The Tuner of Silences

  I wondered to myself: will I be able to drive in this chaos? It was only later that I realized it wasn’t me who was doing the driving. It was Marcelo’s hands that were driving me, and I had long been blind both to the outside world and to my inner self. I was like an African road: you only realize it exists because of the presence of people walking along it.

  I returned the controls to Orlando and went back to my vehicle, now sure of one thing: it made little difference to me whether I drove or was being driven. There was a time when I wanted to travel the world. Now, all I wanted to do was to travel without the world.

  Once we had left the city, the heavens opened: never before had I seen such a deluge. We were forced to stop because the road was unsafe. All of a sudden, I seemed to glimpse Marcelo’s clothes being carried along by the torrent of rainwater. And I thought to myself: “The Tagus has burst its banks in tropical soil and my beloved awaits me on some nearby shore.”

  I thought I knew what it was to rain. But at that moment, I had to reassess the meaning of the verb, and began to fear that I should have hired a boat instead of a motor vehicle. Once the rain had stopped, however, the flood followed: a deluge of light. Intense, all powerful, capable of inducing blindness. Water and light: both billowed up before me indistinctly. Both were boundless, both confirmed my infinitesimal smallness. As if there were thousands of suns, endless sources of light both within and outside of me. Here was my solar side that had never been revealed before. All the colours lost their hues, the entire chromatic spectrum was transformed into a sheet of whiteness.

  Marcelo always dresses like that, in white. Perhaps he is here, within my field of vision. I know for sure that Marcelo is here, present, within my field of words. I don’t just see him because of the reverberation of light, the random occurrence of brightness.

  Farther on, I pass a group of women. They are bathing in the still waters of a pond. Others, a little farther ahead, are washing clothes. I stop the car and walk over. When they see me, they cover themselves with cloth, fastened hurriedly round their waists. Their breasts are withered, hanging lifelessly over their bellies. For sure, Marcelo hadn’t allowed himself to be smitten by this type of woman.

  I linger for some time, watching them. They laugh as if they can tell my secrets. Could it be that they know of my condition as a betrayed woman? Or does our condition as women unite us, ever betrayed by an unfaithful destiny? Later, these country women take to the road again, carrying cans and bundles on their head. It’s only then that I understand how graceful they are capable of being. Their gazelle’s step cancels out the weight they carry, their hips swing as if they were ballerinas advancing across an endless stage. They are protagonists of an eternal spectacle, simply because no one ever looks at them. With their can on their head, they cross the frontier between heaven and earth. And I think to myself: that woman isn’t carrying water; she’s carrying all the rivers within her. It was that spring of water that Marcelo sought to find within his own self.

  All of a sudden one of the washerwomen appears to drop some clothes that look very familiar to me. They are shirts of a whiteness that I seem to know. I am gripped by unease: those are Marcelo’s clothes. Distressed, I stumble down the slope and the women are frightened by my impetuous approach. They shout out in their language, gather the clothes from the water, and make their escape over the opposite shore.

  We awake early on the second day of the journey. I contemplate the sun rising, and through the dusty haze, it’s like a piece of earth that has become separated and is emerging in levitation. Africa is the most sensuous of the continents. I hate having to admit to this cliché. I get out of the car and sit on the back of the truck. This silence isn’t like any period of quiet I have ever experienced before. This isn’t some absence that we hasten to fill out of fear of emptiness. It’s an awakening in our depths. This is what I feel: that I am possessed by silence. Nothing precedes me, I think to myself. And Marcelo is still to be born. I have come to witness his birth.

  —I am the first living creature—I proclaim out loud, as I reopen my eyes, to the astonishment of Aproximado.

  The lights, the shadows, the whole landscape all seem to have been created recently. And even the words: I was the one dressing them, as if they were the children who fill the main squares of small towns on Sunday.

  —See here, Miss Marta. See what I’ve found—Aproximado announced, showing me a reel of camera film.

  —Was it my husband’s?

  —Yes, I stopped here with him so that we could have a rest.

  All of a sudden, a shadow was cast over my sense that we were present at the Creation. There is, after all, no beginning. In my life, everything has been in its death throes, on the point of ending. I’m the one who has already been. I’ve come in search of my husband. If one can call someone a husband who has run off with someone else. This may well be the place where the world is beginning. But it’s where I am reaching my end.

  Once again, women. These are other ones, but as far as I am concerned, they are indistinguishable from the previous ones. They cross the road, half-naked. The nakedness of Africans was once a topic of debate between myself and Marcelo. All of a sudden, black bodies emerged onto the market of desire as socially acceptable. Dark-skinned women and men took magazines, newspapers, television, fashion parades, by storm. Their bodies are beautiful, sculpted with grace, equilibrium, eroticism. And I wonder to myself: why did we never notice them before?

  How is it that the African woman has changed from being a focus of ethnographic interest to feature on the covers of fashion magazines, in advertisements for cosmetics, or on the catwalks of the world of haute couture? I could see only too well that Marcelo took delight in contemplating these images. A deep anger bubbled inside me. It was clear that the invasion of black sensuality was a sign that values attributed to beauty were becoming less prejudiced. But black female nudity led me to consider my own body. Thinking about how I saw my body, I came to the following conclusion: I didn’t know how to be naked. And I realized that what covered me was not so much clothing as shame. It had been like that ever since the time of Eve, ever since the birth of sin. For me, Africa wasn’t a continent. It was the fear I had of my own sensuality. One thing seemed obvious to me: if I wanted to win back Marcelo, I would have to allow Africa to emerge within me. I needed to give birth to my own African nudity.

  I take in my surroundings as I crouch down. The ground is criss-crossed by thousands of ants, parading along infinite little tracks. I’ve heard it said that women from here eat this red sand. When they die, they’re eaten by the earth. When they’re alive, they devour the very earth that will swallow them up tomorrow.

  I pull up my underpants as I get to my feet. I’ve decided to hold it. My bladder will have to wait for another piece of ground. A ground that isn’t being scribbled across by famished insects.

  We return to the truck. The road is a serpent undulating on the curve of the horizon. The road is alive, and its huge mouth is devouring me.

  The vehicle advances slowly across the savannah, and the track’s substance dissolves as the dust cloud rises into the air like a vulture’s wings. The dust covers my face, my eyes, my clothes. I’m being turned into earth, buried outside the earth. Could it be that, without realizing it, I’m turning into the African woman who bewitched Marcelo?

  MADNESS

  When our country is no longer ours to have

  Lost to silence and submission

  Even the sea’s voice becomes exile

  and the light around us prison bars

  Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen

  —What are you doing here?

  The papers plummeted to the floor. I thought their fall would be a gradual, fluttering descent. On the contrary, they collapsed in one solid sheaf and the noise they made caused the crickets around the house to fall silent.

  —Were you reading my letters?

  —I don’t know how to read, Miss Marta.

  —So
what were you doing with those papers in your hand?

  —It’s just that I’d never seen . . .

  —Never seen what?

  —Papers.

  Marta bent down to pick up the sheets. She checked them one by one, as if each contained some incalculable fortune.

  —My father’s yelling over at the camp. I think I’d better go.

  The slashed tires of the Portuguese woman’s car had driven my father completely mad. On the veranda, the dishevelled Silvestre wailed:

  —I’m surrounded by traitors and cowards.

  His list of deserters was a long one: his eldest son didn’t respect him, his brother-in-law had joined the ones from Over There; someone had been delving around in his money box; and even Zachary Kalash was falling into disobedient ways.

  —You’re the only one left, my son, you’re the only one who hasn’t abandoned me yet.

  He took a step forward to touch me, but I avoided him, pretending to tie my shoes, and that’s how I stayed, my head bowed, until he moved off to his usual place of rest. My eyes didn’t leave the ground, for I knew only too well that he would read my seditious thoughts.

  —Come here, Mwanito. I feel a need for a bit of silence.

  Seated in his armchair, he closed his eyes and let his arms drop as if they were no longer his. I almost felt sorry for Silvestre. On the other hand, I could never forget that those same arms had repeatedly beaten my poor brother. And, who knows, those arms might have strangled Dordalma, my beloved mother.

  —I’m not feeling anything, Mwanito, what’s happening?

  Silence is a crossing. You need baggage to brave that journey. At that moment, Silvestre was drained. And I was brimming with bitterness and suspicion. How could I conjure up a silence with so much buzzing around in my head? I got up hurriedly, bowed my head respectfully as I passed the armchair, and moved away.

  —Don’t leave me, my son, I’ve never felt so much despair before . . . Mwanito, come back.

  I didn’t go back. I stayed in the corner, hidden by the adjoining wall. I listened to the rattling of his chest. The old man seemed at the point of sobbing. But suddenly, what followed left me thunderstruck: my father was humming a tune! For the first time in my eleven years of life, I heard my old man sing. It was a sad piece and his voice was like a tiny trickle of water made from morning mist. I drew my knees up close to me and hugged them with my arms: my father was singing and his voice was accomplishing the divine mission of chasing away the dark clouds.

  I concentrated, listening with my whole body, as if I knew that this was the first and last time I would hear Vitalício in song.

  —I like what I’m hearing, brother.

  I almost leapt with fright at Aproximado’s arrival. My father got an even greater fright, ashamed at having been caught red-handed singing his old favourites.

  —It just came out, without my being aware.

  —I often remember the choir of our church, and you, Silvestre, were the maestro, you were so good at it . . .

  —I’m going to confess something to you, brother. There’s nothing I miss more.

  More than people, more than love and friends. It was the absence of music he found hardest. In the middle of the night, he said, under his sheets and blankets, he sang almost imperceptibly. Then the other voices would come to him, pinpointed with such clarity that only God could hear them.

  —That’s why I don’t allow the kids to come near my room at night.

  —So, my dear old Silvestre, you were flouting the rules after all . . .

  There were so many times, he admitted at that moment, so many times when he felt like asking Aproximado to bring him his old accordion from the city. All this, Silvestre Vitalício confessed, while his hands shook so much, that the other became concerned:

  —Are you all right, brother?

  Silvestre got to his feet to calm his nerves. He pushed his shoulders back, tightened his belt, coughed and declared:

  —I’m fine, yes, it was just a momentary thing.

  —That’s just as well, my dear Brother-in-law, because I’ve come to talk to you about something that certainly isn’t momentary.

  —The way you put it, it can’t be something good . . .

  —As I already told you, I’ve been re-appointed to the Department for Fauna, but I now have new responsibilities . . .

  My father took his cigarette tin out of his pocket and started the long ritual of rolling tobacco. He looked up at the visitor once again:

  —You’re where suits you best, Aproximado, working in a department for animals . . .

  —And it’s in this new role that I’ve come to give you notice of something you’re not going to like. My dear Silvestre, you’ve got to leave here.

  —What do you mean leave here?

  —A development project has been agreed upon for this area. The reserve has been privatized.

  —I can’t speak this language. Explain it more clearly.

  —The Department for Fauna has given this concession to foreign private investors. You’re going to have to leave.

  —You must be joking. These private foreigners should come and talk to me when they get here.

  —You’re going to have to leave before that.

  —How funny: I was waiting for God to come to Jezoosalem. But in the end, it’s a bunch of private foreigners that are coming.

  —That’s the way of the world . . .

  —Who knows, maybe the private foreigners are the new gods?

  —Who knows?

  —It’s strange how people change.

  Silvestre reviewed developments so far: at first, Aproximado was almost his brother, all brother-in-lawish, they were all one family, full of mutual help and kindness. Then, this help began to be paid for and his comings and goings had become a business, with cash demanded up front. More recently, Aproximado had turned up with the jargon of a government functionary, to tell him that the State wanted him out of there. Now, there he was again, with a story about money, declaring that some nameless and faceless foreigners were the new owners.

  —Don’t forget, Brother-in-law, there’s a world out there. And that world has changed. It’s globalization . . .

  —And what if I don’t leave? Will they force me out?

  —No, certainly not. International donors are sensitive to human rights. There’s a resettlement plan for the local communities.

  —So now I’m a local community?

  —It’s much better like that, my dear Brother-in-law. It’s much better than being Silvestre Vitalício.

  —In that case, if I’m a community, you’re no longer my Brother-in-law.

  Silvestre rammed his point home, his finger erect, his voice abrupt: that his ex-brother-in-law, now state official, should be left in no doubt that only cattle can be re-settled. That he, Silvestre Vitalício, once known as Mateus Ventura, would die right there, next to the River Kokwana that he himself had baptized.

  —Do you understand, Mister Official? And it’s my two sons here who’ll bury me . . .

  —Your sons? Your sons have decided they’re going with me. You’re going to be left on your own.

  —Zachary won’t leave me . . .

  —I’ve spoken to Zachary, he’s also reached the end.

  My old man raised his head, his gaze blank, brooding. I knew: he was delving into himself to find the ingredients of patience.

  —Is that all the news you have, Brother-in-law?

  —I have no more. Now, I’m going.

  —Before you go, my friend, tell me something: what’s your name?

  —What are you playing at, Silvestre?

  —I’m going to show you something, my dear stranger. Don’t be offended if that’s what I call you, I’ve always preferred strangers to friends . . .

  While he was speaking, he got up, and thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, he pulled out a bundle of notes, which he placed in a pile at his feet.

  —I’ve always preferred friends to relatives. Y
ou now have the advantage of being a stranger.

  He bent down and lit a match with his right hand, cupping it with his left.

  —What are you doing, Silvestre? Are you crazy?

  —I’m smoking your money.

  —That money, Silvestre, is to pay me for your goods . . .

  —It was.

  Incredulity etched into his face, Aproximado walked off and almost stumbled over me as he turned the corner. I remained motionless, peering at the veranda. From where I was I could see my old man sink back into his old armchair, sighing noisily and uttering the most unexpected words:

  —Not long now, my little Alma. Not long now.

  My skin was covered in goosebumps when I stalked off furtively, like a shadow among the bushes. Once I was at a safe distance, I ran as fast as I could.

  —Who are you running from, Mwanito?

  Zachary was sitting by the door of the ammunition store, his hand gripping his pistol as if he had just fired it.

  I stopped immediately and sat down next to the soldier. I sensed that he wanted to tell me something. But he sat there for some time without saying a word, while he used the barrel of his gun to make drawings in the sand. I began to pay attention to the scribbling carved in the ground and suddenly, it dawned on me that Zachary was writing. And I was struck by the letters he had written: Dordalma.

  —My mother?

  —Don’t forget, kid: you can’t read. How did you do it? Did you guess?

  I realized it was too late: Kalash was a hunter and I had stepped on the trap he had set.

  —And I know more, kid. I know where you’ve hidden the papers you’ve been writing on.

  It was now obvious that he would go and tell his boss and my father, Silvestre Vitalício. It wouldn’t be long before Ntunzi and I would both join the excommunicated.