The Tuner of Silences by Mia Couto

forwards, deciding which way to go. As if he were teetering on the edge of a cliff. He danced around on the tips of his toes, as if he were expecting to take a plunge rather than a step forward. I wondered: why was he taking so long to set off? And then I had my doubts: could it be that he wanted that instant to last forever? Was he indulging himself in the joy of having a door, and being able to close it behind him?
    But then something happened: instead of moving forward as he had intended, my brother doubled up as if he had been hit by some invisible blow behind the knees. He fell on his hands and lay down in the posture of a wild animal. He dragged himself over the ground in circles, snuffling amongst the dust.
    I quickly vaulted over the fence to help. And it pained me to see him: Ntunzi was stuck to the ground and in tears.
    â€” Bastard! You great son-of-a-bitch!
    â€” What’s wrong, brother!? Come on, get up .
    â€” I can’t. I can’t .
    I tried to lift him. But he weighed as much as a sack of stones. We still managed to stagger along, shoulder to shoulder, dragging ourselves as if we were wading against the current of a river.
    â€” I’ll call for help!
    â€” What help?
    â€” I’ll try and find Uncle .
    â€” Are you crazy? Go back home and bring the wheelbarrow. I’ll wait here .
    Fear dilates distances. Under my feet, the miles seemed to multiply. I reached the camp and brought the little handcart. This was the barrow in which my brother would be transported back home. Spilling over the cart on either side his legs swayed, hollow and lifeless like those of a dead spider, all the way home. Defeated, Ntunzi whimpered:
    â€” I know what it is . . . It’s bewitchment . . .
    It was indeed bewitchment. But not a jinx put on him by my father. It was the worst of all spells: the one we cast on our own selves.

    My brother fell ill again after his frustrated attempt at escape. He shut himself away in his room, curled up in bed and pulled the blanket up to cover himself completely. He stayed like that for days, his head hidden under the cover. We knew he was alive because we saw him shaking, as if he was having convulsions.
    Little by little, he lost weight, his bones pricking his skin. Once again, my father began to get worried:
    â€” Now son, what’s the matter?
    Ntunzi answered so quietly and peacefully that even I was surprised:
    â€” I’m tired, Father .
    â€” Tired of what? If you don’t do anything from morning till night?
    â€” Not living is what I find most tiring .
    It gradually became clear: Ntunzi was going on strike over existing. More serious than any illness was this total abdication of his. That afternoon, my father lingered by his first-born’sbed. He pulled back the blanket and examined the rest of his body. Ntunzi was sweating so profusely that his sheet was soaked and dripping.
    â€” Son?
    â€” Yes, Father .
    â€” Do you remember how I used to tell you to make up stories? Well, make one up now .
    â€” I haven’t got the strength .
    â€” Try .
    â€” Worse than not knowing how to tell stories, Father, is not having anyone to tell them to .
    â€” I’ll listen to your story .
    â€” You were once a good teller of stories, Father. Now, you’re a story badly told .
    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:
    â€” 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