Mia Couto - The Tuner of Silences

— It’s just as well the world has ended. Now I get my orders from the bush.

— And from Father?

— With all due respect, your father is part of the bush.

I was going in the opposite direction to Zaca: one day soon, I’d be an animal. How could it be that we were still men when we were so far from people? That was my question.

— Don’t think about it. It’s back there in the city that we begin to behave like animals.

At the time, I didn’t realize how right the soldier was. But now I know: the more uninhabitable the world gets, the more people live in it.

I had long ceased to understand Zachary Kalash. My doubts began over the question of his former name. Ernie Scrap. Why Scrap? It was obvious: he was a scrap of a human being, an anatomical leftover, a surplus bit of soul. We knew, but we never spoke of it: Zachary had been downsized as a result of a landmine going off. The contraption exploded, and trooper Scrap took off, like some primitive imitation of a bird in flight. They found him weeping, unable to walk. They sought in vain for physical injury. But the explosion had damaged his entire soul.

My doubts about Zachary’s humanity went further, however. On moonless nights, for instance, he would fire his rifle into the air, as if in celebration.

— What am I doing? I’m making stars.

Stars, he claimed, are holes in the sky. The countless stars were nothing more than this, holes that he opened up, shooting into the dark target of the firmament.

On the most starry nights, Zachary would call us out to see the heavenly spectacle. We would complain, dozily:

— But we’re sick of seeing . .

— You don’t understand. It’s not for you to see. It’s for you to be seen.

— Is that why you sleep outside the house?

— That’s for other reasons.

— But isn’t it dangerous, sleeping outdoors like this?

— I was an animal once. And I’m still learning to be a person.

We didn’t understand Jezoosalem, Kalash claimed.

— Things here are people —he explained.

We complained that we were alone? Well, everything that was around us were people, humans turned into stones, into trees, into animals. And even into a river.

— You, Mwanito, should do what I do: greet things when you pass by them. That way you’ll feel at peace. That way, you’ll be able to sleep outdoors, anywhere you like.

My night-time fears would be dissipated if I began to say hello to bushes and boulders. I never got to test the truth of Zachary Kalash’s advice for the simple reason that he withdrew shortly afterwards.

It happened straight after the unexpected appearance of Uncle Aproximado. Late in the afternoon we heard footsteps near the ammunition store, and Zachary crept forward, his weapon raised, ready to fire. The soldier whispered to my brother:

— It’s an injured animal, it’s limping; you do the shooting, Ntunzi. .

Then we heard our Uncle’s unmistakable voice from behind the shrubs:

— Do the shooting like hell! Calm down, it’s me. .

— I didn’t hear the truck —he said.

— It broke down at the entrance. I’ve had to come all the way up here on foot.

Aproximado greeted us, sat down in the shade, and drank. He took his time, and then spoke:

— I’ve come from Over There.

— Have you brought stuff? — I asked inquisitively.

— Yes, but that’s not what I’ve come about. I’ve come with news .

— What is it, Uncle?

— The war has ended.

He filled his water bottle and went back to the camp. We later heard the noise of the truck fading into the distance. Once silence had descended, Zachary ordered Ntunzi to return his weapon. My brother refused vehemently:

— It was Father who told me to do training. .

— Your father’s in charge of the world, I’m in charge of the weapons.

Kalash’s voice had changed, the words seemed to grate in his throat. He put the weapon away in the ammunition store and locked the building. Then we saw him go to the well and lean over as if he wanted to throw himself into the abyss. He stayed there for half an hour. Afterwards, he stood up straight again, apprehensive, and merely told us:

— Go back to the camp, I’m going. .

— Where are you going?

He didn’t answer. Then we heard the soldier walk away, treading on dry leaves.

Zachary withdrew and no one saw him for days. We settled back in our room and there we remained as if time had become nothing more than waiting. There was no sign of Aproximado and no indication of the soldier’s whereabouts. We didn’t even hear any shots in the distance.

Then, one day, when I was taking tobacco leaves to Jezebel, I came across Zachary lying in the corral, with a thick beard and smelling more strongly than a wild animal.

— How’re you doing, Zachary?

— I left without any meaning, and came back without any means.

— Father wants to know what you’ve been doing there shut away for so long?

— I’m building a girl. It’s taking so long because she’s a foreigner.

— So when do you see yourself finishing?

— She’s done, now all she needs is a name. Now go away, I don’t want any living person round here.

— Is that what he said? — My father enquired when I got back to the camp. Silvestre asked me to reproduce, word for word, my conversation of a few moments earlier with the soldier. The furrow in my old man’s brow grew deeper. Everyone suspected that Zachary possessed secret powers. We knew, for example, how he could fish without a net or a line. With the skill of Christ, he would wade into the river until the water reached his waist. Then, still advancing, he would plunge his arms into the water for a few seconds and withdraw them loaded with jumping fish.

— My body’s my net —he would say.

The following day, Zachary returned to his duties, now recovered and wearing his uniform. My father didn’t ask him anything. The daily routine of Jezoosalem seemed to have been re-established: the soldier would leave early in the morning, his rifle strapped to his back. Occasionally, we would hear shots in the distance. My father would allay our fears:

— It’s just Zachary with his craziness.

It wasn’t long before the assistant burst into view, carrying an animal that had already been butchered. But then we began to hear the sound of gunfire at times when Zachary was with us.

— Who are the people doing the shooting now, Father?

— Those shots are echoes of old ones.

— What do you mean, Father?

— It’s not happening now. They’re echoes of a war that’s over now.

— You’re mistaken, Silvestre my friend —Zachary declared.

— What do you mean mistaken?

— No war ever ends.