next to the bed and took Ntunzi’s hand. The other two adults, Aproximado and Silvestre, stood there facing each other, silent. Suddenly, they hugged each other. The torch fell to the ground and only their legs were visible, tottering nervously backwards and forwards. They were like two blind men in a clumsy dance. For the first time, Silvestre treated his brother-in-law with fraternal affection:

  —I’m sorry, brother.

  —If that nephew of mine had died, you’d have nowhere else in the world to hide . . .

  —You know very well how much I care for these kids. My sons are my last hope in life.

  —But you’re not helping them like this.

  You don’t help a bird to fly by holding onto its wings. A bird flies when it’s quite simply allowed to be a bird. That’s what Uncle Aproximado said. Then he left, engulfed by the darkness.

  MY BROTHER, NTUNZI

  Do not seek me there

  where the living visit

  the so-called dead.

  Seek me in the great waters.

  In the open spaces,

  in a fire’s heart,

  among horses, hounds,

  in the rice fields, in the gushing stream,

  or among the birds

  or mirrored in some other being,

  climbing an uneven path.

  Stones, seeds, salt, life’s stages.

  Seek me there.

  Alive.

  Hilda Hilst

  M y brother Ntunzi had only one aspiration in his life: to escape from Jezoosalem. He had known the world, had lived in the city, and remembered our mother. I envied him for all this. Countless times I begged him to tell me about this universe that was unknown to me, and each time, he would linger on details, the colours and the bright lights. His eyes shone, swollen with dreams. Ntunzi was my cinema.

  Incredible though this may seem, the person who had stimulated him in the art of telling stories had been our father. Silvestre thought that a good story was a more powerful weapon than a gun or a knife. But that had been before our arrival at Jezoosalem. At that time, and in the face of complaints about conflicts at school, Silvestre had encouraged Ntunzi: “If they threaten you with a beating, answer with a story.”

  —Is that what Father said?—I asked, surprised.

  —That’s what he said.

  —And did it work?—I asked.

  —I got beaten up all the time.

  He smiled. But it was a sad smile because, in truth, what story was there to invent now? What story can be conceived without a tear, without song, without a book or a prayer? My brother’s expression became gloomy, and he grew old before my very eyes. On one occasion, his sorrow was expressed in a strange way:

  —In this world there are the living and the dead. And then there’s us, the ones who have no journey to make.

  Ntunzi suffered because he could remember, he had something to compare this with. For me, our reclusion was less painful: I had never experienced any other way of living.

  I would sometimes ask him about our mother. That was his cue. Ntunzi would blaze like a fire fuelled by dry wood. And he would put on a complete performance, imitating Dordalma’s manner and voice, each time adding in one or two new revelations.

  On the occasions when I forgot or neglected to ask him to revisit these memories, he would soon react:

  —So aren’t you going to ask me about Mama?

  And once again, he would re-kindle his memories. At the end of his performance, Ntunzi would become subdued again, just as happens with drunks and their euphoria. Knowing that the outcome would be sad, I would interrupt his theatre to ask:

  —And what about the others, brother? What are other women like?

  Then, his eyes would gleam anew. And he would turn on his heels, as if exiting an imaginary stage before re-emerging from the wings to imitate the ways of women. He would bunch his shirt up to simulate the bulk of a woman’s bosom, wiggle his buttocks and reel around the room like a headless chicken. And we would collapse on the bed, dying of laughter.

  Once, Ntunzi told me of some old crush he’d had, a product more of his delirium than of lived experience. Not that it could have been otherwise: he had left the city when he was only eleven years old. Ntunzi dreamed his women with such ardour that they became more real than if they were flesh and blood. On one occasion, when he was in the middle of his hallucinations, he met a woman of boundless beauty.

  When the apparition touched his arm and he looked at her, a cold shiver ran through him: the girl had no eyes. Instead of sockets, what he saw were two empty holes, two bottomless wells without sides.

  —What’s happened to your eyes?—he asked unsteadily.

  —What’s wrong with my eyes?

  —Well, I can’t see them.

  She smiled, astonished at his awkwardness. He must be nervous, unable to see properly.

  —You can never see the eyes of the one you love.

  —I understand—Ntunzi affirmed, recoiling with all due care.

  —Are you scared of me, my little Ntunzi?

  One more step backwards and Ntunzi lost his footing, tumbling into an abyss, and he is still falling, falling, falling, even today. As far as my brother was concerned, the lesson was clear. People who allow passion to take them by storm are destined to become blind: we stop seeing those whom we love. Instead, a lovesick man stares into his own abyss.

  —Women are like islands: always distant, but quelling all the sea around them.

  For me, all this was like thickening swirls of mist that merely made the mystery surrounding Woman more dense. I spent whole afternoons gazing at the queens on the playing cards, and thinking to myself that if those were true reproductions, then Ntunzi’s ravings had no basis whatsoever. They were as masculine and as arid as Zachary Kalash.

  —Women sometimes bleed—my brother once told me.

  I was baffled by this. Bleed? We all bleed; why did Ntunzi invoke that particular attribute?

  —A woman doesn’t need to get injured, she’s born with a gash inside her.

  When I addressed this question to Silvestre Vitalício, he answered: women were injured by God. And he added: she got slashed when God chose to be a man.

  —Did my mother bleed too?

  —No, not your mother.

  —Not even when she died?

  —Not even then.

  The vision of a stream of blood flowing out of Silvestre’s body disturbed my dreams that night. It rained blood and the river was growing red, and my brother was drowning in the flood it caused.

  And I dived into the waters to try and rescue his body, which was tiny and fragile, like that of a newborn baby, and fitted in my arms. Silvestre’s slurred speech echoed deep within me:

  —I’m a male, but I bleed like women.

  One time, my father came into our room and caught my brother doing one of his acts, busy imitating what he called a “showy woman.” Silvestre’s eyes grew red as if injected with hatred:

  —Hey, who are you imitating? Who is it?

  Whereupon he hit him so hard that my poor brother lost consciousness. I placed myself between them, offering up my body to placate our father’s fury, and I shouted:

  —Father, don’t do this, my brother has almost died so many times!

  And it was true: after having burned with fever, my brother continued to suffer from attacks. Ntunzi would swell up like a ball, his eyes dazed, his legs rubbery like some punch-drunk dancer. Then, all of a sudden, he would collapse on the floor. When this happened, I would hurry away for help, and Silvestre Vitalício would saunter over, repeating to himself words that were either a curse or a diagnosis:

  —A burn on the soul!

  Our old father had an explanation for these relapses: too much soul. An illness picked up in the city, he concluded. And raising his finger, he would growl:

  —That’
s where your brother caught this scourge. It was there, in that infernal city.

  His therapy was simple but effective. Every time Ntunzi suffered these convulsions, my father would kneel on his chest and, using his fingers like a knife blade, he would apply increasing pressure on his throat. It looked as if he was going to asphyxiate him but, suddenly, my brother would deflate like a pricked balloon, and the air flowing between his lips produced a noise that was a bit like the braying of our jenny, Jezebel. When Ntunzi was empty, my father would lean right over until he was almost brushing his face and solemnly whisper:

  —This is the breath of Life.

  He would take a deep breath and blow strongly into Ntunzi’s mouth. And when his son began to jerk, he concluded triumphantly:

  —There! I’ve given birth to you.

  We should never forget, he stressed. And he repeated, breathless, his eyes defiant:

  —Your mother may have pulled you from the darkness. But I have given birth to you many more times than she did.

  He withdrew from our room in triumph. Not long afterwards, Ntunzi recovered his sanity and passed his hands right down his legs as if to make sure they were still intact. And that’s how he remained, with his back to me, regaining his existence. On one such occasion, I noticed his back shuddering with sadness. Ntunzi was weeping.

  —What’s wrong, brother?

  —It’s all a lie.

  —What’s a lie?

  —I don’t remember.

  —You don’t remember?

  —I don’t remember Mama. I can’t remember her . . .

  Every time he had acted out her part in such lively fashion, it had been pure pretence. The dead don’t die when they stop living, but when we consign them to oblivion. Dordalma had perished once and for all and, for Ntunzi, the time of his early childhood when the world had been born along with him had been extinguished forever.

  —Now, my little brother, now we really are orphans.

  Maybe Ntunzi felt his orphanhood from that night on. But for me, the sentiment was more bearable: I had never had a mother. I was merely the son of Silvestre Vitalício. For that reason, I couldn’t surrender to the invitations my brother directed towards me on a daily basis: that I should hate our father. And that I should wish him dead as strongly as he did.