Хеннинг Манкелль - The Eye of the Leopard

Olofson can think of no reason to refuse. ‘Telecommunications,’ he says. ‘Telephone lines or TV?’

‘Both,’ says Håkansson. ‘The satellite dishes transmit and receive the radio frequency waves desired. TV signals are captured by television receivers, telephone impulses are bounced off a satellite in stationary orbit over the prime meridian, which then sends the signals on to any conceivable telephone in the whole world. Africa will be incorporated into a network.’

Olofson offers his visitor some coffee.

‘You’ve got a nice place here,’ Håkansson says.

‘There’s trouble in the country,’ Olofson replies. ‘I’m not so sure any more that it’s good to live here.’

‘I’ve been abroad for ten years,’ Håkansson says. ‘I’ve staked out communications links in Guinea Bissau, Kenya and Tanzania. There’s unrest everywhere. As an aid expert you don’t notice much of it. You’re a holy man because you dispense millions from up your khaki sleeves. Politicians bow, soldiers and police officers salute when you arrive.’

‘Soldiers and police officers?’ Olofson asks.

Håkansson shrugs his shoulders and grimaces. ‘Links and satellite dishes,’ he says. ‘All types of messages can be sent by the new technology. The police and the army then have greater opportunities to check what’s going on in remote border regions. In a crisis situation the men who hold the keys can cut off an unruly section of the country. Swedish aid workers are forbidden by the parliament from getting involved in anything beyond civilian objectives. But who’s going to check what these link stations are used for? Swedish politicians have never understood a thing about the actual realities of the world. Swedish businessmen, on the other hand, have understood much more. That’s why businessmen never become politicians.’

Lars Håkansson is resolute and determined. Olofson envies his self-assurance.

Here I sit with my eggs, he thinks. The chicken shit is growing under my fingernails. He looks at Lars Håkansson’s polished hands, his well-tailored khaki jacket. He imagines that Håkansson is a happy man, about fifty years old.

‘I’ll be here for two years,’ he says. ‘I’m based in Lusaka, in an excellent house on Independence Avenue. It’s comforting to live where you can see the president pass by almost daily in his well-guarded convoy. I assume that sooner or later I’ll be invited to the State House to present this wonderful Swedish gift. To be Swedish in Africa today is better than being Swedish in Sweden. Our foreign aid munificence opens doors and palace gates.’

Olofson gives him selected excerpts from his African life.

‘Show me the farm,’ Håkansson says. ‘I saw something in the papers about a robbery-murder on a farm in this area. Was it nearby?’

‘No,’ says Olofson. ‘Quite far from here.’

‘Farmers also get murdered in Småland,’ says Håkansson. They climb into his almost brand-new Land Cruiser, and drive around the farm, look at one of the hen houses. Olofson shows him the school.

‘Like a mill owner in the olden days,’ says Håkansson. ‘Do you also sleep with the daughters before they’re allowed to get married? Or have you stopped now that all of Africa has AIDS?’

‘I’ve never done it,’ Olofson says, registering that Håkansson’s remarks upset him.

Outside Joyce Lufuma’s house two of the eldest daughters stand and wave. One is sixteen, the other fifteen.

‘A family I take special care of,’ says Olofson. ‘I’d like to send these two girls to school in Lusaka. I just don’t know quite how to arrange it.’

‘What’s the problem?’ Håkansson asks.

‘Everything,’ says Olofson. ‘They grew up here on this isolated farm, their father died in an accident. They’ve barely been to Chingola or Kitwe. How would they get along in a city like Lusaka? They have no relatives there, I’ve checked. As girls they’re vulnerable, especially without family to provide a protective environment. The best thing would be if I could have sent the whole family, the mother and four children. But she doesn’t want to go.’

‘What would they study?’ asks Håkansson. ‘Teaching or nursing?’

Olofson nods. ‘Nursing. I assume they’d be good at it. The country needs nurses, and both are very dedicated.’

‘For an aid expert nothing is impossible,’ Håkansson says quickly. ‘I can arrange the whole thing for you. My house in Lusaka has two servants’ quarters, and only one of them is being used. They can live there, and I’ll keep an eye on them.’

‘I could hardly put you out like that,’ Olofson says.

‘In the world of foreign aid we talk about “mutual benefit”,’ says Håkansson. ‘You give Sida and the Zambians your hill in return for a reasonable compensation. I put an unused servants’ dwelling at the disposal of two girls eager to learn. It will also contribute to Zambia’s development. You can rest easy. I have daughters myself, older of course, but I remember when they were that age. I belong to a generation of men who watch over their daughters.’

‘I would support them, naturally,’ Olofson says.

‘I know that,’ says Håkansson.

Once again Olofson finds no reason to refuse an offer from Lars Håkansson. And yet something is bothering him, something he can’t put his finger on. There are no simple solutions in Africa, he thinks. Swedish efficiency is unnatural here. But Håkansson is convincing, and his offer is ideal.

They return to the starting point. Håkansson is in a hurry, he has to drive on to another possible location for a link station.

‘It’ll be harder there,’ he says. ‘I’ll have to deal with a whole town and a local chieftain. It’s going to take time. Aid work would be easy if we didn’t have to deal with Africans.’

He tells Olofson that he’ll be back to Kalulushi in about a week.

‘Think about my offer. The daughters are welcome.’

‘I’m grateful to you,’ Olofson says.

‘An absolutely meaningless feeling,’ says Håkansson. ‘When I solve practical dilemmas, it gives me the sense that life is manageable in spite of everything. One time long ago I was climbing up power poles with spikes on my boots. I fixed telephone lines and connected voices. It was a time when Zambian copper streamed out to the world’s telecom industries. Then I studied to be an engineer, divorced my wife, and went out into the world. But whether I’m here or climbing up poles, I solve practical problems. Life is what it is.’

Olofson feels a sudden joy at having met Lars Håkansson. He has encountered Swedes regularly during his years in Africa, most often technicians employed by large international corporations, but the meetings were always brief. Maybe Håkansson is different.

‘You’re welcome to stay here when you’re in the Copperbelt,’ Olofson tells him. ‘I have plenty of room. I live alone.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ says Håkansson.

They shake hands, Håkansson gets into his car, and Olofson waves as he departs.

His energy has returned. Suddenly he’s ready to fight his fear, no longer tempted to surrender to it. He gets into his car and makes a comprehensive inspection of the farm, checking fences, feed supplies, and the quality of the eggs. Together with his drivers he studies maps and plans alternative routes to avoid the hijacking of their lorries. He studies foremen’s reports and orders, issues warnings, and fires a night watchman who has come to work drunk on numerous occasions.

I can do this, he thinks. I have 200 people working on the farm, over a thousand people are dependent on the hens laying their eggs. I take responsibility and make the whole thing work. If I let myself be scared off by the meaningless murders of Ruth and Werner and my dog, a thousand people would be thrown into uncertainty, poverty, maybe even starvation.