The Eye Of The Leopard (30 page)

Anight watchman comes towards him with a cudgel in
his hand. Olofson can see that he is very afraid. Two
big German shepherds are running restlessly back and
forth across the poorly lit courtyard.

Suddenly he feels a raging disgust at being always surrounded
by nervous watchdogs and high walls with crushed glass cemented
on top. I travel from one white bunker to the next, he thinks.
Everywhere this terror.

He knocks on the door of the servants' quarters and Peggy
answers. She lets him in, and behind her is Marjorie, and they
laugh with joy that he has come. And yet he notices at once that
something is wrong. He sits down on a chair and listens to their
voices in the tiny kitchen where they are fixing tea for him.

I forget that I'm a
mzungu
even to them, he thinks. Only with
Peter Motombwane did I succeed in experiencing a completely
natural relationship with an African. He drinks tea and asks how
they're getting along in Lusaka.

'It's going well,' replies Marjorie. '
Bwana
Lars is taking care of
us.'

He doesn't tell them about the attack in the night, but asks
instead whether they are homesick. When they reply that they
aren't, he again senses that something is wrong. There's an uncertainty
behind their usual happiness. Something is troubling them.
He decides to wait until Håkansson comes back.

'Tomorrow I'll be in town all day,' he says. 'We can take the
car and drive in to Cairo Road and go shopping.'

As he leaves he can hear them locking the door. In an African
village there are no locks, he thinks. It's the first thing we teach
them. Locking a door gives a false sense of security.

The night watchman comes towards him again, his cudgel in
hand.

'Where is
Bwana
Lars?' Olofson asks.

'In Kabwe,
Bwana
.'

'When is he coming back?'

'Maybe tomorrow,
Bwana
.'

'I'll stay here tonight. Open the door for me.'

The night watchman vanishes in the darkness to fetch the
keys. I'm sure he's buried them, Olofson thinks. He strikes one
of the German shepherds who sniffs at his leg. Whimpering, it
retreats. In this country there are innumerable dogs trained to
attack people with black skin, he thinks. How does one train a
dog to exhibit racist behaviour?

The night watchman unlocks the house. Olofson takes the
keys and locks the door from the inside. First the wrought-iron
gate with two padlocks and a crossbar with another lock. Then
the outer door with three locks and three deadbolts.

Eight locks, he thinks. Eight locks for my nightly slumber.
What was it that was bothering them? A homesickness they're
afraid to admit? Or something else? He turns on the lights in
Lars Håkansson's big house, walks through the tastefully
furnished rooms. Everywhere there is shiny stereo equipment,
and he lets the music flow from hidden loudspeakers.

He selects a guest room with a bed made up with clean sheets.
I feel more secure here than on my own farm, he thinks. At least
I think I do, because no one knows where I am.

He takes a bath in a shiny bathroom, turns off the music, and
climbs into bed. Just as he is about to slip off into sleep, he is
suddenly wide awake. He thinks again about Marjorie and Peggy,
and his feeling that something is not quite right. He tries to
convince himself that Africa has made him far too sensitive in
his judgement, that after all these years he thinks he sees terror
in everyone's face.

He gets up and goes through the house, opening doors,
studying the titles in the bookshelves and a drawing of a link
station hanging on a wall in Håkansson's office. Everything is in
perfect order. Lars Håkansson has established himself in Africa
without a speck of dust, with everything in its place. He pulls
out drawers and sees underwear in meticulously arranged piles.
One room has been converted to a photography studio; behind
another door he finds an exercise bicycle and a table tennis table.

He returns to the big living room. He hasn't found anything
that gives a picture of Håkansson's past. Nowhere does he see
pictures of children or an ex-wife. He imagines that Håkansson
makes use of the fact that Africa is a long way from Sweden.
The past is the past; nothing needs to remind him unless he
wants it to.

He pulls out a drawer in a chiffonier. It contains stacks of
photographs. Only when he aims a lamp on them does he see
what they depict. Pornographic pictures of black subjects.
Pictures of sexual intercourse, individual poses. Everyone in the
photos is very young. Peggy and Marjorie are there. Helplessly
vulnerable.

Among the pictures is a letter, written in German. Olofson
manages to decipher that it's from a man in Frankfurt thanking
Håkansson for the photos he supplied; he wants more and says
that three thousand D-marks will be transferred to a bank in
Liechtenstein, according to their agreement.

Olofson is scared by his rage. Now I'm capable of anything,
he thinks. This fucking man to whom I gave my greatest trust,
who has duped or threatened or enticed my black daughters to
do this. He doesn't deserve to live. Maybe he also forces himself
on them, maybe one or both are already pregnant.

He takes out the pictures of Peggy and Marjorie and stuffs
them in his pocket, slams the drawer shut and decides. Through
a window that's kept open at night he speaks to the night
watchman and finds out that Håkansson is staying at the
Department Guest House, near the big military bases in Kabwe,
on the southern approach to the city.

Olofson gets dressed and leaves the house. The night watchman
is surprised to see him get into his car.

'It's dangerous to drive that far at night,
Bwana
,' he says.

'What's dangerous about it?' Olofson asks.

'Men steal and murder,
Bwana
,' says the night watchman.

'I'm not afraid,' Olofson says.

It's true, too, he thinks as he turns out through the gate. What
I'm experiencing now is a feeling that's stronger than all the terror
I've lived with for so long.

He leaves the city, forcing himself not to drive too fast; he
doesn't want to risk colliding with an African car with no headlights.

I let myself be deceived so easily, he thinks. I meet a Swede
and immediately lean on his shoulder. He stood outside my house,
asking to buy a hill on my property, and somehow he gained my
trust. He was prepared to place a house at the disposal of Peggy
and Marjorie much too readily. What did he give them? Money
or threats? Or both? There really isn't any punishment for it, he
thinks. But I want to know how anyone can behave as he does.

Midway between Lusaka and Kabwe he comes to a military
roadblock. He slows down and stops at the checkpoint. Soldiers
in camouflage uniforms and helmets walk towards him in the
floodlights, automatic weapons raised. He rolls down his window
and one of the soldiers bends down and looks inside the car.
Olofson notices that the soldier is very young and very drunk.
He asks where Olofson is heading.

'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.'