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and put one of his shirts on him that reached to his ankles. Benikkolua was always close by. She had wanted to wash the boy but Bengler wanted to do it himself. That way the boy’s mute fear might subside. So far he hadn’t said a single word. His mouth was closed tight. Even when Bengler wanted to give him food he refused to open it. He thinks that his life will fly away if he opens his lips, Bengler thought.
    He asked Benikkolua to try. But the boy still wouldn’t open his mouth.
    Andersson stood aside and watched it all.
    â€˜Take a pair of pliers and prise it open,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand this coddling. If you want to save his life you can’t treat him with kid gloves.’
    Bengler didn’t reply. It would be a relief to get away from Andersson. In spite of all the help he had received, Bengler realised that he hadn’t liked him right from their very first meeting, when he was forced to poke a hole in the boil on his back. He thought that Andersson was no different from the Germans or the Portuguese or the Englishmen who tormented the blacks and hunted them like rats. Except that Andersson exercised his brutality with discretion. What difference was there between clapping a person in irons and dressing someone up in a ridiculous Swedish folk costume? He thought that he ought to tell Andersson all this, to show him, in parting, that he saw right through him. But he knew that he lacked the courage. Andersson was too strong for him. Compared to him, Bengler belonged to an insignificant caste that would never have power over the desert.
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    That night Benikkolua had to sleep outside the door. Bengler left the boy alone on the mattress with the plate of food by his side. Then he put out the lamp and lay down in his hammock. Unlike Benikkolua, whose breathing he could always hear, the boy was silent. A sudden apprehension made him get up. He lit the lamp. The boy was awake, but his jaws were still clamped tightly shut. Bengler placed a beam across the door and returned to his hammock.

    In the morning when he woke the boy had eaten all the food. Now he was asleep. His mouth was slightly open.
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    Three days later Bengler made his last preparations before leaving. He had loaded and lashed down his possessions on the wagon. The boy had still not said a single word. He sat mute on the floor or in the shade with his eyes closed. Bengler stroked his head now and then. His body was very tense.
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    Bengler had tried to explain to Benikkolua that he had to leave. Whether she understood or not he couldn’t tell. How could he explain what an ocean was? Like expanses of sand but made out of rainwater? What was a distance, really? How far away was Sweden anyway? He realised that he would miss her, even though he didn’t know a thing about her. Her body, he knew, but not who she was.
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    He spent his last evening with Andersson. They ate ostrich meat boiled in a herbal stock. Andersson had brought out a pot of wine. As if to indicate that it was an important day, he had put on a clean shirt. The while time that Bengler stayed at the trading post he had never seen Andersson wash, but he had grown used to the stench and didn’t notice it any more. Andersson soon got drunk. Bengler drank cautiously. He was afraid of having a hangover the next day when he set off across the desert.
    â€˜I just might miss your company,’ Andersson said. ‘But I know that sooner or later some other Swedish madman will come marching this way. With yet another meaningless task to perform.’
    â€˜My task has not been meaningless. Besides, I’ve acquired a son.’
    â€˜The hell you’ve acquired a son. You’re going to kill that boy. Maybe he’ll survive the boat trip. But then? What are you going to do then?’
    â€˜I’ll see to it that he has a good life.’
    â€˜How are you going to do that? Are you going to pin him down the way people pin down