The Tuner of Silences (20 page)

To make matters worse, my father recovered. A week after taking to his bed, he stepped out of his room. He sat in his chair on the veranda to catch his breath, as if his illness were no more than a bout of tiredness.

—
Do you feel well?
—I asked.

—
Today, I've woken up alive
—he answered.

He ordered Ntunzi to come to him. He wanted to inspect our eyes to see how we were sleeping. Our faces paraded before his fanatical examination.

—
You, Ntunzi, woke up late. You didn't even greet the sun.

—
I didn't sleep well.

—
I know what's depriving you of your sleep.

I closed my eyes, and awaited the expected. I sensed a storm brewing. Either that, or I no longer knew Silvestre Vitalício.

—
I'm warning you: if I see you flirting with that Portuguese woman . . .

—
But Father, I'm not doing anything . . .

—
These things are never being done: they just end up done. Don't come to me afterwards and say I didn't warn you.

I helped the old man back to his resting place. Then, I went to the yard where the Portuguese woman was waiting for me. She wanted me to help her climb a tree. I hesitated. I thought the girl maybe wanted to remember her childhood. But no. She just wanted to check to see whether her cellphone could catch a signal from a higher position. My brother stepped forward and helped her pull herself up through the branches. I realized he was peeping at the white woman's legs. I left, unable to watch this degrading scene.

Later on, as we sat in silence round the table where we had had dinner, old Silvestre suddenly exclaimed:

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Today, everything went backwards for the worse.

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Are you ill again?

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And it's the fault of the pair of you. So now you let that broad climb a tree!?

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What's wrong, Father?

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What's wrong? Have you forgotten that I . . . that I am a tree?

—
You can't be serious, Father . . .

—
That woman was climbing over me, she was stamping on me with her feet, I had to bear her whole weight on my shoulders . . .

And he fell silent, such was the insult he felt. Only his hands danced around emptily in despair. He got to his feet with difficulty. When I tried to help him, he raised his index finger right in front of our noses.

—
Tomorrow, this is going to end.

—
What's going to end?

—
Tomorrow's the deadline for that floozy to get out of here. Tomorrow's her last day.

The biggest flash came in the darkness of night: Ntunzi announced that he was going to run away with the foreign woman. He said everything had been arranged. Planned right down to the tiniest detail.

—
Marta's taking me to Europe. There are countries there you can enter and leave as well.

That's what makes a place: entering and leaving. That's why we didn't live anywhere at all. I was frozen to the spot at the very thought of my being left alone in the immensity of Jezoosalem.

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I'll go with you
—I declared with a whine.

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No, you can't.

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Why can't I?

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They don't allow children your age into Europe.

Then he told me what Uncle said. In those countries, one didn't have to work: wealth was there for everyone, and all you had to do was to fill in the appropriate form.

—
I'm going to travel round Europe, arm in arm with the white woman.

—
I don't believe you, brother. That girl has gone to your head. Do you remember telling me about your first love? Well, you've gone blind again.

It wasn't the possibility that Ntunzi might end up leaving. It was the fact that he was leaving with Marta: that's what hurt me most. I couldn't sleep because of it. I peered out at the big house and saw that there was still a lamp shining. I went over to Marta and came straight to the point:

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I'm very angry with you!

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With me?

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Why did you choose Ntunzi?

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What are you talking about?

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I know everything, you're going to run away with my brother. You're going to leave me here.

Marta put her head back and smiled. She asked me to come over to her. I refused.

—
I'm leaving tomorrow. Don't you want to go for a walk with me?

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I want to go away with you once and for all . . . together with Ntunzi.

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Ntunzi won't be coming with me. You can be sure of that. Tomorrow, Aproximado arrives with fuel and we'll leave together, just the two of us. Me and your Uncle, no one else.

—
Do you promise?

—
I promise.

The Portuguese woman took my hand and led me to the window. She stood there, looking out at the night as if, for her, all that sky was just one star.

—
Do you see those stars? Do you know what they're called?

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The stars don't have names.

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They have names, it's just that we don't know them.

—
My father says that in the city, people gave the stars names. And they did so because they were afraid . . .

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Afraid?

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Afraid because they felt the sky might not belong to them. But I don't believe that. Besides, I know who made the stars.

—
It was God, wasn't it?

—
No, it was Zachary. With his rifle.

The Portuguese woman smiled. She passed her fingers through my hair and I held her hand up to my face. I had a strong urge to brush my lips over Marta's skin. But then I realized something: I didn't know how to kiss. And this ineptitude hurt me like a prelude to some fatal illness. Marta noticed the shadows falling over my body and said:

—
It's late already, go and sleep.

I went back to my room, ready to turn in, when I noticed Silvestre and Ntunzi arguing in the middle of the hall. When I arrived, my old man was decreeing:

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That's the end of the matter!

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Father, I beg of you . . .

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I've made up my mind!

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Please, Father . . .

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I'm your father, whatever I do is for your own good.

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You're not my father.

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What are you saying?

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You're just a monster!

I looked aghast at Silvestre's face: he had more wrinkles than he had face and veins bulged sinisterly along his neck. He opened and closed his mouth more times than his words required. As if speech was too unimportant for such anger. What he wanted to say was beyond any language. I awaited the explosion that always ensued when his blood was up. But no. After a moment, Silvestre calmed down. He even appeared to be conceding to Ntunzi and accepting his arguments. If he surrendered, it would be truly exceptional: my father was as obstinate as a compass needle. And in the end, it was his obstinacy that prevailed. He raised his chin in the pose of a king in a pack of cards, and concluded haughtily:

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I don't hear anything you say.

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Well, this time, you're going to go on not hearing. I'm going to say everything, everything that I've had to keep buttoned up inside me . . .

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I can't hear anything
—my father complained, looking at me.

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You were the opposite of a father. Parents give their children life. You sacrificed our lives for your madness.

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Did you want to live in that loathsome world?

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I wanted to live, Father. Just live. But it's too late for questions now . . .

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I know very well who's put these ideas in your head. But tomorrow, this is going to end . . . once and for all.

—
Do you know something? For a long time I thought you had killed our mother. But now I know it was the other way round: it was she who killed you.

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Shut up or I'll smash your face.

—
You're dead, Silvestre Vitalício. You stink of rottenness. Even that simpleton Zachary can't stand the smell any more.

Silvestre Vitalício raised his arm and in a split second brought it down with a smack onto Ntunzi's face. Blood spattered and I threw myself against my father. The struggle was complicated by the Portuguese woman, who appeared from nowhere to intervene. A clumsy dance of bodies and legs circled the room until the three of them fell to the floor in a tangle. They each got to their feet, shook themselves and smoothed their clothes. Marta was the first to speak:

—
Careful now, no one here wants to hit a woman, isn't that so, Mister Mateus Ventura?

For some time, Silvestre stood there, his movements suspended, arm raised above his head, as if some sudden paralysis had left him comatose. The Portuguese woman went over to him with motherly concern:

—
Mateus . . .

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I've told you before not to call me by that name.

—
One can't spend so much time forgetting. No journey is that long . . .

We separated, unaware of the mishap that would occur during the night. The tires of Aproximado's truck would be cut to shreds, reduced to the elastic of a catapult. The following morning, the vehicle would wake up paralysed, shoeless on the savannah's scalding earth.

I
n Lisbon, when I announced that I was going to rescue my husband lost in Africa, my family abandoned its usual indifference. In the heat of the discussion, my father even went as far as to say:

—
There's only one way to describe these ravings, my dear daughter: they're those of a jilted lover!