She shook her head, drew the curtains, checked that the door was locked, jammed a chair between the door and a chest of drawers and got ready for bed. She heard the two South African cars starting up and driving away. When she had finished washing she went back to the window and peeped out between the curtains. Warren's lorry was still there. The timbila had fallen silent.
She snuggled down in bed. The air conditioning was clattering, and coughing out short bursts of cool air. In her mind she filtered through what Lucinda had said, searching for anything important that she had overlooked.
When she woke up it was already morning. At first she had no idea where she was. She leapt out of bed and opened the curtains. Warren's lorry was no longer there. A black woman naked from the waist up was getting washed under the tap outside the hotel entrance. Louise looked at the clock and realised that she must have slept solidly for eight hours. She looked at the place where she had met Lucinda. The tree was still lying there. A few hens were scratching and pecking in the grass. She remembered what she had thought about Warren, and felt ashamed.
I see things that are not there, she thought. I must search where it's dark, not where it's light.
The sea was glistening. She could resist no longer. She put on her bathing costume, wrapped a bath towel around her, and walked down to the beach. It was almost deserted. A few small boys were playing on the sands, a group of women were paddling around in the shallows with backs bent, gathering something or other from the water, possibly mussels. Louise waded out until she was able to start swimming. There was a current, but nothing she was unable to cope with.
Artur was by her side. They were swimming in the dark tarn, and between strokes he kept telling her that it was bottomless.
She speeded up. Swimming always made her feel more relaxed. At times when she and Aron were having major problems, she had sometimes gone off to swim, in the sea or a lake or a pool, whatever was nearest to hand. She lay on her back and gazed up at the blue sky. The meeting with Lucinda had been a dream hard to pin down.
When she finally left the water and dried herself, she felt more relaxed than she had done for ages. She went back to the hotel. Warren's lorry was not parked under any of the shady trees. She could smell the aroma of newly grilled fish from the nearby camping site. The albino had not yet arrived with his timbila. She was the only person in the dining room. A waitress she had never seen before came to take her order. She ordered not only coffee and rolls, but also an omelette. There was an air of unreal calm over the dining room. Apart from herself, the waitress and somebody busy out of sight in the kitchen, the world was empty.
Henrik must have been in this dining room at some point, eating. Perhaps it was like now, having breakfast in total isolation, waiting for the albino to start playing his timbila.
She had another cup of coffee. There was no sign of the waitress when she wanted to pay. She put the money under her saucer and left the dining room. Warren had not arrived yet. She went back to her room and unlocked the door.
Only when she had closed the door behind her did she notice that there was a man sitting on one of the two chairs in front of the window. Christian Holloway rose to his feet. He smiled and stretched out his arms apologetically.
'I know that one ought not to enter the rooms of people one doesn't know without being invited. If you like I'll be happy to leave and then knock on your door, like honest men do.'
'How did you get in? Wasn't the door locked?'
'I've always had a penchant for what one might call unusual accomplishments. I found it a challenge to learn how to pick locks. I must say that this door wasn't the most difficult one I've managed to negotiate. In Shanghai I once succeeded in forcing a triple lock on the door of a temple. But I also devote myself to other skills. For instance, I have acquired the ancient skill of cutting out silhouettes. It's difficult, demands a lot of practice, but is an excellent way of relaxing.'
'Why did Henrik have a silhouette of you?'
'I gave it to him. He had seen Chinese silhouettists, and was keen to learn the art. There's something fascinating about the process of reducing people to shadows and profiles.'
'Why have you come here?'
'You have displayed an interest in the work I do here. The least I can do is to devote some time to a conversation which might enable me to give you something in return.'
'I would like to get dressed in private.'
'When would you like me to return?'
'I would prefer to meet you downstairs.'
He frowned.
'There's too much noise, too many distractions in the restaurant and the bar. Instruments playing out of tune, pots and pans clattering in the kitchen, people talking about nothing.'
'I don't share that attitude. But I'll be ready in half an hour.'
'Then I'll come back here then.'
He left the room without a sound. He had evidently learned something from the Africans he held in such contempt. He had learned how to move across a floor in total silence.
She got dressed and at the same time tried to prepare herself for his return. How would she be able to confront him with all her questions? Would she be able to tell him outright that she thought he was responsible for the death of her only son? I ought to be afraid, she told herself. I ought to be terrified. If I'm right he could easily kill me in the same way as he's killed Henrik and Umbi. Even if he's alone when he enters this room, he has bodyguards everywhere. They are invisible, but they're there.
His knock on the door was so quiet that she hardly heard it. When she opened it there stood Christian Holloway, alone. He smiled and came in.
'Once upon a time this hotel is said to have been a favourite haunt of South African tourists. During the era of Portuguese colonialism Mozambique was a paradise on earth. It could offer beaches, fishing, heat, and not least lots of young girls who cost next to nothing to bed. Now all that is a memory that has almost faded away.'
'Despite everything, the world sometimes becomes a better place.'
'That depends on who you ask.'
'I'm asking. I wonder who you are, what drives you to do what you do.'
'Is that why you keep coming back here?'
'My son Henrik came here once. You know that. Then he went back to Sweden and died. You know that as well.'
'I've already expressed my condolences. Unfortunately, I don't believe it's possible to share one's grief with anybody else. One is alone with one's grief, just as one is alone when one dies.'
'Why did my son have to die?'
He did not lose his composure. His expression was sincere, his eyes looked straight into hers.
'Why do you think I'd be able to answer that question?'
'I think you're the only one who can answer that question.'
'What do you think I know?'
'Why he died. And who killed him.'
'You said yourself that the police concluded it was suicide.'
'But it wasn't. Somebody forced those sleeping tablets down him.'
'I know from experience how difficult it is to accept the facts when one's child takes his own life.'
'I know that your son committed suicide because he was HIV-positive.'
She detected a glint of surprise in Holloway's eyes, but he quickly regained his composure.
'I'm not surprised that you know about that. Your son obviously knew. It's not possible to keep anything secret in these times.'
'Henrik was convinced it was possible to cover anything up. Hence his interest in the conspiracy theory behind Kennedy's brain.'
'I remember that. The Warren commission failed to unearth anything. I expect there is a very simple explanation that nobody bothered to look into.'
'Henrik said that what is typical of the modern world is that the truth is always suppressed by those who have an interest in allowing untruths to hold sway. Or in using them as a means of encouraging wild speculation that is difficult to counter.'
'I wouldn't have thought that
was typical only of our age. I can't think of any epoch when exactly the same criteria didn't apply.'
'But isn't it our mission to expose lies and fight injustice?'
Christian Holloway spread his arms out wide.
'I oppose injustice in my own way, by fighting ignorance and fear. I demonstrate that one can make a contribution. You ask what drives me. I'll tell you. It's the desire to know why an uneducated man like Genghis Khan could defeat sophisticated military organisations and civilised high nations far away from the steppes of Mongolia and establish an empire, the likes of which the world had never seen. What was the weapon that nobody could cope with? I think I have the answer.'
'And that is?'
'Their longbows. The way in which they learned to become as one with their horses. Their ability to define that magic moment when an arrow could be dispatched with great accuracy, despite the fact that their horses were galloping at breakneck speed. Like all important solutions, that one was simple. Nowadays I can only blush when I think how long it took me to reach that conclusion. The answer was, of course, that the cavalrymen learned how to shoot their arrows when their horses' hooves were in the air. For a brief moment there was perfect balance. A cavalryman who could shoot at that split second was certain to hit his target. The main point about Genghis Khan was not that he and his hordes advanced thirsting for blood: he had calculated the exact moment when chaos can be transformed into calm. I use that as my inspiration, and I try to live my life in accordance with that.'
'By building these complexes?'
'By trying to attain a balance that has not been achieved hitherto. The people in Africa who become HIV-positive die. Unless you happen to have been born into one of the few rich families. But if you are infected in the Western world, you can count on receiving the treatment and the drugs that you need irrespective of the status of your parents.'
'There's an underworld out there in your village. It's like a slave ship. The well-to-do passengers pace back and forth on deck; but down below, the rest are huddled together in chains, the slaves.'
'I don't understand what you're talking about.'
'There is an underworld. Where experiments are taking place on both sick and healthy people. I know about it, even if I can't prove it.'
'Who says so?'
'There was a man there who tried to talk to me about it. The next day, he had vanished. Another man tried to tell me about what goes on. He had his throat cut.'
'I know nothing about this.'
'But you are responsible for what goes on out there?'
'Of course.'
'In that case you are responsible for the opposite of what you say happens in your missions.'
'Let me explain something to you. There is no such thing as a world without combat, no civilisation which doesn't start off by laying down the rules for relations between people. But the rules are there for the weak. The strong man experiments to find out how far they can be stretched, he creates his own rules. You would like everything to be based on the goodwill and charity of one's fellow men. But if there is no private profit to be made, there will be no progress. Drug patents guarantee the profits that make research and the development of new drugs possible. Just let's suppose that what you allege about our villages is true – I'm not saying that it is, but let's suppose it. Surely some good would come out of what appears to be a brutal activity? Remember how urgent it is to find a cure for Aids. Southern Africa in particular is faced with a catastrophe of gigantic proportions – the only possible comparison is the plague. Which governments do you imagine are prepared to invest the billions needed to find a vaccine? The kind of money that is needed for more important ventures, such as the war in Iraq.'
Christian Holloway stood up.
'My time is precious. I have to go now. Please do come back here, whenever you like.'
'I shall not give up until I find out what happened to Henrik.'
He opened the door without a sound.
'I apologise for having picked the lock on your door. The temptation was irresistible.'
He vanished down the corridor. Louise watched through the window as he left the hotel and was picked up by a car.
Her whole body was shaking. He had eluded her. She had not succeeded in confronting him and breaking down his defences. She had asked her questions, but he was the one who had received the answers. She realised now that he had come in order to find out how much she knew. He had left her because he no longer needed to be afraid of her.
Now her big hope was Lucinda. She was the only one who could throw light on what had actually happened.
That evening she heard the timbila playing in the darkness. This time the music was coming from a spot closer to the sea. She followed the sound, being careful where she placed her feet and peering into the night. The moon was new, the night sky covered by a thin mist.
When the music stopped she listened for Lucinda's breathing, but heard nothing. For a moment she wondered if she had fallen into a trap. There was no Lucinda there in the darkness, there were different shadows lying in wait for her, just as they had waited for Umbi, for Henrik, and perhaps also for Aron.
Then she heard Lucinda calling to her, close by. A match flared up, a lantern was lit. Louise sat down on the ground beside her. She felt Lucinda's forehead: she must have a very high temperature.
'You shouldn't have come. You're too ill.'
'I know. But you have to die somewhere. The soil is just as good here as it is anywhere else. Besides, I shan't die alone. I shan't lie under the ground without company. There are more people in the land of the dead than in the land of the living. It's just a question of choosing to die where other dead people are waiting.'
'Christian Holloway came to visit me today.'
'I gathered he was going to. Did you watch your back when you came here? Was there anybody following you?'
'I didn't see anybody.'
'I didn't ask what you saw. I asked if anybody followed you.'
'I neither heard nor saw anything.'
Louise noticed that Lucinda moved further away from her.
'I need space around me. My fever is burning all the oxygen away.'
'What did you want to tell me?'
'The continuation. The end. If there is an end.'
But Lucinda was unable to say any more. A gun shot shattered the silence. Lucinda gave a start, then fell to the side, and lay there totally still.
Louise suddenly saw before her all the pictures in Henrik's files. Lucinda had been hit in the head in exactly the same place as the bullet had entered John F. Kennedy's brain. But nobody would bother to hide the brain that was now oozing out of Lucinda's head.
Louise screamed. She had reached the end of her journey, but nothing had turned out as she had hoped. She now had the truth before her. She knew who had fired the shot. It was a man who cut out silhouettes, an elusive shadow, who maintained to the world that he only meant well. But who would believe her? Lucinda's death was the inexorable end of the story.
Louise wanted to stay with Lucinda, but she did not dare. In all her confusion and fear she hoped that one of Lucinda's invisible friends was in the darkness outside the circle of light surrounding the lantern, and that they would take care of her.
Kennedy's Brain Page 38
