The Eye Of The Leopard

  The man walking towards him has a pale, sunken face. Olofson senses at once that he is not at all welcome. I'm breaking into a closed world. A matter for the blacks and the missionaries ... He quickly decides to reveal at least part of the truth.

  'I'm following in Harry Johanson's footsteps,' he says. 'I come from his homeland and I'm searching for his memory.'

  The pale man looks at him for a long time. Then he nods for Olofson to follow him.

  'I'll stay until you tell me to leave,' says Fischer. 'I can't get back before dark anyway.'

  Olofson is shown into a room containing a bed with a crucifix hanging above it, and a cracked washbasin. A lizard scurries into a hole in the wall. A sharp smell that he can't identify pricks his nose.

  'Father LeMarque is on a trip,' says the pale man with the reticent voice. 'We expect him back tomorrow. I'll send someone over with sheets and to show you where to get some food.'

  'My name is Hans Olofson,' he says.

  The man nods without introducing himself.

  'Welcome to Mutshatsha,' he says in a sombre voice before he leaves.

  Silent children stand in the doorway, watching him attentively. Outside a church bell rings. Olofson listens. He feels a creeping fear inside. The smell that he can't identify stings his nose. I'll just leave, he thinks agitatedly. If I take off right now, I never will have been here. At the same moment David Fischer comes in carrying his suitcase.

  'I understand you'll be staying,' he says. 'Good luck with whatever it is you're doing. If you want to come back, the missionaries have cars. And you know where I live.'

  'How can I thank you?' Olofson says.

  'Why do people always have to thank each other?' says Fischer, and leaves.

  Olofson watches the car go down the road. The children stand motionless and stare at him.

  Suddenly he feels dizzy from the intense heat. He goes inside the cell assigned to him, stretches out on the hard bed and closes his eyes.

  The church bells fall silent and everything is still. When he opens his eyes the children are still standing in the doorway watching him. He stretches out his hand and motions to them. In an instant they are gone.

  He has to go to the toilet. He walks out through the door and the heat strikes him hard in the face. The big sandy area is deserted, and even the children are gone. He walks around the building in his search for a toilet. At the rear he finds a door. When he pushes the handle the door opens. He steps inside and in the darkness he is blind. The sharp smell makes him feel sick. When he gets used to the dark he realises that he's in a morgue.

  In the dark he can distinguish two dead Africans lying stretched out on wooden benches. Their naked bodies are scarcely covered by dirty sheets. He recoils and slams the door behind him. The dizziness returns at once.

  On the steps outside his door sits an African, looking at him.

  'I am Joseph, Bwana,' he says. 'I will guard your door.'

  'Who told you to sit here?'

  'The missionaries, Bwana.'

  'Why?'

  'In case something happens, Bwana.'

  'What would that be?'

  'In the dark many things can happen, Bwana.'

  'Like what?'

  'You'll know it when it happens, Bwana.'

  'Has anything happened before?'

  'There's always a lot happening, Bwana.'

  'How long are you supposed to sit here?'

  'As long as Bwana stays here, Bwana.'

  'When do you sleep?'

  'When there is time, Bwana.'

  'There is only night and day.'

  'Now and then other times arise, Bwana.'

  'What do you do while you're sitting here?'

  'I wait for something to happen, Bwana.'

  'What?'

  'You'll know when it happens, Bwana.'

  Joseph shows him where there is a toilet and where he can take a shower under an old petrol tank with a dripping hose. After he has changed his clothes, Joseph accompanies him to the mission station's mess hall. An African with one leg shorter than the other walks around the empty tables wiping them with a dirty rag.

  'Am I the only one here?' he asks Joseph.

  'The missionaries are on a trip, Bwana. But tomorrow they may return.'

  Joseph waits outside the door. Olofson sits down at a table. The lame African brings a bowl of soup. Olofson eats, swatting at flies that buzz around his mouth. An insect stings him on the back of the neck and when he starts, he spills the soup on the table. The lame man comes at once with his rag.

  Something is wrong on this continent, he thinks. When someone cleans up, the dirt is just spread even more.

  The brief twilight is almost over as he leaves the mess hall. Joseph is waiting for him outside the door. In the distance fires are gleaming. He notices that Joseph is standing rocking on his feet, that he can hardly keep his balance.

  'You're drunk, Joseph,' he says.

  'I'm not drunk, Bwana.'

  'I can see that you're drunk!'

  'I'm not drunk, Bwana. At least not much. I only drink water, Bwana.'

  'You can't get drunk on water. What have you been drinking?'

  'African whisky, Bwana. But it's not allowed. I won't be permitted to stand watch here if any of the mzunguz find out about it.'

  'What would happen if someone saw that you were drunk?'

  'Sometimes in the morning we have to line up and breathe at a wakakwitau, Bwana. If anyone smells of anything but water he is punished.'

  'Punished how?'

  'In the worst case he would have to leave Mutshatsha with his family, Bwana.'

  'I won't say a thing, Joseph. I'm no missionary. I'm only here on a visit. I'd like to buy a little of your African whisky.'

  He watches Joseph trying to assess the situation and make a decision.

  'I'll pay you well for your whisky,' he says.

  He follows Joseph's wobbly figure creeping through the dark, close to the building walls, over towards an area with grass huts. Faces he cannot see laugh in the darkness. A woman scolds an invisible man, children's eyes shine near a fire.

  Joseph stops outside one of the grass huts and calls something in a low voice. Two men and three women emerge from the hut, all drunk. Olofson has a hard time distinguishing them in the dark. Joseph makes a sign to him to enter the hut. An ingrained stench of urine and sweat meets him in the darkness within.

  I ought to be afraid, he thinks briefly. Yet I feel quite safe in Joseph's company ...

  At the same moment he stumbles over something on the floor, and when he feels with his hand he finds that it's a sleeping child. Shadows dance across the walls, and Joseph motions him to sit down. He sinks down on to a raffia mat and a woman hands him a mug. What he drinks tastes like burnt bread and it's very strong.

  'What am I drinking?' he asks Joseph.

  'African whisky, Bwana.'

  'It tastes bad.'

  'We're used to it, Bwana. We distil lituku from maize waste, roots, and sugar water. Then we drink it. When it's gone we make more. Sometimes we drink honey beer too.'

  Olofson can feel himself becoming intoxicated.

  'Why did the others leave?' he asks.

  'They're not used to a mzungu coming here, Bwana. No mzungu has ever been inside this hut before.'

  'Tell them to come back. I'm no missionary.'

  'But you're white, Bwana. A mzungu.'

  'Tell them anyway.'

  Joseph calls out into the darkness, and the three women and two men return and squat down. They are young.

  'My sisters and my brothers, Bwana. Magdalena, Sara, and Salomo. Abraham and Kennedy.'

  'Salomo is a man's name.'

  'My sister's name is Salomo, Bwana. So it's a woman's name too.'

  'I don't want to bother you. Tell them that. Tell them I don't want to bother you.'

  Joseph translates and the woman named Sara says something, casting glances at Olofson.

  'What does she want?' he asks. br />
  'She wonders why a wakakwitau is visiting an African hut, Bwana. She wonders why you drink, since all the whites here say it is forbidden.'

  'Not for me. Explain to her that I'm not a missionary.'

  Joseph translates and an intense discussion breaks out. Olofson watches the women, their dark bodies in relief under their chitengen. Maybe Janine will come back to me in a black guise, he thinks ...

  He gets drunk on the drink that tastes like burnt bread and listens to a discussion he doesn't understand.

  'Why are you so excited?' he asks Joseph.

  'Why don't all the mzunguz drink, Bwana? Especially the ones who preach about their God? Why don't they understand that the revelation would be much stronger with African whisky? We Africans have understood this since the days of our first forefathers.'

  'Tell them I agree. Ask them what they really think about the missionaries.'

  When Joseph has translated, there is an embarrassed silence.

  'They don't know what to say, Bwana. They aren't used to a mzungu asking such a question. They're afraid of giving the wrong answer.'

  'What would happen?'

  'Living at a mission station means food and clothing, Bwana. They don't want to lose that by giving the wrong answer.'

  What would happen then?'

  'The missionaries might be displeased, Bwana. Maybe we would all be chased off.'

  'Does that happen? That anyone who doesn't obey is chased off?'

  'Missionaries are like other whites, Bwana. They demand the same submission.'

  'Can't you be more clear? What would happen?'

  'Mzunguz always think that we blacks are unclear, Bwana.'

  'You speak in riddles, Joseph.'

  'Life is mysterious, Bwana.'

  'I don't believe a word of what you're saying, Joseph. You won't be chased away by the missionaries!'

  'Of course you don't believe me, Bwana. I'm just telling you the truth.'

  'You're not saying anything.'

  Olofson takes a drink.

  'The women,' he says. 'They're your sisters?'

  'That's right, Bwana.'

  'Are they married?'

  'They would like to marry you, Bwana.'

  'Why is that?'

  'A white man is not black, unfortunately, Bwana. But a bwana has money.'

  'But they've never seen me before.'

  'They saw you when you arrived, Bwana.'

  'They don't know me.'

  'If they were married to you they would get to know you, Bwana.'

  'Why don't they marry the missionaries?'

  'Missionaries don't marry blacks, Bwana. Missionaries don't like black people.'

  'What the hell are you saying?'

  'I'm just saying the truth, Bwana.'

  'Stop calling me Bwana.'

  'Yes, Bwana.'

  'Of course the missionaries like you! It's for your sake they're here, isn't it?'

  'We blacks believe that the missionaries are here as a penance, Bwana. For the man that they nailed to a cross.'

  'Why do you stay here then?'

  'It's a good life, Bwana. We will gladly believe in a foreign god if we get food and clothing.'

  'Is that the only reason?'

  'Of course, Bwana. We have our own real gods, after all. They probably don't like it that we fold our hands several times each day. When we speak to them we beat our drums and dance.'

  'Surely you can't do that here.'

  'Sometimes we go far out in the bush, Bwana. Our gods wait there for us.'

  'Don't the missionaries know about this?'

  'Of course not, Bwana. If they did they would be very upset. That wouldn't be good. Especially not now, when I might get a bicycle.'

  Olofson stands up on his unsteady legs. I'm drunk, he thinks. Tomorrow the missionaries will return. I have to sleep.

  'Follow me back, Joseph.'

  'Yes, Bwana.'

  'And stop calling me Bwana!'

  'Yes, Bwana. I'll stop calling you Bwana after you leave.'

  Olofson gives Joseph some money. 'Your sisters are beautiful.'

  'They would like to marry you, Bwana.'

  Olofson crawls into his hard bed. Before he falls asleep he hears Joseph already snoring outside the door.

  He wakes up with a start. The pale man is standing over him.

  'Father LeMarque has returned,' he says in a toneless voice. 'He would like to meet you.'

  Olofson dresses hastily. He feels bad, his head is pounding from the African whisky. In the early dawn he follows the pale man across the red dirt. So the missionaries travel by night, he thinks. What is he going to tell me about why he came here?

  He enters one of the grey buildings. At a simple wooden table sits a young man with a bushy beard. He is dressed in a torn undershirt and dirty shorts.

  'Our guest,' he says with a smile. 'Welcome.'

  Patrice LeMarque comes from Canada, he tells Hans Olofson. The lame man has brought two cups of coffee and they sit at the back of the building in the shade of a tree. At the Mutshatsha mission station there are missionaries and health care personnel from many countries.

  'But none from Sweden?' Olofson asks.

  'Not at the moment,' replies LeMarque. 'The last one was here about ten years ago. A Swedish nurse who came from a city I think was called Kalmar.'

  'The first one came from Röstånga. Harry Johanson.'

  'Have you really come all this way to see his grave?'

  'I stumbled upon his story when I was quite young. I won't be finished with him until I have seen his grave.'

  'Harry Johanson sat in the shade of this very tree,' LeMarque says. 'When he wanted to be alone and meditate, he used to come here, and no one was allowed to bother him. I've also seen a photograph of him sitting in this spot. He was short but he was physically very strong. He also had a keen sense of humour. Some of the older Africans still remember him. When he was angry he could lift a baby elephant over his head. That's not true, of course, but as an illustration of his strength the image is good.'