believing what he just said.
“I grew up in a family that was split from the very start,” he said after a long pause. “The whites knew they could break down our resistance by splitting up our families. I could see how my brothers and sisters started reacting more and more like blind rabbits. They just ran around in circles, around and around, and no longer knew where they came from or where they were headed. I saw all that, and chose a different route. I learned how to hate. I drank of the dark waters that arouse the desire for revenge. But I also realized that despite their superiority, their arrogant assumption that their supremacy was God-given, they also had their weak points. They were scared. They talked about making South Africa a perfect work of art, a white palace in Paradise.
“But they could never see how impossible that dream of theirs really was. And those who did refused to admit as much. So the very foundation on which everything was built became a lie, and fear came to them in the night. They filled their houses with weapons. But fear found its way inside even so. Violence became a part of the everyday program of fear. I could see all that, and I resolved to keep my friends close by me, but my enemies even closer. I would play the role of the black man who knew what white men wanted. I would feed my contempt by running errands for them. I would work in their kitchens, and spit into the soup before carrying it in to their tables. I would continue to be a nobody who, in secret, had become a somebody.”
He fell silent. Wallander thought he had said all he wanted to say. But how much had Wallander really understood? How could all this help him to understand what brought Victor Mabasha to Sweden? What did it all mean? He had always had a vague understanding that South Africa was a country in the process of being destroyed by an awful political system based on racial discrimination, and he now had a clearer understanding of what it was all about. But the assassination? Who was it aimed at? Who was behind it all? An organization?
“I have to know more,” he said. “You still haven’t said who’s behind all this. Who paid for your ticket to Sweden?”
“Those ruthless people are mere shadows,” said Victor Mabasha. “Their ancestors abandoned them long ago. They meet in secrecy to plan the downfall of our country.”
“And you run their errands?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“You kill people.”
“Sooner or later others will kill me.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I know it will happen.”
“But you didn’t kill Louise Akerblom?”
“No.”
“A man called Konovalenko did that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Only he can tell you that.”
“A guy comes here from South Africa, another from Russia. They meet up at a remote house in Skane. They have a powerful radio transmitter there, and they have weapons. Why?”
“That’s how it was arranged.”
“By whom?”
“By the ones who asked us to make the journey.”
We’re going around in circles, Wallander thought. I’m not getting any answers.
But he tried again, forced himself to make one more effort.
“I’ve gathered this was some kind of preparation,” he said. “A preparation for some crime or other that was going to take place back home where you come from. A crime you were to be responsible for. A murder? But who was going to be killed? Why?”
“I’ve tried to explain what my country’s like.”
“I’m asking you straightforward questions, and I want straightforward answers.”
“Maybe the answers have to be what they are.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Wallander after a long silence. “You’re a man who doesn’t hesitate to kill, and you do it to order if I understand you rightly. At the same time you seem to me a sensitive person who’s suffering as a result of circumstances in your country. I can’t make it all add up.”
“Nothing adds up for a black man living in South Africa.”
Then Victor Mabasha went on to explain how things were in his battered and bruised homeland. Wallander had difficulty believing his ears. When Victor Mabasha finally finished, it seemed to Wallander that he had been on a long journey. His guide had shown him places he never knew existed.
I live in a country where we’ve been taught to believe that all truths are simple, he thought. And also that the truth is clear and unassailable. Our whole legal system is based on that principle. Now I’m starting to realize that the opposite is true. The truth is complicated, multi-faceted, contradictory. On the other hand, lies are black and white. If one’s view of humans, of human life, is disrespectful and contemptuous, then truth takes on another aspect than if life is regarded as inviolable.
He contemplated Victor Mabasha, who was looking him straight in the eye.
“Did you kill Louise Akerblom?” asked Wallander, getting the impression that this was the last time he would ask.
“No,” replied Victor Mabasha. “Afterward, I lost one of my fingers for the sake of her soul.”
“You still don’t want to tell me what you’re supposed to do when you get back?”
Before Victor Mabasha replied Wallander felt that something had changed. Something in the black man’s face was different. Thinking about it later, he thought maybe it was that the expressionless mask suddenly started to melt away.
“I still can’t say what,” said Victor Mabasha. “But it won’t happen.”
“I don’t think I understand,” said Wallander slowly.
“Death will not come from my hands,” said Victor Mabasha. “But I can’t stop it coming from somebody else’s.”
“An assassination?”
“That it was my job to carry out. But now I’m washing my hands of it. I’m going to drop it and walk away.”
“You’re talking in riddles,” said Wallander. “What are you going to drop? I want to know who was going to be assassinated.”
But Victor Mabasha did not answer. He shook his head, and Wallander accepted, albeit reluctantly, that he would not get any further. Afterward he would also realize he still had a long way to go before he could recognize the truth in circumstances outside his normal range of experience. To put it briefly, it was only later that it dawned on him that the last admission, when Victor Mabasha allowed his mask to drop, was false through and through. He did not have the slightest intention of walking away from his assignment. But he realized the lie was necessary if he were to receive the help he needed to get out of the country. To be believed, he was forced to lie-and to do so skillfully enough to deceive the Swedish cop.
Wallander had no more questions for the moment.
He felt tired. But at the same time, he seemed to have achieved what he wanted to achieve. The assassination was foiled, at least as far as Victor Mabasha was concerned. Assuming he was telling the truth. That would give his unknown colleagues in South Africa more time to sort things out. And he was bound to think that whatever it was Victor Mabasha was not going to do must mean something positive as far as the blacks in South Africa were concerned.
That will do, thought Wallander. I’ll contact the South African police via Interpol and tell them all I know. That’s about all I can do. All that’s left now is our friend Konovalenko. If I try to get Per Akeson to have Victor Mabasha arrested, there’s a big risk that everything could become even more confused. Besides, the chances of Konovalenko fleeing the country would only increase. I don’t need to know any more. Now I can carry out my last illegal action as far as Victor Mabasha is concerned.
Help him to get out of here.
