Хеннинг Манкелль - The Eye of the Leopard

‘Home,’ Olofson answers with a smile. ‘Kalulushi.’

The soldier orders him to step out of the car. Now I’m going to die, he thinks. He’s going to shoot me dead, for no other reason than it’s the middle of the night and he’s drunk and bored.

‘Why are you driving home in the middle of the night?’ asks the soldier.

‘My mother has taken ill,’ replies Olofson.

The soldier looks at him for a long time with glazed eyes; his automatic weapon is pointed at Olofson’s chest. Then he waves him on.

‘Drive,’ he says.

Olofson gets back into his car, and drives slowly away.

African unpredictability, he thinks. I’ve learned something, at least, after all these years. If it doesn’t help to mention my mother, then nothing else will. He picks up speed and wonders if there is any greater loneliness than being white and helpless at a roadblock in the African night.

It’s almost four o’clock in the morning when he reaches Kabwe. He drives around for almost an hour before he sees a sign that reads Department Guest House.

The only thing he has decided to do is wake up Lars Håkansson and show him the pictures he has in his pocket. Maybe I’ll hit him. Maybe I’ll spit in his face.

A night watchman is asleep outside the gates to the guest house. There’s a smell of burnt rubber from one of the man’s boots that has come too close to the fire. An empty bottle of lituku lies next to him. Olofson shakes him but he doesn’t wake up. He shoves open the gate himself and drives inside. At once he sees Håkansson’s car outside one of the small guest houses. He parks next to the white car, turns off the engine and headlights.

Lars Håkansson, he says to himself. Now I’m coming after you. He knocks on the door three times before he hears Håkansson’s voice.

‘It’s Hans Olofson,’ he says. ‘I have a matter to discuss.’

He must understand, he thinks. Maybe he’s afraid and doesn’t dare open the door. But Håkansson opens the door and lets him in.

‘You,’ he says. ‘This is unexpected. In the middle of the night? How did you find me here?’

‘Your night watchman,’ replies Olofson.

‘There’s a military commander here who has the idea that his brother is a suitable engineer to build the foundations for the link stations all over the country,’ says Håkansson. ‘He smelled money and it’ll take a little time to convince him that it doesn’t really work the way he thinks.’

He puts out a bottle of whisky and two glasses.

‘I drove to Lusaka to say hello to Marjorie and Peggy,’ says Olofson. ‘I suppose I should have called first.’

‘They’re getting along fine,’ says Håkansson. ‘Lively girls.’

‘Yes,’ says Olofson. ‘They’re the future of this country.’

Håkansson takes a drink and gives him a wry smile.

‘That sounds lovely,’ he says.

Olofson looks at his silk pyjamas.

‘I mean what I’m saying,’ he replies.

He takes the pictures out of his pocket and places them on the table, one by one. When he’s finished he sees that Håkansson is staring at him with wide eyes.

‘Of course I ought to be furious that you’re digging through my drawers,’ he says. ‘But I’ll overlook that. Just tell me what you want.’

‘This,’ says Olofson, ‘this.’

‘What about it?’ Håkansson interrupts him. ‘Naked people in pictures, nothing more.’

‘Did you threaten them?’ he asks. ‘Or give them money?’

Håkansson fills his glass and Olofson sees that his hand is steady.

‘You tell me you’ve been in Africa for twenty years,’ Håkansson says. ‘Then you should know about respect for parents. The bonds of blood are flexible. You have been their father, now that role has partially shifted to me. I just ask them to take off their clothes, to do as I say. They’re embarrassed, but respect for father prevails. Why would I make threats? I’m just as concerned as you that they should finish their education. I give them money, of course, just as you do. There is always a dimension of private aid in those of us who venture out.’

‘You promised to take responsibility for them,’ says Olofson, noticing that his voice is shaking. ‘You’re turning them into pornographic models and selling their photos in Germany.’

Håkansson bangs down his glass. ‘You’ve been rooting around in my drawers,’ he says excitedly. ‘I ought to throw you right out, but I won’t. I’ll be polite and patient and listen to what you have to say. Just don’t give me any moral lectures, I can’t tolerate it.’

‘Do you fuck them too?’ asks Olofson.

‘Not yet,’ Håkansson says. ‘I think I’m afraid of AIDS. But they’re probably virgins, aren’t they?’

I’m going to kill him, Olofson thinks. I’ll kill him right here in this room.

‘Let’s conclude this conversation,’ says Håkansson. ‘I was asleep, and I have a troublesome, stupid Negro in a uniform to deal with tomorrow. Pornography interests me, but mostly developing it. The nakedness that appears in the developing bath. It can actually be quite arousing. It pays well too. One day I’ll buy a yacht and disappear to some remote paradise. Those I take pictures of won’t fare badly for it. They get money and the photos are published in countries where nobody knows them. Naturally I know that pornographic pictures are not permitted in this country. But I hold an immunity that is more secure than if I had been the Swedish ambassador. Apart from that idiot of a commander I have here in Kabwe, the military leaders in this country are my friends. I’m building link stations for them, they drink my whisky, now and then they receive some of my dollars. The same with the police, the same with the department. As long as the Swedish state gives out its millions and as long as I’m responsible for it, I’m invulnerable. If you should have the bad idea of going to the police with these pictures, you’d run a great risk of being deported with a simple twenty-four hours’ notice in which to pack up your entire eighteen years. So there’s really not much more to say. If you’re upset I can’t do anything about it. If you want to take the girls home I can’t prevent you, although it would be a shame, in view of their education. Our dealings can be concluded: I got your hill, you’ll get your money. I think it’s a shame that it has to end this way. But I can’t tolerate people who abuse my trust by digging through my drawers.’

‘You’re a pig,’ says Olofson.

‘You have to go now,’ says Håkansson.

‘Sweden sends people like you out into the world,’ Olofson says.

‘I’m a good aid expert,’ replies Håkansson. ‘I’m held in high esteem at Sida.’

‘But if they knew about this?’ says Olofson.

‘Nobody would believe you,’ says Håkansson. ‘No one would care. Results count, and everybody has a private life. Raising moral issues lies outside the realm of political reality.’

‘A person like you doesn’t deserve to live,’ says Olofson. ‘I ought to kill you here and now.’

‘But you won’t,’ says Håkansson, getting to his feet. ‘Now you have to go. Check in at the Elephant’s Head and get some sleep. Tomorrow you won’t be so upset.’

Olofson snatches the pictures back and leaves; Håkansson follows him.

‘I’m going to send some of these pictures to Sida,’ Olofson says. ‘Somebody will have to take action.’

‘The pictures can never be traced to me,’ replies Håkansson. ‘An embarrassing complaint from a Swedish egg farmer who has lived in Africa too long. The matter will be stamped, filed away and disappear.’

Furious, Olofson gets into his car, turns the key and switches on the headlights. Håkansson is standing in his silk pyjamas, gleaming white in the African night. I can’t get to him, thinks Olofson. He puts the car in reverse.