Mia Couto - The Tuner of Silences

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 down 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:

— It would be better if you’d died, boys. What you’ve done here, to this sacred monument, is an offence against God. .

Overwhelmed, Aproximado paid us no attention: he inspected the damage to the chassis, opened the hood, peered in at its inner workings and shook his head:

— No one’s ever going to leave here now.

We returned to the camp after leaving Marta at the big house. My father still paused for a moment beside the destroyed altar piece. We walked along in silence, silence even dripped from my brother’s lowered eyes. Suddenly our old man emerged from the darkness and muscling his way past us, declared:

— I’m going to kill her!

He entered the house and, seconds later, re-emerged carrying an old shotgun.

— I’m going to kill her myself.

The soldier Kalash intervened, blocking our father’s path. A crooked smile deformed Silvestre’s face and voice:

— What’s this, Zachary?

— I’m not letting you pass, Silvestre.

— You, Zachary. . Ah! Of course, you’ve stopped being Zachary. . I’ll correct myself, then: you, Ernie Scrap, my old son-of-a-bitch, you have betrayed me. .

He took a step towards Kalash, prodded his shoulder with his gun and pushed him up against the wall: