The Tuner of Silences

by Mia Couto

  —So how did our mother die?

  Here, there was no answer. Aproximado was evasive: at the time, he was away from the city. When he arrived home, the tragedy had already occurred. After receiving condolences, our father had this to say:

  —A widower is just another word for someone who’s dead. I’m going to choose a cemetery, a personal one where I can bury myself.

  —Don’t say such a thing. Where do you want to go and live?

  —I don’t know, there isn’t anywhere any more.

  The city had foundered, Time had imploded, the future had been submerged. Dordalma’s half-brother still tried to make him see reason: he who leaves his place, never finds himself again.

  —You haven’t got any children, Brother-in-law. You don’t know what it’s like to surrender a child to this festering world.

  —But have you no hope left, brother Silvestre?

  —Hope? What I’ve lost is confidence.

  He who loses hope, runs away. He who loses his confidence, hides away. And he wanted to do both things: to run away and to hide away. Nevertheless, we should never doubt Silvestre’s capacity to love.

  —Your father is a good man. His goodness is that of an angel who doesn’t know where God is. That’s all.

  His whole life had been devoted to one task: to be a father. And any good father faces the same temptation: to keep his children for himself, away from the world, far from time.

  Once, Uncle Aproximado arrived early in the morning, thus ignoring the instruction that he should only turn up in Jezoosalem at the end of the day. In normal circumstances, Uncle would stumble in his steps, and his legs seemed to obey two contrary urges.

  —If I’m limping it’s not a defect but a precaution—he would say.

  This time, he’d thrown caution to the wind. Haste was the only ruler of his movements.

  My father was busy patching up the roof of our house. I was holding the ladder where he was perched. Uncle twirled around and exclaimed:

  —Come down, Brother-in-law. I’ve got news.

  —News finished long ago.

  —I’m asking you to come down, Silvestre Vitalício.

  —I’ll come down when it’s time to come down.

  —The president has died!

  At the top of the steps, all activity stopped. But only for a few seconds. Then, I felt the ladder vibrating: my old man was starting to climb down. Once on the ground, he leant against the wall and busied himself wiping away the sweat that dripped from his face. My Uncle walked over to him:

  —Did you hear what I said?

  —I did.

  —It was an accident.

  Silvestre continued to wipe his face indifferently. With the palm of his hand, he shaded his eyes and looked up at where he had been perched.

  —I just hope that’s plugged the leak—he concluded, carefully folding the cloth he had cleaned himself with.

  —Did you listen to what I told you? That the president has died?

  —He was already dead.

  And he went inside. Uncle Aproximado remained, kicking the stones in front of the house. Fury is just a different way of crying. I stayed away, pretending to put the tools away. No one should approach a man who is pretending not to cry.

  Then, Aproximado made a sudden decision. He went over to the ammunition store and called for Zachary. They talked for a while in muffled tones at the door of the hut. The news left the old soldier in a state of shock. It wasn’t long before he seized a rifle, beside himself with rage, and began to wave it around in the air threateningly. He crossed the little square in front of our houses, shouting repeatedly:

  —They killed him! The bastards, they killed him!

  And off he strode in the direction of the river, his cries growing ever fainter until the sound of cicadas could be heard once again. When everything seemed to have calmed down, my father suddenly opened the door of his room and addressed his brother-in-law:

  —See what you’ve done? Who told you to give him the news?

  —I’ll speak to whomever I like.

  —Well you’re not going to speak to anyone else in Jezoosalem.

  —Jezoosalem doesn’t exist. It’s not on any map, only the map of your madness. There is no Silvestre, Aproximado doesn’t exist, nor Ntunzi, nor . . .

  —Shut your face!

  Silvestre’s hands tugged at Aproximado’s shirt. We were afraid of what would happen next. But the only substance old Vitalício gave his anger was when he made the following harsh pronouncement:

  —Get out of here, you little cripple! And don’t come back, I’ve got no more orders for you.

  —I’ll take my truck and never come here again.

  —And apart from anything else, I don’t want motor vehicles passing this way, they churn up the soil and leave the earth with a gaping wound.

  Aproximado pulled his keys from his pocket and took his time picking out the one to unlock his truck. This delay was his dignified retort. He’d leave, but when he chose. Ntunzi and I ran to try and persuade him otherwise.

  —Uncle, please don’t go!

  —Have you never heard the proverb: he who wants to dress up as a wolf is left without any skin?

  We didn’t understand the adage, but we did understand that nothing would deter him. When Uncle was already sitting in the driver’s seat, he rubbed his forehead with his handkerchief as if he wanted to scrape off his skin or increase his already abundant baldness. And the roar of the truck drowned the sound of our farewells.

  The following weeks flowed over us like a thick oil. Our food supplies gradually ran low and we began to depend almost exclusively on the meat that Zachary brought us, already cooked, at the end of the day. The garden produced little more than inedible grasses. Nameless wild fruits kept us going.

  Meanwhile, Ntunzi busied himself drawing a new map and I spent whole afternoons down by the river as if its flow might cure me of an invisible wound.

  One day, however, we heard the sound of the truck that we longed for so much. Aproximado had returned. In the little square, he braked with a flourish, sending up a cloud of dust. Without greeting us, he walked round the vehicle and opened its rear doors. Then, he began to unload boxes, crates and sacks. Zachary got up to lend a hand, but Silvestre’s harsh words made him stop.

  —Sit down and stay where you are. None of this is for us.

  Aproximado unloaded the vehicle without any help. When he’d finished, he sat down on a box and gave a tired sigh:

  —I’ve brought you all this.

  —You can take it back—my father answered crisply. No one asked you for anything.

  —None of it is for you. It’s all for the kids.

  —You can take it all back. And you, Zaca Kalash, help load this junk back onto the truck.

  The assistant began by putting his arms round a box, but he didn’t get as far as lifting it. Our Uncle, boosted by an unexpectedly loud voice, countermanded:

  —Stop it, Zaca!—and turning to my old man, he begged:

  —Silvestre, Silvestre, listen to me, please: I’ve got grave news to tell you . . .

  —Has another president died?

  —This is serious. I’ve noticed signs of life near the entrance.

  —Signs of life?

  —There’s someone out there.

  We expected my father to deny everything outright. But he sat in silence, surprised by the fierceness of his brother-in-law’s declaration. We were astonished when Silvestre pointed to the empty chair and said:

  —Sit down, but don’t stay long. I’ve got lots to do. Have your say, then . . .

  —I think the time has come. Enough is enough! Let’s go back, Mateus Ventura, the kids . . .

  —There’s no Mateus here.

  —Come away, Silvestre. It’s not just the kids, I can’t take this any more.

  —If you can’t take it, go away. You can all go. I’m staying.

  Silence. My father looked up at the sky as if he were seeking company for hi
s future stay. Then, his eyes alighted slowly on Zachary Kalash.

  —What about you? My father asked.

  —Me?

  —Yes, you, Comrade Zachary Kalash. Do you want to stay or leave?

  —I’ll do what you do.

  Zachary spoke and there was nothing more to be said. He clicked his heels lightly and withdrew. Aproximado pulled up his chair next to Silvestre and sugared his voice for what he was going to say next.

  —I need to understand, brother: why do you insist on staying here? Was it a problem at the Church?

  —The Church?

  —Yes, tell me, I need to understand.

  —As far as I’m concerned, there has been no Church at all for a long time.

  —Don’t say that . . .

  —I’ll say it, and say it again. What’s the point of having a belief in God if we’ve lost faith in men?

  —Was it a problem with politics?

  —Politics? Politics is dead, it was the politicians that killed it. Now, all that’s left is war.

  —Like this, there’s nothing to talk about. You’re going round in circles, rambling on and on.

  —That’s why I’m telling you: go away.

  —Think of your sons. Above all, think of Ntunzi, who’s ill.

  —Ntunzi’s better, he doesn’t need your lies to get well . . .

  —All this shit about Jezoosalem, it’s all one big lie—Aproximado yelled, showing that the conversation was now over.

  The visitor moved away, limping more than usual. He looked as if he was simultaneously falling on both sides. As if his shortage of breath heightened his congenital defect.

  —Go and do your limping far away from here, you freak.

  Silvestre took a deep breath, relieved. He needed to insult someone. It was true that he mistreated Zachary. But his assistant was a little man. What’s the fun in insulting a little man?

  ZACHARY KALASH, THE SOLDIER

  […]

  Things have long been lived:

  In the air are extinct spaces

  Shape recorded in emptiness

  Of voices and gestures that were once here.

  And my hands can grasp nothing.

  Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen

  —They’ll pop out, I’ll show you in a minute.

  Zachary’s zealous fingers pressed the muscles of his leg right back to the bone. Suddenly, bits of metal popped out of his flesh, fell and rolled around on the ground.

  —They’re bullets—Zachary Kalash proclaimed proudly.

  He picked them up one by one with the tips of his fingers and revealed the calibre of each and the circumstances in which he had been shot. Each of the four bullets had its own particular origin.

  —This one, the one from the leg, I got in the Colonial War. The one in the thigh, that one came from the war with Ian Smith. This one, in the arm, is from the present war . . .

  —What about the other one?

  —What other one?

  —The one in the shoulder?

  —I don’t remember that one.

  —That’s a lie, Zachary. Go on, tell us.

  —I’m serious. I sometimes don’t even remember the others.

  He wiped the projectiles on the sleeve of his shirt and stuffed them back in his flesh, using his fingers as if he were pushing in the plunger of a syringe.

  —Do you know why my bullets and I are inseparable?

  We knew. But we pretended we were hearing it for the first time. Just like the saying that he himself had invented and ceaselessly intoned: if you want to know a man, take a look at his scars.

  —They are the opposite of my navel. It was through here—and he pointed to the holes —it was through here that death escaped.

  —Leave the bullets alone, Zaca, we want to know about other things.

  —What other things? I only have the skills that animals have: I can sense death and blood.

  After my brother’s convalescence, Silvestre Vitalício believed that radical change would have to occur in Jezoosalem. So he made a decision: Ntunzi and I went to live for a while with Zachary Kalash. It was to clear our minds and, at the same time, to learn the riddles of existence and the secrets of subsistence. If we ever lost Zachary, then we would replace him in the life-saving activity of hunting.

  —Make them wallow around in the mud—my old man ordered.

  It was envisaged that we would roam along isolated paths, learn the arts of tracking and hunting wild animals, master the secret languages of the trees. And yet Zachary abstained from his role as teacher. What he wanted was to tell stories about hunting, to talk without conversing, to listen to himself in order not to hear his own ghosts. But we demanded other topics of conversation.

  —Tell us about our past.

  —My life is a mole’s burrow: four holes, four souls. What do you want to talk about?

  —About our mother, and how she and our father courted.

  —No, certainly not. I’ll never talk about that.

  Zachary’s reaction seemed excessive. The man shouted, his hands crossed over his chest, and he went on and on without stopping:

  —No, never.

  He was the grandson of a soldier, the son of a sergeant, and he himself had never been anything but a soldier. So they shouldn’t come to him with the heart’s strategies, love and worthless yearning. Man is a creature with a taste for death, who loves Life, but likes even more to stop others from living.

  —You still feel you’re a soldier. Own up to it, Zaca, do you miss the barracks?

  The fellow ran his hands lovingly over the military tunic he always wore. His fingers lingered sleepily on the barrel of his rifle. Only then did he speak: It’s not the uniform that makes a soldier. It’s the oath. He wasn’t one of those who had enlisted because he was scared of Life. His being a soldier, as he put it, stemmed from the momentum of the moment. There wasn’t even a word for soldier in his mother tongue. The term used was “massodja,” and had been stolen from the English.

  —I never had any causes, my only flag was myself.

  —But Zaca, don’t you remember our mother?

  —I don’t like going back in time. My head doesn’t have a long range.

  Ernie Scrap, now renamed Zachary Kalash, had encountered deaths and shoot-outs. He’d escaped crossfires, he’d escaped all his recollections. His memories had fled through all the perforations of his body.

  —I was never good at remembering. I’ve been like that since the day I was born.

  It was Uncle Aproximado who discovered why he was so forgetful: why didn’t Zachary remember any wars? Because he’d always fought on the wrong side. It had always been like that in his family: his grandfather had fought against Ngungunyane, his father had enlisted in the colonial police, and he himself had fought for the Portuguese during the war of national liberation.

  For our visiting relative, Uncle Aproximado, this amnesia was worthy of nothing save scorn. A soldier without a memory of war is like a prostitute who claims to be a virgin. That’s what Aproximado, without mincing his words, told Zachary to his face. The soldier, however, turned a deaf ear and never answered back. With an angelic smile, he steered the conversation out into the vacuousness of a subject in which he felt at ease:

  —Sometimes I ask myself: how many bullets might there be in the world?

  —Zaca, no one’s interested in knowing about that . . .

  —Could it be that during the war, there were more bullets than there were people?

  —I couldn’t tell you— Ntunzi replied. —Nowadays, you can be sure there are: six bullets are enough to exterminate mankind. Have you got six bullets?

  With a smile, Zachary pointed to the boxes. They were full of ammunition. There was more than enough to exterminate various mankinds. Everyone laughed except for me. For the emotion of living between the memories and forgetfulness of wars weighed heavily upon me. Gunpowder was part of our Nature, as the forgetful soldier assured us:

  —One day I’m going to
sow my bullets. Plant them out there . . .

  —Why did you leave the city, Zaca? Why did you come with us?

  —What was I doing there? Digging holes in emptiness.

  And as he spoke, he spat. He apologised for his manners. He was a man of correct breeding. He merely spat in order to rid himself of his own taste.

  —I’m my own poison.

  At night, his tongue would unfold like a snake’s. He would wake up with the taste of venom in his mouth, as if he’d been kissed by the devil. All because a soldier’s slumber is a slow parade of the dead. He awoke just as he lived: so lonely that he talked to himself merely so that he wouldn’t forget human speech.

  —But Zachary: don’t you miss the city?

  —Not at all.

  —Don’t you even miss someone?

  —My whole life has been lived in war. Here is where I’ve found peace for the first time . . .

  He wouldn’t go back to the city. As he said, he didn’t want to depend on instructions for his income. We should watch and see how he survived in Jezoosalem: he slept like a guinea-fowl. On the branch of a tree for fear of the ground. But on the lowest branch, in case he fell.

  Zachary Kalash didn’t remember the war. But the war remembered him. And it tortured him with the renewal of old traumas. When there was thunder, he would rush out into the open in a frenzy, yelling:

  —Bastards, you bastards!

  All around him, the animals protested and even Jezebel whinnied in despair. They weren’t complaining about the storm. It was Zachary’s fury that upset them.

  —He gets like that because of the thunderclaps—Silvestre explained. That’s what frightened him: the memory of explosions. The clash of clouds wasn’t a noise: it was the reopening of old wounds. We forget the bullets, but we never forget the wars.

  Our father had sent us to live at the ammunition store and, for me, the real reason behind this had to do with Ntunzi and the need for him to be distracted. The natural hierarchy allotted Ntunzi a rifle and me a simple catapult. Zachary showed me how to improvise some elastic out of the truck’s old tires, and to construct a weapon with a deadly reach. The stone was projected with a sudden hiss, and the bird plummeted to the ground, hit by its own weight. It was my stone of prey.