The Tuner of Silences

I, MWANITO, THE TUNER OF SILENCES

I was eleven years old when I saw a woman for the first time, and I was seized by such sudden surprise that I burst into tears. I lived in a wasteland inhabited only by five men. My father had given the place a name. It was called, quite simply, Jezoosalem. It was the land where Jesus would uncrucify himself. And that was the end of the matter, full stop.

My old man, Silvestre Vitalício, explained to us that the world had come to an end and we were the only survivors. Beyond the horizon lay territory devoid of any life, that he referred to vaguely as “Over There.” The entire planet could be summed up in a nutshell like this: stripped of people, with neither roads nor traces of any living creature. In those faraway places, even tormented souls had become extinct.

In Jezoosalem, on the other hand, there were only the living. Folk knew nothing of what it was like to yearn for the past or hope for the future, but they were alive. There we were, so alone that we didn’t even suffer from any illnesses, and I believed we were immortal. Round about us, only animals and plants died. And when there was a drought, our nameless river faded into untruth, becoming a little stream that flowed around the back of our camp.

Mankind consisted of me, my father, my brother Ntunzi and Zachary Kalash, our servant who, as you will see, was not a man of any presence at all. And there was no one else. Or almost no one. To tell you the truth, I forgot two semi-inhabitants: the jenny, Jezebel, who was so human that she satisfied the sexual needs of my old father. And I also forgot my Uncle Aproximado. This member of the family needs special mention, for he didn’t live with us in the camp. He lived next to the entrance gate to the game reserve, well beyond the permitted distance, and he only visited us from time to time. From where we lived to his hut was a farness full of hours and wild animals.

For us children, Aproximado’s arrival was an excuse for great rejoicing, a jolt to our tedious routine. Uncle would bring us provisions, clothes, the basic necessities of life. My father would step out nervously to meet the truck piled high with our goods. He would intercept the visitor before he passed the fence that surrounded our dwellings. At this point, Aproximado was obliged to wash himself, so as not to bring in any contamination from the city. He would wash himself with earth and with water, no matter whether it was cold or whether night had fallen. After his bath, Silvestre would unload the truck, hurrying his delivery and hastening his departure. In a flash, quicker than a wing beat, Aproximado would once again disappear beyond the horizon before our anguished gaze.

— He’s not a real brother— Silvestre would justify himself. — I don’t want too much talk, the man doesn’t know our customs.

This little cluster of humanity, joined like the five fingers on a hand, was, however, divided: my father, Uncle and Zachary were dark-skinned; Ntunzi and I were black as well, but had lighter skin.

— Are we a different race? — I asked one day.

My father replied — No one is from one race alone. Races—he said—are uniforms we put on.

Maybe Silvestre was right. But I learnt too late that the uniform sometimes sticks to the soul of men.

— You get that light skin from your mother, Dordalma. Little Alma had a touch of mulatto in her—Uncle explained.

Family, school, other people, they all elect some spark of promise in us, some area in which we may shine. Some are born to sing, others to dance, others are born merely to be someone else. I was born to keep quiet. My only vocation is silence. It was my father who explained this to me: I have an inclination to remain speechless, a talent for perfecting silences. I’ve written that deliberately, silences in the plural. Yes, because there isn’t one sole silence. Every silence contains music in a state of gestation.

When people saw me, quiet and withdrawn in my invisible sanctum, I wasn’t being dumb. I was hard at it, busy in body and soul: I was weaving together the delicate threads out of which quiescence is made. I was a tuner of silences.

— Come here, son, come and help me be quiet.

At the end of the day, the old man would sit back in his chair on the veranda. It was like that every night: I would sit at his feet, gazing at the stars high up in the darkness. My father would close his eyes, his head swaying this way and that, as if his tranquillity were driven by some inner rhythm. Then, he would take a deep breath and say:

— That was the prettiest silence I’ve ever heard. Thank you, Mwanito.

It takes years of practice to remain duly silent. I had a natural gift for it, some ancestral legacy. Maybe I inherited it from my mother, Dona Dordalma, who could be sure? She was so silent, she had ceased to exist and no one even noticed that she no longer dwelt among us, the lively living.

— You know son: there’s the stillness of cemeteries. But the quiet of this veranda is different.

My father. His voice was so discreet that it seemed just another type of silence. He coughed a bit and that hoarse cough of his was a hidden speech, without words or grammar.

In the window of the next house, the flickering light of an oil lamp could be seen. My brother was keeping an eye on us for sure. My heart was scuffed with guilt: I was the chosen one, the only one to share intimacies with our eternal progenitor.

— Aren’t we going to call Ntunzi?

— Leave your brother to himself. You’re the one I like to be alone with.

— But I’m almost falling asleep, Father.

— Just stay a bit longer. I’ve got so much rage inside me, so much pent-up rage. I need to drown this rage, and I haven’t got the strength.

— What rage is this, Father?

— For many years, I gave sustenance to wild beasts thinking they were household pets.

I was the one who complained of feeling sleepy, but he was the one who was falling asleep. I left him nodding off in his chair and went back to the room where Ntunzi was waiting for me, wide awake. My brother looked at me with a mixture of envy and commiseration:

— Did he give you all that nonsense about silence again?

— Don’t talk like that, Ntunzi.

— That old man’s gone mad. And to top it all off the guy doesn’t like me.

— He does.

— Why doesn’t he ever call me then?

— He says I’m a tuner of silences.

— And do you believe him? Can’t you see it’s all a big lie?

— I don’t know, brother, what can I do if he wants me to sit there all nice and quiet?

— Don’t you understand it’s all just talk? The truth of it is you remind him of our dead mother.

Ntunzi had reminded me a thousand times why my father had chosen me as his favourite. The reason for this preference of his had originated in one never-repeated instant: at our mother’s funeral, Silvestre didn’t know how to express his grief in public, and took himself off into a corner in order to cry his eyes out. That was when I approached my father and he got down on his knees so as to look into my three-year-old face. I raised my arms and instead of wiping away his tears, I placed my little hands over his ears. As if I were trying to turn him into an island and were distancing him from anything that had a voice. Silvestre shut his eyes inside this echoless haven: and he saw that Dordalma had not died. His arm stretched blindly in the shadow:

— My dearest Alma!

That was the last time he uttered her name. Nor did he ever again openly recall the time when he had been a husband. He wanted it all kept quiet, consigned to oblivion.

— And you, my son, must help me.

As far as Silvestre Vitalício was concerned, my vocation had been decided: I was to take care of this incurable absence, put out to pasture those demons that consumed his sleep. One time, when we were busy sharing our silence, I broached the subject:

— Ntunzi says I remind you of our mother. Is that so, Father?

— It’s the opposite, you protect me from those memories. It’s that Ntunzi who keeps bringing back the afflictions of the past to me.

— Do you know something, Father? Yesterday I dreamed of my mother.

— How can you dream of someone you never knew?

— I knew her, I just don’t remember.

— That’s the same thing.

— But I remember her voice.

— What voice? She hardly ever said a word.

— I can remember a peace that seemed, I don’t know, that seemed like water. Sometimes I think I can remember the house, the great peacefulness of that house. .

— And Ntunzi?

— What about Ntunzi, Father?

— Is he so sure he can remember your mother?

— Not a day goes by without him recalling her.

My father didn’t answer. He brooded despondently for a while and then, his voice hoarse as if he’d been to the depths of his soul and back, he declared:

— I’m going to say this once and never again: you children can’t remember anything or dream of anything at all.

— But I do dream, Father. And Ntunzi can remember so many things.

— It’s all a lie. What you dream is what I produced in your heads. Do you understand?

— I understand, Father.

— And whatever you remember, I’m the one who planted it in your heads.

A dream is a conversation with the dead, a journey to the land of the souls. But there were no longer any dead, nor was there a territory for the souls. The world had ended and its demise brought with it obliteration: death without any dead. The land of the departed had been annulled, the realm of the gods cancelled. That’s what my father said all in one breath. Even today, I find Silvestre Vitalício’s explanation harrowing and confusing. But at that particular moment, he was peremptory:

— That’s why you must neither dream nor remember. Because I don’t dream or remember.

— But Father, don’t you have any memory of our mother?

— Not of her, not of the house, not of anything. I don’t remember anything any more.

He got up with a groan to go and heat up the coffee. His steps were like a baobab pulling up its own roots. He looked at the fire as if he were looking at himself in a mirror, then closed his eyes and inhaled the aromatic steam rising from the coffee pot. And with his eyes still shut, he whispered:

— I’m going to confess a sin: I stopped praying when you were born.

— Don’t say that, Father.

— I’m telling you.

Some people have children in order to get closer to God. He had become God when he became my father. That’s what Silvestre Vitalício said. And he continued: the falsely downhearted, the insincere loners, they believe that their lamentations are heard in the heavens.

— But God is deaf—he said.

He paused so as to raise his cup and taste his coffee with relish, and then he insisted:

— And even if he wasn’t deaf: what is there to say to God?

In Jezoosalem, there was no church of stone with a cross in it. My father made a cathedral out of my silence. It was there that he awaited God’s return.

To be truthful, I wasn’t born in Jezoosalem. I am, let us say, an emigrant from a place without name, geography, or history. Straight after my mother died, when I was three, my father grabbed me and my elder brother and abandoned the city. He crossed forests, rivers and deserts until he reached what he guessed must be the most inaccessible spot. During our odyssey we passed thousands of people going in the opposite direction: fleeing the countryside for the city, escaping a rural war to seek shelter in an urban misery. People thought it strange: why was our family striking off into the interior, where the nation was burning?

My father was travelling up front, in the passenger seat. He looked sick, and perhaps thought he was travelling on a ship rather than in a road vehicle.

— This is Noah’s Ark on wheels—he proclaimed as we were still taking our places in the old rattletrap.

Next to us, at the back of the truck, sat Zachary Kalash, the former soldier who helped my old man in his daily tasks.

— But where are we going? — my brother asked.

— From now on there’s no where to talk about—Silvestre declared.

At the end of our great journey, we settled on a game reserve that had long been abandoned, and took shelter in an old camp that had once been used by hunters. Round about, all was emptiness because of the war, and there was no human presence whatsoever. Even animals were scarce. There was only an abundance of bushland, unpenetrated by any road for many years.

We settled in the ruins of the camp. My father in the central ruin, Ntunzi and I in a building next to it. Zachary made himself at home in an old shed out at the back. The old administrative building was left unoccupied.

— That house— my father said — is inhabited by shadows and governed by memories.

Later, he issued an order:

— No one is to enter that place!

Rebuilding work was minimal. Silvestre didn’t want to disrespect what he called “the work of time.” He did, however, busy himself with one task: at the entrance to the encampment, there was a little square with a pole, where flags were hoisted in the old days. My father turned the flagpole into a support for a huge crucifix. Above Christ’s head, he fixed a sign which read: “Welcome, Mister God.” This was his belief:

— One day, God will come and apologize to us.

Uncle and the old soldier Kalash crossed themselves frantically, so as to exorcize the heresy. We smiled confidently: we must be the beneficiaries of some divine protection as we never suffered an illness, or were bitten by a snake or pounced upon by a wild animal.

Time and time again, we would ask why we were there, so far away from everything and everyone. My father would reply:

— The world has come to an end, my children. Jezoosalem is all that’s left.

I believed what my father said. But Ntunzi thought the whole story crazy. Embittered, he probed persistently:

— So there’s no one else in the world?

Silvestre Vitalício took a deep breath, as if the answer required a great effort, and with a long, slow sigh, he murmured:

— We are the only ones left.

Vitalício was diligent, and devoted himself to our upbringing with great care and attention. But he made sure that his cares never gave way to tenderness. He was a man. And we were being schooled for manhood. We were the last and the only men. I remember that he would gently but firmly push me away when I tried to hug him:

— Do you close yours eyes when you hug me?

— I’m not sure, Father, I’m not sure.

— You shouldn’t do that.

— Close my eyes, Father?

— No, hug me.

In spite of his physical reserve, Silvestre Vitalício always fulfilled the role of maternal father, an ancestor in the present. I found his devotion strange. For his zeal contradicted everything that he preached. His dedication would only make any sense if there were, in some undisclosed place, a time full of future.

— But, Father, tell us, how did the world die?

— To tell you the truth, I can’t remember.

— But Uncle Aproximado. .

— Uncle tells a lot of stories. .

— Well then, you tell us, Father.

— It happened like this: the world finished even before the end of the world. .

The universe had come to an end without a spectacle, with neither thunderclaps nor flashes of lightning. It had withered away, exhausted by despair. This was how my father prevaricated on the subject of the cosmos’s extinction. First, the female places had begun to die: the springs, the beaches, the lagoons. Then, the male places had died: the towns, the roads, the ports.

— This was the only place left. This is where we’ve come to live for good.

To live? Surely, to live is to see dreams fulfilled, to look forward to receiving news. Silvestre didn’t dream, nor was he waiting for news. In the beginning, all he wanted was a place where no one would recall his name. Now, he himself could no longer remember who he was.

Uncle Aproximado would douse the flames of these paternal musings. His brother-in-law had left the city for banal reasons common to those who felt overcome by age.

— Your father complained that he could feel himself growing old.

Old age isn’t about one’s years: it’s fatigue. When we are old, everyone seems the same. That was Silvestre Vitalício’s lamentation. People and places had become impossible to differentiate from each other when he undertook his final journey. Other times — and there were so many other times — Silvestre would declare: life is too precious to be squandered in a disenthralled world.

— Your father is being very psychological—Uncle concluded. — He’ll get over it one of these days.

Days and years passed and father’s ravings continued. In time, Uncle showed up less and less. As for me, his growing absences pained me, but my brother disabused me:

— Uncle Aproximado isn’t the person you think he is—he warned me.

— I don’t understand.

— He’s a jailer. That’s what he is, a jailer.

— What do you mean by that?

— That dear little uncle of yours is the one who’s guarding this prison we’re being kept in.

— And why should we be in prison?

— Because of the crime.

— What crime, Ntunzi?

— The crime our father committed.

— Don’t say such a thing, brother.

All those tales our father invented about why we had abandoned the world, all those cock-and-bull stories had one purpose in mind: to befuddle us and remove us from our memories of the past.

— There’s only one truth: our old man is running away from the law.

— So what crime did he commit, then?

— One day I’ll tell you.

Whatever the reason for our exile, it was Aproximado who had led our retreat to Jezoosalem eight years before, driving us there in his rickety old truck. Uncle knew the place we were heading for. He had once worked on this reserve as a game warden. Uncle knew all about wild animals and guns, bush-lands and forests. While he drove us along in his old wreck, his arm dangling out of the window, he lectured us on the wiles of animals and the secrets of the bush.

That truck — the new Noah’s Ark — reached its destination, but breathed its last at the door of what would become our home. It was there that it rotted away, and there that it became my favourite toy, the refuge for my dreams. Sitting behind the wheel of the lifeless machine, I could have invented infinite journeys, conquered distances and obstacles. Like any other child, I could have travelled right round the planet until the whole world hung on my word. But this never happened: my dream had never learnt to travel. He who has always lived stuck in one place doesn’t know how to dream of anywhere else.

With my capacity for illusion diminished, I eventually perfected other defences against nostalgia. In order to deceive the slowness of the hours, I would declare:

— I’m off to the river!

What usually happened was that no one heard me. Even so, I got so much pleasure from the announcement that I went on repeating it while I headed towards the valley. On the way there, I would pause in front of a lifeless telegraph pole that had been erected, but had never got as far as working. All the other poles that had been stuck in the ground had turned into green shoots and were now trees with magnificent foliage. This particular pole was the only one standing there like a skeleton, solitary in the face of infinity. That pole, according to Ntunzi, wasn’t a post stuck in the ground: it was the mast of a ship that had lost its sea. That was why I always gave it a hug, as if seeking comfort from an old member of the family.

I would linger by the river in far-ranging reveries. I would wait for my brother who, at the end of the afternoon, would come down to bathe. Ntunzi would strip off his clothes and stand there, defenceless, gazing at the water with exactly the same look of yearning as when I saw him contemplating the suitcase that he packed and unpacked every day. Once, he asked me:

— Have you ever been under the water, sonny boy?

I shook my head, aware that I didn’t understand the depth of his question.

— Under the water—Ntunzi said, — you see things you’d just never imagine.

I couldn’t decipher my brother’s words. But little by little, I got the idea: the most truly living thing in Jezoosalem was that nameless river. When it came down to it, the ban on tears and prayers had a purpose. My father wasn’t as unhinged as we thought. If we had to pray or weep, it was to be right there, on the riverbank, upon bended knee on the wet sand.

— Father always says the world has died, doesn’t he? Ntunzi asked.

— But Father says so many things.

— It’s the opposite, Mwanito. It’s not the world that died. We’re the ones who died.

I shivered. I felt a chill pass through me, from my soul to my flesh, and from my flesh to my skin. So was death itself the place where we lived?

— Don’t say such a thing, Ntunzi. It scares me.

— Well, get this into your head: we didn’t leave the world. We were pushed out, just like a thorn expelled by the body.

His words pained me, as if life had skewered me, and in order to grow, I would have to prise its barb out of my body.

— One day, I’ll tell you everything—Ntunzi drew the conversation to a close. But for now, wouldn’t my little brother like to take a look at the other side?

— What other side?

— You know, the other side: the world, Over There!

I looked around me before answering. I was afraid our father might be watching us. I peeped up at the top of the hill, at the backs of the outbuildings. I feared Zachary might be passing by.

— Go on, take your clothes off.

— You’re not going to hurt me, are you, brother?

I remembered he had once thrown me into the muddy waters of a pool and I’d got stuck, my feet tangled in the hidden roots of bulrushes.

— Come with me—he beckoned.

Ntunzi sank his feet in the mud and entered the river. He waded out until the water was up to his chest, and urged me to join him. I felt the current swirling around my body. Ntunzi gave me his hand, fearing I might be swept away by the waters.

— Are we going to run away, brother? — I asked, trying to contain my enthusiasm.

I couldn’t understand why it had never occurred to me before: the river was an open highway, a channel that had been cleaved without let or hindrance. Our escape was right there and we hadn’t been able to spot it. As my resolve grew stronger and stronger, I began to make plans out loud: who knows, maybe we should return to the riverbank and make a dugout? Yes, a little dugout would be enough for us to escape that prison and flow out into the wide world. I looked at Ntunzi, who remained impassive in the face of my daydreaming.

— There’ll be no dugout. Never. So forget it.

Had I by any chance forgotten the crocodiles and hippos that infested the river further down? And the rapids and waterfalls, in a word, the countless dangers and traps that lay concealed in the river?

— But has anyone been there? It’s only what we’ve been told. .

— Just calm down and be quiet.

I followed him against the current and we waded our trail through the undulations until we reached a part where the river meandered ruefully, and the bed was carpeted with smooth pebbles. In this calm stretch, the waters were surprisingly clear. Ntunzi let go of my hand: I was to do as he did. Thereupon, he plunged in and then, while totally submerged, opened his eyes and looked up into the light as it reverberated off the surface of the water. I followed suit: from the river’s womb, I contemplated the sparkling light of the sun. And its radiance fascinated me, enveloping me in a gentle daze. If there was such a thing as a mother’s embrace, it must be something like this, this dizzying of the senses.

— Did you like it?

— Did I hell? It’s so beautiful, Ntunzi, they’re like liquid stars, so bright!

— See, little brother? That’s the other side for you.

I dived in again, seeking to sate myself in that spirit of wonderment. But this time I had a fit of giddiness. I suddenly lost all notion of myself, confusing the depths with the surface. There I was, twisting around like a blind fish, unable to swim up to the surface. I would have ended up drowning if Ntunzi hadn’t dragged me to the shore. Having recovered, I confessed that I had been seized by the chill of fear while underwater.

— Could it be that someone is watching us from the other side?

— Yes, we’re being watched. By those who will come and fish us.

— Did you say ‘fetch us’?

— Fish us.

I shuddered. The idea of our being fished, caught in the water, drew me to the horrifying conclusion that the others, those on the side of the sun, were the living, the only human creatures.

— Brother, is it really true that we’re dead?

— Only the living can know that, little brother. Only they.

The accident in the river didn’t inhibit me. On the contrary, I returned again and again to that bend in the river, and allowed myself to dive into the calm waters. And I would stay there endlessly, my eyes astonished, as I visited the other side of the world. My father never found out, but it was there, more than anywhere else, that I perfected my art as a tuner of silences.

MY FATHER, SILVESTRE VITALÍCIO

I knew my father before I knew myself. That’s why I’ve got a bit of him in me. Deprived of a mother’s presence, Silvestre Vitalício’s bony chest was my only source of comfort, his old shirt my handkerchief, his scrawny shoulder my pillow. A monotone snore was my only lullaby.

For years, my father was a gentle soul, his arms enveloped the earth, and the most time-honoured tranquillities nestled in their embrace. Even though he was such a strange and unpredictable creature, I saw old Silvestre as the only harbinger of truth, the sole foreteller of futures.

Now, I know: my father had lost his marbles. He noticed things that no one else acknowledged. These apparitions occurred mainly during the great winds that sweep across the savannah in September. For Silvestre, the wind was ghosts dancing. Windswept trees became people, the lamenting dead and trying to pull their own roots up. That’s what Silvestre Vitalício said, shut away in his room and barricaded behind windows and doors, waiting for calmer weather.

— The wind is full of sickness, the wind is just one big contagious disease.

On those tempestuous days, the old man would not allow anyone to leave the room. He would call me to remain by his side, while I tried in vain to nourish silence. I was never able to calm him down. In the rustling of the leaves, Silvestre heard engines, trains, cities in movement. Everything that he tried so hard to forget was brought to him by the whistling of the wind in the branches.

— But Father—I ventured, — why are you so scared?

— I’m a tree—he explained.

A tree, yes, but without its natural roots. He was anchored in alien soil, in that fluid country he had invented for himself. His fear of apparitions worsened as time progressed. From trees, it spread to night’s dark corners and to the earth’s womb. At one stage, my father ordered the well to be covered over when the sun went down. Fearsome and malevolent creatures might emerge from such a gaping hole. This vision of monsters bursting from the ground filled me with fear.

— But Father, what things can come out of the well?

There were certain reptiles I didn’t know about, that scratch around in tombs and bring back bits of Death itself under their nails and between their teeth. These lizards climb up the dank sides of wells, invade one’s sleep and moisten the bed sheets of grown-ups.

— That’s why you can’t sleep next to me.

— But I’m scared, Father. I just wanted you to let me sleep in your room.

My brother never commented on my wish to sleep close to my father. In the dead of night, he would watch me creep furtively along the hall and stake out my place near the forbidden entrance to my father’s quarters. Many times Ntunzi came and fetched me, lying like a rag on the floor and fast asleep.

— Come back to your bed. Father mustn’t find you here.

I would follow him, too dazed to be grateful. Ntunzi would lead me back to bed and once, he even took my hand and said:

— Do you think you’re scared? Well you may as well know that Father is much more scared.

— Father?

— Do you know why Father doesn’t want you there in his room? Because he’s scared to death that you’ll catch him talking in his sleep.

— Talking about what?

— Inadmissible things.

Once again, it was Dona Dordalma, our absent mother, who was the cause of such strange behaviour. Instead of fading away into the distant past, she invaded the fissures of silence within night’s recesses. And there was no way of putting the ghost to rest. Her mysterious death, without cause or visibility, had not stolen her from the world of the living.

— Father, has mother died?

— Four hundred times.

— What?

— I’ve told you, four hundred times: your mother died, every little bit of her, it’s as if she was never alive.

— So where’s she buried?

— She’s buried everywhere, of course.

So maybe that was it: my father had emptied the world so as to be able to fill it with his inventions. At first, we were bewitched by the flighty birds that emerged from his speech and curled upwards like smoke.

— The world: do you want to know what it’s like?

Our eyes answered by themselves. Yes of course, we yearned to know about it, as if the ground on which we stood depended on it.

— Well, the world, children. .

And he would pause, his head swaying as if his ideas were being weighed, now this way, now that. Then, he would get to his feet, repeating with a cavernous voice:

— The world, my children. .

In the beginning, I was afraid of these ruminations. Maybe my father just didn’t know how to answer, and I found such weakness difficult to bear. Silvestre Vitalício knew everything and his absolute knowledge was the home that gave me protection. It was he who conferred names on things, it was he who baptized trees and snakes, it was he who foresaw winds and floods. My father was the only God we’d been given.

— All right, you deserve to know, I’m going to tell you about the world. .

He began to sigh, and I began to sigh. Words had returned to him after all, and the light he cast brought me back once more to the firm ground of certainty.

— Well it’s all perfectly simple, children: the world has died, and all that’s left is Jezoosalem.

— Don’t you think there might be a woman survivor out there? — My brother once suggested.

Silvestre raised an eyebrow. Ntunzi backed off, knowing his question was provocative: without women, we would have no seeds left. Father raised his arms and covered his head with them in an almost childlike response. Ntunzi repeated his theme, as if he were scraping a fingernail across glass.

— Without women, there’s no seed left. .

Silvestre’s abruptness re-affirmed the old, but never openly stated prohibition: women were a forbidden subject, more so even than prayer, more sinful than tears or song.

— I won’t have this talk. Women are forbidden to come here, and I don’t even want to hear the word spoken. .

— Calm down, Father, I just wanted to know. .

— We don’t talk about these things in Jezoosalem. Women are all. . they’re all whores.

We’d never heard him utter such a word. But it was as if a knot had been untied. From then on, for us, the term “whore” became another word to mean “woman.” And on occasions when Aproximado forgot himself and launched forth on the subject of women, my old man would stumble through the house shouting:

— They’re all whores!

For Ntunzi, such strange behaviour was proof of Silvestre Vitalício’s growing insanity. As far as I was concerned, my father was suffering, at the most, from a passing illness. It was this infirmity that had us digging the rock-hard soil to make dry, lifeless wells, right in the middle of winter, precisely when the clouds were at their most barren.

At the end of the day, our father would inspect these skeletal pits, scratched out amid clods of earth and grit. To check the effectiveness of our toil, he would begin his inspection like this: A long rope was attached to Ntunzi’s feet and he was lowered down into the rocky opening. We watched apprehensively, as he was gobbled up by the depths, barely connected to the world of the living. In Silvestre’s hands, the taut rope was the opposite of an umbilical cord. My brother was hoisted back up to the surface, only for us to then go and open up another hole. We would end the day exhausted, covered in sand, our hair matted with dust. Occasionally, I would venture to ask:

— Why are we digging, Father?

— It’s just for God to see. Just for Him to see.

God never did see, for where we were was too remote. Heavenly manna was never going to be poured into the burning pan of those holes. Silvestre wanted to render the Creator’s work ugly, like that jealous husband who deformed his wife’s face so that no one else could enjoy her beauty. His explanation, however, was completely different: the wells were nothing less than traps.

— Traps? To catch which animals?

— They’re other animals, ones that have come from afar. I can already hear them on the prowl near here.

No matter how doubtful we were, we knew we wouldn’t get any further explanations. A vague feeling that something inevitable was imminent came to dominate old Vitalício. The orders we began to get became more and more erratic. For example, under orders from Silvestre, I, my brother and Zachary Kalash began to sweep the footpaths. The verb “to sweep” was only correct in our father’s language. For it was a kind of reverse sweeping: instead of clearing the paths, we spread dirt, twigs, stones and seeds over them. What, in fact, were we doing? In those nascent paths, we were killing any propensity they might have to grow and become roads. And in this way, we stifled any possible destination at birth.

— Why are we wiping out the road, Father?

— I’ve never seen a road that wasn’t sad—he answered without taking his eyes from the wicker that he was plaiting to make a basket.

And as my brother wouldn’t give up, so demonstrating his dissatisfaction with the answer, my father elaborated his argument. We could see very well what the road brought with it.

— It brings Uncle Aproximado and our provisions.

Silvestre pretended not to hear and continued impassively:

— Waiting. That’s what the road brings. And it’s waiting that makes us grow old.

So we went back to being imprisoned under barren clouds and aged skies. In spite of our solitude, we couldn’t complain of having nothing to do. Our daily lives were regulated from sunrise to sunset.

The cycles of light and of the day were a serious matter in a world where the idea of a calendar had been lost. Every morning, our old man would inspect our eyes, peering closely into our pupils. He wanted to make sure we had witnessed the sunrise. This was the first duty of living creatures: to watch the creator’s star emerge. By the light preserved in our eyes, Silvestre Vitalício knew when we were lying and when we had allowed ourselves too much time between the sheets.

— That pupil’s full of night.

At the end of the day, we had other obligations that were equally inviolate. When we came to say good night, Silvestre would ask:

— Have you hugged the earth, son?

— Yes, Father.

— Both arms open on the earth?

— A hug like the one Father taught us to give.

— Well, go to bed then.

As a rule, he retired early, and didn’t stay up after sunset. We would accompany him to his room and line up while he settled himself in his bed. Then, with a vague gesture, he would say in a husky voice:

— You can go now. I’ve already started to leave my body.

The next moment, he was asleep. That was when our home-made miracle would occur: candles would light up all by themselves in every corner of the house. Later, when I was already in bed, I would hear Ntunzi blowing firmly, ushering in the kingdom of the owls and of nightmares. From time to time, I would see my brother sleepwalking, exclaiming in a voice that wasn’t his own:

— Mateus Ventura, you’re going to burn in the depths of hell!

Even when he was asleep, my elder brother had to contest paternal authority. The name, Mateus Ventura, was one of the unmentionable secrets of Jezoosalem. In fact, Silvestre Vitalício had once had another name. Before, he had been called Ventura. When we moved to Jezoosalem, my father bestowed new names on us. Having been re-baptized, we were born anew. And we became even more deprived of a past.

The change in names was not a decision that was taken lightly. Silvestre prepared a ritual with due pomp and circumstance. As soon as the sun set, Zachary started to beat a drum and to recite, at the top of his voice, some impenetrable litany. Uncle, my brother and I gathered in the little square. There we stood, in silence, awaiting an explanation for why we had been summoned. That was when Silvestre Vitalício entered the square, wrapped in a sheet. He carried a piece of wood, and advanced towards the crucifix with the air of a prophet. He stuck the wood in the soil, and we could then see that it was a sign, upon which a name had been carved in bas-relief. Spreading his arms wide, my father proclaimed:

— This is the last surviving country and it’s going to be called Jezoosalem.

Thereupon, he asked Zachary to bring him a can of water. He sprinkled a few drops on the ground, but then thought better of it. He didn’t want to give the dead anything to drink. He scratched the earth with his foot until all vestiges had been erased. Having remedied his lapse, he announced in a solemn voice:

— Let us now proceed to the de-baptism ceremony.

And so we were each called forward in turn as follows: Orlando Macara (our dear Uncle Godmother) became Uncle Aproximado. My elder brother, Olindo Ventura, was transformed into Ntunzi. The assistant, Ernie Scrap, was renamed Zachary Kalash. And Mateus Ventura, my tormented progenitor, transformed himself into Silvestre Vitalício. I was the only one who kept the same name: Mwanito.

— This one is still being born—was how my father justified my keeping the same name.

I had various belly buttons, I had been born countless times, all of them in Jezoosalem, Silvestre revealed in a loud voice. And it would be in Jezoosalem that my final birth would be achieved. The world we had fled, the land of Over There, was so sad that one never wanted to be born.

— I’ve never yet known anyone who was born for the pure joy of it. Maybe Zachary here. .

Kalash himself was the only one who laughed. And it was to be the selfsame Zachary who, by higher appointment, would officially register our new names.

— Register the inhabitants in the population census, fill everything in on this piece of wood—Father ordered, handing him an old hunting knife.

Zachary positioned himself hesitantly, sitting so that the wood was between his legs, and took a while to begin the register, twiddling the knife from finger to finger and from hand to hand:

— Sorry, Vitalício. Is it register or rigester?

— Write down what I’m going to dictate.

Zachary Kalash sculpted the letters with great care in bas-relief, as if each were a wound in a living body. Then, after a while, he stopped cutting:

— Vitalício, with a small “v”?

At this moment Uncle Aproximado interrupted the ceremony and asked Silvestre, if he was being serious, to at least honour his ancestors by naming his sons after them. It had always been like that, from generation to generation.

— Placate our grandparents and give the boys their names. Protect the children.

— If there’s no past, there are no ancestors.

Aproximado left the ceremony, aggrieved. Ntunzi followed Uncle, leaving me without knowing what to do. The only one left was the soldier, sitting at my feet, and gazing up at the heavens in search of a solution to his orthographic uncertainties. Silvestre, full of pageantry, loosened the sheet round his neck and declared:

— We are five people, but there are only four demons. You—he pointed at me — are missing a demon. That’s why you don’t need any name. . for you, this is sufficient: boy, little lad, Mwanito.

It was a moonlit night, and it was hard to get to sleep. My father’s recent words on my incomplete birth echoed within me. And it occurred to me that I was to blame for my own orphanhood. My mother had died not because she had ceased to live, but because she had separated her body from mine. Every birth is an exclusion, a mutilation. If I had my way, I’d still be part of her body, and we would be bathed by the same blood. They talk of “parturition.” Well, it would be more correct to talk of “departurition.” I wanted to make amends for my departure.

The war robbed us of memories and hopes. But strangely enough it was the war that taught me to read words. Let me explain: the first letters I learnt were the ones I deciphered on the labels that were stuck on the crates of weapons. Zachary Kalash’s room, at the rear of the camp, was a real arsenal. The “Minister of War” was what Father called him. When we arrived at Jezoosalem, arms and munitions were already stored there. Zachary chose to install himself among them. And it was in that very hut that the soldier surprised me deciphering the labels on the containers.

— That’s not for reading, laddie—the old soldier scolded me.

— Not for reading? But they look like letters. .

— They look like them, but they’re not. That’s Russian, and not even Russians know how to read the Russian language. .

Zachary hastily tore up the labels. Then, he handed me some others that he took from a drawer, and that he said were the translation of the Russian originals, done by the Ministry of Defence.

— You just read these papers that are in pure Portuguese.

— Teach me to read, Zaca.

— If you want to learn, then learn by yourself.

Learn by myself? Impossible. But more impossible still was to hope that Zachary might teach me anything at all. He knew my father’s orders. In Jezoosalem, no books were admitted, or notebooks, or anything at all associated with writing.

— Well then, I’ll teach you to read.

That’s what Ntunzi said later. I declined. It was too risky. My brother had already shown me how to see the other side of the world in the river. I didn’t want to think about how old Silvestre would react if he came to know of his first-born’s transgressions.

— I’ll teach you to read—he repeated emphatically.

So that was how I began my first lessons. Some learn with spelling books, in classrooms. I began by spelling out the weapons of war. My first school was an ammunition dump. Classes were held in the semi-darkness of a storage shed, during the long periods when Zachary was out, shooting in the bush.

I was already putting words together, weaving sentences and paragraphs. I very quickly realized that, instead of reading, I had a tendency to intone, as if I were in front of a musical score. I didn’t read, but sang, thus magnifying my disobedience.

— Aren’t you scared we’ll get caught, Ntunzi?

— You should be scared of not knowing anything. After reading, I’m going to teach you how to write.

It wasn’t long before we began clandestine writing lessons. Scribbling in the sand of the yard with a little piece of kindling wood, I was fascinated, and felt the world being reborn, like the savannah after the rains. I gradually came to understand Silvestre’s prohibitions: writing was a bridge between past and future times, times that had never existed in me.

— Is this my name?

— Yes. M-w-a-n-i-t-o, that’s what’s written. Can’t you read it?

I never told Ntunzi, but at the time, I had the impression that I wasn’t learning with him. My real teacher was Dordalma. The more I deciphered the words, the more my mother, in my dreams, gained physical and vocal expression. The river made me see the other side of the world. Writing returned my mother’s lost face to me.

On Aproximado’s next visit, Ntunzi stole the pencil he used to note down our orders for provisions. My brother solemnly twirled the pencil with the tips of his fingers and told me:

— Hide it well. This is your weapon.

— So where shall I write? Do I write on the ground? — I asked, in a whisper.

Ntunzi replied that he’d already given the matter some thought. And he walked off. Not long after, he reappeared with a pack of cards.

— This will be your school notebook. If the old man appears, we’ll pretend we’re having a game.

— Write on a pack of cards?

— What other paper is there round here?

— But with the pack we use to play?

— Precisely for that reason: Father will never suspect. We already cheat at cards. Now, we’ll cheat at life.

So that’s how I began my first diary. It was also how aces, jacks, queens, kings, deuces and the seven of hearts began to share my secrets. My minute scrawl filled hearts, clubs, diamonds and spades. Into those fifty-two little squares of paper, I poured a childhood of vexations, hopes and confessions. In my games with Ntunzi, I was always the loser. But I lost myself in my games with writing.

Every night, after my jottings, I would wrap the pack of cards up and bury it in the back yard. I would return to my room and gaze enviously at Ntunzi’s face as he slept. I had already learnt to glimpse the liquid lights of the river, and I already knew how to travel across written letters as if each one were an endless highway. But I still needed to know how to dream and to remember: I wanted that boat that took Ntunzi to the arms of our dead mother. On one occasion, my anger overflowed:

— Father says it’s a lie, he says you don’t dream about our mother.

Ntunzi looked at me with pity, as if I were disabled and that my organ for dreaming had been damaged.

— Do you want to dream? You’re going to have to pray, little brother.

— Pray? Don’t you know that Father. .

— Forget Father. And I said it’s if you want to dream.

— But I’ve never prayed. I don’t even know how it’s done. .

— Give me one of the cards, and I’ll write a prayer on it for you to learn by heart. Then, you’ll start dreaming, just you see.

I dug up the pack and handed him an ace of diamonds. He would have space enough around the red lozenge to scribble the sacred words.

— No, not that one. You’d better give me a queen. It’s because it’s a prayer to Our Lady.

I guarded that card as if it were the most precious thing I would ever possess in my life. When I knelt down by my bed, my heart would stumble over that little prayer. Until, one day, the soldier Zachary surprised me as I was mouthing the litany.

— Are you singing, Mwanito?

— No, Zaca, it’s nothing. It’s Russian. I learnt the labels that were left.

I didn’t have a leg to stand on with my lie. Zachary, of course, was spying on us under orders from Silvestre. We were immediately summoned before him. My father already had his charges prepared against Ntunzi:

— It was you who taught your little brother.

Foreseeing violence, I rushed forward to defend my brother:

— I learnt it without Ntunzi knowing.

— No one prays here!

— But Father, what’s so bad about it? — Ntunzi asked.

— To pray is to summon visitors.

— But what visitors, if there’s no one else in the world?

— There’s Uncle. . — I improvised a correction.

— Shut up, who told you to talk? — my brother shouted.

Old Silvestre smiled, pleased at his elder son’s desperate behaviour. He didn’t have to intervene, his son was receiving his punishment in another way. Ntunzi noted his father’s satisfaction and took a deep breath in order to control himself. His tone was more measured by the time he spoke again:

— What visitors from outside could we have? Explain it to us, Father.

— There are visitors we can have without even being aware of it. They’re angels and demons who turn up without so much as a by your leave. .

— Angels or demons?

— Angels or demons, there’s no difference between them. The difference lies in us.

Silvestre’s raised arm left no room for doubt: the conversation had exceeded its limits. It was made clear that there was to be no more praying, ever. And that was it, period, there was only one resolution and that was irrefutable.

— And you! — my father proclaimed, pointing at me: —I don’t want to hear you crying ever again.

— When did I ever cry, Father?

— Just now, you were snivelling.

And just as he was leaving, Ntunzi showed that he wanted to have the last word. Before Silvestre’s astonished gaze, he asked:

— No praying or crying?

— Crying or praying, it’s all the same thing.

The following night, I was woken by the roar of lions. They were nearby, maybe they were even prowling round the corral. In the darkness of the room, I hugged myself to try and get to sleep. Ntunzi was dead to the world while I was unable to curb my fear, and went to find shelter under my father’s bed. In that clandestine intimacy, flat out on the cold floor, I was lulled to sleep by his snores. But not long afterwards, I was discovered and expelled angrily.

— Father, please, let me sleep with you just this once.

— People sleep together in the cemetery.

I returned to my bed, unprotected, and listened to the roars of the big cats, which came ever nearer. At that moment, as I stumbled around defenceless in the dark, I hated my father for the first time. As I settled down in bed, my heart was seething with fury.

— Shall we kill him?

Ntunzi was leaning on his elbow in bed, waiting for my answer. He waited in vain. My voice had stuck in my throat. He pressed on:

— The bastard killed our mother.

I shook my head, desperately refuting the idea. I didn’t want to listen. I wished I could hear the lions roaring again so that they might block out my brother’s voice.

— Don’t you believe it?

— No — I murmured.

— Don’t you trust me?

— Maybe.

— Maybe?

That “maybe” was an added burden on my conscience. How could I admit the possibility that my father might be a murderer? For a long time I tried to assuage this guilt. And I mulled over possible underlying reasons: if something had happened, my father must have acted against his will. Who knows, perhaps he had done so in illegitimate defence? Or maybe he had killed out of love and, in carrying out the crime, half of him had died as well?

The truth is that, as an absolutist ruler over his own solitude, my father was losing his wits, a refugee from the world and from the rest of humanity, but unable to escape from himself. Perhaps it was this despair that made him surrender to a personal religion, a very special interpretation of the sacred. Generally speaking, the role of God is to forgive us our sins. For Silvestre, God’s existence allowed us to hold Him responsible for the sins of humanity. In this reverse version of faith, there were no prayers or rituals: a simple cross at the entrance to the camp guided God on his arrival at our reserve. And there was a welcome sign above the cross, which read: “Welcome, illustrious visitor!”

— That’s so that God knows we’ve forgiven him.

This hope of a divine apparition provoked a scornful smile from my brother:

— God? We’re so far from anywhere, that God would get lost on the way here.

On our way to the river the following morning, we were not accosted by celestial creatures, but by my father, spitting anger. He was with Zachary Kalash, who kept himself out of it while Silvestre was getting ready to be taken over by violence.

— I know what you’re up to down by the river. The two of you, all naked. .

— We’re not doing anything, Father—I hastened to answer, puzzled by his insinuation.

— Keep out of this, Mwanito. Go back home with Zaca.

Over and above my own sobbing, I could hear the blows Silvestre was directing against his own son. Kalash even made a move to go back. But he ended up pushing me into the darkness of my room. That night, Ntunzi slept lashed to the fence. Next morning, he was ill, shivering with fever. It was Zachary who walked through the mist and carried him back to the room, while our dear Ntunzi was being brushed by death. It was barely light when I heard Silvestre, Zachary and Uncle Aproximado their footsteps whirling around the room. As morning progressed, I could no longer pretend I was asleep. Ntunzi, my only brother, only companion of my childhood, was slipping away towards the beyond. I left my room and armed with a stick, I began to write in the sand all around the house. I wrote and wrote, feverishly, as if I were set on occupying the entire landscape with my scribbling. The ground round about gradually became a page upon which I sowed my hope for a miracle. It was a supplication to God to hasten his arrival in Jezoosalem and save my poor brother. Exhausted, I fell asleep, prostrate over my own writing.

It was already day when Zachary Kalash shook me from my sleep, and tugged at my elbow:

— Your brother is burning. Help me take him down to the river.

— I’m sorry, Zachary, but wouldn’t it be better for Father to do that?

— Keep quiet, Mwanito, I know what I’m doing.

The river was the last hope of a cure. The soldier and I transported Ntunzi in a little handcart. His swaying legs looked as if they were already dead. Zachary immersed my poor brother’s lifeless body in the waters, plunging him in and out of the current seven times. But Ntunzi didn’t show any improvement, nor did the fever cease burning his scrawny body.

Faced with the likely outcome, Uncle Aproximado wanted to take the boy to a hospital in the city.

— I beg you, Silvestre. Go back to the city.

— What city? There is no city.

— Put an end to this. This madness can’t go on any longer.

— There’s nothing to put an end to.

— You know the pain of losing your wife. Well, you’d never get over the death of a son.

— Leave me alone.

— If he dies you’ll never be left alone. You’ll be haunted by your second tormented spirit. .

Silvestre only just managed to restrain himself. His brother-in-law had gone too far. My father gripped the arms of his chair so hard that it was as if the opposite were the case and the wood were securing him to the seat. Gradually his chest relaxed, and he gave a deep, long sigh:

— Well now, let me ask you this, my dear Orlando, or rather, my dear Brother-in-law: did you wash yourself when you reached the entrance to Jezoosalem?

— I won’t even bother to answer.

— So it was you who brought Ntunzi’s illness with you.

He picked Uncle up by the scruff of his neck and shook him around in his clothes like a rattle. Did he know how and why the family had escaped wild animals, snakes, illnesses and accidents up until then? It was simple: in Jezoosalem, there were no dead, no one risked encountering graves, the weeping of the bereaved, or the wailing of orphans. Here, there was no yearning for anything. In Jezoosalem, life didn’t owe anyone an apology. And at that moment, he felt no obligation to provide any more explanations.

— So you can go back to your stinking city. Get out of here.

Aproximado still slept with us that night. Before he fell asleep, I went over to his bed, determined to confess something to him:

— Uncle, I think it’s my fault.

— What’s your fault?

— I was the one who made dear Ntunzi fall ill.

This was why: I’d gone along with his wish that we should kill our old man. Aproximado rested his big round hand on my head, and smiled kindly:

— I’m going to tell you a story.

And he spoke of some father or other who didn’t know how to give his son enough love. One night, the hovel in which they lived caught fire. The man picked the child up in his arms and left the scene of the tragedy, trudging through the night. He must have crossed the borders of this world, for when he eventually put the child down on the ground, he noticed that there was no more earth. All that remained was emptiness upon emptiness, shredded clouds among faded skies. The man concluded to himself:

— Well now, my son will only ever find ground on my lap.

That little boy never realized that the vast territory where he later lived, grew up and made children, was no more than his old father’s lap. Many years later, when he opened up his father’s grave, he called his son and said to him:

— Do you see the soil, son? It looks like sand, stones and clumps of earth. But it’s arms as well, and its arms will embrace you.

I patted Uncle’s hand, and returned to my bed, where I lay wide awake for the rest of the night. I was listening to Ntunzi’s heavy breathing. And it was then that I noticed he was coming back to life. Suddenly, his hands stretched out feeling the darkness, as if he were looking for something. Then he moaned, almost on cue:

— Water!

I rushed over, holding back my emotions. Aproximado woke up and switched on a torch. The focus of its light veered away from us and meandered down the hall. The next moment, the three adults came into the room and hurried over to Ntunzi’s bed. Silvestre’s trembling hand sought out his son’s face and he saw that he was no longer feverish.

— The river saved him—Zachary exclaimed.

The soldier sank to his knees next to the bed and took Ntunzi’s hand. The other two adults, Aproximado and Silvestre, stood there facing each other, silent. Suddenly, they hugged each other. The torch fell to the ground and only their legs were visible, tottering nervously backwards and forwards. They were like two blind men in a clumsy dance. For the first time, Silvestre treated his brother-in-law with fraternal affection:

— I’m sorry, brother.

— If that nephew of mine had died, you’d have nowhere else in the world to hide. .

— You know very well how much I care for these kids. My sons are my last hope in life.

— But you’re not helping them like this.

You don’t help a bird to fly by holding onto its wings. A bird flies when it’s quite simply allowed to be a bird. That’s what Uncle Aproximado said. Then he left, engulfed by the darkness.

MY BROTHER, NTUNZI

M y brother Ntunzi had only one aspiration in his life: to escape from Jezoosalem. He had known the world, had lived in the city, and remembered our mother. I envied him for all this. Countless times I begged him to tell me about this universe that was unknown to me, and each time, he would linger on details, the colours and the bright lights. His eyes shone, swollen with dreams. Ntunzi was my cinema.

Incredible though this may seem, the person who had stimulated him in the art of telling stories had been our father. Silvestre thought that a good story was a more powerful weapon than a gun or a knife. But that had been before our arrival at Jezoosalem. At that time, and in the face of complaints about conflicts at school, Silvestre had encouraged Ntunzi: “If they threaten you with a beating, answer with a story.”

— Is that what Father said? — I asked, surprised.

— That’s what he said.

— And did it work? — I asked.

— I got beaten up all the time.

He smiled. But it was a sad smile because, in truth, what story was there to invent now? What story can be conceived without a tear, without song, without a book or a prayer? My brother’s expression became gloomy, and he grew old before my very eyes. On one occasion, his sorrow was expressed in a strange way:

— In this world there are the living and the dead. And then there’s us, the ones who have no journey to make.

Ntunzi suffered because he could remember, he had something to compare this with. For me, our reclusion was less painful: I had never experienced any other way of living.

I would sometimes ask him about our mother. That was his cue. Ntunzi would blaze like a fire fuelled by dry wood. And he would put on a complete performance, imitating Dordalma’s manner and voice, each time adding in one or two new revelations.

On the occasions when I forgot or neglected to ask him to revisit these memories, he would soon react:

— So aren’t you going to ask me about Mama?

And once again, he would re-kindle his memories. At the end of his performance, Ntunzi would become subdued again, just as happens with drunks and their euphoria. Knowing that the outcome would be sad, I would interrupt his theatre to ask:

— And what about the others, brother? What are other women like?

Then, his eyes would gleam anew. And he would turn on his heels, as if exiting an imaginary stage before re-emerging from the wings to imitate the ways of women. He would bunch his shirt up to simulate the bulk of a woman’s bosom, wiggle his buttocks and reel around the room like a headless chicken. And we would collapse on the bed, dying of laughter.

Once, Ntunzi told me of some old crush he’d had, a product more of his delirium than of lived experience. Not that it could have been otherwise: he had left the city when he was only eleven years old. Ntunzi dreamed his women with such ardour that they became more real than if they were flesh and blood. On one occasion, when he was in the middle of his hallucinations, he met a woman of boundless beauty.

When the apparition touched his arm and he looked at her, a cold shiver ran through him: the girl had no eyes. Instead of sockets, what he saw were two empty holes, two bottomless wells without sides.

— What’s happened to your eyes? — he asked unsteadily.

— What’s wrong with my eyes?

— Well, I can’t see them.

She smiled, astonished at his awkwardness. He must be nervous, unable to see properly.

— You can never see the eyes of the one you love.

— I understand—Ntunzi affirmed, recoiling with all due care.

— Are you scared of me, my little Ntunzi?

One more step backwards and Ntunzi lost his footing, tumbling into an abyss, and he is still falling, falling, falling, even today. As far as my brother was concerned, the lesson was clear. People who allow passion to take them by storm are destined to become blind: we stop seeing those whom we love. Instead, a lovesick man stares into his own abyss.

— Women are like islands: always distant, but quelling all the sea around them.

For me, all this was like thickening swirls of mist that merely made the mystery surrounding Woman more dense. I spent whole afternoons gazing at the queens on the playing cards, and thinking to myself that if those were true reproductions, then Ntunzi’s ravings had no basis whatsoever. They were as masculine and as arid as Zachary Kalash.

— Women sometimes bleed—my brother once told me.

I was baffled by this. Bleed? We all bleed; why did Ntunzi invoke that particular attribute?

— A woman doesn’t need to get injured, she’s born with a gash inside her.

When I addressed this question to Silvestre Vitalício, he answered: women were injured by God. And he added: she got slashed when God chose to be a man.

— Did my mother bleed too?

— No, not your mother.

— Not even when she died?

— Not even then.

The vision of a stream of blood flowing out of Silvestre’s body disturbed my dreams that night. It rained blood and the river was growing red, and my brother was drowning in the flood it caused.

And I dived into the waters to try and rescue his body, which was tiny and fragile, like that of a newborn baby, and fitted in my arms. Silvestre’s slurred speech echoed deep within me:

— I’m a male, but I bleed like women.

One time, my father came into our room and caught my brother doing one of his acts, busy imitating what he called a “showy woman.” Silvestre’s eyes grew red as if injected with hatred:

— Hey, who are you imitating? Who is it?

Whereupon he hit him so hard that my poor brother lost consciousness. I placed myself between them, offering up my body to placate our father’s fury, and I shouted:

— Father, don’t do this, my brother has almost died so many times!

And it was true: after having burned with fever, my brother continued to suffer from attacks. Ntunzi would swell up like a ball, his eyes dazed, his legs rubbery like some punch-drunk dancer. Then, all of a sudden, he would collapse on the floor. When this happened, I would hurry away for help, and Silvestre Vitalício would saunter over, repeating to himself words that were either a curse or a diagnosis:

— A burn on the soul!

Our old father had an explanation for these relapses: too much soul. An illness picked up in the city, he concluded. And raising his finger, he would growl:

— That’s where your brother caught this scourge. It was there, in that infernal city.

His therapy was simple but effective. Every time Ntunzi suffered these convulsions, my father would kneel on his chest and, using his fingers like a knife blade, he would apply increasing pressure on his throat. It looked as if he was going to asphyxiate him but, suddenly, my brother would deflate like a pricked balloon, and the air flowing between his lips produced a noise that was a bit like the braying of our jenny, Jezebel. When Ntunzi was empty, my father would lean right over until he was almost brushing his face and solemnly whisper:

— This is the breath of Life.

He would take a deep breath and blow strongly into Ntunzi’s mouth. And when his son began to jerk, he concluded triumphantly:

— There! I’ve given birth to you.

We should never forget, he stressed. And he repeated, breathless, his eyes defiant:

— Your mother may have pulled you from the darkness. But I have given birth to you many more times than she did.

He withdrew from our room in triumph. Not long afterwards, Ntunzi recovered his sanity and passed his hands right down his legs as if to make sure they were still intact. And that’s how he remained, with his back to me, regaining his existence. On one such occasion, I noticed his back shuddering with sadness. Ntunzi was weeping.

— What’s wrong, brother?

— It’s all a lie.

— What’s a lie?

— I don’t remember.

— You don’t remember?

— I don’t remember Mama. I can’t remember her. .

Every time he had acted out her part in such lively fashion, it had been pure pretence. The dead don’t die when they stop living, but when we consign them to oblivion. Dordalma had perished once and for all and, for Ntunzi, the time of his early childhood when the world had been born along with him had been extinguished forever.

— Now, my little brother, now we really are orphans.

Maybe Ntunzi felt his orphanhood from that night on. But for me, the sentiment was more bearable: I had never had a mother. I was merely the son of Silvestre Vitalício. For that reason, I couldn’t surrender to the invitations my brother directed towards me on a daily basis: that I should hate our father. And that I should wish him dead as strongly as he did.

Whether because of his illness or his despair, Ntunzi’s behaviour changed. Without the false nourishment of his memories, he became embittered, full of gall. His nights began to be taken up with a certain ritual: he would painstakingly pack the few possessions he had in an old suitcase, which he then hid behind the wardrobe:

— Never let Father see this.

First thing in the morning, with the same case resting on his feet, Ntunzi would sit engrossed in an ancient map that Uncle Aproximado had once given him in secret. With his index finger, he roamed again and again over the print, like a canoe drifting drunkenly down imaginary rivers. Then, he would scrupulously fold the map again and place it in the bottom of the suitcase.

On one occasion, while he was locking it, I ventured:

— Brother?

— Don’t say anything.

— Do you want some help?

— Help for what?

— Well, to put your case away. .

Perching on the chair, we pushed the case onto the top of the cupboard while Ntunzi murmured to himself:

— You old son-of-a-bitch, you murderer!

Some nights later, Ntunzi fell asleep, lulled by reading his map. The prohibited guide to journeys slipped and came to rest next to his pillow. That’s where my father found it the following morning. Silvestre’s fury made us jump from our beds:

— Where did you get this filth?

Silvestre didn’t wait for an answer. He tore up the old map, and then ripped it again into ever smaller pieces, on and on, until it seemed as if he was going to shred his own fingers. Cities, mountain ranges, lakes, roads, all fluttered to the floor. The entire planet was dissolving on the floor of my room.

Ntunzi stood there gaping, rooted to the spot, as if his very soul were being hacked to pieces. I took a deep breath and mumbled incomprehensibly. But Father was already leaving, and yelled:

— No one touch anything! Zachary is the one who’ll come and clean up this shit.

Shortly afterwards, the soldier burst into the room, carrying a broom. But he didn’t sweep up. He picked up the little pieces one by one, and threw them up in the air like a witch-doctor casting cowrie shells. The paper flurried and scattered across the floor in whimsical designs. Zachary read these shapes and, after a little while, called me over to him:

— Come, Mwanito, come and see. .

The soldier was sitting in the midst of a constellation of little bits of coloured paper. I went over while he pointed, his finger shaking:

— See here, this is our visitor.

— I can’t see anything. What visitor?

— The one who’s on her way.

— I don’t understand, Zaca.

— Our peace is coming to an end, here in Jezoosalem.

Next morning, Ntunzi awoke, his mind made up: he was going to run away, even if there was no other place. Our father’s latest aggression had led him to this decision.

— I’m leaving. I’m getting out of here, for good.

The case clutched in his hand reinforced the strength of his intention. I ran and seized his hands, begging him:

— Take me with you, Ntunzi.

— You’re staying.

And off he went down the track, with a nimble stride. I went after him, crying inconsolably, repeating amid my snivelling and my sobs:

— I’m going with you.

— You’re staying. I’ll come back for you later.

— Don’t leave me on my own, please, dear brother.

— I’ve made up my mind.

We walked for hours, ignoring all perils. When we eventually arrived at the entrance to the reserve, my heart felt overloaded. I shuddered, terrified. We’d never ventured so far. This was where Uncle Aproximado’s hut was. We went in: it was empty. As far as we could see, no one had lived there for a long time. I still wanted to take a closer look at the place, but Ntunzi was in a hurry. Freedom was there, just a few yards away, and he ran to open the wooden doors.

When the big old doors were fully open, we saw that the much heralded road was no more than a narrow track that was almost indiscernible, overgrown with elephant grass and invaded by termite hills. But as far as Ntunzi was concerned, the little path was an avenue that crossed the very centre of the universe. That narrow little footpath was enough to fuel his illusion that there was another side to the world.

— At last! — Ntunzi sighed.

He touched the earth with the palm of his hand, just as he did when stroking the women that he had invented in his play acting. I fell to my knees and implored him again:

— Brother, don’t leave me all by myself.

— You don’t understand, Mwanito. Where I’m going, there’s no one else. I’m the one who‘s going to be all by myself. . or don’t you believe in your darling father any more?

His tone was sarcastic: my brother was getting his revenge on me for being the favourite son. He pushed me away with a shove, and closed the doors behind him. I stood there, peeping through the cracks in the wood, my eyes full of tears. I wasn’t just witnessing the departure of my only childhood companion. It was part of me that was leaving. As far as he was concerned, he was celebrating the beginning of all beginnings. As for me, I was being unborn.

And I saw how Ntunzi raised his arms in a “v” for victory, savouring his moment like a bird setting off skywards. He stayed for a time swaying backwards and forwards, deciding which way to go. As if he were teetering on the edge of a cliff. He danced around on the tips of his toes, as if he were expecting to take a plunge rather than a step forward. I wondered: why was he taking so long to set off? And then I had my doubts: could it be that he wanted that instant to last forever? Was he indulging himself in the joy of having a door, and being able to close it behind him?

But then something happened: instead of moving forward as he had intended, my brother doubled up as if he had been hit by some invisible blow behind the knees. He fell on his hands and lay down in the posture of a wild animal. He dragged himself over the ground in circles, snuffling amongst the dust.

I quickly vaulted over the fence to help. And it pained me to see him: Ntunzi was stuck to the ground and in tears.

— Bastard! You great son-of-a-bitch!

— What’s wrong, brother!? Come on, get up.

— I can’t. I can’t.

I tried to lift him. But he weighed as much as a sack of stones. We still managed to stagger along, shoulder to shoulder, dragging ourselves as if we were wading against the current of a river.

— I’ll call for help!

— What help?

— I’ll try and find Uncle.

— Are you crazy? Go back home and bring the wheelbarrow. I’ll wait here.

Fear dilates distances. Under my feet, the miles seemed to multiply. I reached the camp and brought the little handcart. This was the barrow in which my brother would be transported back home. Spilling over the cart on either side his legs swayed, hollow and lifeless like those of a dead spider, all the way home. Defeated, Ntunzi whimpered:

— I know what it is. . It’s bewitchment. .

It was indeed bewitchment. But not a jinx put on him by my father. It was the worst of all spells: the one we cast on our own selves.

My brother fell ill again after his frustrated attempt at escape. He shut himself away in his room, curled up in bed and pulled the blanket up to cover himself completely. He stayed like that for days, his head hidden under the cover. We knew he was alive because we saw him shaking, as if he was having convulsions.

Little by little, he lost weight, his bones pricking his skin. Once again, my father began to get worried:

— Now son, what’s the matter?

Ntunzi answered so quietly and peacefully that even I was surprised:

— I’m tired, Father.

— Tired of what? If you don’t do anything from morning till night?

— Not living is what I find most tiring.

It gradually became clear: Ntunzi was going on strike over existing. More serious than any illness was this total abdication of his. That afternoon, my father lingered by his first-born’s bed. He pulled back the blanket and examined the rest of his body. Ntunzi was sweating so profusely that his sheet was soaked and dripping.

— Son?

— Yes, Father.

— Do you remember how I used to tell you to make up stories? Well, make one up now.

— I haven’t got the strength.

— Try.

— Worse than not knowing how to tell stories, Father, is not having anyone to tell them to.

— I’ll listen to your story.

— You were once a good teller of stories, Father. Now, you’re a story badly told.

I swallowed awkwardly. Although low in tone, Ntunzi’s voice was firm. And above all, it had the assurance of the finality of things. My father didn’t react. He hung his head and sank into himself as if he too had given up. One of us might be dying and it was his fault. Old Silvestre got up, turned and walked round and round the room until Ntunzi’s whisper once again made itself heard:

— Brother Mwana, do me a favour. . Go to the back wall and scratch another star in it.

I set off, aware that my father was following me. I made for the ruins of the old refectory and stopped only when I came to the huge wall that still preserved the black, scorched colour from when it had been set on fire. With a little stone, I drew a star on this big old wall. I heard my father’s voice behind me:

— What the devil is this?

The darkened wall was covered with thousands of tiny stars that Ntunzi had scratched every day, like the work of a prisoner on the walls of his cell.

— This is Ntunzi’s sky, each star represents a day.

I can’t be sure, but my father’s eyes seemed to fill with unexpected tears. Could it be that a dike had burst deep within him, and the grief of past ages that he had managed to contain for years was now bubbling up? I’ll never be sure. For a moment later, he seized a spade and began to scrape the wall with it. Its metal blade re-emphasized the blackened layer upon which Ntunzi had recorded the passage of time. Silvestre Vitalício took his time over this labour of destruction. By the time he had finished, the surface was covered with a darkened squares, while he, exhausted, went back the way he had come like some black, scaly reptile.

UNCLE APROXIMADO

When he drove us to the camp eight years ago, the ex-Orlando Macara didn’t believe that his brother-in-law, the future Silvestre, would remain so true to his decision to emigrate from his own life for good. Nor did he suspect that his name would be changed to Uncle Aproximado. Perhaps he preferred the form of address his nephews used for him previously: Uncle Godmother. None of this crossed our uncle’s mind when he brought us to the reserve. It was late in the afternoon when Aproximado climbed down from the truck, and pointing at the wide expanse of bush, said:

— This is your new home.

— What home? — my brother asked, as his gaze swept across the untamed landscape.

My father, who was still sitting in the truck, corrected him:

— Not our home. This is our country.

In the beginning, Uncle even lived with us. He stayed for a number of weeks. Aproximado was a former game warden who had lost his job because of the war. Now that there wasn’t even any world left, he had time to spend wherever he liked. For this reason, during the time he stayed with us, he put his hand to building and re-building the dwellings, repairing doors, windows and ceilings, bringing in sheets of corrugated iron and cutting down the vegetation around the camp. The savannah loves to gobble up houses and make castles unfit for human habitation. The earth’s great mouth had already devoured some of the houses and deep cracks had opened up in walls like scars. Dozens of snakes had to be killed inside and in the vicinity of the ruined houses. The only building that wasn’t rehabilitated was the administration block in the centre of the camp. This residence — which we came to call the “big house” — was cursed. It was said that the last Portuguese administrator of the reserve had been killed there. He had died inside the building and his bones must still be lying there among the rotting furniture.

During those first weeks, my old man was in a state of apathy, removed from the intense activity going on around him. He only busied himself with one task: making a huge crucifix in the small square in front of the big house.

— It’s so that no one else can get in.

— But weren’t you the one who told us we were the last ones alive?

— I’m not talking about the living.

As soon as he had nailed the sign to the cross, our old man summoned us all and, priest-like, conducted the ceremony of our re-baptism. That was when Orlando Macara ceased being our Uncle Godmother. His new designation indicated that he was not Dordalma’s blood brother. He was, as Silvestre put it, a brother-in-law twice removed. He had been adopted at birth and for the rest of his life he would preserve his rank as an alien, foreign creature. Aproximado was able to talk with our relatives, but he could never converse with the family’s ancestors.

Those first weeks came to an end, and our good Uncle went to live far away, pretending that he had settled in the guard’s lodge at the entrance to the park. I always suspected that this was not his true residence. Ntunzi’s frustrated flight had proved this: Aproximado’s hiding place must be much farther away still, in the middle of the dead city. I imagined him scavenging among the ruins and the ash.

— Not at all—countered Ntunzi, — Uncle really does live in the hut at the entrance. He’s there under Father’s orders, keeping watch.

This was his job: he was there to protect his brother-in-law, in his isolation, given that he was guilty of killing our mother. Aproximado had his guns trained outwards and, who knows, maybe he’d already killed police who were trying to find Silvestre. That was why we would occasionally hear the sound of gunfire in the distance. It wasn’t just the soldier Zachary shooting the animals that would be turned into our dinner at night. These shots were different, and had another purpose. Zachary Kalash was a second prison guard.

— They’re all in it together. In fact, those two are a three-some— Ntunzi guaranteed. — They’re joined by blood, of course, but it’s the blood of others.

Wherever it was that he lived, the truth is that Aproximado only visited us in order to keep us supplied with goods, clothes, medicine. But there was a list of banned imports, at the top of which were books, newspapers, magazines and photos. They would have been old and out of date anyway, but in spite of this, they were prohibited. In the absence of images from Over There, our imagination was fed by stories that Uncle Aproximado would tell us when my father wasn’t around.

— Uncle, tell us, what’s happening in the world?

— There is no world, my dear nephews, hasn’t your father told you enough times?

— Go on, Uncle. .

— You know, Ntunzi, you’ve been there.

— I left so long ago!

This conversation annoyed me. I didn’t like being reminded that my brother had once lived over there, that he had known our mother, and that he knew what women were like.

He didn’t tell us about the world, but Aproximado ended up telling us stories, and, without him being aware of it, these stories brought us many different worlds rather than just the one. For Uncle, having someone paying him attention was reason enough for him to be grateful.

— I’m always amazed that someone wants to listen to me.

As he spoke, he moved around, now this way now that, and it was only then that we realized that one of his legs was skinnier and shorter than the other. Our visitor, and may I be forgiven for saying this, looked like the Jack of Clubs. Out of error or haste, he had been put together in a way that left no space for either his neck or his legs. He gave the impression of being so tubby that there were no points to his feet. And rotund as he was, he looked as tall when he was standing as when he was on his knees. He was timid, bowing formally and respectfully as if confronted by a low doorway whichever way he turned. Aproximado would speak without ever abandoning his modest ways, as if he were always mistaken, as if his very existence were no more than an indiscretion.

— Uncle, tell us about our mother.

— Your mother?

— Yes, please, tell us what she was like.

The temptation was too great. Aproximado went back to being Orlando, and warmed to the idea of travelling through the recollections of his half-sister. He looked all around him, checking on Silvestre’s whereabouts.

— Where’s that fellow Silvestre?

— He went to the river, we can talk.

So Aproximado coursed and discoursed. Dordalma, may God preserve her many souls, was the most beautiful of women. She wasn’t dark like he was. She’d inherited her fair skin from her father, a little mulatto from Muchatazina. Our father got to know Dordalma and was smitten.

— Don’t you think our father might yearn for her?

— Ah! Come on now: who knows what it is to have a yearning?

— Does he or doesn’t he?

— To yearn for someone is to wait for flour to turn back into grain.

And he would ruminate on the meaning of what it is to yearn. Everything is in a name, he would say. Names, and nothing else. Let us take the butterfly, for instance: does it really need wings to fly? Or could it be that the very name we give it is a fluttering of wings? And that was how Aproximado slowly and elaborately spun his answers.

— Uncle, come back to earth, talk to us. Tell us: did Silvestre and Dordalma love each other?

At first, they got on together like wind and sail, scarf and neck. Occasionally, it has to be said, they would flair up in minor discord. Everyone knows what Silvestre is like: as obstinate as a compass needle. Little by little, Dordalma cloistered herself in her own world, sad and silent like an unpolished stone.

— So how did our mother die?

Here, there was no answer. Aproximado was evasive: at the time, he was away from the city. When he arrived home, the tragedy had already occurred. After receiving condolences, our father had this to say:

— A widower is just another word for someone who’s dead. I’m going to choose a cemetery, a personal one where I can bury myself.

— Don’t say such a thing. Where do you want to go and live?

— I don’t know, there isn’t anywhere any more.

The city had foundered, Time had imploded, the future had been submerged. Dordalma’s half-brother still tried to make him see reason: he who leaves his place, never finds himself again.

— You haven’t got any children, Brother-in-law. You don’t know what it’s like to surrender a child to this festering world.

— But have you no hope left, brother Silvestre?

— Hope? What I’ve lost is confidence.

He who loses hope, runs away. He who loses his confidence, hides away. And he wanted to do both things: to run away and to hide away. Nevertheless, we should never doubt Silvestre’s capacity to love.

— Your father is a good man. His goodness is that of an angel who doesn’t know where God is. That’s all.

His whole life had been devoted to one task: to be a father. And any good father faces the same temptation: to keep his children for himself, away from the world, far from time.

Once, Uncle Aproximado arrived early in the morning, thus ignoring the instruction that he should only turn up in Jezoosalem at the end of the day. In normal circumstances, Uncle would stumble in his steps, and his legs seemed to obey two contrary urges.

— If I’m limping it’s not a defect but a precaution—he would say.

This time, he’d thrown caution to the wind. Haste was the only ruler of his movements.

My father was busy patching up the roof of our house. I was holding the ladder where he was perched. Uncle twirled around and exclaimed:

— Come down, Brother-in-law. I’ve got news.

— News finished long ago.

— I’m asking you to come down, Silvestre Vitalício.

— I’ll come down when it’s time to come down.

— The president has died!

At the top of the steps, all activity stopped. But only for a few seconds. Then, I felt the ladder vibrating: my old man was starting to climb down. Once on the ground, he leant against the wall and busied himself wiping away the sweat that dripped from his face. My Uncle walked over to him:

— Did you hear what I said?

— I did.

— It was an accident.

Silvestre continued to wipe his face indifferently. With the palm of his hand, he shaded his eyes and looked up at where he had been perched.

— I just hope that’s plugged the leak—he concluded, carefully folding the cloth he had cleaned himself with.

— Did you listen to what I told you? That the president has died?

— He was already dead.

And he went inside. Uncle Aproximado remained, kicking the stones in front of the house. Fury is just a different way of crying. I stayed away, pretending to put the tools away. No one should approach a man who is pretending not to cry.

Then, Aproximado made a sudden decision. He went over to the ammunition store and called for Zachary. They talked for a while in muffled tones at the door of the hut. The news left the old soldier in a state of shock. It wasn’t long before he seized a rifle, beside himself with rage, and began to wave it around in the air threateningly. He crossed the little square in front of our houses, shouting repeatedly:

— They killed him! The bastards, they killed him!

And off he strode in the direction of the river, his cries growing ever fainter until the sound of cicadas could be heard once again. When everything seemed to have calmed down, my father suddenly opened the door of his room and addressed his brother-in-law:

— See what you’ve done? Who told you to give him the news?

— I’ll speak to whomever I like.

— Well you’re not going to speak to anyone else in Jezoosalem.

— Jezoosalem doesn’t exist. It’s not on any map, only the map of your madness. There is no Silvestre, Aproximado doesn’t exist, nor Ntunzi, nor. .

— Shut your face!

Silvestre’s hands tugged at Aproximado’s shirt. We were afraid of what would happen next. But the only substance old Vitalício gave his anger was when he made the following harsh pronouncement:

— Get out of here, you little cripple! And don’t come back, I’ve got no more orders for you.

— I’ll take my truck and never come here again.

— And apart from anything else, I don’t want motor vehicles passing this way, they churn up the soil and leave the earth with a gaping wound.

Aproximado pulled his keys from his pocket and took his time picking out the one to unlock his truck. This delay was his dignified retort. He’d leave, but when he chose. Ntunzi and I ran to try and persuade him otherwise.

— Uncle, please don’t go!

— Have you never heard the proverb: he who wants to dress up as a wolf is left without any skin?

We didn’t understand the adage, but we did understand that nothing would deter him. When Uncle was already sitting in the driver’s seat, he rubbed his forehead with his handkerchief as if he wanted to scrape off his skin or increase his already abundant baldness. And the roar of the truck drowned the sound of our farewells.

The following weeks flowed over us like a thick oil. Our food supplies gradually ran low and we began to depend almost exclusively on the meat that Zachary brought us, already cooked, at the end of the day. The garden produced little more than inedible grasses. Nameless wild fruits kept us going.

Meanwhile, Ntunzi busied himself drawing a new map and I spent whole afternoons down by the river as if its flow might cure me of an invisible wound.

One day, however, we heard the sound of the truck that we longed for so much. Aproximado had returned. In the little square, he braked with a flourish, sending up a cloud of dust. Without greeting us, he walked round the vehicle and opened its rear doors. Then, he began to unload boxes, crates and sacks. Zachary got up to lend a hand, but Silvestre’s harsh words made him stop.

— Sit down and stay where you are. None of this is for us.

Aproximado unloaded the vehicle without any help. When he’d finished, he sat down on a box and gave a tired sigh:

— I’ve brought you all this.

— You can take it back—my father answered crisply. No one asked you for anything.

— None of it is for you. It’s all for the kids.

— You can take it all back. And you, Zaca Kalash, help load this junk back onto the truck.

The assistant began by putting his arms round a box, but he didn’t get as far as lifting it. Our Uncle, boosted by an unexpectedly loud voice, countermanded:

— Stop it, Zaca! — and turning to my old man, he begged:

— Silvestre, Silvestre, listen to me, please: I’ve got grave news to tell you. .

— Has another president died?

— This is serious. I’ve noticed signs of life near the entrance.

— Signs of life?

— There’s someone out there.

We expected my father to deny everything outright. But he sat in silence, surprised by the fierceness of his brother-in-law’s declaration. We were astonished when Silvestre pointed to the empty chair and said:

— Sit down, but don’t stay long. I’ve got lots to do. Have your say, then. .

— I think the time has come. Enough is enough! Let’s go back, Mateus Ventura, the kids. .

— There’s no Mateus here.

— Come away, Silvestre. It’s not just the kids, I can’t take this any more.

— If you can’t take it, go away. You can all go. I’m staying.

Silence. My father looked up at the sky as if he were seeking company for his future stay. Then, his eyes alighted slowly on Zachary Kalash.

— What about you? My father asked.

— Me?

— Yes, you, Comrade Zachary Kalash. Do you want to stay or leave?

— I’ll do what you do.

Zachary spoke and there was nothing more to be said. He clicked his heels lightly and withdrew. Aproximado pulled up his chair next to Silvestre and sugared his voice for what he was going to say next.

— I need to understand, brother: why do you insist on staying here? Was it a problem at the Church?

— The Church?

— Yes, tell me, I need to understand.

— As far as I’m concerned, there has been no Church at all for a long time.

— Don’t say that. .

— I’ll say it, and say it again. What’s the point of having a belief in God if we’ve lost faith in men?

— Was it a problem with politics?

— Politics? Politics is dead, it was the politicians that killed it. Now, all that’s left is war.

— Like this, there’s nothing to talk about. You’re going round in circles, rambling on and on.

— That’s why I’m telling you: go away.

— Think of your sons. Above all, think of Ntunzi, who’s ill.

— Ntunzi’s better, he doesn’t need your lies to get well. .

— All this shit about Jezoosalem, it’s all one big lie—Aproximado yelled, showing that the conversation was now over.

The visitor moved away, limping more than usual. He looked as if he was simultaneously falling on both sides. As if his shortage of breath heightened his congenital defect.

— Go and do your limping far away from here, you freak.

Silvestre took a deep breath, relieved. He needed to insult someone. It was true that he mistreated Zachary. But his assistant was a little man. What’s the fun in insulting a little man?

ZACHARY KALASH, THE SOLDIER

— They’ll pop out, I’ll show you in a minute.

Zachary’s zealous fingers pressed the muscles of his leg right back to the bone. Suddenly, bits of metal popped out of his flesh, fell and rolled around on the ground.

— They’re bullets—Zachary Kalash proclaimed proudly.

He picked them up one by one with the tips of his fingers and revealed the calibre of each and the circumstances in which he had been shot. Each of the four bullets had its own particular origin.

— This one, the one from the leg, I got in the Colonial War. The one in the thigh, that one came from the war with Ian Smith. This one, in the arm, is from the present war. .

— What about the other one?

— What other one?

— The one in the shoulder?

— I don’t remember that one.

— That’s a lie, Zachary. Go on, tell us.

— I’m serious. I sometimes don’t even remember the others.

He wiped the projectiles on the sleeve of his shirt and stuffed them back in his flesh, using his fingers as if he were pushing in the plunger of a syringe.

— Do you know why my bullets and I are inseparable?

We knew. But we pretended we were hearing it for the first time. Just like the saying that he himself had invented and ceaselessly intoned: if you want to know a man, take a look at his scars.

— They are the opposite of my navel. It was through here—and he pointed to the holes —it was through here that death escaped.

— Leave the bullets alone, Zaca, we want to know about other things.

— What other things? I only have the skills that animals have: I can sense death and blood.

After my brother’s convalescence, Silvestre Vitalício believed that radical change would have to occur in Jezoosalem. So he made a decision: Ntunzi and I went to live for a while with Zachary Kalash. It was to clear our minds and, at the same time, to learn the riddles of existence and the secrets of subsistence. If we ever lost Zachary, then we would replace him in the life-saving activity of hunting.

— Make them wallow around in the mud—my old man ordered.

It was envisaged that we would roam along isolated paths, learn the arts of tracking and hunting wild animals, master the secret languages of the trees. And yet Zachary abstained from his role as teacher. What he wanted was to tell stories about hunting, to talk without conversing, to listen to himself in order not to hear his own ghosts. But we demanded other topics of conversation.

— Tell us about our past.

— My life is a mole’s burrow: four holes, four souls. What do you want to talk about?

— About our mother, and how she and our father courted.

— No, certainly not. I’ll never talk about that.

Zachary’s reaction seemed excessive. The man shouted, his hands crossed over his chest, and he went on and on without stopping:

— No, never.

He was the grandson of a soldier, the son of a sergeant, and he himself had never been anything but a soldier. So they shouldn’t come to him with the heart’s strategies, love and worthless yearning. Man is a creature with a taste for death, who loves Life, but likes even more to stop others from living.

— You still feel you’re a soldier. Own up to it, Zaca, do you miss the barracks?

The fellow ran his hands lovingly over the military tunic he always wore. His fingers lingered sleepily on the barrel of his rifle. Only then did he speak: It’s not the uniform that makes a soldier. It’s the oath. He wasn’t one of those who had enlisted because he was scared of Life. His being a soldier, as he put it, stemmed from the momentum of the moment. There wasn’t even a word for soldier in his mother tongue. The term used was “massodja,” and had been stolen from the English.

— I never had any causes, my only flag was myself.

— But Zaca, don’t you remember our mother?

— I don’t like going back in time. My head doesn’t have a long range.

Ernie Scrap, now renamed Zachary Kalash, had encountered deaths and shoot-outs. He’d escaped crossfires, he’d escaped all his recollections. His memories had fled through all the perforations of his body.

— I was never good at remembering. I’ve been like that since the day I was born.

It was Uncle Aproximado who discovered why he was so forgetful: why didn’t Zachary remember any wars? Because he’d always fought on the wrong side. It had always been like that in his family: his grandfather had fought against Ngungunyane, his father had enlisted in the colonial police, and he himself had fought for the Portuguese during the war of national liberation.

For our visiting relative, Uncle Aproximado, this amnesia was worthy of nothing save scorn. A soldier without a memory of war is like a prostitute who claims to be a virgin. That’s what Aproximado, without mincing his words, told Zachary to his face. The soldier, however, turned a deaf ear and never answered back. With an angelic smile, he steered the conversation out into the vacuousness of a subject in which he felt at ease:

— Sometimes I ask myself: how many bullets might there be in the world?

— Zaca, no one’s interested in knowing about that. .

— Could it be that during the war, there were more bullets than there were people?

— I couldn’t tell you— Ntunzi replied. — Nowadays, you can be sure there are: six bullets are enough to exterminate mankind. Have you got six bullets?

With a smile, Zachary pointed to the boxes. They were full of ammunition. There was more than enough to exterminate various mankinds. Everyone laughed except for me. For the emotion of living between the memories and forgetfulness of wars weighed heavily upon me. Gunpowder was part of our Nature, as the forgetful soldier assured us:

— One day I’m going to sow my bullets. Plant them out there. .

— Why did you leave the city, Zaca? Why did you come with us?

— What was I doing there? Digging holes in emptiness.

And as he spoke, he spat. He apologised for his manners. He was a man of correct breeding. He merely spat in order to rid himself of his own taste.

— I’m my own poison.

At night, his tongue would unfold like a snake’s. He would wake up with the taste of venom in his mouth, as if he’d been kissed by the devil. All because a soldier’s slumber is a slow parade of the dead. He awoke just as he lived: so lonely that he talked to himself merely so that he wouldn’t forget human speech.

— But Zachary: don’t you miss the city?

— Not at all.

— Don’t you even miss someone?

— My whole life has been lived in war. Here is where I’ve found peace for the first time. .

He wouldn’t go back to the city. As he said, he didn’t want to depend on instructions for his income. We should watch and see how he survived in Jezoosalem: he slept like a guinea-fowl. On the branch of a tree for fear of the ground. But on the lowest branch, in case he fell.

Zachary Kalash didn’t remember the war. But the war remembered him. And it tortured him with the renewal of old traumas. When there was thunder, he would rush out into the open in a frenzy, yelling:

— Bastards, you bastards!

All around him, the animals protested and even Jezebel whinnied in despair. They weren’t complaining about the storm. It was Zachary’s fury that upset them.

— He gets like that because of the thunderclaps—Silvestre explained. That’s what frightened him: the memory of explosions. The clash of clouds wasn’t a noise: it was the reopening of old wounds. We forget the bullets, but we never forget the wars.

Our father had sent us to live at the ammunition store and, for me, the real reason behind this had to do with Ntunzi and the need for him to be distracted. The natural hierarchy allotted Ntunzi a rifle and me a simple catapult. Zachary showed me how to improvise some elastic out of the truck’s old tires, and to construct a weapon with a deadly reach. The stone was projected with a sudden hiss, and the bird plummeted to the ground, hit by its own weight. It was my stone of prey.

— You kill, you eat.

That was Zaca’s command. But I wondered: can such a colourful little bird, so full of song, really be put on our dinner plate.

— The only thing I can teach you and Ntunzi is not to miss your shot. Happiness is a question of aim.

— Don’t you feel any pity when you kill?

— I don’t kill, I hunt.

The animals, he claimed, were his brothers.

— One day, I’m the predator, next day, they’re the ones who’ll gobble me up—he argued.

To be good at taking aim isn’t a skill: it’s an act of charity. In fact his aim was suicide: every time he killed an animal, it was he himself who was the target. And that morning, Zachary was once again going to have to shoot himself: our father had ordered us to bring some game for dinner.

— Uncle Aproximado is coming and we want to welcome him with plenty to eat and drink.

That was why we set off into the bush in pursuit of a bushbuck, the antelope that barks and bites like a dog. The soldier went on ahead and transmitted orders to us with his hands. From time to time, Zachary would pause and get down on his knees. Then, he would dig a little hole, crouch down and speak into the opening, whispering inaudible secrets.

— The earth will tell me where the hoofed animals are.

And once again off we would go, following trails that only Zachary seemed to know about. It was almost noon and the heat drove us to find some shade. Ntunzi collapsed on the ground and satisfied his somnolence and fatigue.

— Wake me up one of these days—he begged.

What happened next took me by surprise: the soldier got up and turned his coat into a pillow to make Ntunzi more comfortable in his sleep. I had never imagined such attention possible in Jezoosalem. Returning to the shade of the agbagba tree, Zachary slowly prepared a cigarette, as if he got more pleasure from rolling it than smoking it. He gradually settled down by the trunk and, satisfied, gazed far up into the foliage.

— This tree goes very well with the soil—he said.

The catapult lay dormant in his hand, which was nevertheless aware of every shifting shadow. The birds spend all their time flitting about. The hunter never really relaxes. Half his mind, that feline side of him, is ever watchful.

— Always a hunter, eh?

— What? Just because of this catapult? No, this is just to make me feel like a child.

And he seemed to vacillate in the face of sleep, so exhausted that he didn’t seem to want to move his eyes. The sun was at its peak, and merely having a body represented an unbearable burden.

— Did you ever have a wife, Zaca?

— I was always hopping around from here to there, never settling down in my mind. This world, my son, only provides a perch for vultures.

As far as we knew, the soldier had never had a wife or a son. Kalash explained himself. Some people are like firewood: good to be next to. Others are like eggs: always in dozens. That wasn’t the case with him. He was like the bushbuck: always wandering devoid of any company. It was a habit he’d got from the wars. No matter how big the platoon, a soldier always lives alone. Soldiers die collectively, and are buried in more than a common grave: they’re buried in a common corpse. But when it comes to living, they do it alone.

In the shade of the agbagba, we all seemed to have succumbed to sleep. But suddenly, the soldier leapt up as if impelled by some internal spring. He aimed his rifle and a shot tore through the silence. There was a noise among the bushes and we tumbled after it, in a dash to recover the wounded antelope. But the creature wasn’t where we expected. It had escaped through the vegetation. A trail of blood on the ground indicated the path it had taken. That was when we witnessed an unexpected transformation in Kalash. Ashen faced, he stumbled and to stop himself falling, he sat down on a stone.

— You two follow the trail.

— All on our own?

— Take the rifle. You, Ntunzi, do the shooting.

— But aren’t you going with us, Zachary?

— I can’t.

— Are you ill?

— I was never able to do it.

Was that experienced hunter and veteran soldier of so many wars balking at the last shot? Then Zachary explained that he was incapable of facing up to blood and the death throes of his prey. Either the shot hit the target and death was immediate, or he repented and gave up.

— Blood makes me behave like a woman, but don’t tell your father. .

Ntunzi took the rifle and not long afterwards, we heard shots. Soon he re-emerged dragging the animal behind him. From that day on, Ntunzi developed a taste for gunpowder. He would get up before dawn and trek through the bush, as happy as Adam before he lost his rib.

While Ntunzi was learning to be a hunter again, I was the one who got the most pleasure from being a shepherd. First thing in the morning, I would take the goats out to pasture.

— All the earth is a road for goats. And every piece of ground is pasture. There isn’t a wiser animal—Zaca remarked.

A goat’s wisdom lies in imitating a stone in order to live. On one occasion, when I was helping to herd the animals back into the corral, Zachary confessed something: there was, in fact, a memory that kept coming back to him. It went like this: Once, during the Colonial War, he watched an injured soldier being brought in. Nowadays, he knows: soldiers are always wounded. War even injures those who never get to the front. Well, this soldier was no more than a kid, and his injury was this: every time he coughed, a torrent of bullets came out of his mouth. That cough was contagious: he needed to get away. Zachary didn’t just feel the need to get away from the barracks. He wanted to emigrate from the time of all wars.

— It’s just as well the world has ended. Now I get my orders from the bush.

— And from Father?

— With all due respect, your father is part of the bush.

I was going in the opposite direction to Zaca: one day soon, I’d be an animal. How could it be that we were still men when we were so far from people? That was my question.

— Don’t think about it. It’s back there in the city that we begin to behave like animals.

At the time, I didn’t realize how right the soldier was. But now I know: the more uninhabitable the world gets, the more people live in it.

I had long ceased to understand Zachary Kalash. My doubts began over the question of his former name. Ernie Scrap. Why Scrap? It was obvious: he was a scrap of a human being, an anatomical leftover, a surplus bit of soul. We knew, but we never spoke of it: Zachary had been downsized as a result of a landmine going off. The contraption exploded, and trooper Scrap took off, like some primitive imitation of a bird in flight. They found him weeping, unable to walk. They sought in vain for physical injury. But the explosion had damaged his entire soul.

My doubts about Zachary’s humanity went further, however. On moonless nights, for instance, he would fire his rifle into the air, as if in celebration.

— What am I doing? I’m making stars.

Stars, he claimed, are holes in the sky. The countless stars were nothing more than this, holes that he opened up, shooting into the dark target of the firmament.

On the most starry nights, Zachary would call us out to see the heavenly spectacle. We would complain, dozily:

— But we’re sick of seeing. .

— You don’t understand. It’s not for you to see. It’s for you to be seen.

— Is that why you sleep outside the house?

— That’s for other reasons.

— But isn’t it dangerous, sleeping outdoors like this?

— I was an animal once. And I’m still learning to be a person.

We didn’t understand Jezoosalem, Kalash claimed.

— Things here are people—he explained.

We complained that we were alone? Well, everything that was around us were people, humans turned into stones, into trees, into animals. And even into a river.

— You, Mwanito, should do what I do: greet things when you pass by them. That way you’ll feel at peace. That way, you’ll be able to sleep outdoors, anywhere you like.

My night-time fears would be dissipated if I began to say hello to bushes and boulders. I never got to test the truth of Zachary Kalash’s advice for the simple reason that he withdrew shortly afterwards.

It happened straight after the unexpected appearance of Uncle Aproximado. Late in the afternoon we heard footsteps near the ammunition store, and Zachary crept forward, his weapon raised, ready to fire. The soldier whispered to my brother:

— It’s an injured animal, it’s limping; you do the shooting, Ntunzi. .

Then we heard our Uncle’s unmistakable voice from behind the shrubs:

— Do the shooting like hell! Calm down, it’s me. .

— I didn’t hear the truck—he said.

— It broke down at the entrance. I’ve had to come all the way up here on foot.

Aproximado greeted us, sat down in the shade, and drank. He took his time, and then spoke:

— I’ve come from Over There.

— Have you brought stuff? — I asked inquisitively.

— Yes, but that’s not what I’ve come about. I’ve come with news.

— What is it, Uncle?

— The war has ended.

He filled his water bottle and went back to the camp. We later heard the noise of the truck fading into the distance. Once silence had descended, Zachary ordered Ntunzi to return his weapon. My brother refused vehemently:

— It was Father who told me to do training. .

— Your father’s in charge of the world, I’m in charge of the weapons.

Kalash’s voice had changed, the words seemed to grate in his throat. He put the weapon away in the ammunition store and locked the building. Then we saw him go to the well and lean over as if he wanted to throw himself into the abyss. He stayed there for half an hour. Afterwards, he stood up straight again, apprehensive, and merely told us:

— Go back to the camp, I’m going. .

— Where are you going?

He didn’t answer. Then we heard the soldier walk away, treading on dry leaves.

Zachary withdrew and no one saw him for days. We settled back in our room and there we remained as if time had become nothing more than waiting. There was no sign of Aproximado and no indication of the soldier’s whereabouts. We didn’t even hear any shots in the distance.

Then, one day, when I was taking tobacco leaves to Jezebel, I came across Zachary lying in the corral, with a thick beard and smelling more strongly than a wild animal.

— How’re you doing, Zachary?

— I left without any meaning, and came back without any means.

— Father wants to know what you’ve been doing there shut away for so long?

— I’m building a girl. It’s taking so long because she’s a foreigner.

— So when do you see yourself finishing?

— She’s done, now all she needs is a name. Now go away, I don’t want any living person round here.

— Is that what he said? — My father enquired when I got back to the camp. Silvestre asked me to reproduce, word for word, my conversation of a few moments earlier with the soldier. The furrow in my old man’s brow grew deeper. Everyone suspected that Zachary possessed secret powers. We knew, for example, how he could fish without a net or a line. With the skill of Christ, he would wade into the river until the water reached his waist. Then, still advancing, he would plunge his arms into the water for a few seconds and withdraw them loaded with jumping fish.

— My body’s my net—he would say.

The following day, Zachary returned to his duties, now recovered and wearing his uniform. My father didn’t ask him anything. The daily routine of Jezoosalem seemed to have been re-established: the soldier would leave early in the morning, his rifle strapped to his back. Occasionally, we would hear shots in the distance. My father would allay our fears:

— It’s just Zachary with his craziness.

It wasn’t long before the assistant burst into view, carrying an animal that had already been butchered. But then we began to hear the sound of gunfire at times when Zachary was with us.

— Who are the people doing the shooting now, Father?

— Those shots are echoes of old ones.

— What do you mean, Father?

— It’s not happening now. They’re echoes of a war that’s over now.

— You’re mistaken, Silvestre my friend—Zachary declared.

— What do you mean mistaken?

— No war ever ends.

JEZEBEL THE JENNY

Finally, let me introduce you to our last member of humanity: our beloved donkey, Jezebel by name. The jenny was the same age as me, which was old for an animal of her species. And yet, Jezebel was, as my father put it, in the flower of her youth. The secret behind her elegance lay in the tobacco she chewed. This delicacy was ordered through Uncle Aproximado and shared between Zachary and the jenny. Late in the afternoon, one of us would take her whole leaves and the donkey would rejoice at the sight, trotting over happily to receive her greens. Ntunzi once remarked how he found it amusing to watch the movements of her thick lips.

— Thick? Who said they’re thick?

That was my old man jumping to Jezebel’s defence. More than the tobacco, it was the love that Silvestre devoted to the donkey that explained why she was so gorgeous. No one had ever seen such respect paid in a case of zoological affection. He would court her every Sunday. It must be said that only my father had any idea what day of the week it was. Sometimes we had a Sunday on two consecutive days. It depended on the state of his needs. But the fact was that on the last day of the week, everyone knew for sure what would happen: bearing a bouquet of flowers, and wearing a red tie, Silvestre would make his way solemnly to the corral. The fellow was parading himself to fulfil what he termed “the will of the unwilled.” At some distance from the corral, my old man would respectfully announce himself:

— May I come in?

The donkey would turn round, with an imperceptible flutter of her eyelashes, and my father would pause, hands resting on his stomach, waiting for a signal. We never found out what this signal might be. But the truth was that in due course, Silvestre would express his gratitude:

— Thank you so much, Jezebel, I’ve brought you these humble flowers. .

We would watch the donkey chew the bunch of flowers. And then, my father would disappear inside the corral. And that was that.

One particular Sunday, things can’t have gone according to plan. Silvestre returned from his love tryst in a rage. He carried his fury on the tip of his foot and his curses on the tip of his tongue. Head bowed, he kept saying:

— It’s never happened to me before, never, never! Really never.

He strode round the room, kicking the few bits of furniture. His impotent, repressed anger caused his voice to tremble:

— It’s a curse put on me by that bitch!

We almost took him literally: the bitch, by association, must be Jezebel. But no. The bitch was his late wife. My mother. My ex-mother. The disruption to Vitalício’s manly functions had been caused by Dona Dordalma’s spell.

Having lowered himself into his chair on the veranda, my father sought my services as a tuner of silences. It was the end of the afternoon, and shadows darted around taking over the world. Silvestre was like one of these shadows: fleetingly still. But it wasn’t long before he jumped up suddenly and ordered:

— Come with me to the corral!

— What are we going to do?

— I’m going to do— he corrected. — I’m going to apologize to Jezebel. So the poor girl isn’t sad, thinking it was her fault.

I remained at the entrance to the corral, saw my father hug the jenny’s neck, and then the surrounding darkness enveloped me. An inner rage prevented me from watching. I was aflame with jealousy for Jezebel. On our way back, a flash lit up the savannah and a huge crash of thunder deafened us. The November rains were beginning. It wouldn’t be long before Zachary emerged to insult the gods.

That same night, father ordered us to go and guard the corral. What about Zachary? We asked. Why not send for the person whose job it was to undertake this duty?

— That fellow’s useless when there’s thunder. You two go, and take the torch.

Jezebel was agitated, whinnying and kicking. And it wasn’t because of Zachary’s foul-mouthing, for he was quiet and keeping to himself inside his hut. It must be for some other reason and it was our mission to find out why she was so agitated. Ntunzi and I walked out under the intense thunder. The jenny looked at me with an almost human appeal, her ears pointing down in fear. There was an intermittent gleam in her velvet eyes, like flashes of lightning from within her soul.

Ntunzi sat down sleepily while I tried to soothe the animal. She began to calm down, her flank nestling up to my body, seeking comfort and support. I heard my brother’s malicious comment:

— She’s getting all come-hither, Mwanito.

— Come off it, Ntunzi.

— Go on, mount the broad.

— I didn’t hear you.

— You heard me only too well. Go on, undo your fly, the broad fancies you.

— Come on, brother, Jezebel’s scared, that’s all.

— You’re the one that’s scared. Go on, Mwanito, take your trousers off, nobody would think you’re the son of Silvestre Vitalício.

Ntunzi came over and pushed me, forcing me to lean over the jenny’s back, while I begged him:

— Stop it, stop it.

Suddenly, in amongst the trees, I glimpsed a moving shadow, creeping along, cat-like. Terrified, I pointed to it:

— A lioness! It’s a lioness!

— Let’s get out of here, quick, give me your torch. .

— And Jezebel? Are we going to leave her here?

— To hell with the bloody donkey.

Then suddenly, we heard a shot. It seemed more like a flash of lightning, but a second shot left us in no doubt. Our soldier was right: faced with a shot, whether it hits or misses, we all die. Occasionally, some lucky ones return amid the dust raised by fright. That’s what happened to us. In the confusion, Ntunzi tripped over me and both of us, covered in mud and flat on the ground, peered through the grass. Zachary had hit the prowling lioness.

The feline creature managed to stagger drunkenly a few steps, as if death were a fit of giddiness that caused you to end up on the ground. Then, it collapsed, with a fragility that didn’t match its regal stature. The moment the lioness fell to the ground, it stopped raining. Zachary made sure it was really dead, and then fell to his knees and addressed the heavens, praying the wound caused in him by his shot might be healed.

My father appeared, all in a hurry, and he didn’t stop with us. He walked along the fence looking for Jezebel, and when he found her, he stopped to comfort her.

— Poor thing, she’s trembling all over. Tonight, she’s going to sleep in the house.

— In the house? — Ntunzi asked, astonished.

— She’ll sleep there tonight and as many nights as are necessary.

She only slept there that night. That was enough for Ntunzi to vent all his jealous feelings when he addressed me:

— He never let you, his own son, in there, but the donkey’s allowed to sleep inside. .

After the accident, the corral was moved nearer. The moment night fell, bonfires were lit all around it to protect the jenny from the covetousness of any predators.

Weeks passed until one day Silvestre decided to call another meeting. Hurriedly, we gathered in silence in the square with the crucifix. Uncle Aproximado, who happened to have spent the night with us, also lined up next to me. With a stern frown, the old man looked each one of us in the face, peering unhurriedly into our eyes. Finally, he growled:

— Jezebel’s pregnant.

I just wanted to laugh. The only female among us had fulfilled her natural function. But my old man’s icy look killed off any desire in me to make light of it. A sacred rule had been violated: a seed of humanity had come through victorious and threatened to bear fruit in one of Jezoosalem’s creatures.

— This is how all the whorishness of the world will begin again.

— But with respect, Brother-in-law— said Aproximado, — couldn’t it be that you are the father?

— I take precautions, you know that very well.

— Who knows, maybe once, by accident, in the height of passion. .

— I’ve already told you it wasn’t me—bellowed my old man.

His anger was upsetting him so much that his mouth wasn’t big enough for all his saliva and his spittle was like a shower of meteorites:

— There’s only one truth: she’s pregnant. And the bastard who did it is here, among us.

— I swear, Silvestre, I’ve never even looked at Jezebel—the soldier, Zachary, declared forcefully.

— Who knows whether it’s not just some swelling she’s got from an illness? — Aproximado queried, timidly.

— It’s an illness caused by some son-of-a-bitch who’s got three dangly bits between his legs—my old man snarled.

I kept my eyes to the ground, incapable of facing my father’s passion for the jenny. His repeated threats followed us as we went back to our rooms:

— Whoever it was, I’ll twist his nuts off!

A month later, Zachary raised the alarm: since the early hours, Jezebel had been bleeding and twisting about, whimpering and kicking. At first light, she gave a last shudder. She seemed to have died. But she had just squeezed out the foetus. Zachary held the new claimant to life, and lifted it up in his arms, covered in blood and mucus. The soldier proclaimed in a restrained tone:

— This is a son of Jezoosalem!

The moment we got the news, we all met at the corral, crowding round the still breathless jenny. We wanted to see the newborn creature, concealed among its mother’s thick fur. We never got as far as entering the corral: our father’s tempestuous arrival put an end to our eager expectation. Silvestre ordered us to keep away, he wanted to be the first to face the intruder. Zachary presented himself with military punctiliousness at the gate to the corral:

— Take a look at the baby, Silvestre, and you’ll see who the father is straight away.

Silvestre penetrated the gloom and vanished for a while. When he re-emerged, he looked perturbed, his quick step betraying his turbulent mind. Barely had our father disappeared than we burst in on the jenny’s resting place and knelt down by her side. The moment our eyes got used to the darkness, we saw the furry creature lying next to Jezebel.

The black and white stripes, though not clearly defined, gave the game away: the father was a zebra. Some fierce stallion had paid our place a visit and courted his distant relative. Ntunzi took hold of the newborn animal and caressed it as if it were human. He gave it affectionate names and walked up and down, cradling it like a mother. I never thought my brother capable of such tenderness: the little creature settled in his arms and Ntunzi smiled as he murmured:

— Well, let me tell you something my little baby: your dad has left my old man with a broken heart.

Nor did Ntunzi realize how right he was. For not long afterwards, Silvestre returned to the corral, seized the baby from the arms that were holding him and issued his order, to be carried out immediately and decisively:

— I want you to bring me that old zebra, balls and all, do you hear, Zaca?

That night, my father went to the corral and took the baby donkey-zebra in his hands. Jezebel followed his movements with tears in her eyes, while Silvestre kept repeating, as if intoning some chant:

— Oh, Jezi, why did you do this to me? Why?

He seemed to be caressing the newborn babe. But in fact what his hands were doing was smothering the fragile creature, the tiny zebra mulatto. He took the now lifeless little animal in his arms and set off far from the corral. He buried it himself, down by the river. I watched him carry out this act, incapable of intervening, incapable of understanding. That awful deed would forever be a sticking point in any thoughts I might have about our father’s generosity. Ntunzi never came to know what had happened on that night. He always believed that the babe had died of natural causes. Nature in its ferocity had reclaimed the stripes on an ass not born in the wild.

When he had filled the grave, Silvestre Vitalício went down to the waters. Following him at some distance, I assumed he was going to wash his hands. It was then that I saw him drop to his knees. Was he weakening, struck by some internal flash of light? I drew nearer, wanting to help, but fear of punishment made me hide from being seen. It was then that I realized: Silvestre Vitalício was praying. Even today, a shudder runs through me when I recall that moment. For I don’t know whether I’m inventing it, or whether I really remember his supplication: “My God, protect my sons as I have proved unable to protect myself. Now that I don’t even have angels, come to Jezoosalem to give me strength. . ”

Suddenly, my father became aware of my presence. He changed his submissive posture, shook his knees and asked:

— Are you trying to give me a fright?

— I heard a noise, Father. I came to see if you needed any help.

— I was feeling the soil: it’s still dry. If only it would rain more.

He cast his eyes up into the clouds pretending to look for signs of rain. Then he sighed and said:

— Do you know something, son? I committed a terrible mistake.

I thought he was going to confess to his crime. So my father was going to redeem himself, absolved by having confessed his remorse.

— So what was this mistake, Father?

— I never gave this river a name.

This was his confession. Perfunctory, without emotion. He got up and put his hand on my shoulder.

— You choose a name for this river, son.

— I don’t know, Father. A name is too big a thing for me.

— Very well, I’ll choose one then: it’s going to be called the River Kokwana.

— I think that sounds pretty. What does it mean?

— It means “grandfather.”

I shuddered: was my father weakening in his prohibition against any mention of ancestors? So delicate was the moment that I didn’t say anything for fear that he might retreat from his decision.

— Your paternal grandfather used to pray on the banks of rivers when he wanted to ask for rain.

— And afterwards, did it rain?

— It always does rain afterwards. What happens is that the prayer may be said too far in advance.

And he added:

— The rain is a river guarded over by the dead.

Who knows whether the recently named river might not fall under the command of my paternal grandfather? And who knows too whether I might not feel less lonely precisely for this reason?

I returned to my room, where my brother’s little reading lamp was still alight. Ntunzi was drawing what looked to me like a new map. There were arrows, no entry signs, and incomprehensible scribbles that looked like the Russian alphabet. In the middle of this map, there it was, in all its serene certainty, a ribbon coloured in blue.

— Is it a river?

— Yes, it’s the only river in the world.

And then suddenly, the paper turned to water, and the floor was covered in thick drops. Avoiding the puddle that covered the floor, I sat down on a corner of his bed. Ntunzi cautioned me:

— Mind your feet don’t get wet, this is dripping all over the place.

— Ntunzi, tell me something: what’s a grandfather like?

To my great envy, Ntunzi had known the whole range of grandparents. Maybe it was out of shame that he’d never spoken of them. Or who knows, perhaps it was for fear that my father might find out? Silvestre Vitalício forbade memories. The family was us, and no one else. The Venturas had no past and no future.

— A grandfather? Ntunzi asked.

— Yes, tell me what one’s like.

— A grandfather or a grandmother?

It didn’t matter. In fact, it wasn’t the first time I’d asked him this question. And my brother never answered me. He kept counting on his fingers as if the idea of such progenitors required elaborate calculations. Whatever he was doing, he was counting the uncountable.

That night, however, Ntunzi must have completed his tally. For he returned to the subject without prompting, when I was already tucked up in bed. His hands cupped an emptiness, with great care, as if he were carrying a tiny bird

— Do you want to know what a grandfather is like?

— I kept asking you, you never gave me an answer.

— You’ve never seen a book, have you, Mwanito?

And he explained to me what this alluring object was made of, comparing it to a huge pack of cards.

— Imagine cards the size of your hand. A book is a pack of these cards, all stuck together down one side.

His look became vague as he passed his hand over this imaginary pack of cards and he said:

— If you caress a book like this, you’ll know what a grandfather is like.

His explanation left me disappointed. I found the idea of a grandfather commanding rivers much more attractive. We were almost asleep when I remembered something:

— By the way, Ntunzi, I’ve nearly finished the pack of cards.

— What do you mean finished? Have you lost the cards?

— No, it’s not that. There’s no space left for writing.

— I’ll find you something to write on. I’ll see to it tomorrow.

The following day, Ntunzi pulled out from under his shirt a bundle of coloured papers, and said tersely:

— You can write here.

— What’s this?

— It’s money. They’re notes.

— What am I going to do with it?

— Do what you did with the cards, write wherever there’s a bit of clear space.

— So where did you find this money?

— How do you think our uncle manages to get hold of the things he brings us?

— He tells us they’re just bits and pieces he picks up in places that have been abandoned.

— You don’t know anything, my little brother. You’re old enough to be fooled, but I’m now old enough to be swindled.

— Can I write now?

— No, not now. Hide this money away in case Father catches us. .

I concealed the notes under my sheet as if I were spiriting away some company for my dreams. When Ntunzi was already snoring and I was alone, my fingers trembled as they caressed the money. Without knowing why, I put the painted papers to my ear to see if I could hear voices. Was I doing what Zachary did when he listened to his holes in the earth? Who knows whether those old notes didn’t contain hidden stories?

But the only thing I could hear was the drumbeat of my fearful heart. This money was my old man’s most secret possession. Its presence was incontrovertible proof that he had been lying all along. Over There was after all, alive and well, and governed Jezoosalem and its living souls.