Юнас Юнассон - The Accidental Further Adventures of the Hundred-Year-Old Man

A person who didn’t have pure intentions but did have bright enough landing lights on his aeroplane, and a decent navigational system, could easily and freely land and take off again in the dark with no witnesses but the occasional giraffe or zebra. Goodluck Wilson needed only to ask the Russians to put him in touch with the right pilot and that would be that. The Russians because the North Koreans were unreachable: they were like ghosts in the night.

Once the load was delivered, the plane would fly to the coast, and from there it would travel at an altitude of forty metres across the sea, all the way to a well-trampled field near the southern tip of Madagascar. There, the secretive North Koreans would take over. As long as they had eighty million dollars with them in exchange.

The last bit was slightly worrisome to Goodluck Wilson. But only slightly. The payment of a hundred thousand for the initial test delivery had gone as it should. That time it had been in advance. Suddenly, one day, a strange man who looked Asian was standing outside Goodluck Wilson’s office. He had a briefcase in either hand, and said nothing but ‘Name?’

‘Goodluck Wilson,’ said the head of the watchdog force, and refrained from asking the same question in return.

The Asian nodded, then said that one briefcase contained the agreed-upon amount of money, while the other indicated exactly how his employer wished to have the delivery packed. The lead lining was already in place.

And that was that. The Asian left as quickly as he had appeared and hadn’t been seen since. Goodluck Wilson had no way of knowing, but he suspected the man had come from the North Korean embassy in Kampala. It was easy to get from Uganda to Congo. And back again. Goodluck would have chosen a fishing boat across Lake Albert, but there were other ways.

Be that as it may. The important thing was that the North Koreans had proven they could deliver. Just as he had immediately afterwards. Everything had gone fine that time; everything would go fine again.

Thought Goodluck Wilson.

A frequently used Land Cruiser, designed for the tough terrain of the African savannah, will get a puncture about once a week. A Hilux, under the same circumstances, will be affected somewhat more often. A person who is only on a short visit, and is sufficiently cautious, has a good chance of avoiding the bother of changing wheels.

But the rocks are many, and sharp. The risk is always present. After nightfall it is important to be even more watchful, for if the accident happens you are not as alone on the edge of the road as you might wish. The lion slinks through the dark on the hunt for food. So does the leopard, which the Maasai call the ‘murder machine’. Even the hyena can be pretty unpleasant. The angriest animal of them all, the Cape buffalo, has probably called it a night, given that your puncture hasn’t occurred in just the wrong spot. And which spot that is is impossible to know.

In short, in the event of a flat tyre at night, you should:

Stay. In. The. Car. Until. It. Gets. Light.

But what if you don’t have time? What if you have four hundred kilos of enriched uranium in your truck bed and an aeroplane has just landed under cover of darkness at a poor excuse for an airport forty minutes away, impatiently waiting for its delivery? And with eighty million dollars at stake?

Perhaps not everyone would do the same, but Goodluck Wilson did believe in luck after all. Not for himself but for his favourite cousin Samuel. His cousin was sent out with a flashlight to change the wrecked tyre. He defied almost all statistics by getting so far as to have mounted the spare and was about to replace the nuts when two lionesses came out of nowhere from two different directions.

Lions think logically, and always in the same way. They don’t have the ability to tell a living being from its engine-driven vehicle so long as the being has the good sense to remain inside said vehicle. If, for example, an open-cab car full of safari-loving humans arrives, the lion sees the totality, not each individual potential meal. And it thinks three things: (1) Can I eat this? (No, it’s too big.); (2) Can it eat me? (No, a long life has taught me that utility vehicles and trucks never attack.) (3) Can I mate with it? (No, I don’t think I’ll ever be that kinky.)

But when someone leaves the safety of their elephant-sized vehicle, the lion gets very different answers to its questions. (1) Can I eat this? (Yes, and it will be delicious!) (2) Can it eat me? (No, how would that work?) And (3) Can I mate with it? (No, I don’t think I’ll ever be that kinky.)

A lion’s speciality is to aim its initial blow at the victim’s nose and mouth so at first Goodluck Wilson heard nothing of the attack but a muffled rustling sound, and the wrench striking the hard slope as it fell from his cousin’s hand. Then he saw two pairs of glowing eyes in the darkness and the sound of crunching bone reached him.

And then he understood.

He understood that he was left alone. His first thought was not for his cousin or his cousin’s family: instead he wondered how the four million dollars that had just been freed up should be divided. He arrived at the conclusion that he would do best to keep it for himself, so as to avoid strife within the group.

Just after the lionesses dragged the remains of his dead cousin into the bush, so that first the males and then the cubs had something to feast on, a vehicle appeared on the road. Here? In the middle of nothing and nowhere? And almost in the middle of the night? Dammit!

Meitkini had learned how to handle a spear, knife and club when he was three years old. At the age of four, he had the misfortune, as a cowherd, to come face to face with a buffalo. The greatest misfortune belonged to the buffalo, however, for the four-year-old’s spear landed almost where it was meant to and he managed to stay hidden under a bush as the life slowly drained from the beast. Eleven years later, the fifteen-year-old boy was sent out on the savannah, with only the clothes on his back and his spear, knife and club. Nothing more. That was how it worked. The boys who came back to the village a year later were accepted into the adult world: they were Maasai warriors for real. If they didn’t come back, the question was no longer of interest.

Yes, Meitkini came back, as did all his friends. Those who have been taught to survive from the age of three tend to do just that.

Now, at thirty-two, he asked his fellow travellers to take off all the clothing they didn’t absolutely need and gather up all the blankets that were in the car. Meanwhile, Meitkini himself climbed into the back and grabbed the extra can of petrol.

He tossed strategically placed piles of petrol-drenched clothing and blankets around both cars, then handed out flashlights to all his companions and instructed them in which direction to aim the beams. He then dropped a match on top of each pile of fabric, which immediately began blazing wildly.

‘There we go,’ he said. ‘Now I’ll climb down and lift the boxes out while those of you who can manage it receive them. That should work.’

As a final safety measure, he handed a crowbar to Fredrika: he had found it next to the petrol can.

‘Throw this if you see anything approaching.’

She nodded seriously. For the moment, she felt like a field agent again.

Ten minutes later, Meitkini was done. The piles were still burning. Fredrika Langer was still standing at the ready with the crowbar. The last thing Meitkini did was lift the dead Stan Smith out of the car and lay him in the ditch.

‘Are you leaving him there for the lions?’ Sabine asked.

‘No,’ said Meitkini, who had recognized four pairs of glowing eyes not far off in the bush. ‘For the hyenas.’