The Eye Of The Leopard

by Henning Mankell

  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.

  He thinks back to his conversation with Peter Motombwane, and makes his decision. He calls in one of the clerks waiting outside the hut.

  'Go and fetch me Eisenhower Mudenda,' he says. 'At once.'

  The man stands there, uncertain.

  'What are you waiting for?' Olofson shouts. 'Eisenhower Mudenda! Sanksako! You'll get a kick in the mataku if he isn't here in five minutes.'

  A few minutes later Eisenhower Mudenda stands inside the dark hut. He's breathing hard and Olofson can tell that the man has been running.

  'Sit down,' says Olofson, pointing at a chair. 'But wipe yourself off first. I don't want chicken shit on the chair.'

  Mudenda quickly wipes himself off and sits down on the edge of the chair. His disguise is excellent, Olofson thinks. An insignificant old man. But none of the Africans on this farm dares cross him. Even Motombwane is afraid of him.

  For a brief moment he hesitates. The risk is too great, he thinks. If I start this back fire, there will be chaos. And yet he knows it is necessary; he has made his decision.

  'Someone has killed one of my dogs,' he says. 'His head was nailed to a
tree. But you probably know this already, don't you?'

  'Yes, Bwana,' replies Mudenda.

  The lack of expression, Olofson thinks. It says everything.

  'Let's speak openly, Eisenhower,' Olofson says. 'You've been here for many years. For thousands of days you have gone to your hen house, and countless eggs have passed through your hands. Of course I know you're a sorcerer, a man who can do muloji. All the blacks are afraid of you, and none of them will say a word against you. But I'm a bwana, a mzungu that your muloji won't work on. Now I'm thinking of asking you for something, Eisenhower. You must regard this as an order, in the same way as if I tell you to work on your day off. Someone on this farm killed my dog. I want to know who it was. Maybe you already know. But I want to know too, and I want to know soon. If you don't tell me, I'll have to assume that you were the one who did it. And then you'll be sacked. Not even your muloji can prevent that. You'll have to leave your house, and you will never be allowed to show your face on the farm again. If you do, the police will take you away.'

  I should have talked to him outside in the sun, thinks Olofson. I can't see his face in here.

  'I can give Bwana his answer right now,' says Mudenda, and Olofson thinks he can hear something hard in his voice.

  'Even better. I'm listening.'

  'Nobody on this farm killed a dog, Bwana,' Mudenda says. 'People came in the night and then left again. I know who they are, but I can't say anything.'

  'Why not?' Olofson asks.

  'My knowledge comes to me in visions, Bwana,' Mudenda replies. 'Only sometimes can one reveal his visions. A vision can be turned into a poison that will kill my brain.'

  'Use your muloji,' Olofson says. 'Create a counter-poison, tell me about your vision.'

  'No, Bwana,' Mudenda says.

  'Then you are fired,' says Olofson. 'At this instant your work on my farm is ended. By tomorrow, at dawn, you and your family must be out of your house. Now I'll pay you the wages I owe you.'

  He places a pile of notes on the table.

  'I will go, Bwana,' says Eisenhower Mudenda. 'But I will come back.'

  'No,' Olofson says. 'Not if you don't want the police to take you away.'

  'The police are black too, Bwana,' says Eisenhower Mudenda.

  He picks up the stack of bank notes and vanishes into the white sunlight. A test of power between reality and superstition, thinks Olofson. I have to believe that reality is stronger.

  That night he barricades himself in his house and again waits for something to happen. He sleeps fitfully on top of the covers of his bed. The dead and dismembered bodies of Werner and Ruth wake him time and time again. Exhausted and pale, he lets Luka in at dawn. Black rain clouds are looming on the horizon.

  'Nothing is as it should be, Bwana,' Luka says gravely.

  'What?' Olofson asks.

  'The farm is silent, Bwana,' replies Luka.

  Olofson gets into his car and drives quickly towards the hen houses. The work stations are abandoned. Not a person in sight. The eggs are ungathered, the feed chutes empty. Empty egg cartons lean against the wheels of the lorries. The keys are in the ignition.

  The test of power, he thinks. The witch doctor and I appear in the arena. In a rage he gets back into his car. With screeching brakes he stops among the low mud houses. The men are sitting in groups at their fires, the women and children in the doorways. Naturally they've been waiting for me, he thinks. He calls over some of the older foremen.

  'Nobody is working,' he says. 'Why not?'

  The reply is silence, hesitant glances, fear.

  'If everyone returns to work at once I won't even ask the reason,' he says. 'No one will be fired, no one will have his wages docked. But everyone has to return to work now.'

  'We can't, Bwana,' says one of the oldest foremen.

  'Why not?' Olofson asks again.

  'Eisenhower Mudenda is no longer on the farm, Bwana,' the foreman goes on. 'Before he left he called us together and said that every egg that is now laid is a snake egg. If we touch the eggs we will be bitten by poisonous fangs. The farm will be overrun with snakes.'

  Olofson thinks for a moment. Words won't help, he realises. He has to do something, something they can see with their own eyes.

  He gets into his car and returns to the hen houses and gathers a carton of eggs. When he comes back he assembles the foremen around him. Without a word he crushes egg after egg, letting the whites and the yolks drip to the ground. The men shrink back, but he continues.

  'No snakes,' he says. 'Normal eggs. Who sees a snake?'

  But the foremen are unreachable.

  'When we touch the eggs, Bwana, there will be snakes.'

  Olofson holds out an egg, but no one dares touch it.

  'You will lose your jobs,' he says. 'You will lose your houses, everything.'

  'We don't believe that, Bwana.'

  'Do you hear what I'm saying?'

  'The hens must have feed, Bwana.'

  'I'll find other workers. People are queueing up to work on a white farm.'

  'Not when they hear about the snakes, Bwana.'

  'There aren't any snakes.'

  'We think there are, Bwana. That's why we're not working.'

  'You're afraid of Eisenhower Mudenda. You're afraid of his muloji.'

  'Eisenhower Mudenda is a smart man, Bwana.'

  'He's no smarter than any of you.'

  'He speaks to us through our forefathers, Bwana. We're Africans, you're a white bwana. You can't understand.'

  'I'll sack you all if you don't go back to work.'

  'We know that, Bwana.'

  'I'll get workers from another part of the country.'

  'Nobody will work on a farm where the hens lay snake eggs, Bwana.'

  'I'm telling you, there are no eggs with snakes in them!'

  'Only Eisenhower Mudenda can take away the snakes, Bwana.'

  'I've fired him.'

  'He's waiting to come back, Bwana.'

  I'm losing, Olofson thinks. I'm losing the way the white man always loses in Africa. There's no way to start a back fire against superstition.

  'Send for Mudenda,' he says and walks back to his car and drives to his mud hut.

  Suddenly Mudenda stands like a silhouette in the doorway against the bright white sunlight.

  'I won't ask you to sit down,' says Olofson. 'You have your job back. Actually I ought to force you to show the workers that there aren't any snakes in the eggs. But I won't do that. Tell the workers you have lifted your muloji. Go back to work, that's all.'

  Eisenhower Mudenda walks out into the sun, and Olofson follows him.

  'One more thing you should know. I don't admit that I'm defeated. One day there won't be any more muloji, and the blacks will turn against you and crush your head with their wooden clubs. I don't intend to come to your rescue.'

  'That will never happen, Bwana,' says Eisenhower Mudenda.

  'Hens will never lay eggs with snakes inside,' replies Olofson. 'What will you do when someone asks to see one of these snakes?'