— 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.