‘He’s here so that we can look at him,’ said Bengler. ‘Human beings are made in different forms. But they’re all the same inside.’
An hour later, just before five in the afternoon, the thunderstorm moved on. They continued into the city. The farmer, who had let them ride along for free, dropped them off near the cathedral. Bengler had no more than a few copper coins in his pocket. He had left his baggage in Simrishamn as a guarantee that he would return and pay the bill. He took Daniel with him into the grove of trees by the cathedral. Since the ground was wet he spread out his coat for them to sit on.
‘What we need now is money,’ he said to Daniel. ‘The first thing we need is money.’
Daniel listened. He seemed preoccupied, but Bengler suspected that he must have begun to understand a few words.
‘Before I travelled to the desert I learned many things from a professor of botany named Alfred Herrnander,’ he went on. ‘He was a good man, an old man. I’m considering asking him for a loan. We can only hope that he’s still alive.’
Bengler had visited Herrnander once at his home north of the cathedral. They went there now. People passing by stopped and turned round.
‘Everyone who sees you will remember you,’ Bengler said. ‘They will tell their families tonight about what they saw. You’re already famous. Merely by walking down the street you’ve become a well-known person. You will be the object of curiosity, suspicion and, unfortunately, also some ill will. People are afraid of what’s foreign to them. And you are foreign, Daniel.’
They stopped outside the low grey house. When the door was opened by a serving woman with a limp, Bengler prayed that Herrnander was still alive.
He was.
But the year before he had had a stroke, the serving woman told him.
‘He’s not seeing visitors. He just lies there drumming his fingers on the blankets.’
‘Does he grind his jaws?’ Bengler asked.
The serving woman shook her head.
‘Why should he do that?’
‘I don’t know. It was only a question. But please go in and tell him that Hans Bengler is out here on the street. In his company he has a boy from the San people, nomads who live in the Kalahari Desert.’
‘Am I supposed to remember all that? All those strange words?’
‘Please try.’
‘Wait just a minute.’
She closed the door. Daniel jumped. Bengler thought that a door being slammed might remind him of a gunshot.
Then she was back with a pen and paper. Bengler wrote everything down. She did not invite them in.
‘The boy has oversensitive ears,’ said Bengler. ‘I would appreciate it if you would not slam the door so hard when you close it.’
They waited. By the time the door opened again, Bengler had begun to lose hope.
‘He will see you. But he can’t speak; with great effort he can write a few words on a slate.’
‘If he can listen that will be sufficient.’
Herrnander lay on a sofa of dark red plush in his study. The curtains were drawn and the room was low-ceilinged, cramped and stuffy. There were bookshelves up to the ceiling, full of etchings and manuscripts. Herrnander looked like a bird under the covers. On a table next to the sofa stood water and a brown bottle of medicine. It took a while before he noticed that they had come into the room. He slowly turned his head; his eyes scanned Bengler’s face and then stopped at Daniel’s. The serving woman who had followed them into the room stood guard by the door. Bengler made an effort to be firm and motioned for her to leave, which she reluctantly did. But she left the door ajar, so Bengler went and closed it. Then he stuffed his handkerchief in the keyhole and returned to the sofa. In order not to tire Herrnander, he summed up his journey in as few words as possible. The whole time Herrnander was gazing at Daniel’s face.
How could he convince Herrnander that it would be a good idea to give him a temporary loan so that he could get on with reporting his insect finds? He would write a scholarly article about the beetle and he would dedicate it to his mentor and teacher. But in order to be able to do this, he needed a small loan. A loan that could equally be regarded as an investment in the progress of science. Of course the loan would be paid back. Papers would be drawn up, signatures notarised. Everything would be done properly. He really needed this loan. And besides, there was the boy to consider. He had a person with him from a distant land: a person who was his responsibility, a celebrity to display.
When Bengler finished speaking his piece there was a long silence. He wondered whether Herrnander had understood anything he had said. Carefully he repeated the words: small loan. No great amount. For science and the boy.
One of Herrnander’s hands dropped to the edge of the sofa. Bengler thought it was a gesture of great weariness. But then he saw that a finger was beckoning. Herrnander was pointing at a portfolio that lay on the floor. Bengler lifted it up. With infinitely slow movements Herrnander opened it and pulled out a wad of notes. When Bengler asked if the money was for him, Herrnander nodded. Bengler started talking again about the importance of written agreements and signatures, but Herrnander struck the portfolio so that it fell to the floor. Bengler could see his irritation. He didn’t want any papers drawn up and signed. Next to the pillow he had his slate. He pulled it over and slowly scrawled one word. Bengler read it. Why. Nothing more. No question mark, just the single word why. Bengler was sure that the question had nothing to do with the money. This why was about Daniel. Bengler told him briefly what had happened before he found Daniel in Andersson’s pen. But Herrnander shook his head impatiently. His ‘why’ was still unanswered.
He wonders why I brought him here, Bengler thought. There was no other explanation. He told him about the need to show mercy, the simple Christian message not to refuse a fellow human being who was in trouble. But these words seemed to annoy Herrnander even more. Bengler abandoned the Christian argument and shifted to science. He wanted to make a study of Daniel and at the same time observe how Swedes reacted to their meeting with this foreigner.
Herrnander groaned. Slowly he crossed out the word why and replaced it with another one. Bengler read it: crazy. When he started to speak again Herrnander closed his eyes.
The conversation was over. Bengler felt insulted. What entitled this old man, with one foot in the grave, to criticise him? He stuffed the money in his pocket, took the handkerchief out of the keyhole and opened the door.
The serving woman came towards them from an adjacent room.
‘You stayed far too long,’ she said impatiently. ‘Now he’ll be restless all night.’
‘I promise we won’t come back,’ was Bengler’s friendly reply. ‘We have completed our business.’
When they were out on the street Bengler took a deep breath and looked at Daniel.
‘Now we have the most important thing a person can have,’ he said. ‘Capital. You don’t know what that is. But one day you’ll understand.’
Daniel could see that Bengler was calmer now. His eyes no longer flicked back and forth.
He stroked Daniel’s hair.
‘Tonight we’re going to live the way we deserve. We’ll eat an excellent dinner. And we’ll stay at the Grand Hotel.’
He stretched out his arm to point in the direction they were headed.
‘I knew it the whole time,’ he said and laughed. ‘I’m born to be a commander. Even if my army consists only of you.’
Daniel didn’t understand the words. But he felt that the most important thing was that the man walking in front of him no longer seemed worried.
CHAPTER 9
They took a corner room on the third floor. The man in the lobby had regarded Daniel with displeasure, but he hadn’t asked any questions. The room had thick curtains and smelled strongly of tobacco smoke. Daniel recoiled when he stepped over the threshold. Bengler thought it felt like stepping into a musty crypt. He was secretly ashamed that Daniel would have to sleep in this heavy smoke. He pulled ba
ck the curtains and opened the window. Daniel came over and stood next to him. He was afraid when he saw how high above the ground they were. Bengler realised that for Daniel there was probably no connection between the stairs they had climbed and how high the room was: for Daniel a staircase was a hill going up, not something that left the ground far below them.
‘Tonight we shall sleep here,’ Bengler explained.
He pointed at the bed. Daniel went over to it and lay down.
‘Not yet,’ Bengler said. ‘First I have to give you a wash. Then we’ll go down to the dining room and eat dinner.’
Bengler gestured to Daniel to get undressed. He took off his clothes too and hung up the worn suit on a clothes hanger. Daniel was very thin. Just below his right nipple he had a scar that shone white against his black skin. Bengler looked at his member. It was still undeveloped, but very long. On an impulse he couldn’t resist, he touched it. Daniel at once did the same to him and Bengler gave a start. Daniel gave him a worried look. Bengler thought it was like having a puppy for a companion. He poured water into the washbasin and told Daniel to sit down on the bed and watch how a person washed properly. Bengler placed a towel on the floor and washed himself carefully. He reminded himself of how he had been washed as a child and concluded by scrubbing his buttocks with a brush. Daniel watched him intently. Bengler felt like a heavy and shapeless animal standing naked in front of the basin. When he had dried himself he rang a bell. It took a few minutes before there was a knock on the door. A girl in a starched apron stood there and curtsied. She gave a start when she saw Daniel and quickly looked away. Bengler gave her the empty water pitcher and asked for some more hot water. He wrapped Daniel in the bedspread. When the girl came back with the hot water he gave Daniel the brush and sat down on the edge of the bed. Daniel washed himself. To Bengler’s astonishment the boy had memorised in detail how he had washed himself. First the right leg, then the left arm, armpit, belly and then the left leg. Daniel repeated the movements.
‘You learn very fast,’ said Bengler. ‘You’ve already mastered the art of staying clean.’
When they had dressed they went downstairs to the dining room. It hadn’t changed since the last time Bengler was there. The kerosene lamps shone, on the tables stood candelabra, and Bengler felt a sense of anticipation: would there be anyone here he knew? They were greeted at the door by the maître d’, who regarded Daniel with an astonished expression. He had a Danish accent. Bengler looked around the dining room. On this autumn evening the patrons were sparse: lone bachelors hunched over their bottles of arrack punch; a few small groups. Bengler asked for a window table. As they walked between the tables all conversation stopped. Bengler suddenly felt that he ought to tap a glass and give a brief speech about his trip through the Kalahari Desert, but he refrained. They sat down at the table.
‘He’s short,’ said Bengler. ‘Give him a cushion to sit on.’
The maître d’ bowed and motioned for a waiter. Bengler didn’t recognise him and wondered where all the waiters who were there before had gone. After all, he had only been away for a little over a year. Daniel was given a velvet cushion to sit on. Bengler studied the menu, shocked at how much the prices had gone up, and then ordered pork chops, wine, water for Daniel and orange mousse for dessert.
‘Would the gentlemen care for an aperitif?’
The waiter was old and rheumatic and had bad breath.
‘A shot and a beer,’ replied Bengler. ‘The boy won’t have anything.’
When Bengler had received his shot of aquavit and tossed it back, he at once ordered another. The liquor warmed him and inspired a restless need to get seriously drunk. Daniel sat motionless across the table and followed him with his eyes. Bengler raised his glass and said ‘Skål’ to him.
At that moment he noticed that a man had got up from a table next to the wall and was on his way over to them. As he approached, Bengler saw that it was an old perpetual student they called the Loop. He had been in Lund as long as Bengler had attended the university. Once in the late 1860s he had tried to hang himself outside the cathedral. But the rope, or maybe it was the branch, had broken and he survived. One of his cervical vertebrae had been damaged, which crooked his head rigidly to the left, as if his soul had been given a list that could never be righted. He stopped at their table. Bengler could see that he was extremely drunk. The Loop owed everyone money. When he arrived in Lund from Halmstad in the late 1840s, rumour had it that he was living on an inheritance. The first few years he had attended lectures in the theological faculty, but something had happened that led to the tree and the broken branch. It was intimated that it was the usual matter, an unhappy love affair. But no one knew with certainty. Since that day, the Loop had lived in a wretched garret on the outskirts of Lund. He broke off his studies and didn’t read anything any more, not even the newspapers. He was always borrowing money, could tell a good story from time to time, but for the most part sat hunched over his glass and his bottles and held mumbling conversations with himself. Sometimes he would wave his arms about as if he were bothered by insects, and then sit in silence until the last patron was thrown out. Now he was standing by their table.
‘There’s been talk of an expedition to a faraway desert,’ he said. ‘And one never expected to see the explorer return. Now here he sits as though nothing had happened. He has a black creature sitting across the table. A boy who looks like a shadow.’
‘His name is Daniel,’ replied Bengler. ‘We’re only passing through.’
‘So one’s studies shall not be resumed?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t wish to intrude,’ the Loop went on. ‘But the explorer, whose name has unfortunately slipped my mind, might possibly see his way clear to a small loan of a tenner.’
Bengler felt in his pocket and pulled out two ten-kronor notes. It was too much but the Loop had recognised him. The notes vanished in the Loop’s hand, though he didn’t bother to see how much he had got. Nor did he bother to say thank you.
‘Everything is the same here,’ he said. ‘Maître d’s come and go, as do the waiters. The students grow younger and younger, the weather worse and worse, and the knowledge that is taught is more and more difficult to respect.’
He expected no reply so turned and made his way back to his table.
By the time the orange mousse was set on the table Bengler was quite tipsy. He waved the maître d’ over.
‘Is it possible that the hotel could provide someone to watch the boy for a while?’ He pointed at Daniel. ‘I’m thinking of spending a few hours in the smoking room. It’s not a suitable environment for a child.’
The maître d’ promised to enquire at the front desk. Daniel had finished all his food. During the long passage from Cape Town, Bengler had taught him to use a knife and fork. He could see that Daniel had to make an effort to do as he had been taught, but he didn’t spill anything or cram the food into his mouth. The maître d’ returned.
‘They think it would be possible to have one of the chambermaids watch him.’
Bengler paid the bill and stood up. He took a step sideways. Daniel smiled. He thinks I’m playing, thought Bengler. An intoxicated person is someone who’s playing, nothing more. They left the dining room. The Loop had disappeared. Conversations stopped again as they passed various tables. Once more Bengler got the feeling that he ought to say something. But what would he say? What could he actually explain? Or did he somehow feel a need to excuse himself for breaking an invisible rule of etiquette by bringing a black boy into a public dining room?
It turned out that the girl who was sent to look after Daniel was the same girl who had brought the hot water earlier.
‘All you have to do is stay here,’ said Bengler. ‘You don’t have to talk or play with him. Just stay here. What’s your name?’
‘Charlotta.’
‘Just see that he doesn’t open the window,’ Bengler went on. ‘Or go out of the door. I’ll be down in the smoking room.’
The room beyond the dining room was just as he remembered it. The tobacco smoke that hovered like a motionless fog, the sweet smell of arrack punch, the dim light from the kerosene lamps. He stood in the doorway and looked around. It was as if he recognised all the faces even though the people there were strangers to him. A chair right next to one of the windows was free. He went over to it. The thought of punch didn’t appeal to him so he ordered cognac. For the first time in ages he felt free. Daniel was a burden. He had taken it on himself, but still the boy was a burden. Had he ever thought about what a responsibility he had shouldered? The cognac muddled his thoughts. All he knew was that he had to take Daniel with him to Hovmantorp. Then he would present his desert finds and, based on that, attempt to find a way to make a living. What that would involve he had no idea. He could travel around and give lectures. But who would be interested in insects? He ordered another glass of cognac. In one of the darkest corners of the room two women sat drinking with some students. Suddenly he saw Matilda before him. A powerful desire filled him, now he had returned. Matilda must be nearby, if she was still alive, if she hadn’t left for Denmark or Hamburg. One of the women on the sofa got up. She was not beautiful; her face was ravaged. She disappeared through the draperies. Bengler followed her. She was standing in front of a mirror and straightening her hat.
She smiled when he stopped next to her. For sale, he thought. She wasn’t in Lund when I left. Now she’s here, she’s come from somewhere and she’s for sale. The same way Matilda had come from Landskrona after her father violated her.
‘I’m looking for a woman,’ said Bengler.
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