Kennedy's Brain

  'Moises, the man you talked to, shouldn't have spoken to you. Even if you think you're alone in the room with the sick, there's always somebody keeping an eye on what happens. The people who are going to die shortly aren't allowed to have any secrets.'

  'Why is a watch kept on the sick people? And on visitors like me? What do they think I'm going to steal from poverty-stricken, dying people who are in Christian Holloway's care because they own nothing?'

  'They took Moises at dawn. They came in, gave him an injection, waited until he was dead and carried him away in a blanket.'

  'Gave him an injection in order to kill him?'

  'All I'm saying is what happened. Nothing else. I want you to tell people about this.'

  'Who was it that gave him the injection? One of the pale little girls from Europe?'

  'They don't know what goes on.'

  'Neither do I.'

  'That's why I've come here. In order to tell you.'

  'I'm here because my son used to work here among the sick and dying. Now he's dead. He was called Henrik. Do you remember him?'

  'What did he look like?'

  Grief welled up inside her as she described his face.

  'I don't remember him. Perhaps I hadn't been visited by the archangel then.'

  'The archangel?'

  'That's what we called him. I don't know where he came from, but he must be very close to Christian Holloway. A friendly man with a bald head who spoke to us in our own language and offered us what we lacked above all else.'

  'What was that?'

  'A way out of poverty. People like you think that really poor people don't realise how badly off they are. I can assure you that this assumption is wrong. The archangel said he had come to us because our suffering was the greatest and most bitter. He asked the village elder to pick out twenty people. Three days later he came in a lorry and fetched them. I wasn't chosen that time, so when he came again I made sure I was standing right at the front, and I was selected.'

  'What had happened to the first batch he had taken?'

  'He explained that they were still there, and would be staying on for a while longer. Naturally many of their relatives were worried because they hadn't heard anything for such a long time. When he had finished talking he gave the elder a large sum of money. There had never been as much money as that in our village. It was as if a thousand miners had come back after working for many years in South Africa, and now they were spreading out all their savings on a rush mat in front of us. A few days later the other lorry came. This time I was one of those who climbed into the back of it. I felt as if I were one of the chosen people who would be able to extract myself from the poverty that tarnished me even in my dreams.'

  He paused and listened into the dark. All Louise could hear was the surging of the ocean and the call of a nocturnal bird. She thought he seemed worried, but she could not be certain why.

  He whistled softly and listened. There was no answer. It suddenly seemed to Louise that the situation was surreal. Why was she sitting here by a fire with a man who kept whistling into the darkness? A pitch black that she could not penetrate. It was not merely the darkness of the African continent, it was also the dense darkness inside her, containing Henrik's grave and Aron's disappearance. She wanted to scream out loud at everything that was happening all around her, that she did not understand and that nobody else seemed to understand either.

  One evening I was standing outside my house in Argolis, smoking. I could hear dogs barking, and music coming from my neighbour's. The starry sky up above was completely clear. I would soon be leaving for Sweden where I was due to give a lecture on ceramics and the importance of ferrous oxides in determining the black and red colours. I stood there in the dark and had decided to put an end to my relationship with Vassilis, my beloved accountant. I was looking forward to meeting Henrik shortly, it was a mild night and the cigarette smoke rose straight up in the calm air. Now, a few months later, my life is in ruins. All I can feel is emptiness, and fear of what is in store for me. In order to survive I try to accept my fury at what has happened. Deep down, perhaps, without ever having said it aloud to myself, I am looking for whoever is or are responsible for Henrik's death, in order to kill them. Whoever killed Henrik is condemned to death. He is responsible not only for Henrik's death, but mine as well.

  Umbi stood up, with great difficulty. He was close to collapsing. Louise made to support him but he shook his head.

  He whistled once more, without receiving a reply.

  'I'll be back shortly.'

  He vanished into the darkness. Louise leaned forward and put more wood on the fire. Artur had taught her how to light a fire and keep it going. It was an art learned only by those who had been really cold in their lives. Artur had also coached Henrik in the art of making fires. It was as if she had always had a fire burning in her life. Even Aron had occasionally rushed off into the forest with a coffee kettle and a rucksack, and forced her to accompany him, whenever he had decided he was going to smash up his computer and escape to a new life in the wilds.

  Fires burned all the way through her life. Without firewood and love she would be unable to carry on living.

  There was still no sign of Umbi. Worry crept up on her. A whistle had failed to receive a reply.

  She suddenly felt convinced that danger threatened. She stood up and withdrew quickly from the firelight. Something had happened. She held her breath and listened. All she could hear was her own heart beating. She continued to back away. The darkness surrounding her was a sea. She started to grope her way towards the hotel.

  She stumbled against something soft lying on the ground. An animal, she thought as she gave a start. She fumbled in her pockets for a box of matches. When the match flared up she saw that it was Umbi. He was dead. His throat had been cut, his head almost severed from his body.

  Louise ran away. Twice she stumbled and fell.

  When she unlocked the door of her room she saw straight away that somebody had been there. A pair of socks were lying where she had not put them. The door to the bathroom was ajar, although she was almost certain that she had closed it. Was there somebody in there? She opened the door to the corridor and made herself ready to flee before plucking up the courage to kick the bathroom door open. There was nobody there.

  But somebody was watching her. Umbi and his friends had not seen what was hiding in the darkness. That was why Umbi was dead.

  Her fear was like a paralysing chill. She flung her belongings into her bag and left the room. The night porter was asleep on a mattress behind the counter. He jumped up with a startled roar when she shouted at him to wake up. She paid her bill, unlocked the car and drove off. Not until she had left Xai-Xai and made sure that no car was visible in the rear-view mirror did she regain her self-control.

  She now knew where she had seen the name Steve.

  Aron had been sitting at Henrik's computer, and she had been leaning over his shoulder. It was an article from the New York Times about a man called Steve Nichols who had committed suicide after being blackmailed. Steve Nichols. Not Steve Holloway. But he had been living with his mother. She might have been called Nichols.

  The fragments she had gathered began to take shape in a way she had not expected.

  Could Henrik have been murdered because he had driven Steve Nichols to his death? Had the murder been disguised as suicide as a grim message from whoever had taken revenge?

  She hammered at the steering wheel and shouted into the darkness for Aron. Now she needed him more than ever. But he was silent, he did not answer.

  When she realised that she was driving far too fast, she slowed down.

  She was fleeing in order to survive. Not to kill herself on a dark country road in the endless African continent.

  CHAPTER 19

  The engine died without warning. She stamped and kicked at the accelerator in an attempt to make the car move. The petrol indicator showed that the tank was half full, the temperature gauge was in th
e green.

  Cause of death unknown, she thought in a mixture of anger and fear. The accursed car has died when I need it most.

  She remained in darkness. There was no sign of a light anywhere. She did not dare open the window, never mind the door. She was trapped in the dead car, she would be forced to stay there until somebody came past who could help her.

  She concentrated on the rear-view mirror, looking for any sign of movement, of somebody approaching through the darkness. The danger was behind her, not in front of her. Time after time she tried to resuscitate the car. The starter's efforts were in vain. In the end she switched on the headlights and forced herself out of the car.

  The silence enveloped her. It was as if somebody had thrown a blanket over her head. She was surrounded by unlimited and silent nothingness. The only thing she could hear was her own breathing. She took a deep breath, as if she had been drained of all air.

  I'm running. I'm being chased by fear. Whoever cut Umbi's throat is here, right next to me.

  She gave a start and turned round. There was nobody there. She managed to open the car bonnet and stared down into an unknown world.

  She remembered what Aron had said, in the most sneering tone of voice he could muster, at the very beginning of their marriage. 'If you don't learn the basic essentials of how an engine works, and what you can repair yourself, you're not fit to hold a driving licence.'

  She had never learned. She hated getting oil on her hands. But what motivated her most of all was her refusal to respond to Aron's arrogant challenge.

  She closed the bonnet again. The noise it made was deafening and rolled away into the darkness.

  What had Shakespeare written? 'As cannons overcharged with double cracks.' That's how Aron described himself. He was the man who produced double cracks, nobody could match what he could do. What would he have said if he'd seen her in a car that had given up the ghost in the African darkness? Would he have delivered one of his condescending lectures about how incompetent she was? That's what he usually did when he was in a bad mood, and it usually led to long drawn-out trials of strength which frequently ended up with them throwing cups and glasses at each other.

  I love him even so, she thought as she squatted down and peed next to the car. I have tried to replace him with other men, but have always failed. Like Portia, I have waited for my wooers. They have danced and pranced around and performed their tricks, but when the last act begins they have all been rejected. Is this my last act, perhaps? I thought I would have at least another twenty years to go. When Henrik died, in the course of just a few seconds I raced through the whole play and now only the epilogue remains.

  She continued to keep an eye on the rear-view mirror. No headlight beams pierced the darkness. She took out her mobile and dialled Aron's number. The number you have called is unavailable at the moment.

  Then she dialled the number of Henrik's flat. You know what to do. She started crying, and her sobs became a message on his answering machine. Then she rang Artur. The connection was good, with no delay. His voice made him seem close by.

  'Where are you? Why are you ringing in the middle of the night? Are you crying?'

  'My car's broken down on a deserted country road.'

  'Are you on your own?'

  'Yes.'

  'You must be out of your mind! In a car on your own in the middle of the night in Africa? Anything at all could happen.'

  'Anything at all has happened. The car has stopped. I have petrol, the engine hasn't overheated, there are no warning lights flashing. Having a breakdown here isn't really any worse than breaking down in the Härjedalen mountains.'

  'Can't somebody come to help you? Is it a hire car? If so there must be an emergency number you can call.'

  'I want you to help me. You've taught me everything; from how to cook, to mending a broken record player. Even to stuff birds.'

  'I'm worried about you. What are you afraid of?'

  'I'm not afraid. I'm not crying.'

  He bellowed at her. The noise hit her like a heavy blow.

  'Don't tell me barefaced lies! Not even when you can hide inside a telephone.'

  'Don't shout at me! Help me instead.'

  'Is the starter working?'

  She put the phone on her knee, turned the key and made the starter turn.

  'That sounds like it should,' said Artur.

  'So why doesn't the engine start?'

  'I don't know. Is the road potholed?'

  'It's like driving on a dirt road in the north of Sweden in the spring thaw.'

  'Maybe a cable has been shaken loose.'

  She switched on the headlights, opened the bonnet for the second time and followed his instructions. When she tried to start the car again, the result was the same.

  She was cut off. She shouted into the darkness, but Artur's voice was no longer there. She dialled his number again. A woman's voice said something that sounded apologetic in Portuguese. She hung up and hoped that Artur would be able to get through to her.

  Nothing happened. She tried the number given in the rental contract. No answer, there was neither an answering machine nor any recorded instructions.

  She saw the distant gleam of headlights in the rearview mirror. Fear cut deep into her. Should she get out of the car and hide in the darkness? She was incapable of moving. The headlights came closer. She was convinced the oncoming vehicle would crash into her. It swerved away at the last moment. A battered lorry rattled past.

  It was as if she had been overtaken by a riderless horse.

  It developed into one of the longest nights of her life. She listened through the half-open window and kept her eyes skinned for lights. She occasionally tried to ring Artur again, but failed to get through.

  Shortly before dawn she tried the starter again. The engine spluttered into life. She held her breath. The engine continued turning.

  It was broad daylight when she arrived at the outskirts of Maputo, everywhere there were women with backs as straight as ramrods walking out of the sun and the red dust, with gigantic loads balanced on their heads and children in slings on their backs.

  She edged her way through the chaotic traffic, through the black smoke oozing out of buses and lorries.

  She needed a wash, a change of clothes, a few hours of sleep. But she had no desire to see Lars Håkansson. She found her way to the house where Lucinda lived. No doubt she would be asleep after a long night's work in the bar. Too bad. Lucinda was the only person who could help her now.

  She parked the car and tried Artur's number one more time. She thought of something he'd said once.

  Neither the devil nor God wants competition. That's why we humans end up in our lonely no-man's-land.

  She could hear that he was tired. No doubt he'd been up all night. But he would never admit as much. Even if she was not allowed to tell lies, he had granted that privilege to himself.

  'What happened? Where are you?'

  'Nothing's happened, except that the car started again for no obvious reason. I'm back in Maputo.'

  'These damned telephones!'

  'They are fantastic.'

  'Isn't it time for you to leave there?'

  'Soon, but not yet. We can talk about that later. My battery's nearly flat.'