The Tuner of Silences

THE TUNER OF SILENCES

Biblioasis International Translation Series

General Editor: Stephen Henighan

I Wrote Stone: The Selected Poetry of Ryszard Kapuściński
(Poland)

Translated by Diana Kuprel and Marek Kusiba

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Love Poems
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The End of the Story
by Liliana Heker (Argentina)

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The Tuner of Silences
by Mia Couto (Mozambique)

Translated by David Brookshaw

Mia Couto

THE TUNER
OF SILENCES

TRANSLATED FROM THE PORTUGUESE
BY DAVID BROOKSHAW

BIBLIOASIS

Copyright © Mia Couto 2009, by arrangement with Literarische Agentur Mertin Inh. Nicole Witt e. K., Frankfurt am Main, Germany Translation © David Brookshaw, 2012

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit
www.accesscopyright.ca
or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

Originally published as
Jesusalém
, Editorial Caminho, Lisbon, Portugal, 2009.

FIRST EDITION

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Couto, Mia, 1955-

The tuner of silences / written by Mia Couto ; translated by David Brookshaw.

(Biblioasis international translation series)

Translation of: Jesusalém.

ISBN 978-1-927428-02-3

I. Brookshaw, David II. Title. III. Series: Biblioasis international translation series

PQ9939.C68J4813 2012
           
869.3'42
           
C2012-901704-3

            
The entire history of the world is nothing more than
a book of images that reflect the blindest and most
violent of human desires: the desire to forget.

Herman Hesse,
Journey to the East

CONTENTS

BOOK ONE

HUMANITY

I, MWANITO, THE TUNER OF SILENCES

MY FATHER, SILVESTRE VITALÍCIO

MY BROTHER, NTUNZI

UNCLE APROXIMADO

ZACHARY KALASH, THE SOLDIER

JEZEBEL THE JENNY

BOOK TWO

THE VISIT

THE APPARITION

THE WOMAN'S PAPERS

EVICTION ORDER

SECOND BATCH OF PAPERS

MADNESS

ORDERS TO KILL

BOOK THREE

REVELATIONS AND RETURNS

LEAVE-TAKING

A BULLET BITTEN

THE IMMOVABLE TREE

THE BOOK

I
was eleven years old when I saw a woman for the first time, and I was seized by such sudden surprise that I burst into tears. I lived in a wasteland inhabited only by five men. My father had given the place a name. It was called, quite simply, Jezoosalem. It was the land where Jesus would uncrucify himself. And that was the end of the matter, full stop.

My old man, Silvestre Vitalício, explained to us that the world had come to an end and we were the only survivors. Beyond the horizon lay territory devoid of any life, that he referred to vaguely as “Over There.” The entire planet could be summed up in a nutshell like this: stripped of people, with neither roads nor traces of any living creature. In those faraway places, even tormented souls had become extinct.

In Jezoosalem, on the other hand, there were only the living. Folk knew nothing of what it was like to yearn for the past or hope for the future, but they were alive. There we were, so alone that we didn't even suffer from any illnesses, and I believed we were immortal. Round about us, only animals and plants died. And when there was a drought, our nameless river faded into untruth, becoming a little stream that flowed around the back of our camp.

Mankind consisted of me, my father, my brother Ntunzi and Zachary Kalash, our servant who, as you will see, was not a man of any presence at all. And there was no one else. Or almost no one. To tell you the truth, I forgot two semi-inhabitants: the jenny, Jezebel, who was so human that she satisfied the sexual needs of my old father. And I also forgot my Uncle Aproximado. This member of the family needs special mention, for he didn't live with us in the camp. He lived next to the entrance gate to the game reserve, well beyond the permitted distance, and he only visited us from time to time. From where we lived to his hut was a farness full of hours and wild animals.

For us children, Aproximado's arrival was an excuse for great rejoicing, a jolt to our tedious routine. Uncle would bring us provisions, clothes, the basic necessities of life. My father would step out nervously to meet the truck piled high with our goods. He would intercept the visitor before he passed the fence that surrounded our dwellings. At this point, Aproximado was obliged to wash himself, so as not to bring in any contamination from the city. He would wash himself with earth and with water, no matter whether it was cold or whether night had fallen. After his bath, Silvestre would unload the truck, hurrying his delivery and hastening his departure. In a flash, quicker than a wing beat, Aproximado would once again disappear beyond the horizon before our anguished gaze.

—
He's not a real brother
— Silvestre would justify himself. —
I don't want too much talk, the man doesn't know our customs.

This little cluster of humanity, joined like the five fingers on a hand, was, however, divided: my father, Uncle and Zachary were dark-skinned; Ntunzi and I were black as well, but had lighter skin.

—
Are we a different race?
—I asked one day.

My father replied:—
No one is from one race alone. Races
—he said—
are uniforms we put on.

Maybe Silvestre was right. But I learnt too late that the uniform sometimes sticks to the soul of men.

—
You get that light skin from your mother, Dordalma. Little Alma had a touch of mulatto in her
—Uncle explained.

Family, school, other people, they all elect some spark of promise in us, some area in which we may shine. Some are born to sing, others to dance, others are born merely to be someone else. I was born to keep quiet. My only vocation is silence. It was my father who explained this to me: I have an inclination to remain speechless, a talent for perfecting silences. I've written that deliberately, silences in the plural. Yes, because there isn't one sole silence. Every silence contains music in a state of gestation.

When people saw me, quiet and withdrawn in my invisible sanctum, I wasn't being dumb. I was hard at it, busy in body and soul: I was weaving together the delicate threads out of which quiescence is made. I was a tuner of silences.