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 th
em, 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.
Then he quickly changes his mind, shoves it into first gear, stomps on the accelerator, and speeds straight towards Håkansson. Olofson shuts his eyes as he runs over him. There is only a soft thud and a jolt to the chassis. Without looking back he keeps going towards the gate. The night watchman is asleep, the burnt rubber boot is stinking. Olofson pushes open the gates and leaves Kabwe.
In this country they hang murderers, he thinks in despair. I'll have to say it was an accident and I got so confused that I just drove off without reporting what happened. I was recently subjected to a terrifying attack myself, I'm tired, burned out. He drives towards Kalulushi with a feeling that he should regret what he's done, but he can't. He's sure that Lars Håkansson is dead.
At dawn he drives off the main road and stops; the sun is rising over an endless moorland. He burns the photos of Peggy and Marjorie and lets the ashes drift away on the warm wind.
He has killed two people, maybe even a third. Peter Motombwane was probably the best man in this country, he thinks. Lars Håkansson was a monster. Killing a human being is something incomprehensible. If I'm going to survive I have to tell myself that I atoned for Peter Motombwane by driving my car straight at Håkansson. Something is restored, even though it changes nothing.
For two weeks he waits for the police; anxiety gnaws at him to the point of dissolution. He leaves as much as he can to his foremen and says he's suffering from constant malaria attacks. Patel visits his farm and Olofson asks him for some sleeping pills. Then he sleeps dreamlessly and often wakes up only when Luka has been standing at the kitchen door pounding for a long time.
He thinks that he ought to visit Joyce Lufuma, speak to her, but he doesn't know what to say. I can only wait, he thinks. Wait for the police to come in a broken-down car and get me. Maybe I'll have to give them some petrol so they can take me away.
One morning two weeks later Luka tells him that Peggy and Marjorie have returned on the bus from Lusaka. Terror paralyses him. Now the police are coming, he thinks. Now it's all over.
But the only ones who come are Peggy and Marjorie. They stand in the sunshine outside the dark mud hut where he sits with his papers. He goes out to them and asks why they came back from Lusaka.
'Mzunguz came and said that Bwana Lars had died,' says Marjorie. 'We couldn't live in our house any more. A man who comes from the same country as you gave us money to come back here. Now we are here.'
He drives them home. 'Nothing is too late,' he says. 'I'll arrange it some other way. You will have the nursing training as we planned.'
We share a secret even though they don't know it, he thinks. Maybe they have a feeling that Håkansson's death has something to do with me and the pictures. Or maybe they don't.
'How did Bwana Lars die?' he asks.
'An accident, said the man from your country,' replies Peggy.
'Didn't any police officers come?'
'No police,' says Peggy.
A sleeping night watchman, he thinks. I didn't see any other cars. Maybe Håkansson was the only one at the guest house. The night watchman in Lusaka is afraid of getting involved. Maybe he didn't even say I was there the night it happened. Peggy and Marjorie have certainly not said anything, and nobody has asked them about what happened that night in Kabwe. Maybe there wasn't even any enquiry. An inexplicable accident, a dead Swedish aid expert is flown home in a coffin. An item in the papers, Sida attends the funeral. People wonder, but say to themselves that Africa is the mysterious continent.
Suddenly he realises that no one is going to accuse him of Lars Håkansson's death. A Swedish aid expert dies in strange circumstances. The police investigate, find pornographic photos, and the case is quickly closed. The development of a network of link stations for telecommunications will not be served by disclosing suspicions that a crime has been committed. The link stations have set me free, he thinks. He sits underneath the tree at Joyce Lufuma's mud house. Peggy and Marjorie have gone to collect wood, the youngest daughters fetch water. Joyce is pounding maize with a heavy wooden pole.
The future for Africa depends on the plight of Africa's women, he thinks. While the men out in the villages sit under the shade of a tree, the women are working in the fields, having children, carrying fifty-kilo sacks of maize for miles on their heads. My farm is not the real picture of Africa, with men making up the primary work force. Africa's women carry the continent on their heads. Seeing a woman with a large burden on her head gives an impression of power and self-confidence. No one knows the back problems that result from these loads they carry.
Joyce Lufuma is perhaps thirty-five years old. She has borne four daughters and she still has enough strength to pound the maize with a thick pole. In her life there has never been room for reflection, only work, life-sustaining work. She has perhaps vaguely imagined that at least two of her daughters would be granted the chance to live another life. Whatever dreams she has she invests in them. The pole that pounds the maize thumps like a drum. Africa is a woman pounding maize, he thinks. From this starting point, all ideas of the future for this continent must be derived.
Joyce finishes pounding and begins to sieve her corn meal. Now and then she casts a glance at him, and when their eyes meet she laughs and her white teeth shine. Work and beauty go together, he says to himself. Joyce Lufuma is the most beautiful and dignified woman I have ever met. My love for her is born of respect. The sensual reaches me through her unbroken will to live. There her wealth is so much greater than mine. Her toil to keep her children alive, to be able to give them food and not to see them waste away from malnutrition, not to have to carry them to graveyards out in the bush.