The Tuner of Silences (23 page)

How is it that the African woman has changed from being a focus of ethnographic interest to feature on the covers of fashion magazines, in advertisements for cosmetics, or on the catwalks of the world of haute couture? I could see only too well that Marcelo took delight in contemplating these images. A deep anger bubbled inside me. It was clear that the invasion of black sensuality was a sign that values attributed to beauty were becoming less prejudiced. But black female nudity led me to consider my own body. Thinking about how I saw my body, I came to the following conclusion: I didn't know how to be naked. And I realized that what covered me was not so much clothing as shame. It had been like that ever since the time of Eve, ever since the birth of sin. For me, Africa wasn't a continent. It was the fear I had of my own sensuality. One thing seemed obvious to me: if I wanted to win back Marcelo, I would have to allow Africa to emerge within me. I needed to give birth to my own African nudity.

I take in my surroundings as I crouch down. The ground is criss-crossed by thousands of ants, parading along infinite little tracks. I've heard it said that women from here eat this red
sand. When they die, they're eaten by the earth. When they're alive, they devour the very earth that will swallow them up tomorrow.

I pull up my underpants as I get to my feet. I've decided to hold it. My bladder will have to wait for another piece of ground. A ground that isn't being scribbled across by famished insects.

We return to the truck. The road is a serpent undulating on the curve of the horizon. The road is alive, and its huge mouth is devouring me.

The vehicle advances slowly across the savannah, and the track's substance dissolves as the dust cloud rises into the air like a vulture's wings. The dust covers my face, my eyes, my clothes. I'm being turned into earth, buried outside the earth. Could it be that, without realizing it, I'm turning into the African woman who bewitched Marcelo?

—
What are you doing here?

The papers plummeted to the floor. I thought their fall would be a gradual, fluttering descent. On the contrary, they collapsed in one solid sheaf and the noise they made caused the crickets around the house to fall silent.

—
Were you reading my letters?

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I don't know how to read, Miss Marta.

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So what were you doing with those papers in your hand?

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It's just that I'd never seen . . .

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Never seen what?

—
Papers.

Marta bent down to pick up the sheets. She checked them one by one, as if each contained some incalculable fortune.

—
My father's yelling over at the camp. I think I'd better go.

The slashed tires of the Portuguese woman's car had driven my father completely mad. On the veranda, the dishevelled Silvestre wailed:

—
I'm surrounded by traitors and cowards.

His list of deserters was a long one: his eldest son didn't respect him, his brother-in-law had joined the ones from Over There; someone had been delving around in his money box; and even Zachary Kalash was falling into disobedient ways.

—
You're the only one left, my son, you're the only one who hasn't abandoned me yet.

He took a step forward to touch me, but I avoided him, pretending to tie my shoes, and that's how I stayed, my head bowed, until he moved off to his usual place of rest. My eyes didn't leave the ground, for I knew only too well that he would read my seditious thoughts.

—
Come here, Mwanito. I feel a need for a bit of silence.

Seated in his armchair, he closed his eyes and let his arms drop as if they were no longer his. I almost felt sorry for Silvestre. On the other hand, I could never forget that those same arms had repeatedly beaten my poor brother. And, who knows, those arms might have strangled Dordalma, my beloved mother.

—
I'm not feeling anything, Mwanito, what's happening?

Silence is a crossing. You need baggage to brave that journey. At that moment, Silvestre was drained. And I was brimming with bitterness and suspicion. How could I conjure up a silence with so much buzzing around in my head? I got up hurriedly, bowed my head respectfully as I passed the armchair, and moved away.

—
Don't leave me, my son, I've never felt so much despair before . . . Mwanito, come back.

I didn't go back. I stayed in the corner, hidden by the adjoining wall. I listened to the rattling of his chest. The old man seemed at the point of sobbing. But suddenly, what followed left me thunderstruck: my father was humming a tune! For the first time in my eleven years of life, I heard my old man sing. It was a sad piece and his voice was like a tiny trickle of water made from morning mist. I drew my knees up close to me and hugged them with my arms: my father was singing and his voice was accomplishing the divine mission of chasing away the dark clouds.

I concentrated, listening with my whole body, as if I knew that this was the first and last time I would hear Vitalício in song.

—
I like what I'm hearing, brother.

I almost leapt with fright at Aproximado's arrival. My father got an even greater fright, ashamed at having been caught red-handed singing his old favourites.

—
It just came out, without my being aware.

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I often remember the choir of our church, and you, Silvestre, were the maestro, you were so good at it . . .

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I'm going to confess something to you, brother. There's nothing I miss more.

More than people, more than love and friends. It was the absence of music he found hardest. In the middle of the night, he said, under his sheets and blankets, he sang almost imperceptibly. Then the other voices would come to him, pinpointed with such clarity that only God could hear them.

—
That's why I don't allow the kids to come near my room at night.

—
So, my dear old Silvestre, you were flouting the rules after all . . .

There were so many times, he admitted at that moment, so many times when he felt like asking Aproximado to bring him his old accordion from the city. All this, Silvestre
Vitalício confessed, while his hands shook so much, that the other became concerned:

—
Are you all right, brother?

Silvestre got to his feet to calm his nerves. He pushed his shoulders back, tightened his belt, coughed and declared:

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I'm fine, yes, it was just a momentary thing.

—
That's just as well, my dear Brother-in-law, because I've come to talk to you about something that certainly isn't momentary.

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The way you put it, it can't be something good . . .

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As I already told you, I've been re-appointed to the Department for Fauna, but I now have new responsibilities . . .

My father took his cigarette tin out of his pocket and started the long ritual of rolling tobacco. He looked up at the visitor once again:

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You're where suits you best, Aproximado, working in a department for animals . . .

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And it's in this new role that I've come to give you notice of something you're not going to like. My dear Silvestre, you've got to leave here.

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What do you mean leave here?

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A development project has been agreed upon for this area. The reserve has been privatized.

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I can't speak this language. Explain it more clearly.

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The Department for Fauna has given this concession to foreign private investors. You're going to have to leave.

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You must be joking. These private foreigners should come and talk to me when they get here.

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You're going to have to leave before that.

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How funny: I was waiting for God to come to Jezoosalem. But in the end, it's a bunch of private foreigners that are coming.

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That's the way of the world . . .

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Who knows, maybe the private foreigners are the new gods?

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Who knows?

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It's strange how people change.

Silvestre reviewed developments so far: at first, Aproximado was almost his brother, all brother-in-lawish, they were all one family, full of mutual help and kindness. Then, this help began to be paid for and his comings and goings had become a business, with cash demanded up front. More recently, Aproximado had turned up with the jargon of a government functionary, to tell him that the State wanted him out of there. Now, there he was again, with a story about money, declaring that some nameless and faceless foreigners were the new owners.

—
Don't forget, Brother-in-law, there's a world out there. And that world has changed. It's globalization . . .

—
And what if I don't leave? Will they force me out?

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No, certainly not. International donors are sensitive to human rights. There's a resettlement plan for the local communities.

—
So now I'm a local community?

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It's much better like that, my dear Brother-in-law. It's much better than being Silvestre Vitalício.

—
In that case, if I'm a community, you're no longer my Brother-in-law.

Silvestre rammed his point home, his finger erect, his voice abrupt: that his ex-brother-in-law, now state official, should be left in no doubt that only cattle can be re-settled. That he, Silvestre Vitalício, once known as Mateus Ventura, would die right there, next to the River Kokwana that he himself had baptized.

—
Do you understand, Mister Official? And it's my two sons here who'll bury me . . .

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Your sons? Your sons have decided they're going with me. You're going to be left on your own.

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Zachary won't leave me . . .

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I've spoken to Zachary, he's also reached the end.

My old man raised his head, his gaze blank, brooding. I knew: he was delving into himself to find the ingredients of patience.

—
Is that all the news you have, Brother-in-law?

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I have no more. Now, I'm going.

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Before you go, my friend, tell me something: what's your name?

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What are you playing at, Silvestre?

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I'm going to show you something, my dear stranger. Don't be offended if that's what I call you, I've always preferred strangers to friends . . .

While he was speaking, he got up, and thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, he pulled out a bundle of notes, which he placed in a pile at his feet.

—
I've always preferred friends to relatives. You now have the advantage of being a stranger.