Хеннинг Манкелль - The Eye of the Leopard

‘Where do you get hold of it?’ Olofson asks. Patel throws out his hands and gives him a sorrowful look.

‘So much is in short supply in this country,’ he says. ‘I’m only trying to relieve the worst of the shortages.’

‘But how?’

‘Sometimes I don’t even know myself how I do it, Mr Olofson.’

Then the government introduces harsh currency restrictions. The value of the kwacha drops dramatically when the price of copper falls, and Olofson realises that he will no longer be able to send money to Judith Fillington as required in their contract.

Once again Patel comes to his rescue.

‘There’s always a way out,’ he says. ‘Let me handle this. I ask only twenty per cent for the risks I’m taking.’

How Patel arranges it Olofson never knows, but each month he gives him money and a receipt comes regularly from the bank in London, confirming that the money has been transferred.

During this period Olofson also opens his own account in the London bank, and Patel withdraws two thousand Swedish kronor monthly as his fee.

Olofson notices an increasing unrest in the country, and this is confirmed when Mr Pihri and his son begin to pay more frequent visits.

‘What’s going on?’ Olofson asks. ‘Indian shops are being burned down or plundered. Now there’s talk of the danger of rioting, because there isn’t any maize to be had and the blacks have no food. But how can the maize suddenly run out?’

‘Unfortunately there are many who smuggle maize to the neighbouring nations,’ says Mr Pihri. ‘The prices are better there.’

‘But aren’t we talking about thousands of tonnes?’

‘The ones who are smuggling have influential contacts,’ replies Mr Pihri.

‘Customs officials and politicians?’

They are sitting in the cramped mud hut talking. Mr Pihri lowers his voice.

‘It may not be wise to make such statements,’ he says. ‘The authorities in this country can be quite sensitive. Recently there was a white farmer outside Lusaka who mentioned a politician by name in an unfortunate context. He was deported from the country within twenty-four hours. The farm has now been taken over by a state cooperative.’

‘I just want to be left in peace,’ says Olofson. ‘I’m thinking of those who work here.’

‘That’s quite as it should be,’ says Mr Pihri. ‘One should avoid trouble for as long as possible.’

More and more frequently there are forms that have to be filled out and approved, and Mr Pihri seems to be having a harder and harder time fulfilling his self-imposed obligations. Olofson pays him more and more, and he sometimes wonders whether it’s really true, what Mr Pihri tells him. But how can he check?

One day Mr Pihri comes to the farm accompanied by his son. He is very solemn.

‘Perhaps there is trouble coming,’ he says.

‘There’s always trouble,’ says Olofson.

‘The politicians keep taking new decisions,’ says Mr Pihri. ‘Wise decisions, necessary decisions. But unfortunately they can be troublesome.’

‘What’s happened now?’

‘Nothing, Mr Olofson. Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing really, not yet, Mr Olofson.’

‘But something is going to happen?’

‘It’s not at all certain, Mr Olofson.’

‘Only a possibility?’

‘One might put it that way, Mr Olofson.’

‘What?’

‘The authorities are unfortunately not very pleased with the whites who live in our country, Mr Olofson. The authorities believe that they are sending money out of the country illegally. Of course this also applies to our Indian friends who live here. It is suspected that taxes are not being paid as they should be. The authorities are therefore planning a secret raid.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Many police officers will visit all the white farms at the same time, Mr Olofson. In all secrecy, of course.’

‘Do the farmers know about this?’

‘Of course, Mr Olofson. That’s why I’m here, to inform you that there will be a secret raid.’

‘When?’

‘Thursday evening next week, Mr Olofson.’

‘What shall I do?’

‘Nothing, Mr Olofson. Just don’t have any papers from foreign banks lying about. And especially no foreign currency. Then it could be quite troublesome. I wouldn’t be able to do anything.’

‘What would happen?’

‘Our prisons are unfortunately still in very poor condition, Mr Olofson.’

‘I’m very grateful for the information, Mr Pihri.’

‘It’s a pleasure to be able to help, Mr Olofson. My wife has been mentioning for a long time that her old sewing machine is causing her a great deal of trouble.’

‘That’s not good, of course,’ says Olofson. ‘Isn’t it true that there are sewing machines in Chingola at the moment?’

‘I’ve heard it mentioned,’ replies Mr Pihri.

‘Then she ought to buy one before they’re gone,’ Olofson says.

‘My view precisely,’ replies Mr Pihri.

Olofson shoves a number of notes across the table.

‘Is the motorcycle all right?’ he asks young Mr Pihri, who has been sitting quietly during the conversation.

‘An excellent motorcycle,’ he replies. ‘But next year there’s supposed to be a new model coming out.’

His father has taught him well, Olofson thinks. Soon the son will be able to take over my worries. But part of what I will be paying him in future will always fall to the father. They ply me well, their source of income.

Mr Pihri’s information is correct. The following Thursday two broken-down Jeeps full of police officers come driving up to the farm just before sundown. Olofson meets them with feigned surprise. An officer with many stars on his epaulettes comes up on to the terrace where Olofson is waiting. He sees that the policeman is very young.

‘Mr Fillington,’ says the policeman.

‘No,’ Olofson replies.

Serious confusion results when it turns out that the search warrant is made out in the name of Fillington. At first the young officer refuses to believe what Olofson says, and in an aggressive tone he insists that Hans Olofson’s name is Fillington. Olofson shows him the deed of transfer and title registration, and at last the police officer realises that the warrant he is holding in his hand is made out to the wrong person.

‘But you are welcome to search the house anyway,’ Olofson adds quickly. ‘It’s easy to make a mistake. I don’t want to cause any difficulties.’

The officer looks relieved, and Olofson decides that now he has made another friend, perhaps someone he may find useful in future.

‘My name is Kaulu,’ says the police officer.

‘Please come in,’ says Olofson.

After barely half an hour the officer comes out of the house leading his men.

‘Might one ask what you are looking for?’ asks Olofson.

‘Activities inimical to the state are always under way,’ says the officer gravely. ‘The value of the kwacha is continually being undermined by illegal foreign exchange transactions.’

‘I understand that you have to intervene,’ says Olofson.

‘I shall tell my supervisor of your accommodation,’ replies the police officer and gives him a salute.

‘Please do,’ says Olofson. ‘You’re welcome to visit anytime.’

‘I’m quite fond of eggs,’ shouts the officer as Olofson watches the dilapidated vehicles drive off in a cloud of dust.

Suddenly he understands something about Africa, an insight into the young Africa, the anguish of the independent states. I ought to laugh at this inadequate search of the premises, he thinks. At the young police officer who surely comprehends nothing. But then I would be making a mistake, because this inadequacy is dangerous. In this country people are hung, young policemen torture people, kill people with whips and truncheons. Laughing at this helplessness would be the same as putting my life at risk.