The Eye Of The Leopard (15 page)

'No wife, no children?' asks Olofson.

'He lies with the black women,' she replies. 'Maybe he has black
children. I know that sometimes he mistreats the women he takes
to his bed. But I don't know why he does it.'

'It looked as though he was in pain,' says Olofson. 'Maybe it's
his kidneys.'

'He would say that Africa is taking him from inside,' she says.
'He would never admit to any other illness.'

Then she asks Olofson to stay a bit longer. He realises that
he is listening to a liar when she says that the classified ads in
the newspapers in South Africa and Botswana have not yet
produced any replies.

'All right, but not for long,' he replies. 'A month at most, no
more.'

A week before the time has run out, Judith takes sick one
night. He wakes up when she touches his arm and finds her
standing in the dark by his bed. What he sees when he manages
to light the bedside lamp with a drowsy hand is something he
knows he'll never forget.

A dying woman, maybe already dead. Judith is dressed in an
old, stained dressing gown. Her hair is uncombed and tangled,
her face shiny with sweat, her eyes wide open as if she were
looking at something unbearable. In one hand she holds her
shotgun.

'I'm sick,' she says. 'I need your help.'

Utterly powerless she sinks down on the edge of the bed. But
the mattress is soft. She slides off on to the floor and sits leaning
her head against the bed.

'It's malaria,' she says. 'I must have medicine. Take the car, drive
to Duncan's place, wake him up, and ask him for medicine. If he
doesn't have any you'll have to drive to Werner and Ruth's. You
can find your way all right.'

He helps her into the bed.

'Take the shotgun,' she says. 'Lock the house behind you. If
Duncan doesn't wake up, fire the gun.'

When he turns the key in the ignition the night is filled with
loud rumba music from the radio. This is crazy, he thinks as he
forces the stiff gearstick into position. I've never been this scared
in my life. Not even when I was a child and crawled across the
river bridge.

He drives over the potholed sandy road, much too fast and
recklessly, jamming the gears and feeling the barrel of the shotgun
against his shoulder.

Outside the hen houses the night watchmen appear in the
headlights. A white man in the night, he thinks. It's not
my
night,
it belongs to the blacks.

Outside Duncan Jones's house he honks the horn wildly. Then
he forces himself out of the car, finds a rock on the ground, and
begins slamming it against the gate in the wall. He cracks the
skin on his knuckles, listens for sounds from inside the house,
but he hears only his own heart. He gets the gun from the car,
remembers the safety catch, and then fires a shot at the distant
stars. The butt slams against his shoulder and the shot booms
in the night.

'Come on!' he yells. 'Wake up from your drunken stupor, bring
me the damned medicine!'

At last he hears a scraping sound on the other side of the gate
and Olofson shouts his name. Duncan Jones stands naked before
him. He has a revolver in his hand.

This is insanity, Olofson thinks again. No one would believe
me if I described it; I'll probably hardly even believe my own
memories. I have to get her some medicine. Then I'll go back
home. This is no life, this is madness.

Jones is so drunk that Olofson has to tell him over and over
why he came. Finally he sticks the barrel of the shotgun in his chest.

'Malaria medicine!' he shouts. 'Malaria medicine ...'

At last Jones understands, and he staggers back to his house.
Olofson steps into an indescribable mess of dirty clothes, empty
bottles, half-eaten meals, and piles of newspapers.

This is a morgue, he thinks. Here death is busy taking control.
He won't be able to find any medicine in this chaos, thinks
Olofson, and he prepares to drive the long road to the Mastertons'
farm. But then Jones comes wobbling out of what Olofson
assumes is his bedroom, and in his hand he has a paper bag.
Olofson snatches the bag and leaves the house.

After he returns and has locked all the doors behind him, he
realises that he is drenched with sweat.

He carefully shakes Judith from a feverish sleep and forces her
to swallow three tablets after reading the instructions. She sinks
back on to the pillows and he sits down in a chair to catch his
breath. He becomes aware that he is still holding the shotgun.
This isn't normal, he thinks. I would never be able to get used
to a life like this. I would never survive ...

He stays awake all night, watching her fever attacks subside
and then return. At daybreak he feels her forehead. Her breathing
is deep and steady. He goes into the kitchen and unlocks the back
door. Luka is standing there waiting.

'Coffee,' says Olofson. 'No food, just coffee. Madame Judith is
sick today.'

'I know,
Bwana
,' Luka replies.

Weariness suddenly gets the upper hand in Olofson's mind.
He bursts out with a furious question. All these Africans know
everything in advance.

'How can you know?'

Luka seems unperturbed by his outburst. 'A car drives much
too fast through the night,
Bwana
,' he says. 'All
mzunguz
drive in
different ways.
Bwana
stops outside
Bwana
Duncan's house. Fires
off his shotgun, yells in the night. Luka wakes up and thinks
madame must be sick. Madame is never sick unless she has malaria.'

'Now fix my coffee,' says Olofson. 'It's too early to listen to long
explanations.'

Just after six o'clock he gets into the Jeep again and tries to
imagine that he is Judith. He does her chores, checks off on a
roll call that all the workers have arrived, ensures that the eggs
are gathered and leave the farm. He makes an estimate of the
feed supply and organises a tractor transport to the mill whose
turn it is to deliver maize waste.

At eleven o'clock a rusty car with worn-down shock absorbers
pulls up in front of the mud hut where Judith has set up her
office. Olofson walks out into the sharp sunshine. A conspicuously
well-dressed African comes towards him. Again Olofson
finds himself involved in a complicated greeting procedure.

'I'm looking for Madame Fillington,' says the man.

'She's ill,' replies Olofson.

The African looks at him, smiling and appraising him.

'I'm Mr Pihri,' he says.

'I'm Madame Fillington's temporary foreman,' says Olofson.

'I know,' says Mr Pihri. 'It's precisely because you are who you
are that I have come here today with some important papers. I'm
the Mr Pihri who does small favours for madame now and then.
Not large favours. But even small favours are necessary from time
to time. To avoid problems that might become bothersome.'

Olofson senses that he has to be careful. 'Papers?' he says.

Mr Pihri at once looks sad.

'Madame Fillington usually offers me tea when I come to visit,'
he says.

Olofson has seen a teapot inside the hut, and he calls to one
of the Africans bent over the illegible roll call lists to fix tea. Mr
Pihri's sorrowful face is then transformed by a large smile. Olofson
decides to smile too.

'Our authorities are scrupulous about formalities,' says Mr
Pihri. 'We learned that from the British. Perhaps our authorities
today exaggerate their scrupulousness. But we must be careful
with people who visit our country. All papers must be in order.'

This also applies to me, Olofson thinks. Why did this smiling
man have to come today of all days, when Judith is sick?

They drink tea in the dimness of the hut and Olofson sees
Mr Pihri dump eight teaspoons of sugar into his cup.

'Madame asked me for help in facilitating the processing of
your visa,' says Mr Pihri, as he drinks his tea in slow sips. 'Of
course it is important to avoid unnecessary impediments. Madame
and I usually exchange services to our mutual benefit. It makes
me very sad to hear that she is ill. If she died it would be particularly
disadvantageous.'

'Perhaps I can assist you in her stead,' says Olofson.

'That would be excellent,' replies Mr Pihri. From his inside
pocket he takes some papers, typed and stamped.

'I'm Mr Pihri,' he says again. 'Police officer and a very good
friend of Madame Fillington. I hope she doesn't die.'

'I am of course grateful on her behalf. I would be happy to
do you a service in her place.'

Mr Pihri continues to smile. 'My friends and colleagues at the
Immigration Department are quite busy at the moment. The
workload is extremely heavy. They also deny many applications
for temporary residency. Unfortunately they must sometimes
reject people who would like to stay in our country. Naturally it
is never pleasant to have to leave a country within twenty-four
hours. Especially when Madame Fillington is ill. I only hope she
doesn't die. But my friends at the Immigration Department
showed great understanding. I'm happy to be able to deliver these
papers, signed and stamped in due order. One should always avoid
trouble. The authorities take a dim view of any individuals who
lack the required documents. Unfortunately, sometimes they are
also forced to incarcerate people for an indefinite period.'

Mr Pihri looks sad once again.

'The prisons in this country unfortunately suffer from neglect.
Especially for Europeans who are used to quite different conditions.'

What the hell does he want? Olofson wonders.

'I am naturally very grateful,' he says. 'I would like to express
my appreciation on behalf of Madame Fillington.'

Again Mr Pihri smiles.

'The boot of my car is not very big. But 500 eggs could be
fitted into it with no problem.'

'Load 500 eggs into Mr Pihri's car,' Olofson tells one of the
crouching office workers.

Mr Pihri hands him the stamped documents.

'I regret that from time to time these stamps must be renewed.
It is always good to avoid problems. This is why Madame
Fillington and I meet regularly. In this way one can avoid much
unpleasantness.'

Olofson escorts Mr Pihri to his car, where the egg cartons are
stacked in the boot.

'My car is getting old,' says Mr Pihri in a worried voice. 'Perhaps
it will simply stop running one day. Then it would be quite troublesome
for me to visit Madame Fillington.'

'I'll tell her that your car has begun to run poorly,' replies
Olofson.

'I would be grateful. Tell her also that just now there is an
excellent used Peugeot for sale by one of my friends in Kitwe.'

'I'll mention it to her.'

They repeat the complicated greeting procedure.

'It was very nice we could meet,' says Mr Pihri.

'Naturally we are very grateful,' replies Olofson.

'Trouble should be avoided,' says Mr Pihri as he gets behind
the wheel and drives off.

Corruption's Song of Songs, thinks Olofson as he walks back
to the dark hut. Like a well-groomed beard. A polite, quiet talk ...

When he studies the documents that Mr Pihri left, he finds
to his astonishment that Judith has applied for and been granted
a visa for him as a 'resident' for a period of two years.

He is instantly agitated. I'm not going to stay here, he thinks.
I have no intention of letting myself be entrapped by her plans
for her own future ...

When he returns to the house to eat lunch, Judith is awake.
She is still lying in his bed. She is pale and tired, and it's a big
effort for her to smile. When he starts to speak she shakes her
head.

'Later,' she says. 'Not now. I'm too tired. Luka will give me
what I need.'

When Olofson returns in the evening she has moved back to
her own room. He observes how forlorn she looks in the wide
double bed. The illness has diminished her, he thinks. Her skin
has shrunk. Only her eyes are unchanged, just as big and restless
as ever.

'I'm feeling better,' she says. 'But I'm very tired. Every time I
get malaria my powerlessness gets worse. I despise weakness, not
being able to do anything.'

'Mr Pihri came to visit,' he tells her. 'He left me some papers
with a lot of stamps on them and I gave him what he wanted,
500 eggs.'

'Smiling the whole time,' says Judith. 'He's such a crook, one
of the worst. Although he is reliable; playing the corruption game
with him always gives results.'

'He wants a new car. He has picked out a used Peugeot.'

'He'll get it when I have a sufficiently difficult matter for him
to solve.'

'Why did you apply for a two-year residence visa for me?'

'I don't think they come any shorter than that.'

As sick as she is, she can still lie, he thinks. When she gets
well I'll have to ask her why. He listens outside her door and
hears her soft snoring.

Then he makes a pilgrimage through the house, counts the
number of rooms, finds his way through deserted guest rooms,
and stops outside a door he hadn't noticed before. He's at the
end of a winding corridor, and the door is scarcely visible, set
into the brown panelling.

The door opens when he touches the handle, and a musty
smell of camphor wafts towards him. He slides one hand over
the wall to find a light switch. A bare lightbulb in the ceiling
comes on. He sees a thigh bone that he surmises is from an
elephant or a cape buffalo. A crocodile with the extended ribs of
a reptile. Various skulls and horns, some of them broken, lie
jumbled together. He imagines that the animals were once locked
alive in this room and slowly rotted away, until all that remained
were bones and skulls.

Her husband's room, he thinks. A little boy's dream of what
a grown man's room would be. In a dusty window niche lies a
notebook. He can make out the pencil handwriting passably well
and realises he is looking at poems. Quivering poetic fragments,
written with a pencil that is so faint it could never have been
intended that the text survive ...