“Of course not,” said Martinson. “But it was good you told me about it.”
“I mean, I don’t want to go spreading gossip,” Peters insisted.
“This isn’t gossip,” said Martinson.
“Noren will be mad,” said peters.
“He doesn’t need to know,” said Martinson.
They separated outside Martinson’s house. Peters promised Martinson he could buy a puppy when the time came.
Martinson wondered if he ought to call Wallander. Then he decided to wait and talk to him the next day. With a sigh, he returned to his endless political documents.
When Wallander showed up at the police station the next morning shortly before eight, he had an answer ready for the question he knew would come. The previous day when, after much hesitation, he had decided to take Victor Mabasha out with him in the car, he thought the risk of bumping into a police colleague or anybody he knew was small. He had taken roads he knew patrol cars seldom used. But needless to say, he ran into Peters and Noren. He noticed them so late there was no time to tell Victor Mabasha to crouch down and make himself invisible. Nor had he managed to turn off in some other direction. He could see in the corner of his eye that Peters and Noren had noticed the man in the seat beside him. They would ask for an explanation the next day, that was clear to him right away. At the same time he cursed his luck, and wished he had never set out.
Was there no end to it, he asked himself.
Then, when he had calmed down, he turned to his daughter for help once more.
“Herman Mboya will have to be resurrected as your boyfriend,” he said. “If anybody should ask. Which is pretty unlikely.”
She stared at him, then burst out laughing in resignation.
“Don’t you remember what you told me when I was a kid?” she asked. “That one lie leads to another? And eventually you get into such a mess, nobody knows what’s true any more.”
“I dislike this just as much as you do,” said Wallander. “But it’ll soon be over. He’ll soon be out of the country. Then we can forget he was ever here.”
“Sure I’ll say Herman Mboya has come back,” she said. “To tell you the truth, I sometimes wish he had.”
When Wallander got to the police station on Monday morning, then, he had an explanation ready for why there was an African sitting beside him in the car on Sunday afternoon. In a situation where most things were complicated and threatening to slide out of control, that seemed to him the least of his problems. When he noticed Victor Mabasha on the street that morning, shrouded in fog and looking like nothing more than a mirage, his first instinct was to rush back to the apartment and summon his colleagues for assistance. But something held him back, something at odds with all his usual police logic. Even when they were together in the cemetery that night in Stockholm, he had the distinct impression the black man was telling the truth. He was not the killer of Louise Akerblom. He might have been there, but he was innocent. It was another guy, a guy called Konovalenko, and later he’d tried to kill Victor Mabasha as well. There was a possibility the black man missing a finger had tried to prevent what happened at the deserted house. Wallander had been thinking non-stop about what was behind it all. That was the spirit in which he took him back to the apartment, well aware that he might be making a mistake. On several occasions Wallander had used unconventional methods, to say the least, when dealing with suspects or convicted criminals. More than once Bjork had felt obliged to remind Wallander of the regulations regarding correct police procedures. Even so, he required the black man to surrender any weapon he was carrying while they were still on the street. He accepted the pistol, and then frisked him. The black man had seemed strangely unaffected, as if he expected nothing less of Wallander than an invitation to join him in his home. Just to prove he was not completely naive, Wallander asked how he had managed to track down his address.
“On the way to the cemetery,” said the man, “I looked through your wallet. I memorized your address.”
“You attacked me,” he said. “And now you’ve traced me to my home, many miles away from Stockholm. You’d better have some good answers to the questions I’m going to ask you.”
They sat down in the kitchen, and Wallander closed the kitchen door so they wouldn’t wake Linda. Afterwards, he would remember those hours they sat opposite each other at the table as the most remarkable conversation he had ever taken part in. It was not just that Wallander received his first real insight into the strange world from which Victor Mabasha originated and to which he would soon return. He was also forced to ask himself how it was possible for a human being to be made up of so many incompatible parts. How could a man be a cold- blooded killer who approached his contracts as if they were part of an accountable day’s work, and at the same time be a rational, sensitive human being with well-thought-out political views? He did not realize the conversation was part of a confidence trick that had him fooled. Victor Mabasha had seen how the wind was blowing. His ability to give the impression of reliability could give him the freedom to return to South Africa. The spirits had whispered in his ear that he should seek out the cop who was hunting Konovalenko and obtain his help to flee the country.
What Wallander remembered most vividly in retrospect was what Victor Mabasha said about a plant that grew exclusively in the Namibian desert. It could live as long as two thousand years. It grew long leaves like protective shadows to shield its flowers and its complicated root system. Victor Mabasha regarded this unusual plant as a symbol of the opposing forces in his homeland, and also struggling for supremacy in his own being.
“People don’t surrender their privileges voluntarily,” he said. “These privileges have become a habit with roots so deep, they’ve become a sort of extra limb. It’s a mistake to believe it’s all down to a racial defect. Where I come from it’s the whites who reap the benefits of this habit. But if things had been different it could just as easily have been me and my brothers. You can never fight racism with racism. What has to happen in my country, so battered and bruised for so many hundreds of years, is that the habits of submission have to be broken. The whites must be made to understand that if they’re to survive the immediate future, they must step down. They have to hand over land to the deprived blacks who have been robbed of their land for centuries. They have to transfer most of their riches to those who have nothing, they have to learn how to treat the blacks as human beings. Barbarism has always had a human face. That’s precisely what makes barbarism so inhuman. The blacks, who are so used to being submissive, to regarding themselves as nobodies in a community of nobodies, have to change their habits. Could it be that submissiveness is the most difficult of all human failings to shake off? It’s a habit so deeply ingrained, it deforms one’s whole being and leaves no part of the body untouched. Progressing from being a nobody to being a somebody is the longest journey a human being can undertake. Once you’ve learned to put up with your inferiority, it becomes a habit which dominates your whole life. And I believe a peaceful solution is an illusion. The apartheid system in my country has gone so far, it’s already begun to flounder because it’s become impossible. New generations of blacks have grown up and refused to submit. They’re impatient, they can see the imminent collapse. But everything is progressing so slowly. Besides, there are too many whites who think the same way. They refuse to accept privileges requiring them to live as if all the blacks in their country were invisible, as if they only existed as servants or some strange sort of animals confined to remote shanty towns. In my country we have large nature reserves where wild animals can rove unhindered. At the same time, we have large human reserves where people are constantly hindered. Where I come from, wild animals are better off than humans.”
Victor Mabasha fell silent, and looked at Wallander as if expecting him to ask questions or make objections. It seemed to Wallander that all whites were the same to Victor Mabasha, whether they lived in South Africa or anywhere else.
“A lot of my black brothers and sisters think this feeling of inferiority can be overcome by its opposite, superiority,” Victor Mabasha went on. “But that’s wrong, of course. That just leads to antipathy, and tensions between various groups where there should be cooperation. For instance, it can split a family in two. And you should know, Inspector Wallander, that where I come from if you don’t have a family, you are nothing. For an African, the family is the be-all and end-all.”
“I thought your spirits fulfilled that role,” said Wallander.
“Spirits are part of our families,” said Victor Mabasha. “The spirits are our ancestors, keeping watch over us. They are invisible members of our family. We never forget their existence. That’s why the whites have committed such an incomprehensible crime in driving us out of the land where we have lived for so many generations. Spirits don’t like being forced to quit the land that was once theirs. The spirits hate the shanty towns the whites have forced us to live in even more than we do.”
He stopped abruptly, as if the words he had just spoken had given him such terrible insight he had trouble in
