'It's vanished. And as far as we can see, another picture has disappeared as well, showing the entry hole for the bullet that was the direct cause of death.'
'How the hell can photographs of Kennedy's post-mortem disappear?'
'How could his brain disappear?'
'What do we do now?'
'Obviously, the medical guys are worried because they've testified under oath that the photographs exist. But now they don't. One of them, at least.'
'Is the press going to get hold of this?'
'Most probably. Everything will be dug up again. The conspiracy theories, Oswald wasn't acting alone, everything we thought we'd put to bed is going to be resurrected.'
'I don't have time to fuck around with Jack any more. He's dead. I'm trying to do what a president has to do, I'm trying to sort out a lunatic war in Vietnam, and blacks running amok in the streets if we can't solve this civil rights business pdq. Make sure those medics don't shoot their mouths off too much. And send Fink back to Vietnam by yesterday.'
Henrik concluded by noting that the material came from the 'Justice Department, recently opened archives'. He also made some comments of his own.
Louise thought over what she had read. Everything is buried. Awkward facts are swept under the carpet. The truth is being disguised. We live in a world where it is more important to conceal facts than to reveal them. Anybody who makes secret moves to shine a light into the darkest corners can never be sure of what he or she might find. I must continue to shine lights. I shall soon put away all these documents about Kennedy and his accursed brain. But they seem to be a sort of handbook mapping out the world of lies, and hence lead us to the truth.
Louise continued sorting through the papers. There was a map of the southern part of Mozambique. Henrik had drawn a ring round a town called Xai-Xai and a district to the north-west of the town.
Louise put the map to one side. At the very bottom of the sports bag was a brown envelope. She opened it. It contained five silhouettes cut out of black paper. Two of them were geometric patterns. The other three were profiles of people.
She saw right away that one depicted Henrik. It was his profile, no doubt about it. She could feel uneasiness rising up inside her. The silhouette was skilfully made, but Henrik was merely a shadow: the black paper somehow seemed to presage what was to follow.
She examined the other two silhouettes. One depicted a man, the other a woman. The woman's profile made it clear that she was African. There was nothing written on the reverse. All the silhouettes were pasted onto sheets of white paper. There was no signature, nothing to suggest who had made them. Could it have been Henrik himself?
She sorted through the contents of the bag one more time, but in the end she found herself staring at the silhouettes yet again. What did they mean?
She went down to reception, and out into the grounds. The wind off the sea was mild, laden with perfumes from mysterious spices.
She sat down on a bench and stared out over the dark sea. A light was flashing, and on the far horizon ships could be seen sailing southwards.
She was startled when Lucinda suddenly appeared behind her.
Why does everybody here move without a sound? Why don't I hear them creeping up on me?
Lucinda sat down beside her.
'What did you find in the bag?'
Louise gave a start.
'How come you know about that?'
'I met Håkansson. This is a big city, but at the same time it's very small. I happened to bump into him, and he told me.'
'He said your name was Julieta, and that he didn't know anybody called Lucinda.'
Lucinda's face remained in the shadows.
'Men sometimes give women whatever name they fancy.'
'Why should the women go along with that?'
As she spoke, but too late, Louise realised what Lucinda was saying.
'He thought that I looked like a woman who ought to be called Julieta. For three months we used to meet twice a week, always at specified times in the evening, nearly always in discreet rooms rented out specifically for meetings like ours. Then he found somebody else, or perhaps his wife turned up. I don't remember.'
'Am I supposed to believe this?'
The response came like a punch on the jaw.
'That I was his mistress? That I was his little black toy that he could play with in return for cash, always in dollars or South African rands?'
Lucinda stood up.
'I can't help you if you refuse to accept what happens in a country as poor as this.'
'I didn't mean to offend you.'
'You'll never understand, you'll never have to consider opening your legs in order to afford food for yourself, or for your children, or your parents.'
'Perhaps you can explain it to me.'
'That's why I've come. I'd like you to come with me tomorrow afternoon. There's something I want to show you. Something that Henrik saw as well. Nothing will happen to you, you don't need to be afraid.'
'I'm frightened of everything that happens here, of the darkness, of being mugged by people I can neither see nor hear. I'm frightened because I don't understand.'
'Henrik was frightened as well. But he tried to shake off his fear. He tried to understand.'
Lucinda left. The wind was still no more than a gentle breeze. Louise could picture her, walking along dark streets to the bar where she worked.
She looked around the extensive hotel grounds. Everywhere, she suspected she could see shadows in the darkness.
CHAPTER 14
She stood by the window and watched the sun leap out of the sea. Once, when she was a child, her father had told her the world was like an enormous library stocked with sunrises and dusks. She had never really understood what he meant, how the movements of the sun could be like the pages of books. Not even now, as she watched light spreading over the water, could she fathom his thoughts.
She wondered whether to phone him and ask. But she let it pass.
Instead she sat down on the little balcony and dialled the number of her hotel in Barcelona. It was Xavier who answered. Mr Cantor had not been in touch, nor had the police. Mr Castells would have told him if there had been any news about Mr Cantor.
'But at least we haven't heard any bad news,' he shouted, as if the distance between Barcelona and southern Africa was too far for a normal tone of voice to be used.
The connection was lost. She did not try again, she had already received confirmation of what she knew already: Aron was still missing.
She got dressed and went down to the dining room. A fresh breeze was blowing in from the sea. She had just finished eating when somebody addressed her by name. 'Mrs Cantor', with the stress on the second syllable. When she turned round she found herself looking into a bearded face, a man of mixed race, just as much European as African. His eyes were bright. When he spoke she could see that his teeth were bad. He was short, corpulent and impatient.
'Louise Cantor?'
'That's me.'
His English had a strong Portuguese accent, but was easy to understand. Without waiting for an invitation, he pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down. He waved away the waitress who came up to the table.
'I'm Nuno, a friend of Lucinda's. I heard that you were here and that Henrik's dead.'
'I've no idea who you are.'
'Of course you don't. I haven't been here for a minute yet.'
'Nuno who? Did you know my son?'
'Nuno da Silva. I'm a journalist. Henrik sought me out a few months ago. He wanted to ask me some questions, important questions. I'm used to people seeking me out, but they don't always ask questions that interest me.'
Louise tried to remember if there had been any mention of the man's name in Henrik's notes, but she could not recall a Nuno da Silva.
'What kind of questions did he ask?'
'Tell me first what happened. Lucinda said that he died in his bed. Where was his bed?'
'Why do you ask such an odd qu
estion?'
'Because he seemed to be the sort of man who often slept in different places, a young man on the move. When I met him I thought immediately that he reminded me of myself twenty-five years ago.'
'He died in Stockholm.'
'I've been there. It was in 1974. The Portuguese were beginning to lose the war in their African colonies. It was not long before the captains started their revolt in Lisbon. There was a conference, I still don't know who paid my fare or fixed a visa for me. But it was encouraging to meet those young Swedes, none of them with the slightest experience of the horrors of war or colonial oppression, offering their support so wholeheartedly. But I also thought that it was a strange country.'
'In what way?'
'We spent day after day talking about freedom, but it was impossible to find a place where you could drink a beer or two after ten o'clock at night. Everywhere was either closed, or did not sell alcohol. Nobody could explain to me why. The Swedes understood us, but not themselves. What happened to Henrik?'
'The doctors said that his body was full of barbiturates.'
'He would never have committed suicide! Was he ill?'
'No, he wasn't ill.'
Why am I lying? Why don't I say it's possible that what killed him was his fear of the infection he was carrying? Perhaps it's because I still can't believe that really was the case. He was ill, but he would have fought it. And he would have told me about it.
'When did it happen?'
'On 17 September.'
The little dark-haired man's response to Louise's answer came with full force.
'He phoned me a few days before then.'
'Are you sure?'
'I'm a journalist, but also a newspaper publisher. My little faxed newspaper comes out every day except Sunday. I have a calendar built into my brain. He rang me on the Tuesday, and you say you found him on the Friday.'
'What did he want?'
'He had a few questions that couldn't wait.'
The dining room began to fill up with breakfasters. Most of them were loud-voiced South Africans with large beer bellies. Louise could see that Nuno was becoming increasingly irritated.
'I never usually come here. There's nothing here that tells the truth about this country. It could be a hotel in France or England, or why not in Lisbon. In here, poverty has been swept away and forbidden to show itself.'
'I'm moving out today.'
'Henrik would never have set foot in this place unless he had an important errand.'
'What would that have been?'
'To meet his mother and tell her that she should leave this hotel. Can't we sit outside?'
He stood up without waiting for an answer, and marched off over the terrace.
'He's a very good man,' said the waitress to Louise. 'He says what others are afraid to say. But he lives dangerously.'
'In what way?'
'The truth is always dangerous. But Nuno da Silva is not afraid. He's very brave.'
Nuno was leaning on the railings, staring pensively out to sea. She stood next to him. They were shielded from the sun by an awning that swayed slightly in the breeze.
'He came to me with his questions, but they were statements as much as questions. I realised immediately that he was on to something.'
'What?'
Nuno da Silva shook his head impatiently. He did not want to be interrupted.
'Our first meeting began with a minor catastrophe. He turned up at the newspaper office and asked if I wanted to be his Virgil. I could hardly hear what he said, but I had heard of Virgil and Dante. I thought he was an overgrown student who wanted to draw attention to himself for some incomprehensible reason. So I answered him the way I usually do; I told him to go to hell and stop bothering me. Then he apologised, said he wasn't looking for a Virgil, he was not Dante, but he just wanted to talk. I asked why he had come to me of all people. He said that Lucinda had told him to get in touch with me. But most of all because everybody he spoke to came up with my name sooner or later. I am proof of how hopeless the situation is here nowadays. I'm almost the only person who questions the current state of affairs, why the abuse of power, why the corruption. I asked him to wait as I needed to finish an article. He sat on a chair, said nothing, waited. Then we went outside – my newspaper is located in a garage on a farm. We sat on some oil drums that we have joined together to make a couple of uncomfortable benches. They make a good place to sit because resting in comfort makes you tired. You get back pain from idleness.'
'Not my father. He used to be a lumberjack. His back has given way, but not because he's been idle.'
Nuno da Silva appeared not to have heard what she said.
'He had read some articles I'd written about Aids. He was convinced I was right.'
'About what?'
'About the causes of the epidemic. I have no doubt that dead chimpanzees and people who have eaten their meat have something to do with the illness. But a virus that is so skilful at concealing itself, going into hiding, manipulating itself and constantly reappearing in new forms – I refuse to believe that it hasn't had some kind of assistance. Nobody is going to convince me that this virus didn't originate in some secret laboratory or other, the kind of place the Americans looked for in vain in Iraq.'
'Do you have any proof of this?'
Nuno da Silva's impatience progressed into open irritation.
'You don't always need proof for things that are so self-evident. You find them sooner or later. What the old colonialists used to say still holds true. "Africa would be heaven on earth if it weren't for all those damned Africans who live there." Aids is a means of killing off all the black men in this continent. The fact that it's rife among homosexuals and promiscuous people in America is just a blip. You find that cynical attitude among the people who consider it their right to dominate the world. Henrik had had similar thoughts himself. But he had added a rider of his own. I can remember it word for word. Men in Africa are busy exterminating the women.'
'What did he mean by that?'
'Women have very few possibilities of protecting themselves. The way men are dominant in this continent is horrifying. We have patriarchal traditions that I'm the last person to defend. But I'll be damned if that gives laboratories in the Western world the right to kill us off.'
'What happened next?'
'We sat talking for an hour or so. I liked him. I suggested that he should write articles for European newspapers, but he said it was too soon. Not yet. I remember that clearly.'
'Why did he say that?'
'He had a line of investigation that he wanted to follow up, but he never said precisely what it was. He was reluctant to talk about it. Maybe he didn't know enough about it. Then we went our different ways. I invited him to visit me again. But he never did.'
He glanced at his watch.
'I have to go.'
She tried to hold him back.
'Somebody killed him. I have to know who, and why.'
Kennedy's Brain Page 20