The Tuner of Silences (12 page)

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.

F
inally, let me introduce you to our last member of humanity: our beloved donkey, Jezebel by name. The jenny was the same age as me, which was old for an animal of her species.
And yet, Jezebel was, as my father put it, in the flower of her youth. The secret behind her elegance lay in the tobacco she chewed. This delicacy was ordered through Uncle Aproximado and shared between Zachary and the jenny. Late in the afternoon, one of us would take her whole leaves and the donkey would rejoice at the sight, trotting over happily to receive her greens. Ntunzi once remarked how he found it amusing to watch the movements of her thick lips.

—
Thick? Who said they're thick?

That was my old man jumping to Jezebel's defence. More than the tobacco, it was the love that Silvestre devoted to the donkey that explained why she was so gorgeous. No one had ever seen such respect paid in a case of zoological affection. He would court her every Sunday. It must be said that only my father had any idea what day of the week it was. Sometimes we had a Sunday on two consecutive days. It depended on the state of his needs. But the fact was that on the last day of the week, everyone knew for sure what would happen: bearing a bouquet of flowers, and wearing a red tie, Silvestre would make his way solemnly to the corral. The fellow was parading himself to fulfil what he termed “the will of the unwilled.” At some distance from the corral, my old man would respectfully announce himself:

—
May I come in?

The donkey would turn round, with an imperceptible flutter of her eyelashes, and my father would pause, hands resting on his stomach, waiting for a signal. We never found out what this signal might be. But the truth was that in due course, Silvestre would express his gratitude:

—
Thank you so much, Jezebel, I've brought you these humble flowers . . .

We would watch the donkey chew the bunch of flowers. And then, my father would disappear inside the corral. And that was that.