Kennedy's Brain

by Henning Mankell

  'I've been an archaeologist all my life for that very reason. Without fragments and whispers from the past there is no present, no future, nothing. Perhaps we are more alike than you think after all?'

  The children playing with the skinny puppy came running past. Dust rose up in clouds from the dry earth.

  Lucinda drew with her foot something that looked like a cross inside a circle.

  'We're on our way to a place where Henrik experienced great happiness. Perhaps he even encountered something there that he considered to be a state of bliss. He had bought his car without saying why he needed it. Sometimes he would vanish for several weeks without saying a word. One night he turned up at the bar, it was well past midnight, and he stayed there until I finished work and he drove me home. He told me about a man called Christian Holloway, who had built some villages where Aids suffering could get treatment. The place Henrik had visited didn't have a name because Holloway preached humility. Even having a name was presumptuous. The people being nursed there paid nothing. Those who worked there were volunteers, many of them Europeans, but there were also some Americans and Asians. Their input was exclusively charitable, and they lived simply. It wasn't a religious sect. Henrik said that no gods were needed because what the volunteers were doing was divine. That morning I saw something in Henrik that I'd never seen before. He had forced his way through that wall of despair he had fought so hard against.'

  'What happened next?'

  'He drove back there the very next day. Perhaps he only came to Maputo to tell me about how happy he was. Now he'd found something to balance the scales, to prevent a total victory for misery and suffering. Those were his own words – he could sometimes sound a bit high-flown, but he really meant it. Henrik was Henrik. He had seen the injustice, he'd seen that Aids was a plague that nobody wanted to come into contact with. I don't know the significance of Henrik himself carrying the infection. Nor do I know how it happened. Or when. But every time we met up, he said he wanted to show me Holloway's village where benevolence and consideration for others had conquered. And eventually, he did take me there. Only once.'

  'Why did he leave the village and travel back to Europe?'

  'Perhaps you'll find the answer to your questions when you get there.'

  Louise stood up.

  'I can't wait, How far have we still to go?'

  'We're about halfway there.'

  The countryside alternated between green and brown. They came to a plain with a wide river, crossed over a bridge and drove through the town Xai-Xai. Shortly afterwards Lucinda turned off along a road that seemed to lead into endless bush. The car creaked and clattered along the potholed road.

  After twenty minutes they came to a village made up of white mud huts. There were also some larger buildings, all of them clustered around an open stretch of sand. Lucinda parked the car in the shadow of a tree and switched off the engine.

  'This is it. Christian Holloway's village.'

  I'm close to Henrik. He was here only a couple of months ago.

  'Henrik said that visitors were always welcome,' Lucinda said. 'Benevolence should not be kept secret.'

  'Is that what he said?'

  'I think he had heard Holloway or one of his helpers use those words.'

  'Who is this Holloway exactly?'

  'According to Henrik he's a very rich man. He wasn't sure, but he thought Holloway had made his money from various technical patents that have made it easier to search for oil under the seabed. He's rich and extremely shy.'

  'That hardly sounds like the kind of man who is starting to devote his life to people suffering from Aids.'

  'Why not? I've made a clean break with the life I used to lead. I know a lot of others who have done the same thing.'

  Lucinda closed the conversation by getting out of the car. Louise stayed put. Heat and sweat were making her feel sticky all over. But eventually she got out and stood beside Lucinda. The place seemed to be enveloped by an oppressive silence. Louise shuddered despite the heat. She was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. Although there was no sign of any people, she felt as if she were being watched.

  Lucinda pointed to a pond surrounded by a fence.

  'Henrik spoke about that pond, and the old crocodile.'

  They went closer. The pond was full of slow-moving slimy water. On the muddy bank was a large crocodile. Both Lucinda and Louise gave a start. It was at least four metres long. The remains of a blood-soaked rabbit or monkey were hanging from the beast's jaws.

  'Henrik said it was over seventy years old. Christian Holloway maintained it was their guardian angel.'

  'A crocodile with white wings?'

  'There have been crocodiles on the earth for 200 million years. Crocodiles scare us because of their ferocity. But nobody can deny them the right to exist, nor can anybody ignore their fantastic ability to survive.'

  Louise shook her head.

  'I still don't know what he meant. I'd like to ask him in person. Is he here?'

  'I don't know. Henrik said that Holloway seldom put in an appearance. He was always surrounded by darkness.'

  'Is that what Henrik said? Surrounded by darkness?'

  'Yes. I remember his words clearly.'

  A door opened in one of the large buildings. A white woman in light-coloured hospital uniform came out and walked towards them. Louise noticed that she was barefoot. Her hair was cut short, she was thin and her face full of freckles. She seemed to be about the same age as Henrik.

  'Welcome,' she said in bad Portuguese.

  Louise replied in English.

  The girl changed languages immediately and introduced herself as Laura.

  Three Ls, Louise thought. Lucinda and me and now a Laura.

  'My son, Henrik Cantor, worked here,' she said. 'Do you remember him?'

  'I only got here from the USA a month ago.'

  'He said that you allowed visitors.'

  'Everybody is welcome. I'll show you round. Just let me warn you that Aids is not a pretty illness. Not only does it kill people and ruin their appearance, it also creates horror that can be difficult to cope with.'

  Lucinda and Louise exchanged looks.

  'I can tolerate the sight of blood and frightened people,' said Lucinda. 'Can you?'

  'I was one of the first to arrive at the scene of a road accident. There was blood everywhere, one person had had his nose cut off and blood was pouring out. I coped with that. Or at least, I managed to block out the horror.'

  Laura led them out of the bright sunshine and into the buildings and huts. It seemed to Louise that she was entering a church-like darkness in which the small windows helped to create a strange sort of mystery. Christian Holloway was a man surrounded by darkness. In the huts they were hit by the stifling smell of urine and excrement: patients were lying about on stretchers and raffia mats on the ground. Louise had trouble in making out faces. All she registered was glinting eyes, groans and the smell. Relief came only during the few moments they emerged into the bright sunshine on their way to the next building. It was like sinking down through the centuries and entering a room full of slaves waiting to be transported. She whispered a question to Laura who told her that all the people hidden in the darkness were dying and would never see the sun again, they were beyond help, they were in the final stages where the only possible treatment was to ameliorate the pain. Lucinda kept to herself, at a distance from the other two. Laura said very little, merely led them in silence through the darkness and suffering. Louise thought of the classical cultures, not least that of Greece whose graves she spent much of her time excavating, and how they had clear ideas about dying and death, about the waiting rooms both before and after the departure from life. Now I am wandering with Virgil and Dante through the kingdom of death.

  The journey felt endless. They went from building to building. Everywhere groans, rattles, whispers, words bubbling up from invisible cauldrons, desperate, resigned. It cut her to the quick when she heard a child crying, that was th
e worst of all, the invisible children who lay there dying.

  She could just make out in the darkness young white people leaning over the patients, with glasses of water, tablets, whispering consoling words. Louise saw a very young girl with a shiny ring through her nose holding an emaciated hand in her own.

  She tried to imagine Henrik in the middle of this hell. Perhaps she could just about make him out in there, and she had no doubt that he would have had the strength to assist these people.

  When they left the last of the buildings and Laura had taken them to an air-conditioned room where there was a refrigerator with iced water, Louise asked if she could speak to somebody who had known Henrik. Laura left to see if she could find anybody.

  Lucinda was still silent, declined to drink the water that was standing on the table. Suddenly she opened a door leading to another, inner room. She turned and looked at Louise.

  The room was full of dead bodies. They were lying on the floor, on raffia mats, dirty sheets, an enormous number of dead people. Louise took a step back. Lucinda closed the door again.

  'Why didn't she show us this room?' Lucinda asked.

  'Why should she?'

  Louise felt sick. At the same time she had the feeling that Lucinda knew about the room. She had opened that door before.

  Laura came back with a man in his thirties. His face was spotty, his hand limp when he shook hands. His name was Wim, he came from England and remembered Henrik very well. Louise made up her mind on the spot not to say that Henrik was dead. She could not cope with any more dead bodies just now. Henrik did not belong here, the thought of him being in that room with all the other corpses was too horrific to bear.

  'Were you close friends?' Louise asked.

  'He kept himself to himself. A lot do that in order to cope.'

  'Was there anybody especially close to him?'

  'We are all good friends.'

  Good God. Answer my questions. You are not standing before the Good Lord, you are standing before Henrik's mother.

  'You can't have been working all the time?'

  'Almost.'

  'What do you remember about him?'

  'He was nice.'

  'Is that all?'

  'He didn't say very much. I hardly noticed that he was Swedish.'

  Wim seemed to realise at last that something must have happened.

  'Why do you ask?'

  'In the hope of receiving answers. But I see that there aren't any. Thank you for talking to me.'

  Louise suddenly felt furious at the fact that this pale, limp person was still alive while Henrik was dead. That was an injustice that she would never be able to accept. God's mysterious ways were as crude as the cawing of a crow above her head.

  She left the room, emerged into the crippling heat. Laura showed them the living quarters for those who had volunteered to help the dying patients, the dormitories, the neatly assembled mosquito nets, the communal dining-room that smelled of soft soap.

  'Why have you come here?' Lucinda asked, turning to Laura.

  'To help, to do some good. I couldn't accept my passivity.'

  'Have you ever met Christian Holloway?'

  'No.'

  'Have you ever seen him, at least?'

  'Only in a photograph.'

  Laura pointed at one of the dining-room walls. There was a framed photograph hanging there. Louise went up to it and examined it. A man in profile, grey hair, narrow lips, pointed nose.

  Something demanded her attention, but she could not decide what it was. She held her breath and contemplated the picture. A fly was buzzing in front of the glass.

  'We must go back now,' said Lucinda. 'I don't want to have to drive through the dark.'

  They thanked Laura and returned to the car. Laura waved to them, then went back inside. The place was empty once more. Lucinda started the engine and was about to drive off when Louise asked her to wait. She ran through the heat, back to the dining room.

  She looked again at the photograph of Christian Holloway. Then the penny dropped.

  Christian Holloway's profile.

  One of the black silhouettes in Henrik's bag was a reproduction of the photograph she was now looking at.

  PART 3

  The Silhouettist

  'You are also affected

  when your neighbour's house is on fire.'

  Horace

  CHAPTER 15

  On the way back, during the short African sunset, Louise kept repeating the same thoughts to herself, like a mantra.

  Henrik has gone forever. But perhaps I can get close to what he felt, and what he was determined to achieve. In order to find out why he died I must find out what made him want to live.

  They stopped at the kiosks near the bus stop. Fires were burning. Lucinda bought some water and a packet of biscuits. Only then did Louise realise that she was hungry.

  'Can you imagine Henrik there?' Louise asked.

  Lucinda's face was lit up by the glow from the fires.

  'I didn't like it. I didn't the last time either. Something about it scares me.'

  'Surely everything about it was horrific? All those dead bodies, all those people waiting to die?'

  'That's not what I mean. There's something about the place that can't be seen or heard, but it's there even so. I tried to find out what Henrik had suddenly discovered, and was scared of.'

  Louise looked attentively at Lucinda.

  'He was frightened to death on the last occasions I saw him. I haven't told you that before. All the joy had suddenly vanished. Something that came from deep down had turned him as pale as a sheet. He became so silent. Before that he'd always been talkative. Sometimes he would go on and on and tire me out. But then came the silence, as if from nowhere, and then he disappeared without trace.'

  'He must have said something. You made love together, you went to sleep and woke up together. Didn't he have any dreams? Did he really not say anything at all?'

  'He slept badly towards the end, often woke up sweating, long before dawn. I asked what he'd been dreaming about. "About the darkness," he said. "About all the things that are hidden." When I asked what he meant by that, he didn't reply. And when I persisted he would bellow and jump out of bed. He was stricken by fear asleep and awake.'

  'Darkness and all the things that are hidden? Did he never speak about people?'

  'He spoke about himself. He said that the most difficult thing of all was learning how to put up with yourself.'

  'What did he mean by that?'

  'I don't know.'

  Lucinda looked away. Louise was confident that sooner or later she would find the right question to ask. But just now she was searching in vain for the appropriate key.

  They returned to the car and continued their journey. Headlights were dazzling in the darkness. Louise called Aron's number. She heard it ringing, but there was no answer.

  I could have done with you here. You would have been able to see what I can't see.