The Tuner of Silences (24 page)

He bent down and lit a match with his right hand, cupping it with his left.

—
What are you doing, Silvestre? Are you crazy?

—
I'm smoking your money.

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That money, Silvestre, is to pay me for your goods . . .

—
It was.

Incredulity etched into his face, Aproximado walked off and almost stumbled over me as he turned the corner. I remained motionless, peering at the veranda. From where I was I could see my old man sink back into his old armchair, sighing noisily and uttering the most unexpected words:

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Not long now, my little Alma. Not long now.

My skin was covered in goosebumps when I stalked off furtively, like a shadow among the bushes. Once I was at a safe distance, I ran as fast as I could.

—
Who are you running from, Mwanito?

Zachary was sitting by the door of the ammunition store, his hand gripping his pistol as if he had just fired it.

I stopped immediately and sat down next to the soldier. I sensed that he wanted to tell me something. But he sat there for some time without saying a word, while he used the barrel of his gun to make drawings in the sand. I began to pay attention to the scribbling carved in the ground and suddenly, it dawned on me that Zachary was writing. And I was struck by the letters he had written: Dordalma.

—
My mother?

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Don't forget, kid: you can't read. How did you do it? Did you guess?

I realized it was too late: Kalash was a hunter and I had stepped on the trap he had set.

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And I know more, kid. I know where you've hidden the papers you've been writing on.

It was now obvious that he would go and tell his boss and my father, Silvestre Vitalício. It wouldn't be long before Ntunzi and I would both join the excommunicated.

—
Have no fear. I've also lied because of some words and a few papers.

He erased my mother's name with the sole of his foot. The grains of sand swallowed up the letters, one by one, as if the earth were once again devouring Dordalma. Then Zachary told me what had happened to him in his days as a commando in the colonial army. The mail would arrive and he was the only one never to get a letter. Zachary was always excluded, making him feel the burden of race: not the race determined by skin colour, but the race of those who are always denied joy.

—
No woman ever wrote to me. For me, Jezoosalem started even before I got here . . .

Half a dozen Portuguese soldiers, none of whom could read, had chosen him to decipher the letters they got from
Portugal. His moment had come. He would sit on the top bunk in their sleeping quarters, while the whites would contemplate him as if he were some powerful prophet.

But this passing cause for vanity couldn't match the ecstasy of those receiving the letters. Zachary's envy knew no bounds. From the other side of the world came women, romance, comfort. Even the name of the letters made him feel jealous: “aerogramme.” For him, it sounded almost like the name of a bird. Then, he got the idea of passing himself off as a Portuguese. And that was how Zachary Kalash, through an unexpected switch of identity, got himself a godmother of war.

—
This is her, look. Maria Eduarda, Dadinha . . .

He showed me a photo of a light-skinned woman, her hair swept over her eyes, and wearing large earrings. I smiled to myself: my warless godmother, my Marta, was certainly much whiter than that sad-eyed woman. Zachary didn't notice how remote I had become for a moment. The soldier put the photograph back in his pocket while he explained that he never allowed himself to be separated from that paper talisman.

—
It's protection against bullets.

Zachary and his godmother had corresponded for months. When the war was over the soldier confessed that he had faked his identity. She replied immediately: she had also given a false name, age, and place. Maria Eduarda wasn't a twenty-one year old girl, the profile of those required to sustain the morale of young men through their letters.

—
Each one of us was a lie, but the two of us together, we were true. Do you understand, Mwanito?

The following morning, Jezoosalem was a hive of activity. Once again, we had been summoned to the square by Silvestre. A rather downhearted and unconvinced Zachary was the one who communicated the order and made us line up
next to the crucifix. We were the usual number. But this time, there was a woman. This woman, standing straight-backed beside me, seemed both astonished and fearful. On her chest, her camera rivalled the rifle that Kalash wore across his shoulder.

—
When is he going to appear?
—Marta asked, with the anxiousness of a spectator.

I didn't get as far as answering. For we heard strange sounds, similar to a flock of frightened partridges. Then Silvestre made his spectacular appearance: turning himself into a motor vehicle while emitting the intermittent wailing of sirens. His theatre sent a simple message: a person of authority was arriving. He pretended the door of the imaginary car was being opened. He climbed, haughtily, onto a non-existent podium and declared:

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Ladies and Gentlemen. I have called this meeting for reasons of the utmost gravity. I have received alarming reports from our Security and Defence Forces.

We stood there, speechless and expectant. Next to me, Marta looked agog and murmured: “Fantastic, he's a hell of an actor!” The orator's quizzical gaze swept slowly over those present until it came to rest on my brother. It wasn't long before an accusing arm was raised:

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You there, young citizen!

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Me?
Ntunzi asked, agape.

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I'm told you sleep there, in her house, the Portuguese woman's house.

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It's not true.

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Have you fucked the whore yet?

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What are you saying, Father?

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Don't call me Father . . .

His uncontrolled shriek left us baffled. I stared, aghast, at his expression: the lines on his face overspilled his frown and veins stood out from his neck malevolently. His mouth was
opening and closing more than his words required. For the insane, words are always in vain. Whatever it was he wanted to say was beyond any language. Ntunzi's alarmed eyes latched onto mine, seeking some meaning for what we were hearing.

—
From now on, there'll be no more talk of “Father this, Father that.” From today, I am the Authority. Or better still, I am the President.

He pretended he was stepping down from the podium, and then walked up the line, inspecting each one of us closely. When he got to the Portuguese woman, he excused himself and took her camera from her.

—
Confiscated. It will be returned to you upon your departure from this territory, my dear lady. Without the film, of course. I shall pass it over to my Minister of the Interior here.

Whereupon, he handed the machine to Zachary. The Portuguese woman made as if to protest. But Aproximado's look convinced her not to do anything. Silvestre returned to the podium, drank from a glass of water, and cleared his throat before continuing:

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Jezoosalem is a young, independent nation and I am the President. I am the President of the Nation.

And as he refined his terms, he became even more puffed up with pride at his own titles:

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In fact, as my name, Vitalício, suggests, I am President for Life . . .

His bulging eyes alighted on me. But instead of looking at him, I focused on the fly crawling across his beard. As far as I was concerned, it was the same fly as ever, following the same route: it crossed his left cheek and ascended in the direction of his forehead awaiting the brisk slap that would send it spinning into the air. My father had indeed been transformed. Previously, I used to fear losing my father. Now, I couldn't wait to be an orphan.

—
It is a pity that our youth, lifeblood of the nation, should be so depraved, we who placed such hopes . . .

Once again, I sought out Ntunzi's gaze, hoping for some look of solidarity and understanding. But unlike Marta, my brother seemed terrified. Zachary and Aproximado exuded concern. Their apprehension reinforced my own when the new Silvestre announced his final decision:

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For reasons of security, an obligatory curfew will be imposed throughout the nation.

And martial law would be imposed in response to that which he designated, looking hard at Marta, as “interference by colonial powers.” Everything would be subject to his direct presidential supervision. And all acts would be executed with the help of his right-hand man, Minister Zachary Kalash.

As he walked off, flanked by a glorious mirage of light, he turned to us with a concluding statement:

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I have spoken . . .

T
he truth is sad when it is only one. Sadder still when its ugliness doesn't have, like Zachary's aerogrammes, the remedy of a lie. At that particular moment in Jezoosalem, the truth was that our father had gone mad. And it wasn't the madness of benevolence and redemption. It was a demon that had taken up residence within him.

—
I'll talk to him
—Marta said, noting the general concern.

Ntunzi didn't think it a good idea. Aproximado, on the other hand, encouraged her to visit the old ranter in his lair. I would accompany the Portuguese woman to make sure that the situation didn't get out of hand.

The moment we entered the half-light of the room, we were brought to a halt by Silvestre's gruff voice:

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Did you request an audience?

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I did. I spoke to the Minister, Zachary.

Marta was playing her part to an extent that Silvestre couldn't have anticipated. My father's expression was tinged with surprise and suspicion. The foreign woman got to the point without more ado:

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I've come to tell you that I am going to comply with your instructions, Your Excellency.

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You're going to leave Jezoosalem? How?

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I'll walk the twenty kilometres to the entrance gate. After that, I'll find someone to help me on the road.

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In that case, you have immediate authorization.

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The problem is the track within the reserve. It's not safe. I would ask your Minister for the Army to arrange for an escort as far as the gate.

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I don't know, I'll think about it. To be honest, I wouldn't want to leave you alone with Zachary.

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Why?

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I no longer trust him.

After a pause, he added:

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I don't trust anyone.

The Portuguese woman approached him, almost maternally. It looked as if her hand was going to touch our old man's shoulder, but then the visitor thought better.