The Tuner of Silences

by Mia Couto

  —You kill, you eat.

  That was Zaca’s command. But I wondered: can such a colourful little bird, so full of song, really be put on our dinner plate.

  —The only thing I can teach you and Ntunzi is not to miss your shot. Happiness is a question of aim.

  —Don’t you feel any pity when you kill?

  —I don’t kill, I hunt.

  The animals, he claimed, were his brothers.

  —One day, I’m the predator, next day, they’re the ones who’ll gobble me up—he argued.

  To be good at taking aim isn’t a skill: it’s an act of charity. In fact his aim was suicide: every time he killed an animal, it was he himself who was the target. And that morning, Zachary was once again going to have to shoot himself: our father had ordered us to bring some game for dinner.

  —Uncle Aproximado is coming and we want to welcome him with plenty to eat and drink.

  That was why we set off into the bush in pursuit of a bushbuck, the antelope that barks and bites like a dog. The soldier went on ahead and transmitted orders to us with his hands. From time to time, Zachary would pause and get down on his knees. Then, he would dig a little hole, crouch down and speak into the opening, whispering inaudible secrets.

  —The earth will tell me where the hoofed animals are.

  And once again off we would go, following trails that only Zachary seemed to know about. It was almost noon and the heat drove us to find some shade. Ntunzi collapsed on the ground and satisfied his somnolence and fatigue.

  —Wake me up one of these days—he begged.

  What happened next took me by surprise: the soldier got up and turned his coat into a pillow to make Ntunzi more comfortable in his sleep. I had never imagined such attention possible in Jezoosalem. Returning to the shade of the agbagba tree, Zachary slowly prepared a cigarette, as if he got more pleasure from rolling it than smoking it. He gradually settled down by the trunk and, satisfied, gazed far up into the foliage.

  —This tree goes very well with the soil—he said.

  The catapult lay dormant in his hand, which was nevertheless aware of every shifting shadow. The birds spend all their time flitting about. The hunter never really relaxes. Half his mind, that feline side of him, is ever watchful.

  —Always a hunter, eh?

  —What? Just because of this catapult? No, this is just to make me feel like a child.

  And he seemed to vacillate in the face of sleep, so exhausted that he didn’t seem to want to move his eyes. The sun was at its peak, and merely having a body represented an unbearable burden.

  —Did you ever have a wife, Zaca?

  —I was always hopping around from here to there, never settling down in my mind. This world, my son, only provides a perch for vultures.

  As far as we knew, the soldier had never had a wife or a son. Kalash explained himself. Some people are like firewood: good to be next to. Others are like eggs: always in dozens. That wasn’t the case with him. He was like the bushbuck: always wandering devoid of any company. It was a habit he’d got from the wars. No matter how big the platoon, a soldier always lives alone. Soldiers die collectively, and are buried in more than a common grave: they’re buried in a common corpse. But when it comes to living, they do it alone.

  In the shade of the agbagba, we all seemed to have succumbed to sleep. But suddenly, the soldier leapt up as if impelled by some internal spring. He aimed his rifle and a shot tore through the silence. There was a noise among the bushes and we tumbled after it, in a dash to recover the wounded antelope. But the creature wasn’t where we expected. It had escaped through the vegetation. A trail of blood on the ground indicated the path it had taken. That was when we witnessed an unexpected transformation in Kalash. Ashen faced, he stumbled and to stop himself falling, he sat down on a stone.

  —You two follow the trail.

  —All on our own?

  —Take the rifle. You, Ntunzi, do the shooting.

  —But aren’t you going with us, Zachary?

  —I can’t.

  —Are you ill?

  —I was never able to do it.

  Was that experienced hunter and veteran soldier of so many wars balking at the last shot? Then Zachary explained that he was incapable of facing up to blood and the death throes of his prey. Either the shot hit the target and death was immediate, or he repented and gave up.

  —Blood makes me behave like a woman, but don’t tell your father . . .

  Ntunzi took the rifle and not long afterwards, we heard shots. Soon he re-emerged dragging the animal behind him. From that day on, Ntunzi developed a taste for gunpowder. He would get up before dawn and trek through the bush, as happy as Adam before he lost his rib.

  While Ntunzi was learning to be a hunter again, I was the one who got the most pleasure from being a shepherd. First thing in the morning, I would take the goats out to pasture.

  —All the earth is a road for goats. And every piece of ground is pasture. There isn’t a wiser animal—Zaca remarked.

  A goat’s wisdom lies in imitating a stone in order to live. On one occasion, when I was helping to herd the animals back into the corral, Zachary confessed something: there was, in fact, a memory that kept coming back to him. It went like this: Once, during the Colonial War, he watched an injured soldier being brought in. Nowadays, he knows: soldiers are always wounded. War even injures those who never get to the front. Well, this soldier was no more than a kid, and his injury was this: every time he coughed, a torrent of bullets came out of his mouth. That cough was contagious: he needed to get away. Zachary didn’t just feel the need to get away from the barracks. He wanted to emigrate from the time of all wars.

  —It’s just as well the world has ended. Now I get my orders from the bush.

  —And from Father?

  —With all due respect, your father is part of the bush.

  I was going in the opposite direction to Zaca: one day soon, I’d be an animal. How could it be that we were still men when we were so far from people? That was my question.

  —Don’t think about it. It’s back there in the city that we begin to behave like animals.

  At the time, I didn’t realize how right the soldier was. But now I know: the more uninhabitable the world gets, the more people live in it.

  I had long ceased to understand Zachary Kalash. My doubts began over the question of his former name. Ernie Scrap. Why Scrap? It was obvious: he was a scrap of a human being, an anatomical leftover, a surplus bit of soul. We knew, but we never spoke of it: Zachary had been downsized as a result of a landmine going off. The contraption exploded, and trooper Scrap took off, like some primitive imitation of a bird in flight. They found him weeping, unable to walk. They sought in vain for physical injury. But the explosion had damaged his entire soul.

  My doubts about Zachary’s humanity went further, however. On moonless nights, for instance, he would fire his rifle into the air, as if in celebration.

  —What am I doing? I’m making stars.

  Stars, he claimed, are holes in the sky. The countless stars were nothing more than this, holes that he opened up, shooting into the dark target of the firmament.

  On the most starry nights, Zachary would call us out to see the heavenly spectacle. We would complain, dozily:

  —But we’re sick of seeing . . .

  —You don’t understand. It’s not for you to see. It’s for you to be seen.

  —Is that why you sleep outside the house?

  —That’s for other reasons.

  —But isn’t it dangerous, sleeping outdoors like this?

  —I was an animal once. And I’m still learning to be a person.

  We didn’t understand Jezoosalem, Kalash claimed.

  —Things here are people—he explained.

  We complained that we were alone? Well, everything that was around us were people, humans turned into stones, into trees, into animals. And even into a river.

  —You, Mwanito, should do what I do: greet things when you pass b
y them. That way you’ll feel at peace. That way, you’ll be able to sleep outdoors, anywhere you like.

  My night-time fears would be dissipated if I began to say hello to bushes and boulders. I never got to test the truth of Zachary Kalash’s advice for the simple reason that he withdrew shortly afterwards.

  It happened straight after the unexpected appearance of Uncle Aproximado. Late in the afternoon we heard footsteps near the ammunition store, and Zachary crept forward, his weapon raised, ready to fire. The soldier whispered to my brother:

  —It’s an injured animal, it’s limping; you do the shooting, Ntunzi . . .

  Then we heard our Uncle’s unmistakable voice from behind the shrubs:

  —Do the shooting like hell! Calm down, it’s me . . .

  —I didn’t hear the truck—he said.

  —It broke down at the entrance. I’ve had to come all the way up here on foot.

  Aproximado greeted us, sat down in the shade, and drank. He took his time, and then spoke:

  —I’ve come from Over There.

  —Have you brought stuff?—I asked inquisitively.

  —Yes, but that’s not what I’ve come about. I’ve come with news.

  —What is it, Uncle?

  —The war has ended.

  He filled his water bottle and went back to the camp. We later heard the noise of the truck fading into the distance. Once silence had descended, Zachary ordered Ntunzi to return his weapon. My brother refused vehemently:

  —It was Father who told me to do training . . .

  —Your father’s in charge of the world, I’m in charge of the weapons.

  Kalash’s voice had changed, the words seemed to grate in his throat. He put the weapon away in the ammunition store and locked the building. Then we saw him go to the well and lean over as if he wanted to throw himself into the abyss. He stayed there for half an hour. Afterwards, he stood up straight again, apprehensive, and merely told us:

  —Go back to the camp, I’m going . . .

  —Where are you going?

  He didn’t answer. Then we heard the soldier walk away, treading on dry leaves.

  Zachary withdrew and no one saw him for days. We settled back in our room and there we remained as if time had become nothing more than waiting. There was no sign of Aproximado and no indication of the soldier’s whereabouts. We didn’t even hear any shots in the distance.

  Then, one day, when I was taking tobacco leaves to Jezebel, I came across Zachary lying in the corral, with a thick beard and smelling more strongly than a wild animal.

  —How’re you doing, Zachary?

  —I left without any meaning, and came back without any means.

  —Father wants to know what you’ve been doing there shut away for so long?

  —I’m building a girl. It’s taking so long because she’s a foreigner.

  —So when do you see yourself finishing?

  —She’s done, now all she needs is a name. Now go away, I don’t want any living person round here.

  —Is that what he said?—My father enquired when I got back to the camp. Silvestre asked me to reproduce, word for word, my conversation of a few moments earlier with the soldier. The furrow in my old man’s brow grew deeper. Everyone suspected that Zachary possessed secret powers. We knew, for example, how he could fish without a net or a line. With the skill of Christ, he would wade into the river until the water reached his waist. Then, still advancing, he would plunge his arms into the water for a few seconds and withdraw them loaded with jumping fish.

  —My body’s my net—he would say.

  The following day, Zachary returned to his duties, now recovered and wearing his uniform. My father didn’t ask him anything. The daily routine of Jezoosalem seemed to have been re-established: the soldier would leave early in the morning, his rifle strapped to his back. Occasionally, we would hear shots in the distance. My father would allay our fears:

  —It’s just Zachary with his craziness.

  It wasn’t long before the assistant burst into view, carrying an animal that had already been butchered. But then we began to hear the sound of gunfire at times when Zachary was with us.

  —Who are the people doing the shooting now, Father?

  —Those shots are echoes of old ones.

  —What do you mean, Father?

  —It’s not happening now. They’re echoes of a war that’s over now.

  —You’re mistaken, Silvestre my friend—Zachary declared.

  —What do you mean mistaken?

  —No war ever ends.

  JEZEBEL THE JENNY

  Anguish for being me and not another.

  Anguish, my love, for not being she

  who gave you many daughters, married a virgin

  and at night readies herself knowing

  she’s the object of love, attentive and fair.

  Anguish for not being the great island

  to hold you and not drive you to despair.

  (Night approaches like a wild creature)

  Anguish for being water in the midst of earth

  and for my anxious, mobile mien.

  And at once multiple and immobile

  Not knowing whether to leave or await you.

  Anguish for loving you, if it moves you.

  For being water, my love, while wishing I was soil.

  Hilda Hilst

  Finally, let me introduce you to our last member of humanity: our beloved donkey, Jezebel by name. The jenny was the same age as me, which was old for an animal of her species. And yet, Jezebel was, as my father put it, in the flower of her youth. The secret behind her elegance lay in the tobacco she chewed. This delicacy was ordered through Uncle Aproximado and shared between Zachary and the jenny. Late in the afternoon, one of us would take her whole leaves and the donkey would rejoice at the sight, trotting over happily to receive her greens. Ntunzi once remarked how he found it amusing to watch the movements of her thick lips.

  —Thick? Who said they’re thick?

  That was my old man jumping to Jezebel’s defence. More than the tobacco, it was the love that Silvestre devoted to the donkey that explained why she was so gorgeous. No one had ever seen such respect paid in a case of zoological affection. He would court her every Sunday. It must be said that only my father had any idea what day of the week it was. Sometimes we had a Sunday on two consecutive days. It depended on the state of his needs. But the fact was that on the last day of the week, everyone knew for sure what would happen: bearing a bouquet of flowers, and wearing a red tie, Silvestre would make his way solemnly to the corral. The fellow was parading himself to fulfil what he termed “the will of the unwilled.” At some distance from the corral, my old man would respectfully announce himself:

  —May I come in?

  The donkey would turn round, with an imperceptible flutter of her eyelashes, and my father would pause, hands resting on his stomach, waiting for a signal. We never found out what this signal might be. But the truth was that in due course, Silvestre would express his gratitude:

  —Thank you so much, Jezebel, I’ve brought you these humble flowers . . .

  We would watch the donkey chew the bunch of flowers. And then, my father would disappear inside the corral. And that was that.

  One particular Sunday, things can’t have gone according to plan. Silvestre returned from his love tryst in a rage. He carried his fury on the tip of his foot and his curses on the tip of his tongue. Head bowed, he kept saying:

  —It’s never happened to me before, never, never! Really never.

  He strode round the room, kicking the few bits of furniture. His impotent, repressed anger caused his voice to tremble:

  —It’s a curse put on me by that bitch!

  We almost took him literally: the bitch, by association, must be Jezebel. But no. The bitch was his late wife. My mother. My ex-mother. The disruption to Vitalício’s manly functions had been caused by Dona Dordalma’s spell.

  Having lowered himself into his chair on the veranda
, my father sought my services as a tuner of silences. It was the end of the afternoon, and shadows darted around taking over the world. Silvestre was like one of these shadows: fleetingly still. But it wasn’t long before he jumped up suddenly and ordered:

  —Come with me to the corral!

  —What are we going to do?

  —I’m going to do— he corrected. —I’m going to apologize to Jezebel. So the poor girl isn’t sad, thinking it was her fault.

  I remained at the entrance to the corral, saw my father hug the jenny’s neck, and then the surrounding darkness enveloped me. An inner rage prevented me from watching. I was aflame with jealousy for Jezebel. On our way back, a flash lit up the savannah and a huge crash of thunder deafened us. The November rains were beginning. It wouldn’t be long before Zachary emerged to insult the gods.

  That same night, father ordered us to go and guard the corral. What about Zachary? We asked. Why not send for the person whose job it was to undertake this duty?

  —That fellow’s useless when there’s thunder. You two go, and take the torch.

  Jezebel was agitated, whinnying and kicking. And it wasn’t because of Zachary’s foul-mouthing, for he was quiet and keeping to himself inside his hut. It must be for some other reason and it was our mission to find out why she was so agitated. Ntunzi and I walked out under the intense thunder. The jenny looked at me with an almost human appeal, her ears pointing down in fear. There was an intermittent gleam in her velvet eyes, like flashes of lightning from within her soul.

  Ntunzi sat down sleepily while I tried to soothe the animal. She began to calm down, her flank nestling up to my body, seeking comfort and support. I heard my brother’s malicious comment:

  —She’s getting all come-hither, Mwanito.

  —Come off it, Ntunzi.