The Tuner of Silences (28 page)

—
Look, brother! They're herons . . .

Neither Ntunzi nor Zachary heard me. Then, it occurred to me that I should take a photo of these flying pieces of vegetation. Mine was a strange appetite: for the first time, it wasn't enough for me to see the world. Now, I wanted to see the way I looked at the world.

I got up and leaned on the roof of the passenger cabin to ask Marta for her camera. Standing there, I faced the road as if it were cutting me in half as it passed under the vehicle, separating joy from sadness.

When I managed to get a glimpse of the front seat, I got a surprise: my father and the Portuguese woman were hand in hand. The two of them were sharing a silent conversation about their respective nostalgias. I didn't have the courage to interrupt their silent dialogue. So I sat down again, a piece of baggage among all the other baggage, a relic among other dust-covered relics.

Two days passed with brief pauses and the continual roar of the vehicle's engine. At the end of the second day of the journey, as I slept with the swaying of the truck, I was no longer aware of the road. I was awoken with a start by Ntunzi's nudges. For the first time, we were going through a town. That was when I stared in wonder at streets crowded with people. Everything was exhilarating. The urban bustle, the cars, the advertisements, the street hawkers, the bicycles, kids like me. And the women: in pairs, in groups, in throngs. Full of clothes, full of colours, full of laughter. Wrapped in capulanas, concealing their mysteries. My mother, Dordalma: I saw her in every woman's body, every face, every burst of laughter.

—
Look at the people, Father.

—
What people? I can't see anyone.

—
Can't you see the houses, the cars, the people?

—
Absolutely nothing. Didn't I tell you it was all dead, all empty?

He was feigning blindness. Or had he really been blinded as a result of the snake bite? While Silvestre sat hunched in his seat, Marta held her cellphone out of the window, turning it this way and that.

—
What are you doing, Miss Marta?
—Zachary asked.

—
I'm seeing if I can pick up a network signal
—she replied.

She was obliged to bring her arm in. But for the remainder of the journey, Marta's arm swivelled this way and that like a rotating antenna. It was longing that guided her hand, seeking a signal from Portugal, a voice to comfort her, a word that would steal her back from geography.

—
So when do we arrive, Zaca?

—
We already arrived some time ago.

—
We've arrived in the city?

—
This is the city.

We had arrived without noticing where the rural world had ended. There was no clear border. Merely a transition in intensity, a chaos that got more dense: nothing more than that. In the passenger cabin, my father intoned, with a morbid shake of his head:

—
Everything's dead, everything's dead.

There are those who die and are buried. That was the case with Jezebel. But cities die and decay before our noses, their entrails exposed, infecting us within. Cities decay within us. That's what Silvestre Vitalício said.

At the entrance to the hospital, our old father refused to get out of the truck.

—
Why do you want to kill me?

—
What are you talking about, brother?

—
It's a cemetery, I know perfectly well what it is.

—
No, Father. It's a hospital.

The family's efforts to get him out of the vehicle were all in vain. Aproximado sat down on the sidewalk, his head in his hands. It was Zachary who thought of a way to get us out of the impasse. If old Silvestre hadn't died, then his case was no longer as urgent as it had been in the beginning. We should go home. The neighbour, Esmeralda, who was a nurse, could then be called in to treat him in his own home.

—
Let's go home, then!
—Ntunzi agreed enthusiastically.

To me, it sounded strange. Everyone in our group was returning. Not me. The house where I was born had never been mine. The only home I'd ever had were the ruins of Jezoosalem. Next to me, Zachary seemed to hear my silent fears:

—
You'll find you'll still remember the place where you were born.

As I contemplated the front of the house, it was obvious that nothing there meant anything to me. The same seemed to be happening to Silvestre Vitalício. Aproximado undid the various padlocks that secured the grilles on the doors. This operation took some time, during which my father stood there, his head bowed, like a prisoner in front of his future cell.

—
It's open
—Aproximado announced.—
You go in first, Silvestre. I'm the one who lives here, I'm the one with the keys. But you're the owner of the house.

Without saying a word, and using only gestures, Silvestre made it clear that no one apart from himself and me would go through that door. I followed, protected by his shadow, stepping only on the dust on which he had trodden.

—
First, the smells
—he told me, filling his lungs.

He closed his eyes and sniffed at odours that, for me, didn't exist. Silvestre was inhaling the house, kindling memories in his heart. He stood in the middle of the room, filling his chest.

—
It's like a fruit. We first taste it with our nose.

Then he used his fingers. All he had was the hand that the snake had spared. It was the fingers of that hand that crawled over furniture, walls and windows. It was as if he were becoming familiar with his body again after a long period in a coma.

I confess: no matter how much I tried, I still found the house where I was born alien. No room, no object, brought back memories of the first three years of my life.

—
Tell me, my son, I've died and this is my coffin, isn't it?

I helped him to lie down on the sofa. He asked for some silence and I let the house speak to him. Silvestre seemed to have fallen asleep when he stirred in order to take off the bandage round his hand.

—
Look, son!
—He called me, holding out his arm towards me.

The wound had disappeared. There was no swelling, no sign of anything. He asked me to take the bandage to the kitchen and burn it. I hadn't even found my way down the corridor when I heard his voice again:

—
I don't want a nurse or any other stranger here in the house. Much less the neighbours.

For the first time, Silvestre was admitting the existence of others beyond our tiny constellation.

—
The devil always dwells among the neighbours.

With the exception of Zachary, all of us lodged in our old house. Aproximado occupied the double room, where he already slept with Noci. Ntunzi shared a room with our father. I shared mine with Marta.

—
It's only for a few days
—Aproximado maintained.

A curtain separated the two beds, protecting our privacies.

When we arrived, Noci was still at work. At night, when she came into the house, Marta was lying there, apparently sleeping. Noci woke her up by stroking her hair. The two hugged each other tightly, and then wept inconsolably. When she was able to talk, the young woman said:

—
I lied, Marta.

—
I already knew.

—
You knew? Since when?

—
Ever since the first time I saw you.

—
He was ill, very ill. He didn't even want anyone to see him. In a sense it was good that I arrived late. If you'd seen him at the end, you wouldn't have recognized him.

—
Where was he buried?

—
Near here. In a cemetery near here.

As the foreigner held Noci's hand, she turned a silver ring on the other woman's finger. Without even having to ask, Marta knew that the ring had been a gift from Marcelo.

—
Do you know something, Noci? It did me good to be there, at the reserve.

The Portuguese woman explained: going to Jezoosalem was a way of being with Marcelo. The journey had been as reinvigorating as a deep sleep. By sharing in that pretence of a world coming to an end, she had learnt about death without grieving, departure without leave-taking.

—
You know, Noci. I saw women washing Marcelo's clothes.

—
That's impossible . . .

—
I know, but for me, those shirts were his . . .

Any item of clothing drifting in a current of water would always be Marcelo's. The very substance of all the rivers in the world is surely made of memories resisting the flow of time. But the Portuguese woman's rivers were increasingly African ones: more sand than water, more the fury of nature than gentle, well-mannered watercourses.

—
Let's go together to the cemetery tomorrow.

The following morning, I was left at home to look after my father. Silvestre got up late, and while still sitting in his bed, called for me. When I arrived, he sat there examining his own body. It had always been like that: my father forced one to wait before he started talking.

—
I'm worried about you, Mwanito.

—
Why‘s that, Father?

—
You were born with a big heart, my son. And with such a heart, you are incapable of hating. But for this world to be loved, it needs a lot of hatred as well.

—
I'm sorry, Father, but I don't understand you at all.

—
It doesn't matter. What I want you and I to agree to is this: if they want to take me into town, don't let me go, my son. Do you promise?

—
I promise, Father.

He explained: the snake hadn't just got his hand. It had bitten him all over his body. Everything around him was painful, the whole city enfeebled him, the wretchedness of the streets hurt him more than the contamination of his blood.

—
Have you seen how the most scandalous luxury lives cheek by jowl with misery?

—
Yes
—I lied.

—
That's why I don't want to go out.

Jezoosalem had allowed him to forget. The snake's poison had brought him time. The city had caused him to go blind.