Хеннинг Манкелль - The Eye of the Leopard

Fischer slams down the bonnet, casts a glance over his shoulder, and sets about taking a piss.

‘What do Swedes know about Africa?’ he asks out of the blue.

‘Not a thing,’ Olofson replies.

‘Even those of us who live here don’t understand it,’ says Fischer. ‘Europe’s newly awakened interest in Africa, after you’ve already abandoned us once. Now you’re coming back, with a guilty conscience, the saviours of the new age.’

All at once Olofson feels personally responsible. ‘My visit is utterly futile,’ he replies. ‘I’m not here to save anyone.’

‘Which country in Africa receives the most support from Europe?’ asks Fischer. ‘It’s a riddle. If you guess right you’ll be the first.’

‘Tanzania,’ Olofson suggests.

‘Wrong,’ says Fischer. ‘It’s Switzerland. Anonymous numbered accounts are filled with contributions that make only a quick round trip to Africa. And Switzerland is not an African country...’

The road plunges steeply down towards a river and a ramshackle wooden bridge. Groups of children are swimming in the green water, and women are kneeling and washing clothes.

‘Ninety per cent of these children will die of bilharzia,’ Fischer yells.

‘What can be done?’ Olofson asks.

‘Who wants to see a child die for no reason?’ Fischer shouts. ‘You have to understand that this is why we’re so bitter. If we had been allowed to continue the way we were going, we probably would have got the better of the intestinal parasites as well. But now it’s too late. When you abandoned us, you also abandoned the possibility for this continent to create a bearable future.’

Fischer has to slam on the brakes for an African who jumps on to the road and waves his arms, trying to get a ride. Fischer honks the horn angrily and yells something to the man as they pass.

‘Three hours, then we’ll be there,’ Fischer shouts. ‘I hope you’ll at least think about what I said. Of course I’m a racist. But I’m not a stupid racist. I want the best for this country. I was born here and I hope to be allowed to die here.’

Olofson tries to do as Fischer asks, but his thoughts slip away, lose their hold. It’s as if I’m travelling in my own recollections, he thinks. Already this journey seems remote, as if it were a distant memory...

Afternoon arrives. The sun shines straight into the car’s front windscreen. Fischer comes to a stop and shuts off the engine.

‘Is it the distributor again?’ asks Olofson.

‘We’re here,’ says Fischer. ‘This must be Mutshatsha. The river we just crossed was the Mujimbeji.’

When the dust settles, a cluster of low, grey buildings appears, grouped round an open square with a well. So this is where Harry Johanson ended up, he thinks. This is where Janine headed in her lonely dream... From a distance he sees an old white man approaching with slow steps. Children flock round the car, naked or wearing only rags.

The man walking towards him has a pale, sunken face. Olofson senses at once that he is not at all welcome. I’m breaking into a closed world. A matter for the blacks and the missionaries... He quickly decides to reveal at least part of the truth.

‘I’m following in Harry Johanson’s footsteps,’ he says. ‘I come from his homeland and I’m searching for his memory.’

The pale man looks at him for a long time. Then he nods for Olofson to follow him.

‘I’ll stay until you tell me to leave,’ says Fischer. ‘I can’t get back before dark anyway.’

Olofson is shown into a room containing a bed with a crucifix hanging above it, and a cracked washbasin. A lizard scurries into a hole in the wall. A sharp smell that he can’t identify pricks his nose.

‘Father LeMarque is on a trip,’ says the pale man with the reticent voice. ‘We expect him back tomorrow. I’ll send someone over with sheets and to show you where to get some food.’

‘My name is Hans Olofson,’ he says.

The man nods without introducing himself.

‘Welcome to Mutshatsha,’ he says in a sombre voice before he leaves.

Silent children stand in the doorway, watching him attentively. Outside a church bell rings. Olofson listens. He feels a creeping fear inside. The smell that he can’t identify stings his nose. I’ll just leave, he thinks agitatedly. If I take off right now, I never will have been here. At the same moment David Fischer comes in carrying his suitcase.

‘I understand you’ll be staying,’ he says. ‘Good luck with whatever it is you’re doing. If you want to come back, the missionaries have cars. And you know where I live.’

‘How can I thank you?’ Olofson says.

‘Why do people always have to thank each other?’ says Fischer, and leaves.

Olofson watches the car go down the road. The children stand motionless and stare at him.

Suddenly he feels dizzy from the intense heat. He goes inside the cell assigned to him, stretches out on the hard bed and closes his eyes.

The church bells fall silent and everything is still. When he opens his eyes the children are still standing in the doorway watching him. He stretches out his hand and motions to them. In an instant they are gone.

He has to go to the toilet. He walks out through the door and the heat strikes him hard in the face. The big sandy area is deserted, and even the children are gone. He walks around the building in his search for a toilet. At the rear he finds a door. When he pushes the handle the door opens. He steps inside and in the darkness he is blind. The sharp smell makes him feel sick. When he gets used to the dark he realises that he’s in a morgue.

In the dark he can distinguish two dead Africans lying stretched out on wooden benches. Their naked bodies are scarcely covered by dirty sheets. He recoils and slams the door behind him. The dizziness returns at once.

On the steps outside his door sits an African, looking at him.

‘I am Joseph, Bwana ,’ he says. ‘I will guard your door.’

‘Who told you to sit here?’

‘The missionaries, Bwana .’

‘Why?’

‘In case something happens, Bwana .’

‘What would that be?’

‘In the dark many things can happen, Bwana .’

‘Like what?’

‘You’ll know it when it happens, Bwana .’

‘Has anything happened before?’

‘There’s always a lot happening, Bwana .’

‘How long are you supposed to sit here?’

‘As long as Bwana stays here, Bwana .’

‘When do you sleep?’

‘When there is time, Bwana .’

‘There is only night and day.’

‘Now and then other times arise, Bwana .’

‘What do you do while you’re sitting here?’

‘I wait for something to happen, Bwana .’

‘What?’

‘You’ll know when it happens, Bwana .’

Joseph shows him where there is a toilet and where he can take a shower under an old petrol tank with a dripping hose. After he has changed his clothes, Joseph accompanies him to the mission station’s mess hall. An African with one leg shorter than the other walks around the empty tables wiping them with a dirty rag.

‘Am I the only one here?’ he asks Joseph.

‘The missionaries are on a trip, Bwana . But tomorrow they may return.’

Joseph waits outside the door. Olofson sits down at a table. The lame African brings a bowl of soup. Olofson eats, swatting at flies that buzz around his mouth. An insect stings him on the back of the neck and when he starts, he spills the soup on the table. The lame man comes at once with his rag.

Something is wrong on this continent, he thinks. When someone cleans up, the dirt is just spread even more.