Хеннинг Манкелль - The Eye of the Leopard

‘Who?’ asks Olofson.

‘One of your workers who gathers eggs,’ says Motombwane. ‘Eisenhower Mudenda.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ says Olofson. ‘Eisenhower Mudenda came here right after Judith Fillington left. It’s just as you say, he has never caused me any problems. He has never missed work because he was drunk, never been reluctant to work overtime if necessary. When I encounter him he bows almost to the ground. Sometimes I’ve even felt annoyed by his subservience.’

‘Where did he come from?’ Motombwane asks.

‘I can’t recall,’ Olofson replies.

‘Actually you don’t know a thing about him,’ says Motombwane. ‘But what I’m telling you is true. If I were you I’d keep an eye on him. Above all, show him that you’re not frightened by what happened to Ruth and Werner Masterton. But never reveal that you now know that he is a sorcerer.’

‘We’ve known each other a long time,’ Olofson says. ‘And only now you’re telling me something you must have known for many years?’

‘It wasn’t important until now,’ Motombwane replies. ‘Besides, I’m a cautious man. I’m an African. I know what can happen if I’m too generous with my knowledge, if I forget that I’m an African.’

‘If Eisenhower Mudenda knew about what you’re telling me,’ Olofson asks, ‘what would happen then?’

‘I would probably die,’ says Motombwane. ‘I would be poisoned, the sorcery would reach me.’

‘There isn’t any sorcery,’ Olofson says.

‘I’m an African,’ replies Motombwane.

Again they fall silent as Luka passes by.

‘To fall silent is to talk to Luka,’ Motombwane says. ‘Twice he has passed by and both times we were silent. So he knows we’re talking about something he’s not supposed to hear.’

‘Are you afraid?’ Olofson asks.

‘Right now it’s smart to be afraid,’ says Motombwane.

‘What about the future?’ Olofson asks. ‘My close friends have been slaughtered. Next time a finger in the darkness could point at my house. You’re an African, you’re a radical. Even though I don’t believe you could chop people’s heads off, you’re still a part of the opposition that exists in this country. What do you hope will happen?’

‘Once more you’re wrong,’ says Motombwane. ‘Once more you draw the wrong conclusion, a white’s conclusion. In a certain situation I could easily raise a panga and let it fall over a white man’s head.’

‘Even over my head?’

‘Maybe that’s where the boundary lies,’ Motombwane replies softly. ‘I think I would ask a good friend to chop off your head instead of doing it myself.’

‘Only in Africa is this possible,’ Olofson says. ‘Two friends sit drinking tea or coffee together and discussing the possibility that in a certain situation one might chop off the other’s head.’

‘That’s the way the world is,’ Motombwane says. ‘The contradictions are greater than ever. The new empire builders are the international arms dealers who fly between wars offering their weapons for sale. The colonisation of the poor peoples by superior powers is just as great today as any time before. Billions in so-called aid flows from the rich countries, but for every pound that comes in, two pounds wander back out. We’re living in the midst of a catastrophe, a world that is burning with thousanddegree flames. Friendships can still form in our time. But often we don’t see that the common ground we stand on is already undermined. We are friends but we both have a panga hidden behind our backs.’

‘Take it a step further,’ Olofson says. ‘You hope for something, you dream about something. Your dream might be my nightmare, if I understand you correctly?’

Peter Motombwane nods.

‘You’re my friend,’ he says, ‘at least for the time being. But of course I wish all the whites were out of this country. I’m not a racist, I’m not talking about skin colour. I view violence as necessary; faced with the prolongation of my people’s pain there is no other way out. African revolutions are most often appalling bloodbaths; the political struggle is always darkened by our past and our traditions. Possibly, if our despair is great enough, we can unite against a common foe. But then we point our weapons at our brothers by our side, if they are from a different tribe. Africa is a seriously wounded animal; in the bodies of us all hang spears that were cast by our own brothers. And yet I have to believe in a future, another time, an Africa that is not ruled by tyrants who imitate the European men of violence who have always been there. My anxiety and my dream coincide with the anxiety that you are noticing right now in this country. You have to understand that this anxiety is ultimately the expression of a dream. But how does one re-establish a dream that has been beaten out of people by the secret police? By leaders who amass fortunes by stealing vaccines that are supposed to protect our children against the most common diseases?’

‘Give me a word of advice,’ Olofson says. ‘I’m not sure I’ll follow it, but I’d still like to hear what you have to say.’

Motombwane looks out across the yard. ‘Leave,’ he says. ‘Leave before it’s too late. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe it will be many years before the sun goes down for mzunguz of various skin colours on this continent. But if you’re still here by then it will be too late.’

Olofson follows him to his car.

‘The bloody details,’ he says.

‘I’ve already got those,’ Motombwane replies. ‘I can imagine.’

‘Come back,’ Olofson says.

‘If I didn’t come, people on your farm would start to wonder,’ says Motombwane. ‘I don’t want people to wonder for nothing. Especially not in such uneasy times.’

‘What’s going to happen?’

‘In a world on fire, anything can happen,’ says Motombwane.

The car with its coughing engine and its worn-out shock absorbers disappears. When Olofson turns around he sees Luka on the terrace. He stands motionless, watching the car drive away.

Two days later Olofson helps carry Ruth and Werner Masterton’s coffins to their common grave, right next to the daughter who died many years before. The pallbearers are white. Pale, resolute faces watch the coffins being lowered into the red earth. At a distance stand the black workers. Olofson sees Robert, motionless, alone, his face expressionless. The tension is there, a shared rage that flows through the whites who are gathered to say farewell to Ruth and Werner Masterton. Many of them are openly bearing arms, and Olofson feels that he is in the midst of a funeral procession that could quickly be transformed into a well-equipped army.

The night after the burial the Mastertons’ house burns down. In the morning only the smoking walls remain. The only one they trusted, Robert the chauffeur, has vanished. Only the workers are left, expectantly waiting for something, no one knows what.

Olofson builds barricades in his house. Each night he sleeps in a different room, and he barricades the doors with tables and cabinets. In the daytime he tends to his work as usual. In secret he watches Eisenhower Mudenda, and receives his still equally humble greetings.

Yet another egg transport is plundered by people who have built a roadblock on the way to Ndola. Indian shops in Lusaka and Livingstone are stormed and burned down.

After darkness falls, nobody visits their neighbours. No headlights play through the darkness. Pouring rain washes over the isolated houses; everyone is waiting for a finger to point to them out of the darkness. Violent thunderstorms pass over Kalulushi. Olofson lies awake in the dark with his weapons next to him in bed.

One morning soon after Ruth and Werner’s funeral, Olofson opens the kitchen door for Luka after yet another sleepless night and sees at once from Luka’s face that something has happened. The inscrutable and dignified face is changed. Olofson sees for the first time that even Luka can be frightened.