insects? Are you going to paste him into one of your volumes of prints?â
Bengler wanted to counter these shameless accusations, but he didnât know how. Andersson was still too strong for him. It was their last
evening, and these accusations or insults would never be repeated, they would merely fall lifeless when his wagon rolled away. Yet he would have liked to have resised him more firmly.
âYour life is not merely peculiar,â he said. âAbove all, itâs miserable. You pretend to oppose what is going on in this desert. This hunting down of people who have done nothing but live in this place. You pretend to be upset, pretend to love your fellow man, pretend to be a good person. But from what Iâve seen youâre just as rotten as all the other whites here. Except for one person: myself.
âI very seldom whip my Negroes. I donât pinch them with tongs, donât box their ears, donât teach them the catechism. I do keep order, itâs true. But I donât rip them up by the roots so theyâll fall dead in the snow of Sweden. I ask you a very simple question: which is worse?â
âIâll prove youâre wrong.â
âYou have given me your promise. To come back. And tell me.â
They ate the rest of the dinner in silence. Andersson was soon so drunk that his gaze began to wander beyond the light from the whale-oil lamp. It struck Bengler that he resembled a confused insect at night, searching for a point of light that should not have been there.
Â
That night, as his last note to Matilda, he wrote: Tomorrow I set off. Andersson fluttered like a moth around the lamp. I donât know if he is an evil man. But he is a foolish man. He refuses to see through his own actions. Because I drank two glasses of wine I began to fantasise that he was actually an insect that I had pinned down on a sheet of white paper.
Â
He still hadnât made a single note about Daniel. He had decided to wait until they left. When the trading post disappeared behind them he would begin to write about him.
Â
Daniel was sleeping on the rug. His mouth was still shut tight. Bengler wondered what he was dreaming about.
Despite the fact that he was tipsy and had also had to drag Andersson to bed, he managed to have one last moment of love with Benikkolua that night. He had stumbled out of the room where the ivory was
once stored and tripped over her where she lay on her raffia mat. As usual she was naked under her thin cover. He was surprised that she never seemed to be chilly in the cold desert night.
Â
In the morning he woke very early. The sun had not yet risen. Daniel was asleep. Bengler went silently out of the door. Benikkolua was gone. She had taken her raffia mat with her. But she had hung up the thin cover on a projecting edge of the roof. It waved like a farewell to him, Benikkoluaâs flag. It brought tears to his eyes and he thought it was as crazy for him to leave as it had once been to come here.
He had just as many questions, and just as few answers.
He was sure of one thing. The responsibility he had assumed for the boy lying in Anderssonâs pen was something he did not intend to regret. What he wasnât able to give himself perhaps he could give to someone else.
Â
Bengler waited until Daniel woke up, then he smiled, put his best shirt on him and carried him outside. When Daniel caught sight of the wagon with the oxen hitched up, he suddenly began to shriek and flail about. Bengler held him tight, but the boy was like a wildcat. When he sank his teeth into Benglerâs nose he had to let him go. The boy ran straight out into the desert. Bengler followed him with blood running down his face.
For an instant he thought he would have to hit him, but when he caught the boy the thought was already gone. He was still howling and flailing his arms but this time Bengler didnât let go, and dragged him back to the wagon. He tied him
Bengler wanted to counter these shameless accusations, but he didnât know how. Andersson was still too strong for him. It was their last
evening, and these accusations or insults would never be repeated, they would merely fall lifeless when his wagon rolled away. Yet he would have liked to have resised him more firmly.
âYour life is not merely peculiar,â he said. âAbove all, itâs miserable. You pretend to oppose what is going on in this desert. This hunting down of people who have done nothing but live in this place. You pretend to be upset, pretend to love your fellow man, pretend to be a good person. But from what Iâve seen youâre just as rotten as all the other whites here. Except for one person: myself.
âI very seldom whip my Negroes. I donât pinch them with tongs, donât box their ears, donât teach them the catechism. I do keep order, itâs true. But I donât rip them up by the roots so theyâll fall dead in the snow of Sweden. I ask you a very simple question: which is worse?â
âIâll prove youâre wrong.â
âYou have given me your promise. To come back. And tell me.â
They ate the rest of the dinner in silence. Andersson was soon so drunk that his gaze began to wander beyond the light from the whale-oil lamp. It struck Bengler that he resembled a confused insect at night, searching for a point of light that should not have been there.
Â
That night, as his last note to Matilda, he wrote: Tomorrow I set off. Andersson fluttered like a moth around the lamp. I donât know if he is an evil man. But he is a foolish man. He refuses to see through his own actions. Because I drank two glasses of wine I began to fantasise that he was actually an insect that I had pinned down on a sheet of white paper.
Â
He still hadnât made a single note about Daniel. He had decided to wait until they left. When the trading post disappeared behind them he would begin to write about him.
Â
Daniel was sleeping on the rug. His mouth was still shut tight. Bengler wondered what he was dreaming about.
Despite the fact that he was tipsy and had also had to drag Andersson to bed, he managed to have one last moment of love with Benikkolua that night. He had stumbled out of the room where the ivory was
once stored and tripped over her where she lay on her raffia mat. As usual she was naked under her thin cover. He was surprised that she never seemed to be chilly in the cold desert night.
Â
In the morning he woke very early. The sun had not yet risen. Daniel was asleep. Bengler went silently out of the door. Benikkolua was gone. She had taken her raffia mat with her. But she had hung up the thin cover on a projecting edge of the roof. It waved like a farewell to him, Benikkoluaâs flag. It brought tears to his eyes and he thought it was as crazy for him to leave as it had once been to come here.
He had just as many questions, and just as few answers.
He was sure of one thing. The responsibility he had assumed for the boy lying in Anderssonâs pen was something he did not intend to regret. What he wasnât able to give himself perhaps he could give to someone else.
Â
Bengler waited until Daniel woke up, then he smiled, put his best shirt on him and carried him outside. When Daniel caught sight of the wagon with the oxen hitched up, he suddenly began to shriek and flail about. Bengler held him tight, but the boy was like a wildcat. When he sank his teeth into Benglerâs nose he had to let him go. The boy ran straight out into the desert. Bengler followed him with blood running down his face.
For an instant he thought he would have to hit him, but when he caught the boy the thought was already gone. He was still howling and flailing his arms but this time Bengler didnât let go, and dragged him back to the wagon. He tied him
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