The Tuner of Silences

  —Have no fear. I’ve also lied because of some words and a few papers.

  He erased my mother’s name with the sole of his foot. The grains of sand swallowed up the letters, one by one, as if the earth were once again devouring Dordalma. Then Zachary told me what had happened to him in his days as a commando in the colonial army. The mail would arrive and he was the only one never to get a letter. Zachary was always excluded, making him feel the burden of race: not the race determined by skin colour, but the race of those who are always denied joy.

  —No woman ever wrote to me. For me, Jezoosalem started even before I got here . . .

  Half a dozen Portuguese soldiers, none of whom could read, had chosen him to decipher the letters they got from Portugal. His moment had come. He would sit on the top bunk in their sleeping quarters, while the whites would contemplate him as if he were some powerful prophet.

  But this passing cause for vanity couldn’t match the ecstasy of those receiving the letters. Zachary’s envy knew no bounds. From the other side of the world came women, romance, comfort. Even the name of the letters made him feel jealous: “aerogramme.” For him, it sounded almost like the name of a bird. Then, he got the idea of passing himself off as a Portuguese. And that was how Zachary Kalash, through an unexpected switch of identity, got himself a godmother of war.

  —This is her, look. Maria Eduarda, Dadinha . . .

  He showed me a photo of a light-skinned woman, her hair swept over her eyes, and wearing large earrings. I smiled to myself: my warless godmother, my Marta, was certainly much whiter than that sad-eyed woman. Zachary didn’t notice how remote I had become for a moment. The soldier put the photograph back in his pocket while he explained that he never allowed himself to be separated from that paper talisman.

  —It’s protection against bullets.

  Zachary and his godmother had corresponded for months. When the war was over the soldier confessed that he had faked his identity. She replied immediately: she had also given a false name, age, and place. Maria Eduarda wasn’t a twenty-one year old girl, the profile of those required to sustain the morale of young men through their letters.

  —Each one of us was a lie, but the two of us together, we were true. Do you understand, Mwanito?

  The following morning, Jezoosalem was a hive of activity. Once again, we had been summoned to the square by Silvestre. A rather downhearted and unconvinced Zachary was the one who communicated the order and made us line up next to the crucifix. We were the usual number. But this time, there was a woman. This woman, standing straight-backed beside me, seemed both astonished and fearful. On her chest, her camera rivalled the rifle that Kalash wore across his shoulder.

  —When is he going to appear?—Marta asked, with the anxiousness of a spectator.

  I didn’t get as far as answering. For we heard strange sounds, similar to a flock of frightened partridges. Then Silvestre made his spectacular appearance: turning himself into a motor vehicle while emitting the intermittent wailing of sirens. His theatre sent a simple message: a person of authority was arriving. He pretended the door of the imaginary car was being opened. He climbed, haughtily, onto a non-existent podium and declared:

  —Ladies and Gentlemen. I have called this meeting for reasons of the utmost gravity. I have received alarming reports from our Security and Defence Forces.

  We stood there, speechless and expectant. Next to me, Marta looked agog and murmured: “Fantastic, he’s a hell of an actor!” The orator’s quizzical gaze swept slowly over those present until it came to rest on my brother. It wasn’t long before an accusing arm was raised:

  —You there, young citizen!

  —Me? Ntunzi asked, agape.

  —I’m told you sleep there, in her house, the Portuguese woman’s house.

  —It’s not true.

  —Have you fucked the whore yet?

  —What are you saying, Father?

  —Don’t call me Father . . .

  His uncontrolled shriek left us baffled. I stared, aghast, at his expression: the lines on his face overspilled his frown and veins stood out from his neck malevolently. His mouth was opening and closing more than his words required. For the insane, words are always in vain. Whatever it was he wanted to say was beyond any language. Ntunzi’s alarmed eyes latched onto mine, seeking some meaning for what we were hearing.

  —From now on, there’ll be no more talk of “Father this, Father that.” From today, I am the Authority. Or better still, I am the President.

  He pretended he was stepping down from the podium, and then walked up the line, inspecting each one of us closely. When he got to the Portuguese woman, he excused himself and took her camera from her.

  —Confiscated. It will be returned to you upon your departure from this territory, my dear lady. Without the film, of course. I shall pass it over to my Minister of the Interior here.

  Whereupon, he handed the machine to Zachary. The Portuguese woman made as if to protest. But Aproximado’s look convinced her not to do anything. Silvestre returned to the podium, drank from a glass of water, and cleared his throat before continuing:

  —Jezoosalem is a young, independent nation and I am the President. I am the President of the Nation.

  And as he refined his terms, he became even more puffed up with pride at his own titles:

  —In fact, as my name, Vitalício, suggests, I am President for Life . . .

  His bulging eyes alighted on me. But instead of looking at him, I focused on the fly crawling across his beard. As far as I was concerned, it was the same fly as ever, following the same route: it crossed his left cheek and ascended in the direction of his forehead awaiting the brisk slap that would send it spinning into the air. My father had indeed been transformed. Previously, I used to fear losing my father. Now, I couldn’t wait to be an orphan.

  —It is a pity that our youth, lifeblood of the nation, should be so depraved, we who placed such hopes . . .

  Once again, I sought out Ntunzi’s gaze, hoping for some look of solidarity and understanding. But unlike Marta, my brother seemed terrified. Zachary and Aproximado exuded concern. Their apprehension reinforced my own when the new Silvestre announced his final decision:

  —For reasons of security, an obligatory curfew will be imposed throughout the nation.

  And martial law would be imposed in response to that which he designated, looking hard at Marta, as “interference by colonial powers.” Everything would be subject to his direct presidential supervision. And all acts would be executed with the help of his right-hand man, Minister Zachary Kalash.

  As he walked off, flanked by a glorious mirage of light, he turned to us with a concluding statement:

  —I have spoken . . .

  ORDERS TO KILL

  I rose from my corpse, I went

  in search of who I am. Pilgrim of myself,

  I have gone to her, she who sleeps in a country

  blown by the wind.

  Alejandra Pizarnik

  The truth is sad when it is only one. Sadder still when its ugliness doesn’t have, like Zachary’s aerogrammes, the remedy of a lie. At that particular moment in Jezoosalem, the truth was that our father had gone mad. And it wasn’t the madness of benevolence and redemption. It was a demon that had taken up residence within him.

  —I’ll talk to him—Marta said, noting the general concern.

  Ntunzi didn’t think it a good idea. Aproximado, on the other hand, encouraged her to visit the old ranter in his lair. I would accompany the Portuguese woman to make sure that the situation didn’t get out of hand.

  The moment we entered the half-light of the room, we were brought to a halt by Silvestre’s gruff voice:

  —Did you request an audience?

  —I did. I spoke to the Minister, Zachary.

  Marta was playing her part to an extent that Silvestre couldn’t have anticipated. My father’s expression was tinged with surprise and suspicion. The foreign woman got to the point without more ado:

&nb
sp; —I’ve come to tell you that I am going to comply with your instructions, Your Excellency.

  —You’re going to leave Jezoosalem? How?

  —I’ll walk the twenty kilometres to the entrance gate. After that, I’ll find someone to help me on the road.

  —In that case, you have immediate authorization.

  —The problem is the track within the reserve. It’s not safe. I would ask your Minister for the Army to arrange for an escort as far as the gate.

  —I don’t know, I’ll think about it. To be honest, I wouldn’t want to leave you alone with Zachary.

  —Why?

  —I no longer trust him.

  After a pause, he added:

  —I don’t trust anyone.

  The Portuguese woman approached him, almost maternally. It looked as if her hand was going to touch our old man’s shoulder, but then the visitor thought better.

  —Dearest Silvestre, you know only too well what is needed here.

  —Nothing is needed here. Nor anyone for that matter.

  —What’s missing here is a farewell.

  —Yes, your farewell.

  —You never bade farewell to your late wife. That’s what is tormenting you, that lack of proper mourning doesn’t bring you any peace.

  —I do not authorize you to talk about such matters, I am the President of Jezoosalem, and I don’t need advice coming from Europe.

  —But I learnt this here, with you, in Africa. Dordalma needs to die in peace, to die definitively.

  —Leave the Presidential Palace before my fury prevents me from being responsible for my actions.

  I took the Portuguese woman by the hand and hurried her from the room, I knew my father’s limits, even when he was in his normal state. In these circumstances, his madness was making him still more unpredictable. Before we left, Marta took a step back and once again confronted the irate Silvestre.

  —Just tell me one thing. She was leaving, wasn’t she?

  —What do you mean?

  —On the bus, Dordalma. She was running away from home . . .

  —Who told you?

  —I know, I’m a woman.

  —You can prime your rifle, my dear Zachary.

  —But, Silvestre, is it to kill someone?

  —To kill, and to kill stone dead.

  Zachary should feel happy to receive such a major responsibility. Killing wild animals wasn’t a task worthy of a career soldier. It was when God created Man that he earned his certificate. Wild animals aren’t yet proper living creatures. It’s Man who can be patented. Only by tearing out the last page of God’s book can he defy divine power.

  One couldn’t say what the soldier’s feelings were when he was given the mission to kill the Portuguese woman. To me, he looked impassive. And that’s how Zachary left, rifle over his shoulder, his expression impenetrable, his step silent, before my stupefied state. I looked at my father sitting there like a king on his new throne. There was no point in my throwing myself at his feet to appeal for clemency. It was irreversible: Marta, my recent mother, was going to be killed without my being able to do anything about it. Where could Ntunzi be? I ran across the room, the kitchen, the hall. There was no sign of my brother. And Uncle Aproximado hadn’t yet arrived from the other side of the world. I threw myself to the ground, empty and defeated, awaiting the inevitable shot. Would I know how to be an orphan all over again?

  But nothing happened. The soldier couldn’t have gone far, for a few minutes later he was back, his shadow filling the doorway of our house.

  —What’s happened?—my old man asked.

  —I couldn’t.

  —Nonsense. Go back there and do what I told you to do.

  —I can’t.

  —Have you stopped being a soldier?

  —I’ve stopped being Zachary Kalash.

  —Nonsense —insisted my father. —The order I gave you . . .

  —Don’t get angry, Silvestre, but not even God could give me that order.

  —Get out of here, Zachary Kalash. Go out the back, and you two as well, you’re no longer my sons.

  The only creature that merited his affection was Jezebel. And he, Silvestre Vitalício, was going to send us to the corral. In exchange, his sweetheart would come and live inside the house. His decision was final and irrevocable.

  I accompanied Zachary to the ammunition store, while Ntunzi went to look for the foreign woman. While we were walking along, the soldier bemoaned his situation the whole way. He declared his regrets, as if he were asking us for absolution:

  —I helped to kill your childhood.

  And he repeated:

  —Half of what I did was wrong; and the rest was a lie.

  The only thing he had left of any value and integrity was his marksmanship. The sure way he saved the animals he hunted from being killed.

  When we were sitting in his doorway, we asked him to forget his rancour. The man made no reply. He pulled up his trousers and showed us his legs:

  —See? They can no longer contain the bullets.

  And a bullet fell to the ground just like that.

  —They’re talking to me.

  —Who?

  —The bullets. They’re telling me the war’s over and not coming back.

  —Wasn’t it you who said that wars never end?

  —Who knows? Maybe what went on in our country wasn’t even a war—Zachary said, as if he were lamenting the fact.

  —How could I know? I’ve always lived here, far from everything . . .

  —That’s what I wanted too, to live far from everything, far from wars. But now, I’m leaving.

  With Peace declared Over There, what was holding him back here? Even though I understood, I found it hard to accept his reasons.

  —Why did you never leave before?

  —Because of Silvestre.

  —You always obeyed him like a son.

  —It was even worse—he said.

  —I’m going to tell you a story, something that really happened to me . . .

  It happened in the Colonial War, while on a patrol up in the North, near the frontier. The Portuguese military column with which Zachary was travelling was late getting back to its base, and had to spend the night by the river. They were taking with them women and children who had been captured in a village. In the middle of the night, a child began to cry. The officer commanding the platoon summoned Scrap and told him:

  —You’re going to have to take care of that baby.

  —Don’t tell me to do that, please.

  —The kid won’t keep quiet.

  —It must be sick.

  —We can’t take any risks.

  —I beg of you, don’t tell me to do it.

  —Don’t you know what an order is? Or do you want me to speak to you in that lousy useless language of yours?

  And the officer turned his back.

  Kalash’s tale was interrupted by the arrival of Ntunzi. He hadn’t found the Portuguese woman. On the other hand, he said he had heard the engine of Aproximado’s truck. Perhaps that was the vehicle that was going to take Marta to her destination.

  I looked at Zachary’s sad face. I waited for him to finish his interrupted story. But the soldier seemed to have forgotten the tale.

  —So did you obey him, Zaca?

  —What?

  —Did you obey the officer’s order?

  No, he hadn’t obeyed the order. He led the child away, and asked a family in the vicinity to take him in. Every so often, he would drop by and give them some money and combat rations.

  —I was the one who gave that kid a name.

  Zaca stopped at this point. He got up, and the bullets fell to the ground, tinkling on the cement.

  —You can keep them, a souvenir of me . . .

  He slammed the door of his room and left us to ruminate on the possible outcomes of that episode from the war. There was a message in his story and I wanted Ntunzi to help me decipher its hidden meaning. But my brother was in a hurry and ran off dow
n the path.

  —Come on, little brother—he urged me.

  I ran after him. Ntunzi must surely be in a hurry to know what our uncle had brought from the city this time. But that wasn’t the reason for his anxiety. We circled the house and saw Aproximado and Silvestre talking in the living room by the light of an oil lamp. Ntunzi immediately walked round the truck, opened the door and jumped up into the driver’s seat. He spoke as quietly as he could as he called me over to the window:

  —The keys are here! Mwanito, get out of the way so you don’t get run over.

  I didn’t wait: in a flash, I was in the passenger seat, urging him to get going. We would escape, the two of us, throwing up dust along unknown highways until we made our triumphal entrance into the city.

  —Do you know how to drive, Ntunzi?

  The question was totally absurd. And the moment he turned the key in the ignition, my father and uncle came through the door, with a look of astonishment on their faces. The truck gave a lurch, Ntunzi pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator and we were catapulted forward into the darkness. The headlights blinded us more than they lit up the road. The truck careered past the haunted house and we saw Marta open the door and dash after us.

  —Keep your eyes on the road, Ntunzi—I implored.

  My words were in vain. Ntunzi couldn’t take his eyes off the rearview mirror. That’s when we crashed into it. We were aware of a loud noise, as if the world had been split in half. We’d just obliterated the crucifix in the middle of the little square. The sign welcoming God was sent flying through the air and fell, miraculously, at Marta’s feet. The vehicle slowed down but didn’t stall. On the contrary, the old truck, like some raging buffalo, once again began to kick up dust and regain speed. Ntunzi got as far as shouting:

  —The brake, the fucking brake . . .

  A violent collision followed almost immediately. A baobab took the old rattletrap in its arms, as if nature had swallowed up all the machinery in the world. A cloud of smoke enveloped us. The first person on the scene was the Portuguese woman. It was she who helped us out of the wrecked vehicle. My father had remained behind, next to the crushed altar, and was shouting: