Хеннинг Манкелль - The Man from Beijing

‘That’s for you,’ he said. ‘A driver will take you to a place only half a dozen miles from here. When you get there you’ll see the remarkable drama that takes place at every watering hole as dawn breaks. For a short while beasts of prey and their potential victims observe a truce while they are drinking.’

A black man was standing beside the jeep.

‘His name’s Arturo,’ said Ya Ru. ‘He’s a trusted driver who also speaks English.’

‘Many thanks for your consideration,’ said Hong Qiu. ‘But we need to talk.’

Ya Ru brushed aside her last comment. ‘We can do that later. The African dawn doesn’t last long. There’s coffee and some breakfast in a basket.’

Hong Qiu realised that Ya Ru was trying to make peace. What had happened the day before must not come between them. She went over to the jeep, greeted the driver, who was a thin, middle-aged man, and sat down in the back of the open vehicle. The road winding its way into the bush was almost non-existent, just a faint track in the dry earth. She fended off thorny branches from the low trees that lined the track.

When they came to the watering hole, Arturo parked near the edge of a steep drop down to the river below and handed Hong Qiu a pair of binoculars. Several hyenas and buffalo were drinking, and Arturo pointed out a herd of elephants. The grey, lumbering animals were approaching the watering hole almost as if they were walking straight out of the sun.

Hong Qiu had the feeling that this was what the world must have looked like at the beginning of time. Animals had come and gone here for countless generations.

Arturo served her a cup of coffee without speaking. The elephants were coming closer now, dust whirling round their enormous bodies.

Then the silence was broken.

Arturo was the first to die. The bullet hit him in the forehead and split his head in two. Hong Qiu had no time to gather what was happening before she was also hit by a bullet that smashed her jaw, was deflected downward and broke her spine. The loud bangs made the animals raise their heads for a moment and listen. Then they resumed drinking.

Ya Ru and Liu Xan approached the jeep, used their combined strength to overturn it and sent it tumbling down the steep slope. Liu Xan drenched it with a drum of petrol, stepped to one side, then threw a burning box of matches at the vehicle, which burst into flames with a roar. The animals ran away from the watering hole at high speed.

Ya Ru was waiting in the back seat of their own jeep. His bodyguard settled down behind the wheel and prepared to start the engine. Ya Ru hit him hard on the back of the head with a steel rod. He kept on hitting until Liu Xan no longer moved, then pushed the bodyguard’s corpse into the fire, which was still burning with full force.

Ya Ru drove the jeep into the thick vegetation and waited. After half an hour he returned to the camp and raised the alarm concerning an accident that had happened at the watering hole. The jeep had tumbled over the edge of the cliff and rolled down into the watering hole, where it had caught fire. His sister and the driver had both been killed. When Liu Xan tried to rescue them, he had also been engulfed by the flames.

Everybody who saw Ya Ru that day commented on how upset he was. But at the same time people were impressed by his self-control. He had insisted that the accident should not be allowed to interfere with their important work. Minister of Trade Ke gave his condolences to Ya Ru, and the negotiations continued as planned.

The bodies were taken away in black plastic bags and cremated in Harare. Nothing was written in the newspapers about the incident, neither in Mozambique nor in Zimbabwe. Arturo’s family, who lived in the town of Xai-Xai in the south of Mozambique, was awarded a pension after his death. It gave all six of his children the possibility of studying, and his wife Emilda was able to buy a new house and a car.

When Ya Ru travelled back to Beijing with the rest of the delegation, he had with him two urns containing ashes. On one of the first evenings home, he went out onto his huge terrace high above the city and let the ashes drift away into the darkness.

He was already beginning to miss his sister and the conversations they used to have. But he also knew that what he had done had been absolutely essential.

Ma Li lamented what had happened in a state of silent dismay. But deep down, she never did believe the story about the car accident.

On the table was a white orchid. Ya Ru stroked a finger over the soft petals.

It was an early morning, a month after returning from Africa. In front of him on the table were the plans for a house he had decided to build on the edge of the beach outside the town of Quelimane in Mozambique. As a bonus to the big deals agreed to by the two countries, for an advantageous price Ya Ru had been able to buy a large area of unspoiled beach. In the long term he intended to build an exclusive tourist resort for wealthy Chinese, increasingly large numbers of whom would be venturing out into the world.

Ya Ru had been standing on a high sand dune, gazing out over the Indian Ocean. It was the day after the deaths of Hong Qiu and Liu Xan. With him were the governor of Zambezi Province and a South African architect who had been specially called in. Suddenly the governor had pointed towards the reef furthest from the shore. A whale was basking there and blowing. The governor explained that it was not unusual to see whales along this stretch of coast.

‘What about icebergs?’ wondered Ya Ru. ‘Has a lump of ice from the Antarctic ever drifted as far north as this?’

‘There is a legend,’ said the governor. ‘Many generations ago, just before the first white men — the Portuguese sailors — landed on our shores, it’s said that an iceberg was spotted off this coast. The men who paddled out in their canoes to investigate were frightened by the cold given off by the ice. Later, when the white men came ashore from their big sailing ships, people said that the iceberg had been a harbinger of what was soon to happen. The white men were the same colour as the iceberg, their thoughts and actions just as cold. Nobody knows if it’s true or not.’

‘I want to build here,’ said Ya Ru. ‘Yellow icebergs will never drift past this beach.’

After a day of frantic measuring, a large plot of land was marked out and transferred to one of Ya Ru’s many companies. The price for the land and the beach was barely more than symbolic. For a similar sum Ya Ru also bought the approval of the governor and the most important officials, who would ensure that he received the ratification documents and all the necessary building permission without undue delay. The instructions he gave the South African architect had already produced a set of plans and a watercolour sketch of what his palatial house would look like, with two swimming pools filled with water pumped up from the sea, surrounded by palm trees and an artificial waterfall. The house would have eleven rooms plus a bedroom with a roof that could slide open to reveal the starry sky. The governor had promised that special electrical and telecommunication cables would be laid for Ya Ru’s remote property.

Now, as he sat contemplating what would become his African home, he decided that one of the rooms would be arranged as a tribute to Hong Qiu. Ya Ru wanted to honour her memory. He would furnish this room with a bed made for a guest who would never arrive. Irrespective of what had happened, she would remain a member of the family.

The telephone rang. Ya Ru frowned. Who would want to speak to him this early in the morning? He picked up the receiver.

‘Two men from the security services are here.’

‘What do they want?’