The Silenced

Testimony to the life in exile of a former citizen of the Northern Monarchy in 1921.

“He’s one of those.”

The voice tainted by the tobacco corrodes the air as soon as he hears it. Hoarse. Grave. The owner leans over the dying man, while the woman wipes her hands on her apron and watches him. Her eyes over the metal rim of her glasses.

“Are you sure?”, she asks, wary. She keeps wrapping her hands in the faded fabric like a nervous tic. As if she was afraid that if she freed them, she’d want to touch him. A simple animal in a zoo.

He leans against the pillar, his eyes stare at the tracks, the mesmerising wheels of the passing trains. Even when the shrill, suffocating chirp of its passage makes him want to look away, he doesn’t do so, in a herculean effort. His voice is already lost, he doesn’t want to also lose his vision.

And yet the couple continue to stand in front of him, spoiling his viewpoint, trying to divert his attention. Baffled, as if they were in front of a wild animal.

“Is he hungry?”

Hunger? The thought makes him shudder. He wants to laugh into the air, but the threads that sew him refuse the guffaw. He’s starving. Hasn’t eaten in days. It has been days since his sealed lips have been preventing him from eating. He soaked them, soiled, with water until the wounds lacerated him with pain.

“And how would you feed him, Maria?” The man straightens up, scratching his bushy moustache with amusement. “So? No answer? Is your mouth sewn shut like his?”

Maria stops the forgotten gesture and swats the air in rejection:

“Quiet, José António. All you can say is rubbish.” A frown crosses her face. “These poor things only get into trouble, don’t they?”

“They’ll all be disgraced. What’s more, they’re trying to escape here. If only they’d stay quiet up North…”

Maria leans over her belly and, hands on her hips, asks him:

“If you are hungry, nod.”

He doesn’t do so. His gaze remains heavy, inert. Resting on the tracks in front of him. Coimbra, reads the sign. He thought he’d be safe, but nothing would save him after being condemned to exile, would it?

“I’ve had enough of this.” Zé António lights a cigarette. “This freak can’t stay here in front of the café. He’s gonna scare off all the passengers!”

“But what they did to him…” Maria shakes her head in dismay. Deep down, she pities the man. Playing politics is one thing, but it’s quite another to end up like this, with the lips clenched in thick, visible lines. The lacerations so infected that she can smell a strong odour of pus from a distance. “What a botched job.” She turns round, determined. “Go inside and bring me the smallest knife.”

“Don’t be a fool, woman, if they catch you…” Zé António takes a step back. “You can very well have that mouth sewn. Only for treason. Maybe they would be doing me a favour.”

“Ahhh!”, shouts Maria, before entering the café, hips wobbling with disdain. It’s empty. It’s still seven a. m., and the only passenger is the monarchist in ragged clothes sitting on the cold concrete of the station.

The man turns towards the tracks. Zé António looks away from the miserable figure sitting on the ground, gazing dully at the horizon. He can no longer look at that face of pain. The fetid mouth of a limitless atrocity.

“You only get into trouble, don’t you? Don’t you know how to sit still?” He takes a puff. “We’re doing so well, and you want to go back to the same thing? To the same oppression? Look, I’ve always heard that God helps those who change. Besides”, he puffs again, “you’re coming here from up there, running away from your destiny…”

“Stop daydreaming and help me.” The woman returns, but it’s not a small knife that the miserable man sees her wiping on her dirty apron: it’s the bread knife. The saw worn down by time. Huge.

Zé António turns round, annoyed. He throws his cigarette on the floor with a flick, and steps on it. Then he enters the café with long strides, without looking back.

“No way, Maria. You sew your destiny with those lines, I’ve already cut a lot of bread.”

Just then, a shrill sound comes from the platform, masked by the whistle of the next approaching train.