Хеннинг Манкелль - The Eye of the Leopard

Peter Motombwane came to kill me, and that’s not something I should ever forget. That is the starting point. He would have chopped off my head, turned me into a slaughtered animal carcass. Motombwane’s single-mindedness must have been very great. He knew that I had guns, so he was prepared to sacrifice his life. At the same time I realise now that he tried to warn me, get me to leave here to avoid the inevitable. Perhaps his insight had been transformed to a sorrowful desperation, a conviction that the ultimate sacrifice was required.

The man who crept across my roof was no bandit. He was a dedicated man who gave himself what he thought was a necessary assignment. That too is important for me to remember. When I killed him, I killed perhaps one of the best people in this wounded land. Someone who possessed more than a dream for the future, someone with a readiness to act. When I killed Peter Motombwane I killed the hope of many people.

He, in turn, viewed my death as crucial. He didn’t come here because he thirsted for revenge. I believe that Motombwane ignored such feelings. He crept up on my roof because he was in despair. He knew what was going on in this country, and he saw no other way out than to join the leopards’ movement, begin a desperate resistance, and perhaps one day have the chance to experience the necessary revolt. Maybe he was the one who created the leopards’ movement. Did he act alone, with a few co-conspirators, or did he recruit a new generation before he took up his own panga ?

Olofson walks over to the terrace, trying not to look at the body under the tablecloth. Behind some African roses he finds what he is looking for. Motombwane’s panga is polished to a shine, and the handle has various symbols carved into it. Olofson thinks he sees a leopard head, an eye which is deeply incised in the brown wood. He places the panga back among the roses and kicks some dead leaves over it so it can’t be seen.

A rusty police car comes along the road, its motor coughing. At the drive it comes to a complete stop; it seems to be out of petrol. What would have happened if I had called them last night, he wonders, if I had asked them to come to my rescue? Would they have informed me that they had no petrol? Or would they have asked me to come and fetch them in my car?

Suddenly he recognises the police officer coming towards him ahead of four constables. The officer who once stood in front of his house with an erroneous search warrant in his hand. Olofson recalls his name: Kaulu.

Olofson shows him the dead body, the dogs, and describes the chain of events. He also says that he knew Peter Motombwane. The officer shakes his head forlornly.

‘Journalists can never be trusted,’ he says. ‘Now it’s proven.’

‘Peter Motombwane was a good journalist,’ says Olofson.

‘He was far too interested in things that he shouldn’t have stuck his nose into,’ says the officer. ‘But now we know that he was a bandit.’

‘What about the leopard skin?’ Olofson asks. ‘I’ve heard vague rumours about some political movement.’

‘Let’s go inside,’ says the officer hastily. ‘It’s better to speak in the shade.’

Luka serves tea and they sit in silence for a long time.

‘Regrettable rumours spread much too easily,’ says the police officer. ‘There is no leopard movement. The president himself has declared that it doesn’t exist. Therefore it doesn’t exist. So it would be regrettable if new rumours should arise. Our authorities would not be pleased.’

What is he actually trying to convey? Olofson thinks. A piece of information, a warning? Or a threat?

‘Ruth and Werner Masterton,’ Olofson says. ‘It would have looked like their house here if I hadn’t shot him and maybe another man too.’

‘There is absolutely no connection,’ says the officer.

‘Of course there is,’ says Olofson.

The police officer slowly stirs his tea.

‘Once I came here with a mistakenly issued order,’ he says. ‘You offered great cooperation on that occasion. It’s a great pleasure for me to be able to return the favour now. No leopard movement exists; our president has determined this. Nor is there any reason to see connections where there are none. In addition, it would be extremely unfortunate if rumours should spread that you knew the man who tried to kill you. That would create suspicion among the authorities. People might start to think that it was some type of vendetta. Vague connections between a white farmer and the sources of rumours about the leopard movement. You could very easily land in difficulties. It would be best to write a simple, clear report about a regrettable attack which fortunately ended well.’

There it is, Olofson thinks. After a rambling explanation I’m supposed to realise that it will all be covered up. Peter Motombwane will not be allowed to live on as a desperate resistance fighter; his memory will be that of a bandit.

‘The immigration authorities might be concerned,’ the officer goes on. ‘But I shall repay your previous helpfulness by burying this case as quickly as possible.’

He’s unreachable, Olofson thinks. His directive is obvious: no political resistance exists in this country.

‘I presume that you have licences for your weapons,’ says the officer in a friendly tone.

‘No,’ Olofson says.

‘That might have been troublesome,’ says the officer. ‘The authorities take a serious view of unlicensed weapons.’

‘I never thought about it,’ replies Olofson.

‘This too it would be my pleasure to ignore,’ says the police officer, getting to his feet.

Case closed, Olofson thinks. His argument was better than mine. No one will die in an African prison. When they go outside the body is gone.

‘My men have sunk it in the river,’ the officer tells him. ‘That’s the easiest way. We took the liberty of using some scrap iron we found on your farm.’

The policemen are waiting by the car. ‘Unfortunately our petrol ran out,’ says the officer. ‘But one of my men borrowed a few litres from your fuel supply while we drank tea.’

‘Of course,’ says Olofson. ‘You’re welcome to stay a while and take some cartons of eggs when you go.’

‘Eggs are good,’ says the officer, extending his hand. ‘It’s not often that it’s so easy to conclude a crime scene investigation.’

The police car leaves and Olofson tells Luka to burn the bloody tablecloth. He watches him while he burns it. It still might have been him, Olofson thinks. How can I keep living with him near me? How can I keep living here at all?

He gets into his car and stops outside the hen house where Eisenhower Mudenda works. He shows him Peter Motombwane’s panga .

‘Now it’s mine,’ he says. ‘Anyone who attacks my house will be killed with the weapon that could not vanquish me.’

‘A very dangerous weapon, Bwana ,’ says Mudenda.

‘It’s good if everybody knows about it,’ says Olofson.

‘Everyone will soon know, Bwana ,’ says Mudenda.

‘Then we understand each other,’ says Olofson and goes back to his car.

He locks himself in his bedroom and pulls the curtains. Outside the window he sees Luka burying the dead dogs. I’m living in an African graveyard, he thinks. On the roof of the terrace is Peter Motombwane’s blood. Once he was my friend, my only African friend. The rain will wash away his blood, the crocodiles will tear his body to bits at the bottom of the Kafue. He sits down on the edge of the bed; his body aches with weariness. How will I be able to endure what has happened? he thinks again. How do I move out of this hell?

During the following month Olofson lives with an increasing sense of powerlessness. The rainy season is nearing its end, and he keeps a watchful eye on Luka. The rumour of the attack brings his neighbours to visit him, and he repeats his story about the night Peter Motombwane and his dogs died. The second man was never found; the blood trail ended in thin air. In his imagination the third man becomes even more of a shadow; Luka’s face disappears slowly.