The Eye Of The Leopard (24 page)

Olofson sees his eyes, wide open from something he carries
inside him.

'It wasn't a leopard that did this,' he says. 'It was people like
you, black people. No
mzungu
would fasten a severed dog's head
to a tree.'

'The leopards are hunting,' Luka mumbles again, and Olofson
sees that his terror is real.

A thought occurs to him.

'Leopards,' he says softly. 'People who have turned themselves
into leopards? Dressed in their skins to make themselves invulnerable?
Maybe it was people in leopard skins who came in the
night to Ruth and Werner Masterton.'

His words increase Luka's anxiety.

'Leopards see without being seen,' Olofson says. 'Maybe they
can hear at long distances too. Maybe they can read people's lips.
But they can't see or hear through stone walls.'

He gets up and Luka follows him. We have never been this
close to each other, Olofson thinks. Now we are sharing the
burden of each other's fear. Luka senses the threat. Perhaps
because he works for a white man, has the trust of a white man,
and receives many advantages? Maybe a black man who works
for a
mzungu
is unreliable in this country. Luka sits down on the
edge of a kitchen chair.

'Words travel in the dark,
Bwana
,' he says. 'Words that are hard
to understand. But they are there, and they come back. Someone
speaks them, and no one knows whose voice it is.'

'What are the words?' Olofson asks.

'They speak of unusual leopards,' says Luka. 'Leopards who
have begun to hunt in packs. The leopard is a lone hunter,
dangerous in his loneliness. Leopards in packs are many more
times as dangerous.'

'Leopards are predators,' Olofson says. 'Leopards are looking
for the prey?'

'The words speak of people who gather in the dark,' says Luka.
'People who turn into leopards that will chase all the
mzunguz
out of the country.'

Olofson remembers something that Peter Motombwane told
him.

'
Mzunguz
,' he says. 'Rich men. But there are both black and
white men that are rich, aren't there?'

'The whites are richer,' says Luka.

One question remains, even though Olofson already knows
what Luka's answer will be.

'Am I a rich man?' he asks.

'Yes,
Bwana
,' Luka replies. 'A very rich man.'

And yet I will stay here, he thinks. If I'd had a family I would
have sent them away. But I'm alone. I have to stay put or else
give up completely. He puts on a pair of gloves, takes down the
dog's head, and Luka buries it down by the river.

'Where's the body?' Olofson asks.

Luka shakes his head. 'I don't know,
Bwana
. In a place where
we can't see it.'

At night he stands guard. He dozes fitfully in a chair behind
barricaded doors. Guns with their safeties off lie across his knee,
stacks of extra ammunition are stashed at various spots in the
house. He pictures himself making his last stand in the room
where the skeletons were once stored.

In the daytime he visits the surrounding farms, telling people
Luka's vague story about the pack of leopards. His neighbours
supply him with other pieces to the puzzle, even though no one
else has received a warning sign.

Before independence, during the 1950s, there was something
known as the leopard movement in certain areas of the
Copperbelt; an underground movement that mixed politics and
religion and threatened to take up arms if the federation was not
dissolved and Zambia gained independence. But no one had
heard of the leopard movement using violence.

Olofson learns from the farmers who have spent long lives in
the country that nothing ever actually dies. For a long-vanished
political and religious movement to reappear is not unusual; it
only increases the credibility of Luka's words. Olofson declines
to take on volunteers as reinforcements in his own house. At
twilight he barricades himself in and eats his lonely dinner after
he has sent Luka home.

He waits for something to happen. The exhaustion is a drain
on him, the fear is eating deep holes in his soul. And yet he is
determined to stay. He thinks about Joyce and her daughters.
People who live outside all underground movements, people who
each day must fight for their own survival.

The rain is intense, thundering against his sheet-metal roof
through the long, lonely nights.

One morning a white man stands outside his house, a man whom
he has never seen before. To Olofson's astonishment he addresses
him in Swedish.

'I was prepared for that,' says the stranger with a laugh. 'I know
you're Swedish. Your name is Hans Olofson.'

He introduces himself as Lars Håkansson, an aid expert, sent
out by Sida, the Swedish aid agency, to monitor the development
of satellite telecommunications stations paid for by Swedish aid
funds. His mission turns out to be more than merely stopping
by to say hello to a countryman who happens to live in Kalulushi.
There is a hill on Olofson's property that is an ideal location for
one of the link stations. A steel tower topped by a satellite dish.
A fence, a passable road. A total area of 400 square metres.

'Naturally there is payment involved, if you're prepared to relinquish
your property,' Håkansson says. 'We can arrange for you
to get your money in real currency, of course: dollars, pounds or
D-marks.'

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 wellguarded
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.

People who dress like leopards don't know what they're doing.
In the name of political discontent they're pushing their brothers
down the precipice.

He shoves the dirty foremen's reports away, puts his feet up
on a pile of egg cartons, and lets his mind work on an idea.

I'll start a back fire, he thinks. Even if the Africans are evidently
no longer afraid of German shepherds, they have great respect
and fear of people who show courage. Maybe Werner Masterton's
fate was brought about by the fact that he had softened, turned
vague and yielding; an old man who worried about the trouble
he was having pissing.

He finds himself thinking a racist thought. The African's
instinct is like the hyena's, he tells himself. In Sweden the word
'hyena' is an insult, an expression for contemptuous weakness, for
a parasitic person. For the Africans the hyena's hunting methods
are natural. Prey left behind or lost by others is something desirable.
A wounded and defenceless animal is something to pounce
on. Perhaps Werner Masterton appeared a wounded man after
all these years in Africa. The blacks could see it and they attacked.
Ruth could never have put up any resistance.