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Authors: Henning Mankell
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work on us.’
They drive by a peacock ruffling its gaudy feathers.
‘Magic?’ Olofson asks.
‘An African who is successful always risks being the target of magic,’ says Werner. ‘The witchcraft that is practised here can be extremely effective. If there’s one thing that the Africans can do, it’s mixing up deadly poisons. Salves that are spread on a body, herbs that are camouflaged as common vegetables. An African spends more time cultivating his envy than cultivating his fields.’
‘There’s a lot I don’t know,’ says Olofson.
‘In Africa knowledge does not increase,’ says Werner. ‘It decreases, the more you think you understand.’
Werner breaks off and furiously slams on the brakes.
A piece of fence has broken off, and when an African comes running, Olofson sees to his astonishment that Werner grabs him by the ear. This is a grown man, maybe fifty years old, but his ear is caught in Werner’s rough hand.
‘Why isn’t this fixed?’ he yells. ‘How long has it been broken? Who broke it? Was it Nkuba? Is he drunk again? Who’s responsible for this? It has to be fixed within the hour. And Nkuba must be here in an hour.’
Werner shoves the man aside and returns to the Jeep.
‘I can be away for two weeks,’ he says. ‘More than two weeks, and the whole farm would fall apart, not just a bit of fence.’
They stop by a small rise in the midst of a vast grazing pasture, where Brahma cattle move in slow herds. On top of the small hill is a grave.
JOHN MCGREGOR, KILLED BY BANDITS 1967, Olofson reads on a flat gravestone.
Werner squats down and lights his pipe. ‘The first thing a man thinks about when settling on a farm is to choose his gravesite,’ he says. ‘If I’m not chased out of the country I’ll lie here one day too, along with Ruth. John McGregor was a young Irishman who worked for me. He was twenty-four years old. Outside Kitwe they had set up a fake roadblock. When he realised he had been stopped by bandits and not police, he tried to drive off. They shot him down with a submachine gun. If he had stopped they would only have taken the car and his clothes. He must have forgotten he was in Africa; you don’t defend your car here.’
‘Bandits?’ Olofson asks.
Werner shrugs. ‘The police came and said they had shot some suspects during an escape attempt. Who knows if they were the same people? The important thing for the police was that they could record somebody as the guilty party.’
A lizard stands motionless on the gravestone. From a distance Olofson sees a black woman moving with infinite slowness along a gravel road. She seems to be on her way directly into the sun.
‘In Africa death is always close by,’ says Werner. ‘I don’t know why that is. The heat, everything rotting, the African with his rage just beneath the skin. It doesn’t take much to stir up a crowd of people. Then they’ll kill anyone with a club or a stone.’
‘And yet you live here,’ says Olofson.
‘Perhaps we’ll move to Southern Rhodesia,’ Werner replies. ‘But I’m sixty-four years old. I’m tired, I have difficulty pissing and sleeping, but maybe we’ll move on.’
‘Who will buy the farm?’
‘Maybe I’ll burn it down.’
They return to the white house and out of nowhere a parrot flies and perches on Olofson’s shoulder. Instead of announcing that his journey to Mutshatsha is no longer necessary, he looks at the parrot nipping at his shirt. Sometimes timidity is my main psychological asset, he thinks in resignation. I don’t even dare speak the truth to people who don’t know me.
The tropical night falls like a black cloth. Twilight is an ephemeral, hastily passing shadow. With the darkness he feels as though he is also taken back in time.
On the big terrace that stretches along the front of the house, he drinks whisky with Ruth and Werner. They have just sat down with their glasses when headlights begin to play over the grazing meadows, and he hears Ruth and
They drive by a peacock ruffling its gaudy feathers.
‘Magic?’ Olofson asks.
‘An African who is successful always risks being the target of magic,’ says Werner. ‘The witchcraft that is practised here can be extremely effective. If there’s one thing that the Africans can do, it’s mixing up deadly poisons. Salves that are spread on a body, herbs that are camouflaged as common vegetables. An African spends more time cultivating his envy than cultivating his fields.’
‘There’s a lot I don’t know,’ says Olofson.
‘In Africa knowledge does not increase,’ says Werner. ‘It decreases, the more you think you understand.’
Werner breaks off and furiously slams on the brakes.
A piece of fence has broken off, and when an African comes running, Olofson sees to his astonishment that Werner grabs him by the ear. This is a grown man, maybe fifty years old, but his ear is caught in Werner’s rough hand.
‘Why isn’t this fixed?’ he yells. ‘How long has it been broken? Who broke it? Was it Nkuba? Is he drunk again? Who’s responsible for this? It has to be fixed within the hour. And Nkuba must be here in an hour.’
Werner shoves the man aside and returns to the Jeep.
‘I can be away for two weeks,’ he says. ‘More than two weeks, and the whole farm would fall apart, not just a bit of fence.’
They stop by a small rise in the midst of a vast grazing pasture, where Brahma cattle move in slow herds. On top of the small hill is a grave.
JOHN MCGREGOR, KILLED BY BANDITS 1967, Olofson reads on a flat gravestone.
Werner squats down and lights his pipe. ‘The first thing a man thinks about when settling on a farm is to choose his gravesite,’ he says. ‘If I’m not chased out of the country I’ll lie here one day too, along with Ruth. John McGregor was a young Irishman who worked for me. He was twenty-four years old. Outside Kitwe they had set up a fake roadblock. When he realised he had been stopped by bandits and not police, he tried to drive off. They shot him down with a submachine gun. If he had stopped they would only have taken the car and his clothes. He must have forgotten he was in Africa; you don’t defend your car here.’
‘Bandits?’ Olofson asks.
Werner shrugs. ‘The police came and said they had shot some suspects during an escape attempt. Who knows if they were the same people? The important thing for the police was that they could record somebody as the guilty party.’
A lizard stands motionless on the gravestone. From a distance Olofson sees a black woman moving with infinite slowness along a gravel road. She seems to be on her way directly into the sun.
‘In Africa death is always close by,’ says Werner. ‘I don’t know why that is. The heat, everything rotting, the African with his rage just beneath the skin. It doesn’t take much to stir up a crowd of people. Then they’ll kill anyone with a club or a stone.’
‘And yet you live here,’ says Olofson.
‘Perhaps we’ll move to Southern Rhodesia,’ Werner replies. ‘But I’m sixty-four years old. I’m tired, I have difficulty pissing and sleeping, but maybe we’ll move on.’
‘Who will buy the farm?’
‘Maybe I’ll burn it down.’
They return to the white house and out of nowhere a parrot flies and perches on Olofson’s shoulder. Instead of announcing that his journey to Mutshatsha is no longer necessary, he looks at the parrot nipping at his shirt. Sometimes timidity is my main psychological asset, he thinks in resignation. I don’t even dare speak the truth to people who don’t know me.
The tropical night falls like a black cloth. Twilight is an ephemeral, hastily passing shadow. With the darkness he feels as though he is also taken back in time.
On the big terrace that stretches along the front of the house, he drinks whisky with Ruth and Werner. They have just sat down with their glasses when headlights begin to play over the grazing meadows, and he hears Ruth and
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