—Do you remember the truck I had during the war? Well nowadays, the apparatus of the State is my truck.
One Sunday, his vanity led him to open out the map of the game reserve on the floor of the living room, and to summon me, my father and Noci:
—See your Jezoosalem, my dear Silvestre? Well now, it’s all private property, and I’m the one who's deprived of it, do you understand?
My father’s hollow look ranged over the floor, but failed to pause where his brother-in-law intended. Then suddenly Silvestre decided to get up and cross the room, dragging the map along with his feet so that it was ripped into large strips. Unable to contain herself, Noci laughed. Aproximado’s breast unleashed a hitherto controlled anger:
—As for you, my dear, you’re going to stay away from here.
—Is this your house?
—From now on, I’m the one who’ll pay you visits in your house.
From then on, Noci appeared like the moon. Visible only at certain periods of the month. As for me, I became subject to the tides, periodically flooded by a woman.
Once, Noci turned up at the house mid-morning. She slipped furtively through the rooms. She asked after Aproximado.
—At this hour, Miss Noci?— I answered. —At this hour, you know only too well, Uncle is at work.
The girl went to the bathroom and, without closing the door, threw her clothes on the floor. I was suddenly smitten with a type of blindness and shook my head fearing I would never be able to see properly again. Then, I listened to the water from the shower, and imagined her wet body, caressed by her own hands.
—Are you there, Mwanito?
Embarrassment prevented me from answering. She guessed that I would be stuck in the doorway, incapable of peeping in, but without the strength to move away.
—Come in.
—What?
—I want you to find a box that’s in my bag. I brought the box for you.
I went in bashfully. Noci was drying herself with the towel and I was able to catch glimpses of her breasts and her long legs. I pulled out a metal box and brandished it, trembling. She responded to my gesture.
—That’s it. There’s money inside. It’s all yours.
Then she explained the origins of that little treasure trove. Noci belonged to a women’s association that cam-paigned against domestic violence. Some months before, Silvestre interrupted one of their meetings and crossed the room in silence.
—It was very strange what he did —Noci recalled.
—Don’t take it too badly— I rejoined. —My father always had a negative attitude towards women, please forgive him . . .
—On the contrary. I . . . in fact all of us were very grateful.
What had happened was this: Silvestre had crossed the room and had left a box with money in it on the table. It was his contribution to the campaign of those women.
In the meantime, the association had closed. A number of threats had sown fear among its members. What Noci was now doing was returning my father’s gesture of solidarity.
—Now, make sure you hide this cash from Aproximado, do you hear? This money’s yours, yours alone.
—Only mine, Miss Noci?
—Yes. Like me, at this moment, I’m yours alone.
Her towel fell to the floor. Once again, just like that first time in Jezoosalem, the presence of a woman took the ground away, and the two of us plunged into the abyss together. Afterwards, as we lay, exhausted on the tiled floor, our legs entangled, she passed her fingers over my face and murmured:
—You’re crying . . .
I denied it fiercely. Noci seemed moved by my vulnerability and looking deep into my eyes, asked:
—Who taught you to love women?
I should have answered: it was lack of love. But no words occurred to me. Disarmed, I watched Noci buttoning up her dress, preparing to leave. When she got to the last button, she paused and said:
—When he handed us the box of money, your father wasn’t aware that among the notes, there was a bit of paper with instructions on it.
—Instructions? From whom?
—Your mother.
My father had never realized this, but his deceased spouse had left a note explaining the origin and purpose for this money. It was Dordalma’s savings and she was leaving this inheritance so that her sons should lack for nothing.
—It was your mother. It was she who taught you how to love. Dordalma has always been here.
And she placed the palm of her hand on my chest.
Then they came to get Uncle. An incrimination from an unknown source, we were told. Only I knew that the telltale documents had come from his drawer, and that it was his own girlfriend, with my complicity, who had sent the papers. When he came home, having paid his bail, Aproximado was suspicious of everything and of everyone. Above all, he suspected my father’s secret powers. At dinner, taking advantage of Noci’s absence, Aproximado spoke belligerently:
—It was you, Silvestre, I bet it was you.
My father didn’t hear, didn’t look, didn’t speak. He existed in some other dimension and it was only his physical projection that appeared before us. Uncle resumed his menacing discourse:
—Well let me tell you this: just as you arrived here, my dear Silvestre, so you’ll be booted out. I’ll have you exported like some hunting trophy.
I could swear I detected a mocking smile on my father’s face. It’s possible his brother-in-law got the same impression because he asked in a tone of surprise:
—What’s happening? Has your hearing come back?
Well, if that was the case, Silvestre had better listen. Whereupon Uncle launched forth with a litany of mishaps. My father got up from his chair abruptly and slowly poured the contents of his glass on the floor. We all understood: he was giving the dead something to drink, and was apologizing in advance for any ill omen.
—It’s too much, this is just too much!—Aproximado roared.
The provocation meted out by his brother-in-law-widower had gone beyond all acceptable limits. Limping more than usual, Uncle went to the bedroom and brought back a photograph. He shook it in front of my nose and shouted:
—Take a good look at this, nephew.
His spirit suddenly and unexpectedly energized, my old man jumped onto the table and covered the photo with his body. Aproximado pushed him and the two fought for possession of the picture. I realized that it was my mother’s image that was dancing around in Aproximado’s hands, and I decided to join in the tussle. In no time at all, however, the paper was torn and each one of us ended up holding a piece in our fingers. Silvestre took hold of the remaining pieces and ripped them to shreds. I kept the portion I had ended up with. All it showed were Dordalma’s hands. On her entwined fingers, could be seen an engagement ring. Once I was in bed, I kissed my mother’s hands repeatedly. For the first time, I said goodnight to the person who had given me all my nights.
Before I fell asleep I sensed that Noci was coming into my room. This time she was real. Naked, she lay down next to me and I followed the contours of her body while losing the notion of my own substance.
—You’re the one who knows I’m here, you’re the one touching me . . .
—Let’s not make any noise, Miss Noci.
—This isn’t noise, Mwanito. It’s music.
Music it may have been, but I was terrified at the thought of my father lying there next to us and, even more so, that Aproximado might hear us. But Noci’s presence was more powerful than my fear. As she bounced up and down on my legs, I was afflicted once again by a doubt: what if women blinded me as they had my brother Ntunzi? I closed my eyes and didn’t open them again until Noci shut the door as she left.
The following day, there was no day. Halfway though the morning, Aproximado was back from his office and his shouts reverberated down the hall.
—Son-of-a-bitch!
I shuddered: Uncle was insulting me after discovering that I, along with Noci, had betrayed him. The unequal echo of his
steps approached down the hall and I sat on my bed expecting the worst. But his yells, when he reached the doorway, suggested something very different from my initial fears:
—I’ve been punished! I’ve been transferred! You great sonof-a-bitch, I know it was you who fixed all this . . .
The image of a once discreet and affable uncle vanished forever before our eyes. His gesticulations, as he stormed round old Silvestre’s bed, were both grandiloquent and burlesque. He pulled out his cellphone as if he were drawing a pistol and declared:
—I’m going to call your eldest son, he’s the one who’s going to take charge of this mess.
And he went on moaning while he waited for his call to be answered. He’d had to put up with this nutcase all his life. Now he had this deadweight, in fact two deadweights, in his own home. He stopped his grumbling when he realized Ntunzi had answered. Aproximado told us he was going to turn the speaker on so that we could all hear the conversation.
—Who’s that? Is that Ntunzi?
—Ntunzi? No. This is Sergeant Ventura speaking.
Can nostalgia sometimes take the form of a sudden lack of moisture in the mouth, a cold glow in the throat? In the stuffiness of that room, I swallowed drily upon hearing the evocative power of an absent voice. Aproximado repeated his acrimonious list of complaints against his brother-in-law. At the other end of the line, Ntunzi made light of it:
—But old Silvestre is so feeble, so cut off from the world, so remote from it all . . .
—That’s where you’re wrong, Ntunzi. Silvestre is more heavy and troublesome than ever.
—My poor father, he’s never been so harmless . . .
—Oh! Is that so? Well in that case tell me why he still calls me Aproximado? Eh? Why doesn’t he call me Uncle Orlando, or even Uncle Godmother, like he always did before?
—Don’t tell me you’re thinking of kicking Silvestre out? Because it’s his house.
—It was. I’ve already paid more than I should for it and for all the rest.
—Wait, Uncle . . .
—I’m the one giving the orders here, nephew. You’re going to ask your regiment for some leave, and then you’re going to come to the city and take these two useless creatures off my hands . . .
—And where do you want me to take them?
—To hell . . . or rather, to Jezoosalem, that’s it, take them back to Jezoosalem again, who knows, maybe God’s already there waiting?
Straight after this, Aproximado packed up his things and left. Noci tried to organize a farewell dinner, but Uncle slipped out of it. What was there to celebrate? And off he went. Along with Aproximado went his girlfriend, my secret lover. In my desire, I got as far as invoking her, and in my dream, I made her recline on the empty double bed. But Noci showed no sign of herself. And I realized this: I had a body, but I lacked maturity. One day, I would go and look for her, and tell her how much I had remained faithful to her in my dreams.
One week later, Ntunzi returned home. He was elated, eager for our reunion. He had progressed in his military career: the stripes on his shoulders showed that he was no longer a common soldier. I had thought I would throw myself into my brother’s arms. But I surprised myself with my apathy and the phlegmatic tone with which I greeted him:
—Hi, Ntunzi.
—Forget Ntunzi. I’m Sergeant Olindo Ventura now.
Shocked by my indifference, the sergeant stepped backwards and, frowning, showed his disappointment:
—It’s me, your brother. I’m here, Mwanito.
—So I see.
—And Father?
—He’s in there, you can go in. He doesn’t react . . .
—By the looks of it, he isn’t the only one.
The soldier turned on his heel and disappeared down the hall. I listened to the inaudible murmur of his monologue in my father’s room. Shortly afterwards, he returned and handed me a cloth bag:
—I’ve brought you this.
As I didn’t move so much as a muscle, he himself took my old pack of cards out of the bag. There were still some grains of sand and a bit of dirt clinging to them. Faced with my impassiveness, Ntunzi placed the gift on my lap. The cards, however, didn’t stay there. Without a hand to hold them, they fell to the floor one by one.
—What’s wrong, little brother? Do you need something?
—I’d like to be bitten by the snake that attacked our father.
Ntunzi stood there speechless, in a state of puzzlement. He swallowed bitter doubts and then asked:
—Are you all right, little brother?
I nodded. I was as I’d always been. He was the one who had changed. I was suddenly taken with the memory of how Ntunzi, when we were still in Jezoosalem, had announced his decision to abandon me. This time, his long, painful absence had had its effect and I had ceased feeling anything.
—Why did you never visit us?
—I’m a soldier. I’m not in charge of my life.
—Not in charge? Then, why are you so happy?
—I don’t know. Maybe because, for the first time, I’m in charge of others.
From the interior of the house came sounds that were familiar to me. Silvestre was tapping the floor with his walking stick, calling me to help him go to the bathroom. Ntunzi followed me and watched me care for our old father.
—Is he always like this?
—More than ever.
We placed Silvestre back again in his eternal bed, without him even noticing Ntunzi’s presence. I filled a glass with water and added a bit of sugar to it. I switched on the television, arranged the pillows behind his head and left him gazing vacantly at the luminous screen.
—I find it strange: Silvestre isn’t all that old. Is this death-like state of his for real?
I didn’t know what to answer. To be honest, is there any other way of living in this world of ours that doesn’t involve deception?
Once back in the kitchen, an impulse made me throw myself at my brother. I hugged him at last. And our embrace seemed to last the duration of his absence. It only ended when his arm gently pushed me away. I was no longer a child, and I’d lost the ability to shed a tear. I took the pack of cards in my hands and shook the dust off it, while asking:
—And what’s the news of Kalash?
Zachary Kalash was still hiding behind his soldier’s disguise. But he was old, to be sure, much older than our father. One day, a military policeman stopped him to check where he’d got the uniform he was wearing. It was worse than false: it was a colonial uniform. Zachary was arrested.
—Last week, he was freed.
But he had other news: Marta was going to pay his fare to Portugal. Zachary Kalash was going to visit his wartime godmother, from the old days of military service.
—It’s a bit late now for him to see his godmother, don’t you think?
For sure, we fear death. But there’s no greater fear than that which we feel at the idea of living life to the full, of living at full tilt. Zachary had lost his fear. And he was going to live. That’s what Zachary had answered when my brother questioned him.
When we visited the cemetery, we stopped at Dordalma’s grave. Ntunzi closed his eyes and said a prayer and I pretended to accompany him, ashamed that I’d never learnt any prayers. Afterwards, as we sat in the shade, Ntunzi pulled out a cigarette and was lost in his thoughts for a while. Something reminded me of the times when I used to help our old father fabricate silences.
—So, Ntunzi, are you going to stay with us for a while?
—Yes, for a few days. Why do you ask?
—I’m worn out from looking after our father all by myself.
It was lucky I didn’t know how to pray. Because recently, I’d asked God to take our father up to Heaven. Ntunzi listened to my sad outburst, passed his hand down his leg and patted the top of his military boot. He took off his beret and put it back on his head again. I understood: he was preparing to make some solemn declaration. His soldier’s status helped find the courage. He gazed at me lingering
ly before he spoke:
—Silvestre is our father, but you are his only son.
—What are you saying, Ntunzi?
—I’m Zachary’s son.
I pretended not to be surprised. I left the shade and strolled round my mother’s tomb. And I mused over the countless secrets her gravestone concealed. So when Dordalma left home in the ill-fated van, it was Zachary she was going to meet. Now, everything made sense: the way Silvestre treated me differently. The guarded protection that Kalash always afforded Ntunzi. The anxiety with which the soldier carried my sick brother down to the river. Everything made sense. Even the new name Silvestre had given my brother. Ntunzi means “shadow.” I was the light of his eyes. Ntunzi denied him the sun, reminding him of Dordalma’s eternal sin.
—Have you spoken to him, Ntunzi?
—To Silvestre? How could I when he shows no sign of life?
—I meant your new father, Zachary?
No, he hadn’t. They were both soldiers and there were matters that were not appropriate for conversation. For all misintents and purposes, Silvestre would remain his sole, legitimate father.
—But look at what Zachary gave me. This is the last bullet, d’you remember?
He showed it to me. It was the bullet lodged in his shoulder, the one he had never explained. It had been fired by my father during their scuffle at the funeral.
—See? My father almost killed your father?
—There’s just one thing I don’t understand: why did they go off to Jezoosalem together?
—Guilt, Mwanito. It was the feeling of guilt that bound them . . .
What Ntunzi then went on to tell me left me perplexed: the struggle between Zachary and Silvestre in the church didn’t match what everyone thought. The truth was far removed from Marta’s account. What, in fact, happened was this: overwhelmed by remorse, Zachary arrived late at the funeral, completely unaware of what had happened during the last hours of his beloved’s existence. As far as he was concerned, Dordalma had committed suicide because of him. And that was why, burdened by the weight of his guilt, the soldier had turned up to express his condolences. In the church, Zachary had hugged my father, and like the good soldier that he was, declared his wish to restore his honour. Suffocated by his grief, he took out his pistol with the intention of putting an end to his own life. Silvestre clasped Kalash to himself in time to deflect the shot. The bullet lodged next to his collar bone. He would have shot himself through the heart if he hadn’t been squeezed so hard, Kalash had lamented bitterly.