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
Someone says:
“There were roses here in the old days”
And so the hours
Melt away indifferently
As if time were made of delays.
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.