Mia Couto - The Tuner of Silences

— 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 lingeringly 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.