Mia Couto - The Tuner of Silences

This time, he’d thrown caution to the wind. Haste was the only ruler of his movements.

My father was busy patching up the roof of our house. I was holding the ladder where he was perched. Uncle twirled around and exclaimed:

— Come down, Brother-in-law. I’ve got news.

— News finished long ago.

— I’m asking you to come down, Silvestre Vitalício.

— I’ll come down when it’s time to come down.

— The president has died!

At the top of the steps, all activity stopped. But only for a few seconds. Then, I felt the ladder vibrating: my old man was starting to climb down. Once on the ground, he leant against the wall and busied himself wiping away the sweat that dripped from his face. My Uncle walked over to him:

— Did you hear what I said?

— I did.

— It was an accident.

Silvestre continued to wipe his face indifferently. With the palm of his hand, he shaded his eyes and looked up at where he had been perched.

— I just hope that’s plugged the leak —he concluded, carefully folding the cloth he had cleaned himself with.

— Did you listen to what I told you? That the president has died?

— He was already dead.

And he went inside. Uncle Aproximado remained, kicking the stones in front of the house. Fury is just a different way of crying. I stayed away, pretending to put the tools away. No one should approach a man who is pretending not to cry.

Then, Aproximado made a sudden decision. He went over to the ammunition store and called for Zachary. They talked for a while in muffled tones at the door of the hut. The news left the old soldier in a state of shock. It wasn’t long before he seized a rifle, beside himself with rage, and began to wave it around in the air threateningly. He crossed the little square in front of our houses, shouting repeatedly:

— They killed him! The bastards, they killed him!

And off he strode in the direction of the river, his cries growing ever fainter until the sound of cicadas could be heard once again. When everything seemed to have calmed down, my father suddenly opened the door of his room and addressed his brother-in-law:

— See what you’ve done? Who told you to give him the news?

— I’ll speak to whomever I like.

— Well you’re not going to speak to anyone else in Jezoosalem.

— Jezoosalem doesn’t exist. It’s not on any map, only the map of your madness. There is no Silvestre, Aproximado doesn’t exist, nor Ntunzi, nor. .

— Shut your face!

Silvestre’s hands tugged at Aproximado’s shirt. We were afraid of what would happen next. But the only substance old Vitalício gave his anger was when he made the following harsh pronouncement:

— Get out of here, you little cripple! And don’t come back, I’ve got no more orders for you.

— I’ll take my truck and never come here again.

— And apart from anything else, I don’t want motor vehicles passing this way, they churn up the soil and leave the earth with a gaping wound.

Aproximado pulled his keys from his pocket and took his time picking out the one to unlock his truck. This delay was his dignified retort. He’d leave, but when he chose. Ntunzi and I ran to try and persuade him otherwise.

— Uncle, please don’t go!

— Have you never heard the proverb: he who wants to dress up as a wolf is left without any skin?

We didn’t understand the adage, but we did understand that nothing would deter him. When Uncle was already sitting in the driver’s seat, he rubbed his forehead with his handkerchief as if he wanted to scrape off his skin or increase his already abundant baldness. And the roar of the truck drowned the sound of our farewells.

The following weeks flowed over us like a thick oil. Our food supplies gradually ran low and we began to depend almost exclusively on the meat that Zachary brought us, already cooked, at the end of the day. The garden produced little more than inedible grasses. Nameless wild fruits kept us going.

Meanwhile, Ntunzi busied himself drawing a new map and I spent whole afternoons down by the river as if its flow might cure me of an invisible wound.

One day, however, we heard the sound of the truck that we longed for so much. Aproximado had returned. In the little square, he braked with a flourish, sending up a cloud of dust. Without greeting us, he walked round the vehicle and opened its rear doors. Then, he began to unload boxes, crates and sacks. Zachary got up to lend a hand, but Silvestre’s harsh words made him stop.

— Sit down and stay where you are. None of this is for us.

Aproximado unloaded the vehicle without any help. When he’d finished, he sat down on a box and gave a tired sigh:

— I’ve brought you all this.

— You can take it back —my father answered crisply. No one asked you for anything.

— None of it is for you. It’s all for the kids.

— You can take it all back. And you, Zaca Kalash, help load this junk back onto the truck.

The assistant began by putting his arms round a box, but he didn’t get as far as lifting it. Our Uncle, boosted by an unexpectedly loud voice, countermanded:

— Stop it, Zaca! — and turning to my old man, he begged:

— Silvestre, Silvestre, listen to me, please: I’ve got grave news to tell you. .

— Has another president died?

— This is serious. I’ve noticed signs of life near the entrance.

— Signs of life?

— There’s someone out there.

We expected my father to deny everything outright. But he sat in silence, surprised by the fierceness of his brother-in-law’s declaration. We were astonished when Silvestre pointed to the empty chair and said:

— Sit down, but don’t stay long. I’ve got lots to do. Have your say, then. .

— I think the time has come. Enough is enough! Let’s go back, Mateus Ventura, the kids. .

— There’s no Mateus here.

— Come away, Silvestre. It’s not just the kids, I can’t take this any more.

— If you can’t take it, go away. You can all go. I’m staying.

Silence. My father looked up at the sky as if he were seeking company for his future stay. Then, his eyes alighted slowly on Zachary Kalash.

— What about you? My father asked.

— Me?

— Yes, you, Comrade Zachary Kalash. Do you want to stay or leave?

— I’ll do what you do.

Zachary spoke and there was nothing more to be said. He clicked his heels lightly and withdrew. Aproximado pulled up his chair next to Silvestre and sugared his voice for what he was going to say next.

— I need to understand, brother: why do you insist on staying here? Was it a problem at the Church?

— The Church?

— Yes, tell me, I need to understand.

— As far as I’m concerned, there has been no Church at all for a long time.

— Don’t say that. .

— I’ll say it, and say it again. What’s the point of having a belief in God if we’ve lost faith in men?

— Was it a problem with politics?

— Politics? Politics is dead, it was the politicians that killed it. Now, all that’s left is war.

— Like this, there’s nothing to talk about. You’re going round in circles, rambling on and on.