The Tuner of Silences

by Mia Couto

  That was when the vision struck me: without any other wind apart from the breeze produced by our old truck, the trees around us began to detach themselves from the ground and to flutter like ungainly green herons.

  —Look, brother! They’re herons . . .

  Neither Ntunzi nor Zachary heard me. Then, it occurred to me that I should take a photo of these flying pieces of vegetation. Mine was a strange appetite: for the first time, it wasn’t enough for me to see the world. Now, I wanted to see the way I looked at the world.

  I got up and leaned on the roof of the passenger cabin to ask Marta for her camera. Standing there, I faced the road as if it were cutting me in half as it passed under the vehicle, separating joy from sadness.

  When I managed to get a glimpse of the front seat, I got a surprise: my father and the Portuguese woman were hand in hand. The two of them were sharing a silent conversation about their respective nostalgias. I didn’t have the courage to interrupt their silent dialogue. So I sat down again, a piece of baggage among all the other baggage, a relic among other dust-covered relics.

  Two days passed with brief pauses and the continual roar of the vehicle’s engine. At the end of the second day of the journey, as I slept with the swaying of the truck, I was no longer aware of the road. I was awoken with a start by Ntunzi’s nudges. For the first time, we were going through a town. That was when I stared in wonder at streets crowded with people. Everything was exhilarating. The urban bustle, the cars, the advertisements, the street hawkers, the bicycles, kids like me. And the women: in pairs, in groups, in throngs. Full of clothes, full of colours, full of laughter. Wrapped in capulanas, concealing their mysteries. My mother, Dordalma: I saw her in every woman’s body, every face, every burst of laughter.

  —Look at the people, Father.

  —What people? I can’t see anyone.

  —Can’t you see the houses, the cars, the people?

  —Absolutely nothing. Didn’t I tell you it was all dead, all empty?

  He was feigning blindness. Or had he really been blinded as a result of the snake bite? While Silvestre sat hunched in his seat, Marta held her cellphone out of the window, turning it this way and that.

  —What are you doing, Miss Marta?—Zachary asked.

  —I’m seeing if I can pick up a network signal—she replied.

  She was obliged to bring her arm in. But for the remainder of the journey, Marta’s arm swivelled this way and that like a rotating antenna. It was longing that guided her hand, seeking a signal from Portugal, a voice to comfort her, a word that would steal her back from geography.

  —So when do we arrive, Zaca?

  —We already arrived some time ago.

  —We’ve arrived in the city?

  —This is the city.

  We had arrived without noticing where the rural world had ended. There was no clear border. Merely a transition in intensity, a chaos that got more dense: nothing more than that. In the passenger cabin, my father intoned, with a morbid shake of his head:

  —Everything’s dead, everything’s dead.

  There are those who die and are buried. That was the case with Jezebel. But cities die and decay before our noses, their entrails exposed, infecting us within. Cities decay within us. That’s what Silvestre Vitalício said.

  At the entrance to the hospital, our old father refused to get out of the truck.

  —Why do you want to kill me?

  —What are you talking about, brother?

  —It’s a cemetery, I know perfectly well what it is.

  —No, Father. It’s a hospital.

  The family’s efforts to get him out of the vehicle were all in vain. Aproximado sat down on the sidewalk, his head in his hands. It was Zachary who thought of a way to get us out of the impasse. If old Silvestre hadn’t died, then his case was no longer as urgent as it had been in the beginning. We should go home. The neighbour, Esmeralda, who was a nurse, could then be called in to treat him in his own home.

  —Let’s go home, then!—Ntunzi agreed enthusiastically.

  To me, it sounded strange. Everyone in our group was returning. Not me. The house where I was born had never been mine. The only home I’d ever had were the ruins of Jezoosalem. Next to me, Zachary seemed to hear my silent fears:

  —You’ll find you’ll still remember the place where you were born.

  As I contemplated the front of the house, it was obvious that nothing there meant anything to me. The same seemed to be happening to Silvestre Vitalício. Aproximado undid the various padlocks that secured the grilles on the doors. This operation took some time, during which my father stood there, his head bowed, like a prisoner in front of his future cell.

  —It’s open—Aproximado announced.—You go in first, Silvestre. I’m the one who lives here, I’m the one with the keys. But you’re the owner of the house.

  Without saying a word, and using only gestures, Silvestre made it clear that no one apart from himself and me would go through that door. I followed, protected by his shadow, stepping only on the dust on which he had trodden.

  —First, the smells—he told me, filling his lungs.

  He closed his eyes and sniffed at odours that, for me, didn’t exist. Silvestre was inhaling the house, kindling memories in his heart. He stood in the middle of the room, filling his chest.

  —It’s like a fruit. We first taste it with our nose.

  Then he used his fingers. All he had was the hand that the snake had spared. It was the fingers of that hand that crawled over furniture, walls and windows. It was as if he were becoming familiar with his body again after a long period in a coma.

  I confess: no matter how much I tried, I still found the house where I was born alien. No room, no object, brought back memories of the first three years of my life.

  —Tell me, my son, I’ve died and this is my coffin, isn’t it?

  I helped him to lie down on the sofa. He asked for some silence and I let the house speak to him. Silvestre seemed to have fallen asleep when he stirred in order to take off the bandage round his hand.

  —Look, son!—He called me, holding out his arm towards me.

  The wound had disappeared. There was no swelling, no sign of anything. He asked me to take the bandage to the kitchen and burn it. I hadn’t even found my way down the corridor when I heard his voice again:

  —I don’t want a nurse or any other stranger here in the house. Much less the neighbours.

  For the first time, Silvestre was admitting the existence of others beyond our tiny constellation.

  —The devil always dwells among the neighbours.

  With the exception of Zachary, all of us lodged in our old house. Aproximado occupied the double room, where he already slept with Noci. Ntunzi shared a room with our father. I shared mine with Marta.

  —It’s only for a few days—Aproximado maintained.

  A curtain separated the two beds, protecting our privacies.

  When we arrived, Noci was still at work. At night, when she came into the house, Marta was lying there, apparently sleeping. Noci woke her up by stroking her hair. The two hugged each other tightly, and then wept inconsolably. When she was able to talk, the young woman said:

  —I lied, Marta.

  —I already knew.

  —You knew? Since when?

  —Ever since the first time I saw you.

  —He was ill, very ill. He didn’t even want anyone to see him. In a sense it was good that I arrived late. If you’d seen him at the end, you wouldn’t have recognized him.

  —Where was he buried?

  —Near here. In a cemetery near here.

  As the foreigner held Noci’s hand, she turned a silver ring on the other woman’s finger. Without even having to ask, Marta knew that the ring had been a gift from Marcelo.

  —Do you know something, Noci? It did me good to be there, at the reserve.

  The Portuguese woman explained: going to Jezoosalem was a way of being with Marcelo. The journey had been as reinvigorating
as a deep sleep. By sharing in that pretence of a world coming to an end, she had learnt about death without grieving, departure without leave-taking.

  —You know, Noci. I saw women washing Marcelo’s clothes.

  —That’s impossible . . .

  —I know, but for me, those shirts were his . . .

  Any item of clothing drifting in a current of water would always be Marcelo’s. The very substance of all the rivers in the world is surely made of memories resisting the flow of time. But the Portuguese woman’s rivers were increasingly African ones: more sand than water, more the fury of nature than gentle, well-mannered watercourses.

  —Let’s go together to the cemetery tomorrow.

  The following morning, I was left at home to look after my father. Silvestre got up late, and while still sitting in his bed, called for me. When I arrived, he sat there examining his own body. It had always been like that: my father forced one to wait before he started talking.

  —I’m worried about you, Mwanito.

  —Why‘s that, Father?

  —You were born with a big heart, my son. And with such a heart, you are incapable of hating. But for this world to be loved, it needs a lot of hatred as well.

  —I’m sorry, Father, but I don’t understand you at all.

  —It doesn’t matter. What I want you and I to agree to is this: if they want to take me into town, don’t let me go, my son. Do you promise?

  —I promise, Father.

  He explained: the snake hadn’t just got his hand. It had bitten him all over his body. Everything around him was painful, the whole city enfeebled him, the wretchedness of the streets hurt him more than the contamination of his blood.

  —Have you seen how the most scandalous luxury lives cheek by jowl with misery?

  —Yes—I lied.

  —That’s why I don’t want to go out.

  Jezoosalem had allowed him to forget. The snake’s poison had brought him time. The city had caused him to go blind.

  —Don’t you feel like going out, like Ntunzi?

  —No.

  —Why not?

  —There’s no river here as there is there.

  —Why don’t you do like Ntunzi who’s not here and is off buzzing around?

  —I don’t know how to walk . . .I don’t know how to walk all over the place.

  —My son, I feel so guilty. You’re so old. You’re as old as I am.

  I got up and went to the mirror. I was a young boy, my body still in first flush. Yet my father was right: tiredness weighed upon me. I had reached old age without deserving it. I was eleven years old, and I was withered, consumed by my father’s delirium. Yes, my father was right. He who has never been a child doesn’t need time in order to grow old.

  —One thing I hid from you, back there in Jezoosalem.

  —You hid the whole world from me, Father.

  —There was something I never told you.

  —Father, let’s forget about Jezoosalem, we’re here now . . .

  —One day, you’ll go back there!

  —To Jezoosalem?

  —Yes, it’s your homeland, your curse. Do you know something, son? That place is full of miracles.

  —I never saw any.

  —They’re such tiny little miracles that we don’t realize they’ve happened.

  We had been in the city for three days and Silvestre hadn’t even opened the curtains. The house was his new refuge, his new Jezoosalem. I don’t know how Marta and Noci managed to convince my father to go out that afternoon. The women thought it would do him good to see the grave of his late wife. I went with them, carrying flowers, at the rear of the cortège as it made its way to the cemetery.

  As we lined up before my mother’s tomb, Silvestre remained impassive, empty, oblivious to everything. We stared at the ground, he looked up at the birds streaking across the clouds. Marta handed him the wreath of flowers and asked him to place it on the grave. My father proved unable to hold the flowers, which fell to the ground, and the wreath broke apart. In the meantime, Uncle Aproximado joined us. He removed his hat and stood there respectfully, eyes closed.

  —I want to see the tree— Silvestre said, breaking the silence.

  —Let’s go— replied Aproximado, —I’ll take you to see the tree.

  And we headed for the open ground next to our house. A solitary casuarina defied the sky. Silvestre fell to his knees before the old trunk. He called me over and pointed to the tree’s canopy:

  —This tree, my son. This tree is Dordalma’s soul.

  A BULLET BITTEN

  To cross the world’s desert with you

  Face together death’s terror

  See the truth and lose fear

  I walked beside your steps

  For you I left my realm my secret

  My swift night my silence

  My round pearl and its orient

  My mirror my life my image

  I abandoned the gardens of paradise

  Out here in the harsh day’s light

  Mirrorless I saw I was naked

  And this wasteland was called time

  With your gestures I was thus dressed

  And learnt to live in the wind’s full force

  Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen

  We are daytime creatures, but it’s the nights that give us the measure of our place. And nights only really fit comfortably in our childhood home. I had been born in the residence we now occupied, but this wasn’t my home, it wasn’t here that sleep descended upon me with tenderness. Everything in this dwelling made me feel a stranger. And yet, my slumber seems to have recognized something familiar in its tranquillity. Maybe that was why, one night, I had a dream that I’d never had before. For I fell into a deep abyss and was carried away by waters and floods. I dreamed that Jezoosalem was submerged. First, it rained on the sand. Then on the trees. Later, it rained on the rain itself. The camp was transformed into a riverbed, and not even continents were enough to absorb so much water.

  My papers were released from their hiding place and ascended to the surface to ride along on the churning waters of the river. I went down to the shore to collect them. When I held them in my hands, something suddenly happened: the papers were turned into clothes. They were the sodden vestments of kings, queens and knaves. Each one of the monarchs passed by and handed over their heavy mantles. Then, devoid of their clothes, they floated on until they vanished in the calmer waters downstream.

  Their clothes weighed so heavily in my arms that I decided to wring them out. But instead of water, letters dripped out of them and each one of these, upon hitting the surface, gave a pirouette and launched itself into the current. When the last letter had fallen, the clothes evaporated and vanished.

  —Marcelo!

  It was Marta who had just come ashore. She emerged as if from the mist and set off again in pursuit of the letters. She was shouting for Marcelo as her feet guided her with difficulty through the waters. And the Portuguese woman disappeared round the bend in the river.

  When I got back to the house, old Silvestre asked about the Portuguese woman in a strangely anxious tone. I pointed back at the mist over the river. He got up in a rush, projecting himself beyond his own body, as if he were undergoing a second birth.

  —I’m on my way—he exclaimed.

  —Where, Father?

  He didn’t answer. I saw him stumble off in the direction of the valley and vanish among the thick bushes.

  Some time passed and I almost fell asleep, lulled by the sweet song of the nightjars. Suddenly, I was startled by a rustling in the undergrowth. It was my father and the Portuguese woman approaching, supporting each other. The two of them were soaked. I ran out to help. Silvestre needed more help than the foreigner. He was breathing with difficulty, as if he were swallowing the sky in small doses. It was the Portuguese woman who spoke:

  —Your father saved me.

  I couldn’t imagine how brave Silvestre Vitalício had been, nor how he had plunged into the swirling
river, struggled against the current, and in the face of Death’s designs had pulled her out of the waters where she was drowning.

  —I wanted to die in a river, in a river that rose in my homeland and flowed out into the end of the world.

  That’s what the Portuguese woman said as she stared at the window.

  —Now leave me— she added. —Now I want to be alone with your father.

  I went out, smitten by a strange sadness. When I looked through the window, I seemed to see my mother leaning over her former husband, my mother returned from the skies and rivers where she had lingered her whole life. I knocked on the window and called, almost voiceless:

  —Mother!

  A woman’s hand touched me, and before I could turn round, a bird perched on my shoulders. I slackened lethargically, and didn’t offer any resistance when I felt myself being drawn upwards, my feet leaving the ground, the earth losing size, shrinking away like a deflating balloon.

  I washed my face under the washtub tap as if only water could free me from my watery dream. Without drying myself, I looked out at the street through which the city flowed. Why was it that I had been dreaming about Marta ever since she had broken into the big house at Jezoosalem? The truth was this: the woman had invaded me just as the sun fills our homes. There was no way of avoiding or obstructing this flood, there was no curtain capable of blocking out such luminance.

  Maybe there was another explanation. Maybe the Woman was already within me even before she arrived in Jezoosalem. Or perhaps Ntunzi was right when he warned me: water has nothing to learn from anyone. It’s like women: they just know things. Inexplicable things. That’s why we need to fear both creatures: woman and water. That, in the end, was the lesson of the dream.

  After our outing to the cemetery, Silvestre Vitalício showed no further signs of life. He was an automaton, devoid of speech or spirit. We still believed it might be part of his recovery from the snakebite. But the nurse dismissed this explanation. Vitalício had sought exile within himself. Jezoosalem had isolated him from the world. The city had stolen him back from himself.