The Tuner of Silences

by Mia Couto

  —Go on, mount the broad.

  —I didn’t hear you.

  —You heard me only too well. Go on, undo your fly, the broad fancies you.

  —Come on, brother, Jezebel’s scared, that’s all.

  —You’re the one that’s scared. Go on, Mwanito, take your trousers off, nobody would think you’re the son of Silvestre Vitalício.

  Ntunzi came over and pushed me, forcing me to lean over the jenny’s back, while I begged him:

  —Stop it, stop it.

  Suddenly, in amongst the trees, I glimpsed a moving shadow, creeping along, cat-like. Terrified, I pointed to it:

  —A lioness! It’s a lioness!

  —Let’s get out of here, quick, give me your torch . . .

  —And Jezebel? Are we going to leave her here?

  —To hell with the bloody donkey.

  Then suddenly, we heard a shot. It seemed more like a flash of lightning, but a second shot left us in no doubt. Our soldier was right: faced with a shot, whether it hits or misses, we all die. Occasionally, some lucky ones return amid the dust raised by fright. That’s what happened to us. In the confusion, Ntunzi tripped over me and both of us, covered in mud and flat on the ground, peered through the grass. Zachary had hit the prowling lioness.

  The feline creature managed to stagger drunkenly a few steps, as if death were a fit of giddiness that caused you to end up on the ground. Then, it collapsed, with a fragility that didn’t match its regal stature. The moment the lioness fell to the ground, it stopped raining. Zachary made sure it was really dead, and then fell to his knees and addressed the heavens, praying the wound caused in him by his shot might be healed.

  My father appeared, all in a hurry, and he didn’t stop with us. He walked along the fence looking for Jezebel, and when he found her, he stopped to comfort her.

  —Poor thing, she’s trembling all over. Tonight, she’s going to sleep in the house.

  —In the house?—Ntunzi asked, astonished.

  —She’ll sleep there tonight and as many nights as are necessary.

  She only slept there that night. That was enough for Ntunzi to vent all his jealous feelings when he addressed me:

  —He never let you, his own son, in there, but the donkey’s allowed to sleep inside . . .

  After the accident, the corral was moved nearer. The moment night fell, bonfires were lit all around it to protect the jenny from the covetousness of any predators.

  Weeks passed until one day Silvestre decided to call another meeting. Hurriedly, we gathered in silence in the square with the crucifix. Uncle Aproximado, who happened to have spent the night with us, also lined up next to me. With a stern frown, the old man looked each one of us in the face, peering unhurriedly into our eyes. Finally, he growled:

  —Jezebel’s pregnant.

  I just wanted to laugh. The only female among us had fulfilled her natural function. But my old man’s icy look killed off any desire in me to make light of it. A sacred rule had been violated: a seed of humanity had come through victorious and threatened to bear fruit in one of Jezoosalem’s creatures.

  —This is how all the whorishness of the world will begin again.

  —But with respect, Brother-in-law— said Aproximado, —couldn’t it be that you are the father?

  —I take precautions, you know that very well.

  —Who knows, maybe once, by accident, in the height of passion . . .

  —I’ve already told you it wasn’t me—bellowed my old man.

  His anger was upsetting him so much that his mouth wasn’t big enough for all his saliva and his spittle was like a shower of meteorites:

  —There’s only one truth: she’s pregnant. And the bastard who did it is here, among us.

  —I swear, Silvestre, I’ve never even looked at Jezebel—the soldier, Zachary, declared forcefully.

  —Who knows whether it’s not just some swelling she’s got from an illness?—Aproximado queried, timidly.

  —It’s an illness caused by some son-of-a-bitch who’s got three dangly bits between his legs—my old man snarled.

  I kept my eyes to the ground, incapable of facing my father’s passion for the jenny. His repeated threats followed us as we went back to our rooms:

  —Whoever it was, I’ll twist his nuts off!

  A month later, Zachary raised the alarm: since the early hours, Jezebel had been bleeding and twisting about, whimpering and kicking. At first light, she gave a last shudder. She seemed to have died. But she had just squeezed out the foetus. Zachary held the new claimant to life, and lifted it up in his arms, covered in blood and mucus. The soldier proclaimed in a restrained tone:

  —This is a son of Jezoosalem!

  The moment we got the news, we all met at the corral, crowding round the still breathless jenny. We wanted to see the newborn creature, concealed among its mother’s thick fur. We never got as far as entering the corral: our father’s tempestuous arrival put an end to our eager expectation. Silvestre ordered us to keep away, he wanted to be the first to face the intruder. Zachary presented himself with military punctiliousness at the gate to the corral:

  —Take a look at the baby, Silvestre, and you’ll see who the father is straight away.

  Silvestre penetrated the gloom and vanished for a while. When he re-emerged, he looked perturbed, his quick step betraying his turbulent mind. Barely had our father disappeared than we burst in on the jenny’s resting place and knelt down by her side. The moment our eyes got used to the darkness, we saw the furry creature lying next to Jezebel.

  The black and white stripes, though not clearly defined, gave the game away: the father was a zebra. Some fierce stallion had paid our place a visit and courted his distant relative. Ntunzi took hold of the newborn animal and caressed it as if it were human. He gave it affectionate names and walked up and down, cradling it like a mother. I never thought my brother capable of such tenderness: the little creature settled in his arms and Ntunzi smiled as he murmured:

  —Well, let me tell you something my little baby: your dad has left my old man with a broken heart.

  Nor did Ntunzi realize how right he was. For not long afterwards, Silvestre returned to the corral, seized the baby from the arms that were holding him and issued his order, to be carried out immediately and decisively:

  —I want you to bring me that old zebra, balls and all, do you hear, Zaca?

  That night, my father went to the corral and took the baby donkey-zebra in his hands. Jezebel followed his movements with tears in her eyes, while Silvestre kept repeating, as if intoning some chant:

  —Oh, Jezi, why did you do this to me? Why?

  He seemed to be caressing the newborn babe. But in fact what his hands were doing was smothering the fragile creature, the tiny zebra mulatto. He took the now lifeless little animal in his arms and set off far from the corral. He buried it himself, down by the river. I watched him carry out this act, incapable of intervening, incapable of understanding. That awful deed would forever be a sticking point in any thoughts I might have about our father’s generosity. Ntunzi never came to know what had happened on that night. He always believed that the babe had died of natural causes. Nature in its ferocity had reclaimed the stripes on an ass not born in the wild.

  When he had filled the grave, Silvestre Vitalício went down to the waters. Following him at some distance, I assumed he was going to wash his hands. It was then that I saw him drop to his knees. Was he weakening, struck by some internal flash of light? I drew nearer, wanting to help, but fear of punishment made me hide from being seen. It was then that I realized: Silvestre Vitalício was praying. Even today, a shudder runs through me when I recall that moment. For I don’t know whether I’m inventing it, or whether I really remember his supplication: “My God, protect my sons as I have proved unable to protect myself. Now that I don’t even have angels, come to Jezoosalem to give me strength . . . .”

  Suddenly, my father became aware of my presence. He changed his submissive posture, shook his
knees and asked:

  —Are you trying to give me a fright?

  —I heard a noise, Father. I came to see if you needed any help.

  —I was feeling the soil: it’s still dry. If only it would rain more.

  He cast his eyes up into the clouds pretending to look for signs of rain. Then he sighed and said:

  —Do you know something, son? I committed a terrible mistake.

  I thought he was going to confess to his crime. So my father was going to redeem himself, absolved by having confessed his remorse.

  —So what was this mistake, Father?

  —I never gave this river a name.

  This was his confession. Perfunctory, without emotion. He got up and put his hand on my shoulder.

  —You choose a name for this river, son.

  —I don’t know, Father. A name is too big a thing for me.

  —Very well, I’ll choose one then: it’s going to be called the River Kokwana.

  —I think that sounds pretty. What does it mean?

  —It means “grandfather.”

  I shuddered: was my father weakening in his prohibition against any mention of ancestors? So delicate was the moment that I didn’t say anything for fear that he might retreat from his decision.

  —Your paternal grandfather used to pray on the banks of rivers when he wanted to ask for rain.

  —And afterwards, did it rain?

  —It always does rain afterwards. What happens is that the prayer may be said too far in advance.

  And he added:

  —The rain is a river guarded over by the dead.

  Who knows whether the recently named river might not fall under the command of my paternal grandfather? And who knows too whether I might not feel less lonely precisely for this reason?

  I returned to my room, where my brother’s little reading lamp was still alight. Ntunzi was drawing what looked to me like a new map. There were arrows, no entry signs, and incomprehensible scribbles that looked like the Russian alphabet. In the middle of this map, there it was, in all its serene certainty, a ribbon coloured in blue.

  —Is it a river?

  —Yes, it’s the only river in the world.

  And then suddenly, the paper turned to water, and the floor was covered in thick drops. Avoiding the puddle that covered the floor, I sat down on a corner of his bed. Ntunzi cautioned me:

  —Mind your feet don’t get wet, this is dripping all over the place.

  —Ntunzi, tell me something: what’s a grandfather like?

  To my great envy, Ntunzi had known the whole range of grandparents. Maybe it was out of shame that he’d never spoken of them. Or who knows, perhaps it was for fear that my father might find out? Silvestre Vitalício forbade memories. The family was us, and no one else. The Venturas had no past and no future.

  —A grandfather? Ntunzi asked.

  —Yes, tell me what one’s like.

  —A grandfather or a grandmother?

  It didn’t matter. In fact, it wasn’t the first time I’d asked him this question. And my brother never answered me. He kept counting on his fingers as if the idea of such progenitors required elaborate calculations. Whatever he was doing, he was counting the uncountable.

  That night, however, Ntunzi must have completed his tally. For he returned to the subject without prompting, when I was already tucked up in bed. His hands cupped an emptiness, with great care, as if he were carrying a tiny bird

  —Do you want to know what a grandfather is like?

  —I kept asking you, you never gave me an answer.

  —You’ve never seen a book, have you, Mwanito?

  And he explained to me what this alluring object was made of, comparing it to a huge pack of cards.

  —Imagine cards the size of your hand. A book is a pack of these cards, all stuck together down one side.

  His look became vague as he passed his hand over this imaginary pack of cards and he said:

  —If you caress a book like this, you’ll know what a grandfather is like.

  His explanation left me disappointed. I found the idea of a grandfather commanding rivers much more attractive. We were almost asleep when I remembered something:

  —By the way, Ntunzi, I’ve nearly finished the pack of cards.

  —What do you mean finished? Have you lost the cards?

  —No, it’s not that. There’s no space left for writing.

  —I’ll find you something to write on. I’ll see to it tomorrow.

  The following day, Ntunzi pulled out from under his shirt a bundle of coloured papers, and said tersely:

  —You can write here.

  —What’s this?

  —It’s money. They’re notes.

  —What am I going to do with it?

  —Do what you did with the cards, write wherever there’s a bit of clear space.

  —So where did you find this money?

  —How do you think our uncle manages to get hold of the things he brings us?

  —He tells us they’re just bits and pieces he picks up in places that have been abandoned.

  —You don’t know anything, my little brother. You’re old enough to be fooled, but I’m now old enough to be swindled.

  —Can I write now?

  —No, not now. Hide this money away in case Father catches us . . .

  I concealed the notes under my sheet as if I were spiriting away some company for my dreams. When Ntunzi was already snoring and I was alone, my fingers trembled as they caressed the money. Without knowing why, I put the painted papers to my ear to see if I could hear voices. Was I doing what Zachary did when he listened to his holes in the earth? Who knows whether those old notes didn’t contain hidden stories?

  But the only thing I could hear was the drumbeat of my fearful heart. This money was my old man’s most secret possession. Its presence was incontrovertible proof that he had been lying all along. Over There was after all, alive and well, and governed Jezoosalem and its living souls.

  BOOK TWO

  THE VISIT

  That which they call “dying” is merely to stop living and what they call “being born” is to begin dying. And that which they call “to live” is to die while living. We don’t wait for death but live with it perpetually.

  Jean Baudrillard

  THE APPARITION

  I want a licence to sleep,

  an excuse to rest for hours on end,

  without even dreaming

  the slightest wisp of a tiny dream.

  I want what before life

  was the deep sleep of all species,

  the dignity of a state.

  A seed.

  Much more than roots.

  Adélia Prado

  We never really get to live during most of our life. We waste ourselves in a boundless lethargy that we delude and console ourselves by calling existence. For the rest, we flit around like fireflies, lit up only for brief and intermittent moments.

  A whole life can be turned on its head in one day by one such moment. For me, Mwanito, it happened on that day. It began in the morning, when I left the house in the face of a windstorm that was raising spirals of dust everywhere. These whirlwinds would twist and turn in whimsical dances, only to cease as phantasmagorically as they had begun. The foliage of the huge trees swept the ground while heavy branches were torn away and fell to the earth with loud crashes.

  —No one go outside . . .

  Those were my father’s orders, as he peered out of the window, tormented by the storm and its gusts of wind. Nothing disturbed Silvestre Vitalício more than to see trees twisting and great branches full of leaves swinging like ghostly serpents.

  Disobeying my father’s orders, I ventured down the paths between our living quarters and the big house. And I regretted doing so straight away. The storm was like the upheaval of all the compass points at the same time. I felt a chill run through me: was there any basis for my old man’s fears? What was happening? Was the ground tired of being earth? Or was God announcing
his arrival at Jezoosalem?

  With my left hand shielding my face and my right holding the two sides of my old coat together, I walked down the path until I stopped in front of the ghostly residence. I stood there for some time without moving, listening to the whistling of the wind. I was reassured by its howling: I was an orphan and the wind was wailing mournfully, like someone seeking its lost relatives.

  In spite of the discomfort, I savoured my misbehaviour as revenge against Silvestre Vitalício. Deep down, I wanted the storm to worsen so as to punish our progenitor for his wrong-doings. I felt like going back and challenging old Vitalício in front of the very window through which he watched this cosmic insubordination.

  Meanwhile, the gusts of wind increased in fury. So much so that the front door of the big old house was blown open. This was a signal for me: an invisible hand was inviting me to cross the forbidden threshold. I went up the front steps and peered at the veranda where hundreds of leaves were pirouetting in a frenzied dance.

  Suddenly, I saw the body. Stretched out on the ground, a human body. I was overwhelmed by an inner turmoil. I cast an anxious glance once again to confirm what I had seen. But a heaving sea of leaves blurred my vision. My legs trembled, rooting me to the spot. I must have been mistaken, it was my imagination, and nothing more. Another gust, another swirl of dead leaves and, once again the vision returned, this time more clear and real. It certainly was a body, lying there on the veranda like top soil.

  I ran away, shrieking like one possessed. As I was running into the wind, it swallowed up my screams, and it was only when I got back to the house, breathless, that I was able to give vent to my distress:

  —A person! A dead person!

  Silvestre and Ntunzi were mending the handle of a spade and didn’t stop their task. My brother looked up, his eyes betraying no interest:

  —A person?

  I clumsily gave hurried details of what I had seen. My father, impassive, commented quietly:

  —This fucking wind!

  Then, he put his hammer down and asked:

  —What did its tongue look like?