The Tuner of Silences (31 page)

Life only happens when we stop understanding it. Lately, my dear Mwanito, I have been far from understanding it. I never imagined myself travelling to Africa. Now, I don't know how I'm going to return to Europe. I want to go back to Lisbon, of course, but free from the memory of ever having lived. I don't want to recognize people or places or even the language that gives us access to others. That's why I got on so well in Jezoosalem: everything was strange to me, and I didn't have to account for who I was, or what course of life I should follow. In Jezoosalem, my spirit became light, free of any rigid structure, akin to the herons.

I have your father, Silvestre Vitalício, to thank for all this. I criticized him for having dragged you off to a wilderness. But the truth is that he established his own territory. Ntunzi would answer that Jezoosalem was founded on the deception of a sick man. It was a lie, of course. But if we've got to live a lie, let it be our own lie. Besides, old Silvestre didn't depart so far from
the truth in his apocalyptic vision. For he was right: the world ends when we are no longer capable of loving it.

And madness isn't always an illness. Sometimes, it's an act of courage. Your father, dear Mwanito, had the courage that we lack. When all was lost, he began again. Even if, for the rest of us, it was meaningless.

That's the lesson I learnt in Jezoosalem: life wasn't made to be fleeting and of little consequence. And the world wasn't made to have boundaries.

When you began to read the labels on the weapons crates, it wasn't the letters that you learnt most. You were taught something else: words can be the curve that links Death and Life. That's why I'm writing to you. There is no death in this letter. But there is a farewell, which is a way of dying a little. Do you remember what Zachary used to say? “I've had all my deaths, fortunately, all of them were fleeting ones.” My only death was Marcelo's. And that was certainly the first conclusive outcome. I don't know whether Marcelo was the love of my life. But it was a whole life's worth of love. Whoever loves, does so forever. Don't do anything forever. Except to love.

However, I'm not writing to you to talk about myself, but rather about your mother, Dordalma. I spoke to Aproximado, to Zachary, to Noci, to the neighbours. Every one of them told me bits of her life story. It's my duty to return this past that was stolen from you. People say that the story of someone's life is lessened in the account of their death. This is the story of the last days of Dordalma. Of how she lost her life after having been lost to life.

It was a Wednesday. That morning, Dordalma left home as she had never done before in her life: to be stared at and
admired. She wore a dress to leave mere mortals groping and a neckline capable of making a blind man see heaven. She was so glorious that few noticed the little case that she was carrying with the same vulnerability as a child on its first day of school.

I'm beginning like this, Mwanito, because you have no idea how beautiful your mother was. It wasn't her face, or her waist, or her lithe, shapely legs. It was her entire being. At home, Dordalma was never more than gloomy, lifeless, and cold. Years of solitude and rejection had equipped her for nothingness, to be a mere native of silence. But on countless occasions, she would avenge herself in front of the mirror. There at the dressing table, she would garb herself in passing apparitions. She was, so to speak, like an ice cube in a glass. Disputing her place on the surface, reigning over this lofty abode until the time came for her to go back to being water.

So let me now go back to the beginning: on that Wednesday, your mother left home dressed to provoke fantasies. The looks she got from her neighbours were not appreciative of her beauty. There were sighs: of envy from the women; of desire from the men. The males gazed at her, their pupils dilated, their eyes predatory.

Here are the facts in all their bluntness and crudity. That morning, your mother climbed into the minibus and squeezed herself in between the men who filled the vehicle. The van set off amidst fumes, impelled by some strange sense of haste. The van didn't follow the usual route. The driver didn't pay attention to where he was going, distracted perhaps by the sight of his beautiful passenger in his rearview mirror. Eventually, the bus stopped in a stretch of dark, secluded wasteland. It pains me to write what happened next.

According to the few witnesses, the truth is that Dordalma was thrown onto the ground amid grunts and salivations, feral appetites and animal frenzy. And she sank
further into the sand as if only the ground offered her fragile, trembling body protection. One by one, the men used her, shrieking as if avenging some age-old insult.

Twelve men later, your mother remained, almost lifeless, on the ground. During the hours that followed, she was no more than a corpse, a body at the mercy of ravens and rats, and worse than that, exposed to the mischievous looks of the few passers-by. No one helped her to get up. Countless times, she tried to recompose herself, but her strength failed her and she collapsed again, without a tear, her spirit gone.

Finally, after night had long fallen, your father appeared, creeping furtively like a cat among the rooftops. He looked around, took a deep breath and picked up his wife. With Dordalma in his arms, Silvestre crossed the road slowly, knowing that dozens of eyes were staring at his sinister figure from behind their windows.

He stopped abruptly by the front door, and stood there like a statue. In the pitch darkness it was impossible to see whether he was crying, whether his face was furrowed in resentment of the world and its hidden people.

He shut the door behind him with his foot and from then on, Vitalício's house was forever darkened. Silvestre placed your mother's body on the kitchen table and cushioned her head on bags and cloths. Then, he went to your room and kissed your brow and passed his hand over your brother's head. He turned the key in the lock and declared:

—
I'll be back in a minute
.

He returned to the kitchen to undress your mother. He left her naked, still unconscious, and made a bundle out of her useless clothes. He took the bundle out into the back garden and burnt the clothes after dousing them with gasoline.

He sat down again next to the table and watched over his sleeping wife. He made no gesture of affection or care. He merely waited, as aloof as a zealous functionary. As soon as the
first signs of consciousness became visible on Dordalma's face, your father snapped at her:

—
Can you hear me?

—
Yes
.

—
Well, listen carefully to what I'm going to tell you: never shame me like this again. Do you hear?

Dordalma nodded, her eyes closed and he got up and turned away. Your mother placed her feet on the ground and sought her husband's arm for support. Silvestre dodged and blocked her way to the hall:

—
Stay here. I don't want the children to see you in this state
.

She was to remain in the kitchen, and get properly washed. Later, when the household was asleep, she could go to her room and stay there in peace and quiet. As for him, Silvestre Vitalício, he'd suffered enough vexations for one day.

Your father awoke, terrified, as if an inner voice were summoning him. His chest was heaving, his sweat flowing as if he were made solely of water. He went to the window, drew back the curtains and saw his wife hanging from the tree. There was a gap between her feet and the ground. He understood immediately: that tiny space was what separated life from death.

Before the street awoke, Silvestre, stepping swiftly, walked over to the casuarina, as if the only thing in front of him was some herbaceous creature made of leaves and branches. Your mother appeared to him like some dried fruit, the rope no more than a stem. He brushed aside the branches and silently cut the rope, only to hear the thud as the body fell to the ground. He regretted it immediately. He'd heard that sound before: it was the sound of earth falling on a coffin lid. That noise was to cling to his inner ear like moss on a sunless wall. Later on, your silence, Mwanito, was his defence against this recriminating echo.

For the second time in quick succession, Silvestre crossed the road with your mother in his arms. But this time, it was as if she had left her weight hanging from the gallows. He placed her body on the floor of the veranda and looked: there was no trace of blood, no sign of an illness or injury from a fight. If it weren't for the complete stillness of her breast, one would say she was alive. At this point, Silvestre burst into tears. Whoever passed that way would have thought that Silvestre had succumbed to the pain of death. But it wasn't his widower's state that was making him weep. Your father was crying because he felt scorned. A married woman's suicide is the worst indignity for any husband. Wasn't he the legitimate owner of her life? In that case, how could he accept such a humiliating act of disobedience? Dordalma hadn't abdicated from life: having lost possession of her own life, she had cast the spectacle of her own death in your father's face.

You already know what happened at the funeral. The wind deranged the graves, making it impossible to carry out a burial. Others were needed, the professional gravediggers, to complete the interment. Once home, after the funeral, Ntunzi was the most solitary of all the children in the world. No amount of affection from those present could console him. Only a word from old Silvestre Vitalício could heal him. But your father remained distant. It was you who passed through the crowd and took the widower's face in your little hands. Your hands offered Silvestre a refuge, tucked away inside a perfect silence. Maybe it was in that silence that he caught a glimpse of Jezoosalem, that place beyond all places.