Free The Tuner of Silences by Mia Couto Page B

only thing I can teach you and Ntunzi is not to miss your shot. Happiness is a question of aim.
    â€” Don’t you feel any pity when you kill?
    â€” I don’t kill, I hunt.
    The animals, he claimed, were his brothers.
    â€” 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.
    â€” 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 abushbuck, 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.
    â€” 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.
    â€” 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.
    â€” 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.
    â€” Always a hunter, eh?
    â€” 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.
    â€” Did you ever have a wife, Zaca?
    â€” 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.
    â€” You two follow the trail.
    â€” All on our own?
    â€” Take the rifle. You, Ntunzi, do the shooting.
    â€” But aren’t you going with us, Zachary?
    â€” I can’t.
    â€” Are