— 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.
BOOK TWO. THE VISIT
That which they call “dying” is merely to stop living and what they call “being born” is to begin dying. And that which they call “to live” is to die while living. We don’t wait for death but live with it perpetually.
THE APPARITION
I want a licence to sleep,
an excuse to rest for hours on end,
without even dreaming
the slightest wisp of a tiny dream.
I want what before life
was the deep sleep of all species,
the dignity of a state.
A seed.
Much more than roots.
We never really get to live during most of our life. We waste ourselves in a boundless lethargy that we delude and console ourselves by calling existence. For the rest, we flit around like fireflies, lit up only for brief and intermittent moments.
A whole life can be turned on its head in one day by one such moment. For me, Mwanito, it happened on that day. It began in the morning, when I left the house in the face of a windstorm that was raising spirals of dust everywhere. These whirlwinds would twist and turn in whimsical dances, only to cease as phantasmagorically as they had begun. The foliage of the huge trees swept the ground while heavy branches were torn away and fell to the earth with loud crashes.
— No one go outside. .
Those were my father’s orders, as he peered out of the window, tormented by the storm and its gusts of wind. Nothing disturbed Silvestre Vitalício more than to see trees twisting and great branches full of leaves swinging like ghostly serpents.
Disobeying my father’s orders, I ventured down the paths between our living quarters and the big house. And I regretted doing so straight away. The storm was like the upheaval of all the compass points at the same time. I felt a chill run through me: was there any basis for my old man’s fears? What was happening? Was the ground tired of being earth? Or was God announcing his arrival at Jezoosalem?
With my left hand shielding my face and my right holding the two sides of my old coat together, I walked down the path until I stopped in front of the ghostly residence. I stood there for some time without moving, listening to the whistling of the wind. I was reassured by its howling: I was an orphan and the wind was wailing mournfully, like someone seeking its lost relatives.
In spite of the discomfort, I savoured my misbehaviour as revenge against Silvestre Vitalício. Deep down, I wanted the storm to worsen so as to punish our progenitor for his wrong-doings. I felt like going back and challenging old Vitalício in front of the very window through which he watched this cosmic insubordination.
Meanwhile, the gusts of wind increased in fury. So much so that the front door of the big old house was blown open. This was a signal for me: an invisible hand was inviting me to cross the forbidden threshold. I went up the front steps and peered at the veranda where hundreds of leaves were pirouetting in a frenzied dance.
Suddenly, I saw the body. Stretched out on the ground, a human body. I was overwhelmed by an inner turmoil. I cast an anxious glance once again to confirm what I had seen. But a heaving sea of leaves blurred my vision. My legs trembled, rooting me to the spot. I must have been mistaken, it was my imagination, and nothing more. Another gust, another swirl of dead leaves and, once again the vision returned, this time more clear and real. It certainly was a body, lying there on the veranda like top soil.
I ran away, shrieking like one possessed. As I was running into the wind, it swallowed up my screams, and it was only when I got back to the house, breathless, that I was able to give vent to my distress:
— A person! A dead person!
Silvestre and Ntunzi were mending the handle of a spade and didn’t stop their task. My brother looked up, his eyes betraying no interest: