The Tuner of Silences

by Mia Couto

  —Its tongue?

  —Was it sticking out of its mouth?

  —Father: it was dead, it was far away. I couldn’t see its mouth, nor its tongue.

  I sought some sort of understanding in Ntunzi, but he didn’t say a word. But given my conviction, Father issued his orders:

  —Call Zachary over here.

  Ntunzi left in a rush. It wasn’t long before he returned with the soldier carrying, as always, his rifle. My old man got things moving with a couple of words:

  —Get yourself over there and see what’s happening . . .

  Zachary saluted, clicked his heels, but didn’t obey immediately. He squared himself to request due permission to speak:

  —May I say something?

  —You may.

  —Mwanito can’t have seen what was really there. It was an optical disillusion.

  —That may be— Silvestre conceded. —But it may also be one of those old dead bodies in the house. Some animal may have dragged it out onto the veranda.

  —That’s possible. Last night there were hyenas prowling around.

  —Quite so. If that’s the case, bury it. Bury the body, but not underneath a tree.

  —But won’t you want to know who it is?

  —If it’s a dead body, it can’t belong to anyone. Go and see to the task, and if the wind dies down, I’ll come and join you . . .

  —Maybe he was living here in Jezoosalem, and we didn’t know—Ntunzi suggested, with unexpected daring.

  —Are you mad? If there is a body there, it’s not that of anyone who died. It’s someone who was always dead, born lifeless, so to speak.

  —Father, I’m sorry, but for me . . .

  —That’s enough! I don’t want to hear any more opinions. You’re going to dig a grave and that body, or whatever it is, is going to be put away in the earth.

  Ntunzi, Zachary and I set off in single file, in a pre-funeral cortège. We still heard Silvestre’s voice, summing up his conclusions:

  —Later, when the wind drops, I’ll go and check things.

  The soldier marched along in front, a spade in each hand. We stealthily climbed the steps up to the big house, and to my relief, my previous vision was confirmed. Half-covered by leaves, perfectly clear against the light, there lay a body. Some hidden force rooted us to the doorway, until Kalash murmured:

  —I’ll go and take a look!

  —Don’t go in, Zaca!—Ntunzi warned.

  —Why?

  —I don’t like that light—and he pointed to a sunbeam that filtered through the roof planks.

  Sitting on the entrance steps, Zachary sniffed the air, as if trying to detect a suspicious smell.

  —It doesn’t smell of death—he said in a cavernous tone that made us shiver.

  And once again, we peered towards the end of the veranda trying to see through the light that shone from the rear.

  —It’s a man—he said, sure of himself.

  The body lay on its back on the wooden floor, as if the floor were the suggestion of a coffin. We couldn’t see the face that was turned to the other side. A kind of cloth covered the head, tied at the back.

  —It looks—Zaca said—like a foreign black.

  —How do you know?

  The body wasn’t embracing the ground like local corpses do. Those bones weren’t seeking another womb in the earth. There was, of course, the detail of the boots. Zachary had never seen the like of them before.

  —Now I’m beginning to think it’s a white—Zaca declared, still peering from the top of the steps.—I think the fellow’s soul has already begun to leave its shell.

  And he gave the order for us to dig the grave, before anything else. When it was ready, we’d go back and fetch the body. By that time, the light on the veranda would have changed and we would be protected by bad spirits.

  So we began to dig, our spades opening up the stranger’s final resting place. But then a strange thing happened: the hole was never ready. The moment we got to the bottom, the windblown sand completely refilled the grave again. And that happened once, twice, and three times. The third time, Zachary hurled his spade at the ground as if he’d been stung by a wasp and exclaimed:

  —I don’t like this. Children, come over here quickly.

  And he pushed us towards the shade of a mafurreira tree. He took a white cloth from his pocket and tied it to the trunk. His hands were shaking so hard that it was Ntunzi who spoke:

  —I know what you’re thinking, Zaca. I feel the same too.

  Then, turning to me, he said:

  —This is what happened at our mother’s funeral.

  —It’s the same spell—Zachary confirmed.

  Then they told me what had happened on the day of my mother’s burial. “Burial” is merely a term that is used. For there’s never enough earth to bury a mother.

  —I don’t want a gravedigger.

  That was Silvestre’s stipulation, which he yelled in order to be heard above the wind. The dust stung his eyes. But he didn’t lower his eyelids. His tears protected him from the clouds of dirt.

  —I don’t want a gravedigger. My son and I are the ones who’ll dig the grave, we’re the ones who’ll do the funeral.

  But the grave they started was never finished. My father and Ntunzi tried, time after time, in vain. Hardly had they opened up a hole than it filled with sand. Kalash and Aproximado joined in, but the result was the same: the dirt, blown by the wind in its fury, refilled the cavity immediately. They had to resort to the professionals to complete the job of opening and closing the burial place.

  Now, eight years later, the earth was once again refusing to open its womb to receive a body.

  —Quiet everyone!—ordered Zachary Kalash.—I can hear noises.

  Taking every possible care, the assistant approached the veranda. He peered between the planks and then turned towards us in astonishment. Where before the corpse had lain, there was nothing whatsoever.

  —The dead body isn’t there any more, it’s nowhere to be seen—Zachary repeated in an undertone.

  The wind had abated. Even so, dead leaves fluttered around accentuating the emptiness.

  —I’m going to get a weapon—Zaca said. And he hurried away down the path.

  Gradually, a new state of mind took hold of me, transforming my fright into a haughty sense of calm. I looked at Ntunzi who was trembling like a reed, and to his astonishment, I began to advance firmly towards the big house.

  —Are you crazy, Mwanito? Where are you going?

  In silence, I climbed the steps to the veranda and trod on the boards carefully in case the floor were to give way, and I were to fall through it and maybe even join the missing dead body. I walked along the veranda looking for some clue, until I decided to knock on the front door. My brother, his voice shaking, asked:

  —Are you waiting for the dead man to come and answer the door?

  —Don’t talk so loud.

  —You’re crazy, Mwanito. I’m going to call Father—Ntunzi said, turning his back and retreating hurriedly.

  I was alone, facing the abyss by myself. Slowly, I opened the door and peered around the entrance hall. It was a wide, empty space, which smelled of time stood still. While I was getting used to the half-light, I began to think to myself: why was it that through all my childhood years I was never curious enough to come and explore this forbidden place? The reason was that I had never had control over my own childhood, my father had made me grow old from the time I was born.

  It was then that the apparition occurred: out of the nothingness, there emerged a woman. A crack opened up by my feet and a billowing cloud of smoke misted my eyes. The vision of this creature suddenly caused the frontiers of the world I knew so well to overflow.

  I faced the intruder out of the corner of my half-closed eyes. She was white, tall and dressed like a man, in trousers, a shirt and high boots. She had straight hair, half concealed under a kerchief, the same one we had seen on the head of what we had thought a dead body. Th
e boots were also identical to the ones that the dead person was wearing. Her nose and lips were blurred, and together with the colour of her skin, gave her the appearance of an unburied creature.

  I wanted to run away, but my legs were like the roots of an ancient tree. Without moving my head, I glanced at the ill-defined approach to the house, seeking help. There was nothing. Neither Ntunzi nor Zachary could be seen, and the land round about was shrouded in mist. Bewildered, I felt a tear weigh more than my whole body. That was when I heard the woman speak for the first time:

  —Are you crying?

  I shook my head energetically. I thought that if I owned up to my weakness, this would merely encourage the spectre in its demonic intentions.

  —What are you looking for, my child?

  —Me? Nothing.

  Did I speak? Or were they words that came out of me without my being aware? For I was completely defenceless, barefoot on burning ground. All of a sudden, I no longer knew how to live. Life had turned into an unknown language.

  —What’s the matter, are you scared of me?

  The gentle, tender voice only aggravated my sense of unreality. I brushed my eyes with my hand to wipe away the tears and then slowly raised my face to assess the creature. But always out of the corner of my eye, for fear that the vision might tear my eyes out forever.

  —Was it you who were digging a grave in the yard just now?

  —Yes. Me and the others. There were lots of us.

  —I could hear voices and took a look. Why were you digging a grave?

  —It wasn’t for anyone. I mean, for anything.

  I turned my gaze to the veranda once more, anxiously trying to discover what had happened to the body. There was no sign on the floor that it had been dragged away, for the leaves were scattered around without having been disturbed. The intruder passed by me, and I was aware, for the first time in my life, of the sweet smell of a woman. She moved away towards the front door. I noticed the graceful way she walked, but without the exaggerated gestures with which Ntunzi had imitated female creatures in his play-acting.

  —I beg your pardon, but are you really a woman, miss?

  The stranger raised her eyes, troubled by some age-old pain. There was a passing cloud, and then she shook off her sadness and asked:

  —Why? Don’t I look like a woman?

  —I don’t know. I’ve never seen one before.

  That was my first woman and she made the ground melt away under me. Since then, years have passed, I’ve fallen for countless women, and whenever I’ve loved them, the world has always sunk from under my feet. But that first encounter etched the mysterious power of women into my consciousness.

  Feeling my strength return, I rushed off like a gazelle through the bush. The white woman observed me from the doorway, intrigued. I even looked back, hoping that she might have vanished, wishing it had all been no more than a hallucination.

  When I reached the safety of home, my heart was pounding, so much so that I could scarcely utter a word when I found Ntunzi:

  —Ntunzi, you . . . you won’t believe this.

  —I saw it—he said, as startled as I was.

  —What did you see?

  —The white woman.

  —Did you really see her?

  —We mustn’t say anything to Father.

  That same night, my mother visited me. In my dream, she was still faceless, but now she had a voice. Her voice was that of the apparition, with its warmth and tenderness. I woke up confused, so vivid was the dream. I heard steps in the room: Ntunzi couldn’t sleep. He had also been accosted by nocturnal visitations.

  —Ntunzi, tell me something: was our mother like her?

  —No.

  —Why couldn’t you sleep, Ntunzi?

  —I was having dreams.

  —Were you dreaming of Mama as well?

  —Do you remember that story of the girl who lost her face when I fell in love with her?

  —Yes. But what’s that got to do with it?

  —In my dream, I saw her face.

  The sound of voices outside made us stop talking. We rushed to the window. It was Zachary, speaking to our father. Judging by his gestures, we guessed the soldier was reporting the apparition. So we watched Zachary gesticulating, explaining in an animated fashion what had happened at the haunted house. My father’s expression became more and more grim: we were being visited, the earth and the heavens were shaking in Jezoosalem.

  All of a sudden, Silvestre got up and vanished into the darkness. We followed him from afar, keen to discover what was going on in the man’s mind as he crossed the yard like a wounded animal. Silvestre went straight to the truck and shook Aproximado, who was snoozing in the front seat. There was no warning, or even a greeting:

  —What’s this white woman doing here?

  —She wasn’t the only one to arrive. Why don’t you ask me what I’m doing here?

  Overcome with emotion, my father signalled to Kalash to come over. Silvestre looked as if he wanted to confide something, but no word came out of his mouth. Suddenly, he started kicking Aproximado, while the soldier tried in vain to shield our Uncle. And so the three of them spun around together, like the broken blades of a windmill. Finally, my father leaned against the front of the vehicle, exhausted, and took a deep breath, as if he were trying to regain entry to his soul. His voice was like that of Christ on the cross, as he asked:

  —Why did you betray me, Aproximado? Why?

  —I’ve got no obligations towards you.

  —Aren’t we family?

  —That’s what I sometimes ask myself.

  He’d said too much. Aproximado had crossed the line. My father stood there speechless, huffing like Jezebel after her trot. And then he watched, stunned, as Aproximado unloaded a whole range of odds and ends from his truck: binoculars, powerful torches capable of drilling through the night, cameras, sun hats and tripods.

  —What’s all this? An invasion?

  —It’s not all that much. The lady likes to take photos of herons.

  —And you tell me it’s “not all that much”? Someone in this world is going round taking photos of herons?

  This was just an additional reason for his discomfort. The truth was that the presence of the Portuguese woman in itself was an unbearable intrusion. One person alone — and a woman to boot — was bringing the entire nation of Jezoosalem to its knees. In just a few minutes, Silvestre Vitalício’s painstaking fabrication was falling to pieces. There was, after all, a living world out there, and an envoy from that world had installed herself at the very heart of his realm. There was no time to lose: Aproximado was to pack up everything once more and take the intruder back where she had come from.

  —You, Brother-in-law, are going to take this broad away!

  Aproximado smiled, sly and sardonic, which is what he did when he couldn’t think of what to say. He steadied his body inside his overalls, mustering up the courage for an argument:

  —My dear Silvestre: we’re not the owners.

  —We’re not what? Well, I’m the owner of all this, and I’m the only current occupant of this whole area.

  —Well, I don’t know about that . . . Can’t you understand that maybe it’s us who’ll have to leave?

  —Why’s that?

  —The houses we’re occupying are the property of the State.

  —What State? I don’t see any State around here.

  —One can never see the State, Brother-in-law.

  —It’s for that and other reasons that I got out of that world where the State can never be seen, but it always turns up and takes our things away from us.

  —You can shout, Silvestre Vitalício, but you’re here illegally . . .

  —Illegal is the bitch who bore you . . .

  He was so enraged that he lost control of his voice, which sounded like a cloth being ripped in half. We’d never seen him reach such a state. My father set off in the direction of the administrator’s house, and started yelling:


  —You bitch! You great bitch!

  He projected his whole body forward as if the words he was hurling were stones:

  —Get out of here, you bitch!

  Seeing him duelling with the void like this made me feel sorry for him. My father wanted to shut the world away. But there was no door behind which to lock himself.

  It was early in the morning when my old man came to my bedside and shook me. He leaned over my pillow and whispered:

  —I’ve got a mission for you, son.

  —A what, Father? I asked, startled.

  —A spying mission—he added.

  My task was an easy one and explained to me in two brief brush strokes: I would go to the big house and rummage through whatever was in the Portuguese woman’s room. Silvestre Vitalício wanted to discover clues that might reveal the visitor’s secret intentions. Ntunzi would have the job of distracting the woman, keeping her far from the house. And I wasn’t to be afraid of shadows or ghosts. The Portuguese woman had already scared any tormented souls away. Local ghosts didn’t get on well with foreign ones, he assured me.

  Later on, halfway through the morning, the Portuguese woman’s effects emerged into the light of day in my trembling hands. For hours, my eyes and fingers ranged over Marta’s papers. Each sheet was a wing with which I gained giddiness rather than height.

  THE WOMAN’S PAPERS

  That which memory loves, remains eternal.

  I love you with my memory, which never dies.

  Adélia Prado

  I’m a woman, I’m Marta and all I can do is write. Maybe, after all, it’s best that you are away from here. For I could never reach you otherwise. I have long ceased to occupy my own voice. If you came to me now, Marcelo, I would be speechless. My voice has emigrated to a body that once was mine. And when I listen to my voice, I don’t even recognize myself. When it comes to love, I only know how to write. This isn’t recent, it’s always been like that, even when you were present.

  I write just as birds compose their flight: without paper, without script, with only light and nostalgia. Words that, while mine, have never dwelt in me. I write without having anything to say. Because I don’t know what to say to you about what we were. And I have nothing to say to you about what we shall be. For I’m like the inhabitants of Jezoosalem. I feel no yearning, I have no memory: my belly has never borne life, my blood has never opened into another body. This is how I grow old: dispersed within me, a veil abandoned on a church pew.