— 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 corraclass="underline" 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 corraclass="underline"
— 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 soiclass="underline" 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.