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Authors: Henning Mankell
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thinks.
So he understands that I'm not one of them, merely a temporary
visitor, who is not used to being assigned a personal servant.
'Have you been here long?' he asks.
'Since I was born, Bwana ,' Louis replies.
Then he vanishes from the room, and Olofson regrets his
question. A master's question to a servant, he thinks. Even though
I mean well I make myself look insincere and common.
He sinks down in the bathtub and asks himself what escape
routes are still left to him. He feels like a conman who has grown
tired of not being unmasked.
They're helping me carry out a meaningless assignment, he
thinks. They're ready to drive me to Kalulushi and then help me
find the last transport out to the mission station in the bush.
They're going to a lot of trouble for something that's just an egocentric
impulse, a tourist trip with an artificial dream as its motive.
The dream of Mutshatsha died with Janine. I'm plundering
her corpse with this excursion to a world where I don't belong at
all. How can I be jealous of a dead person? Of her will, of her
stubborn dream, which she clung to despite the fact that she could
never realise it? How can an atheistic, unbelieving person take over
the dream of being a missionary, helping downtrodden and poverty-stricken
people with a religious motive as the foremost incentive?
In the bathtub he decides to return, ask to be driven back to
Kitwe. Come up with a credible explanation for why he has to
change his plans.
He dresses and goes out into the large park. Under a tall tree
that spreads a mighty shadow there is a bench that is carved out
of a single block of stone. He scarcely manages to sit down before
a servant brings him a cup of tea. All at once Werner Masterton
stands before him, dressed in worn overalls.
'Would you like to see our farm?' he asks.
They climb into the Jeep, which has been newly washed.
Werner puts his big hands on the wheel after pulling a worn
sunhat down over his eyes. They drive past long rows of hen
houses and fields. Now and then he brakes to a stop and black
workers instantly come running. He barks out orders in a mixture
of English and a language that is unknown to Olofson.
The whole time Olofson has a feeling that Werner is balancing
on an ice floe beneath which an outbreak of rage might erupt at
any moment.
'It's a big farm,' he says as they drive on.
'Not that big,' says Werner. 'If it were a different time I would
probably have expanded the acreage. Nowadays you never know
what's going to happen next. Maybe they'll confiscate all the farms
from the whites. Out of jealousy, or displeasure at the fact that
we're so infinitely more skilled than the black farmers who started
after independence. They hate us for our skill, our ability to
organise, our ability to make things work. They hate us because
we make money, because our health is better and we live longer.
Envy is an African inheritance. But the reason they hate us most
is that magic doesn't 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
So he understands that I'm not one of them, merely a temporary
visitor, who is not used to being assigned a personal servant.
'Have you been here long?' he asks.
'Since I was born, Bwana ,' Louis replies.
Then he vanishes from the room, and Olofson regrets his
question. A master's question to a servant, he thinks. Even though
I mean well I make myself look insincere and common.
He sinks down in the bathtub and asks himself what escape
routes are still left to him. He feels like a conman who has grown
tired of not being unmasked.
They're helping me carry out a meaningless assignment, he
thinks. They're ready to drive me to Kalulushi and then help me
find the last transport out to the mission station in the bush.
They're going to a lot of trouble for something that's just an egocentric
impulse, a tourist trip with an artificial dream as its motive.
The dream of Mutshatsha died with Janine. I'm plundering
her corpse with this excursion to a world where I don't belong at
all. How can I be jealous of a dead person? Of her will, of her
stubborn dream, which she clung to despite the fact that she could
never realise it? How can an atheistic, unbelieving person take over
the dream of being a missionary, helping downtrodden and poverty-stricken
people with a religious motive as the foremost incentive?
In the bathtub he decides to return, ask to be driven back to
Kitwe. Come up with a credible explanation for why he has to
change his plans.
He dresses and goes out into the large park. Under a tall tree
that spreads a mighty shadow there is a bench that is carved out
of a single block of stone. He scarcely manages to sit down before
a servant brings him a cup of tea. All at once Werner Masterton
stands before him, dressed in worn overalls.
'Would you like to see our farm?' he asks.
They climb into the Jeep, which has been newly washed.
Werner puts his big hands on the wheel after pulling a worn
sunhat down over his eyes. They drive past long rows of hen
houses and fields. Now and then he brakes to a stop and black
workers instantly come running. He barks out orders in a mixture
of English and a language that is unknown to Olofson.
The whole time Olofson has a feeling that Werner is balancing
on an ice floe beneath which an outbreak of rage might erupt at
any moment.
'It's a big farm,' he says as they drive on.
'Not that big,' says Werner. 'If it were a different time I would
probably have expanded the acreage. Nowadays you never know
what's going to happen next. Maybe they'll confiscate all the farms
from the whites. Out of jealousy, or displeasure at the fact that
we're so infinitely more skilled than the black farmers who started
after independence. They hate us for our skill, our ability to
organise, our ability to make things work. They hate us because
we make money, because our health is better and we live longer.
Envy is an African inheritance. But the reason they hate us most
is that magic doesn't 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
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