Хеннинг Манкелль - A Treacherous Paradise

‘Who will pass judgement on her?’ she asked.

Andrade was surprised by the question, possibly even annoyed.

‘Pass judgement on her? Surely she has already condemned herself.’

‘Where will the trial take place? Who will be the judges? Who will defend her?’

‘This isn’t Europe. We don’t need a judge in order to lock up a black woman who has committed murder.’

‘So there won’t be a trial?’

‘No.’

‘How long will she be locked up in the fort?’

‘Until she dies.’

‘But won’t she be given a chance to defend herself?’

Andrade shook his head in irritation. Her questions were annoying him.

‘Portugal’s relationship with this black country is still not legally regulated. We are here because we want to be here. We send our own criminals back to Lisbon or Oporto. We don’t bother about blacks who commit crimes involving other blacks. They have their own laws and traditions, and we don’t poke our noses into that. But in this unique case, we lock her up in the fort. End of story.’

‘But surely she has the right to a lawyer? Somebody who can argue her case?’

Andrade leaned forward.

‘Isn’t there somebody who is now known as Ana Branca who is looking after that side of things?’

‘I’m not a lawyer. I need advice. There’s nobody here in Lourenço Marques who is willing to help me.’

‘It might be possible to find an Indian lawyer in Johannesburg or Pretoria who would be prepared to take on the case.’

Andrade took a gold pen from his breast pocket and wrote a name and address on the back of a business card.

‘I’ve heard about somebody who might do it,’ he said as he put the business card on the table. ‘He’s called Pandre and comes from Bengal. For some strange reason I don’t understand he has learnt Shangana, which is no doubt the language Isabel speaks when she’s not babbling on in Portuguese. He might be able to help you.’

Andrade stood up and bowed. When Ana offered to pay him, he shook his head in disdain.

‘I don’t accept payment for when I’m not working,’ he said. ‘I’ll find my own way out.’

He paused in the doorway.

‘If you decide to leave our town, I’m prepared to offer you a good price for this house. Can we say that I’m first in the queue if that’s the way things go? As a reward for the bit of help I’ve given you this morning?’

He didn’t wait for a reply, but left the building. She could hear his car starting in the street outside.

Carlos had crept into the room unnoticed, and was now sitting in his usual spot on top of the dark brown wardrobe that still contained Senhor Vaz’s clothes.

What exactly does he understand? Ana thought. Nothing? Or everything?

Ana took a horse-drawn cab down to the brothel. There she picked up Judas who accompanied her to the fort when the worst of the midday heat was over. She was always a little worried when she walked past the armed guards: perhaps the doors to the fort would close behind her? Judas was carrying the basket containing the food for Isabel. Judas suddenly began talking — a very rare occurrence.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Why is Senhora Ana helping this woman who stabbed her husband?’

‘Because I know I might well have done the same thing myself.’

‘He should never have got involved with a black woman.’

‘Isn’t that what white men do every evening in my establishment?’

‘Not in the way that Senhor Pimenta did. He sired children with her, and recognized them as his own. That could only end in one way.’

They walked in the shadow to the low building where Indian vendors sat at their stalls smelling of foreign spices.

Ana paused and looked at Judas.

‘I’m going to keep on fighting until I’ve got Isabel out of prison,’ she said. ‘You can tell that to everybody you talk to.’

Commanding Officer Lima was standing on the steps to the building where the fort’s weapons were stored. He seemed to be bored stiff, and was rocking back and forth on his heels. On this occasion he simply waved her through without a word. Judas handed her the basket, then stood there motionless at the spot where she had left him. As usual, he waited for her in the scorching hot sunshine. Ana could hear that Lima was talking to one of the soldiers. About me, she thought. No doubt scornful comments about me.

Isabel was sitting on her rickety bunk. She said nothing, didn’t even look at Ana when she stepped into the murky cell. Despite the fact that Isabel smelled awful, Ana sat down beside her and took hold of her hand, which was very thin and cold.

Not a word was said. After a long silence, Ana took the empty basket from the previous day, and left the cell. As long as Isabel kept eating, there was still hope.

Two days later Ana took the train to Johannesburg. It was a journey she had never made before, and she would have liked to have a companion: but there was nobody she could trust among the whites she knew — at least, not in connection with the matter she hoped to resolve.

A horse-drawn cab took her to the house in the centre of town where the lawyer Pandre had his office. When she arrived, she was surprised to find that he was in — something she had hardly felt able to hope for. He even had time to speak to her, albeit for quite a short time before he had to attend a court proceeding.

Pandre was a middle-aged man, wearing Western clothes but with a turban lying on his desk. He was addressed as munshi by his male secretary, who was also Indian. He invited her to sit down, and Ana could see that he was curious to find out why a white woman would want to come and consult him, so far away from Lourenço Marques. His Portuguese was not fluent, but significantly better than Ana’s. When she asked if he spoke Shangana, he nodded — but gave no explanation of why he had bothered to learn one of the languages spoken by the blacks.

He listened intently while she told him about Isabel, and how she had killed Pedro Pimenta.

‘I need advice,’ she said in the end. ‘I need somebody to tell me how I can convince the Portuguese that she should be set free.’

Padre looked at her and nodded slowly.

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why should a white woman want to help a black woman who has landed in the worst possible of situations?’

‘Because I have to.’

‘You speak broken Portuguese. May I ask where you come from?’

‘Sweden.’

Pandre thought over her response for a while, then left the room and returned with a dented and stained globe in his hand.

‘The world’s a big place,’ he said. ‘Where is the country that you come from?’

‘There.’

‘I’ve heard about something called the Northern Lights,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘And that the sun never sets during the summer months.’

‘That’s true.’

‘We all come from somewhere,’ said Pandre. ‘I’m not going to ask you why you have come to Africa, but please tell me what you are doing in Lourenço Marques.’

During the long train journey she had made up her mind to tell the truth, no matter what questions were asked.

‘I run a brothel,’ she said. ‘It’s very successful. I inherited it from my husband. A lot of my customers come from Johannesburg. Just now there are thirteen women of various ages and various degrees of beauty in my brothel, so I can afford to pay for your services.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Go to visit her. Get her to talk. And advise me what to do in order to have her set free.’

Pandre sat there in silence, slowly rotating the globe and pondering what she had said.

‘I shall charge you one hundred English pounds for my visit,’ he said eventually. ‘And I also have an extra request, bearing in mind the business you conduct.’