A Treacherous Paradise Page 10

  Hanna slept badly that night. The next day the chimpanzee came up to her room. He was carrying a silver tray with a flower from the jacaranda tree, sent to her by Senhor Vaz. There was no message, only his name.

  30

  THE BLUE FLOWER from the jacaranda tree was still alive, floating in a little shallow dish of water, when something happened that changed Hanna’s life, yet again.

  It was early morning when she went downstairs, feeling fit again at last, even if she was still grieving over the loss of Lundmark.

  A white man with his shirt unbuttoned, barefoot, but still with his hat on his head, was lying on a sofa, fast asleep. There was no sign of the women who worked in the brothel: they were still asleep in their rooms – alone or together with clients who had paid for a whole night’s indulgence. The only other being awake at this time in the morning was Carlos the chimpanzee. He was curled up on the ceiling light, swinging slowly backwards and forwards as he observed her movements.

  There was no sign of Senhor Vaz either. Hanna was enveloped in a musty smell of cigars and strong drink, despite the fact that the venetian blinds were up and the windows open. The black man in charge of the entrance door was asleep in the shadows outside it.

  Hanna stood in the open doorway, careful not to wake up the watchman. A group of black men pulling a cart full of buckets of night soil stopped and stared at her. She went back inside. Once the cart had clattered off on its way, she went back to the doorway. Something similar happened again, only this time it was two white men wearing straw hats and carrying leather briefcases who stopped dead and stared at her. Once again she went back inside.

  Was there something wrong with her clothes? Hanna stood in front of one of the many mirrors hanging on the walls. She was dressed in white, with a brown shawl over her shoulders, and as usual she had gathered her hair into a bun at the back of her head. She could see that she had lost weight, and was very pale. For the first time in her life her skin was now the same milky white as her mother’s. But Hanna’s face was her father’s. She could see him in the mirror. He seemed to be coming closer to her, and eventually was standing right next to her face.

  That thought saddened her. If a door behind her back hadn’t opened at precisely the same time, she might well have burst out crying. When she turned round she saw a hunchbacked man, short in stature, almost dwarf-like, enter the room. He limped, and his head jerked every time he took a step. She recognized the piano tuner she had hitherto only seen sitting on the piano stool. He made his way cautiously between all the chairs and sofas. He paused for a moment when he bumped into one of the sleeping man’s naked feet, but eventually arrived at the piano. He sat down, opened the lid, and stroked his hands over the keys as if he were caressing the skin of a woman or a child. Hanna stood there motionless, observing him: she was reminded of Forsman’s piano, and the thought struck her that she wanted to go back home as soon as possible. She didn’t belong here, and would never do so.

  The man at the piano suddenly turned to look at her.

  He said something she didn’t understand. When she didn’t respond, he repeated what he had said.

  Then Hanna started speaking Swedish. Silence was not a language. She said who she was, her name, and explained about the ship she had come here on and then abandoned.

  She spoke without pausing, as if she were afraid that somebody might interrupt her. The man at the piano didn’t move a muscle.

  When Hanna finished talking, he nodded slowly. It was as if he had understood what she said.

  He turned back to the piano, took a tuning key out of his pocket and started caressing the keys. Hanna had the impression that he was trying to do it as quietly as possible, so as not to disturb those who were still asleep.

  The man lying on the sofa sat up drowsily. When he saw Hanna he gave a start and stared at her as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. Then he tried to talk to her. She just shook her head and went back up the stairs to her room. She sat down on her bed, took the pound notes from among her underclothes and counted them. It was clear that she definitely had enough to enable her to head back home to Sweden. She might not even need to work her passage, but could perhaps be a paying passenger on a ship sailing to her homeland.

  There was a knock on the door. Hanna quickly gathered up the money and hid it under the pillow. When there came a second knock, she stood up and opened the door. She thought it would be Laurinda who was already serving up her breakfast tray, but in fact it was the man who had been sleeping on the sofa. He still had his hat on his head and was barefoot. His shirt was unbuttoned and his pot belly hung down over his waistband. He was holding a bottle of cognac in one hand. He smiled, and spoke in a low voice as if he were encouraging a doubtful dog. She was about to shut the door when he put one of his bare feet in the way. Then he pushed her over so that she fell down on the bed. He closed the door, put the bottle on the table and produced a few notes from his trouser pocket. She was just about to get up off the bed when he gave a roar and pushed her back down again. He put the notes on the table, ripped her blouse open and started pulling up her skirt. When she resisted he slapped her hard. She still didn’t understand what he was saying, but she understood what was happening. She managed to wriggle out of his grasp, picked up the bottle he had put on the table and hit him so hard on the arm with it that it broke. At the same time, she shouted for help – as loudly as she could.

  The blow and the subsequent shriek made the man hesitate. He let go of Hanna, and stared at her. She heard footsteps and then the door opened.

  It was Senhor Vaz standing there, wearing a red silk dressing gown. Carlos was perched on his shoulders, then he launched into an attack on the unknown man. Carlos bit the man’s hand so savagely that he submitted.

  31

  SENHOR VAZ WAS dishevelled. He must have been woken up by Hanna’s scream. But even if he was half asleep, he realized immediately what had been happening. The man, a Boer by the name of Fredrik Prinsloo, standing there half naked with uncut toenails like the claws on a cat, had been causing trouble for several years whenever he visited O Paraiso. Now he found himself fighting a desperate but losing battle against the ape that was biting him and ripping off his clothes.

  Senhor Vaz shouted out a command. Carlos immediately stopped fighting and jumped up on to Hanna’s bed. In one hand he was holding a handkerchief he had managed to snatch from Prinsloo, who was bleeding quite badly.

  Fredrik Prinsloo belonged to one of the earliest families to emigrate to Cape Town from Europe. Now he was a major landowner in the province of Transvaal, and had set up a business organizing safaris for rich hunters from America. One of his customers was the then President Theodore Roosevelt, who was a hopeless shot but nevertheless, with the discreet assistance of Prinsloo, succeeded in bagging vast numbers of buffalo, lion, leopard and giraffe.

  Senhor Vaz had heard the story about the American president ad nauseam during the many conversations he had been compelled to have with Prinsloo. But despite the Boer’s boasts, he had to be handled with respect. Prinsloo was not just a regular customer, but he also recommended Vaz’s brothel to his friends whenever they felt the need to engage in erotic antics with black women. As Senhor Vaz had realized that the Boer never failed to start quarrelling with other customers, he introduced a special routine whenever Prinsloo indicated that he was on his way. Vaz dug out a notice that he hung on to the front door announcing that a ‘private party’ was taking place. All this meant in practice was that Senhor Vaz himself kept a close check on the number of clients allowed in that evening.

  On these occasions wild rumours circulated around the town of abandoned orgies involving activities that no decent person could possibly imagine even in their wildest dreams. Senhor Vaz was well aware of these rumours, and also knew that they created a sort of magic aura around O Paraiso, which increased its appeal and also his income.

  But he had also established that Prinsloo often treated black women extremely brutally. For a man l
ike Prinsloo black skin was merely a shell that concealed stupidity, ignorance and idleness. But to do what Prinsloo did and combine this contempt with what seemed at times to be an irrational hatred was something that Vaz couldn’t understand. Why this hatred? Nobody hates animals, apart from snakes, cockroaches and rats. Let’s face it, black people don’t have poisonous fangs. Extremely cautiously, he had often raised the matter with Prinsloo; but he had beaten a hasty retreat when Prinsloo became hot under the collar and refused to answer.

  Prinsloo was also an unpredictable person. He could be generous and friendly, but he sometimes reached a tipping point. When that happened, he would start treating the prostitutes and servants with a degree of cruelty that terrified everybody he came into contact with. Senhor Vaz had instructed his most trusted servants to inform him immediately when Prinsloo had one of his attacks. On several occasions, apparently without provocation, the Boer had suddenly started hitting or whipping the black whore he had been bedding at the time. Senhor Vaz would then intervene with the assistance of the burly security officer who for some reason was called Judas. Their combined efforts would be enough to rescue the naked, bleeding woman from Prinsloo’s attacks. The Boer never offered any resistance, but nor did he ever express any regret. What he had done simply didn’t seem to bother him. Prinsloo never gave any extra money to the women he had attacked, nor did he hesitate to ask for their services again the next time he visited the brothel.

  But Senhor Vaz had drawn a line there. Nobody who had been subjected to Prinsloo’s brutality need ever go to bed with him again. He simply explained that she was busy with other clients, and would be otherwise occupied all the time Prinsloo stayed at O Paraiso, which was usually three or four days. He wasn’t sure whether or not Prinsloo had seen through him, but the Boer was allowed to choose from all the other women and precautions were taken to act immediately if ever he started mistreating the woman he had selected to satisfy his desires on any given occasion.

  Senhor Vaz worried about the hatred that Prinsloo had manifested. He didn’t understand it, and it scared him. It was as if it was warning him about a danger. Something he wasn’t aware of himself.

  As he stood there in the doorway, half asleep, and observed the semi-naked Prinsloo squaring up to the white woman with her blouse ripped away, he recognized that things had now gone too far. Prinsloo hadn’t hesitated to attack one of the hotel residents, and a white woman at that. Senhor Vaz could no longer overlook his behaviour. And he felt he had been insulted personally.

  As far as he was concerned, there could be nothing worse. Being insulted meant that death was testing his powers of resistance.

  32

  SENHOR VAZ WAS short in stature and not especially strong. But his anger was such that he didn’t hesitate to grab hold of Prinsloo’s shirt collar, drag him out of the room and then push him down the stairs. The scream from the upper floor had woken up the sleeping whores. Many of the women were not particularly fond of some of their colleagues, but they seldom came to blows, although it did happen now and then. But if the danger came from outside their circle, they were all united against it.

  Now they were standing by the staircase as Prinsloo came tumbling down. Vaz followed behind him, followed in turn by Judas, and behind him Carlos, who was chewing Prinsloo’s white handkerchief.

  Senhor Vaz stopped on the bottom step and looked sternly at Prinsloo, who had hit his head and was bleeding from one eyebrow and the hand where Carlos had bitten him.

  ‘Get out of here,’ he said. ‘And never come back again.’

  Prinsloo pressed his hand against his eyebrow and seemed at first not to have understood what Senhor Vaz had said. Then he stood up on unsteady legs, made a threatening gesture at the prostitutes who were standing round him, then took a step forward towards Senhor Vaz.

  ‘You know that I usually bring my friends here with me,’ he said. ‘If you throw me out, you throw them all out as well.’

  ‘I’ll be only too pleased to explain to them why I don’t want you here.’

  Prinsloo didn’t reply. He was still bleeding. He suddenly roared loudly and bent over forwards, as if he was in great pain.

  ‘Water,’ he yelled. ‘Warm water. I must wipe away the blood.’

  Senhor Vaz nodded to one of the women, indicating that she should bring some water. He shooed the others away. They returned quietly to their rooms. Prinsloo sat down on the edge of a sofa. When the girl brought him an enamel washbasin he carefully washed away the blood from his forehead and his hand.

  ‘Ice,’ he said then.

  Senhor Vaz himself went out into the kitchen and chopped a couple of large lumps of ice from the blocks in the icebox, then wrapped them up in towels. Prinsloo pressed them against his wounds. When the bleeding had stopped he stood up, buttoned up his shirt, put on his socks and shoes and left through the door.

  He left the lumps of ice in the towels lying on the floor next to the sofa. Senhor Vaz carried them into the kitchen, then went back up the stairs and knocked on the door of room number 4. When he heard Hanna’s voice he opened the door and entered the room. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, and had replaced the torn blouse with a different one.

  Senhor Vaz looked for signs that she had been crying, but found none. He sat down on the only chair in the room.

  Not a word was spoken, but Hanna had the feeling nevertheless that he was apologizing for what had happened.

  When he eventually stood up, bowed and left the room, she was more convinced than ever that she ought to leave this town as soon as possible.

  Africa scared the living daylights out of her. It was full of people she couldn’t understand, and who didn’t understand her.

  She must get away. But even so, she didn’t regret having abandoned Captain Svartman’s ship. That had been the right thing to do in the circumstances. But what was the right thing to do now?

  She didn’t know. There was no answer to that question.

  She thought: that dark river is still flowing inside me. The ice hasn’t formed on it yet.

  33

  THAT VERY SAME day she went down to the harbour. Senhor Vaz didn’t want her to wander around town on her own, and sent Judas as a sort of bodyguard. He walked a few paces behind her. Every time she turned round he stopped and looked down at the ground. He didn’t dare to look her in the eye.

  How can he possibly protect me? she thought. When he doesn’t even dare to look me in the eye.

  There were a lot of ships berthed by the various quays. Still more were riding at anchor in the roadstead. It was low tide, and large parts of the lagoon that formed the outer harbour were silted up, with old wrecks sticking out of the black mud. She searched for a ship flying the Swedish flag in the inner harbour, but in vain. Nor could she see a Danish one, the only other flag she had learnt to recognize. The ships in the roadstead were all flying flags she couldn’t identify.

  It was very busy on the quays, with ships being frantically loaded and unloaded. She watched a net full of elephants’ tusks being hoisted up on a crane and lowered into a hold. Gleaming pianos and motor cars were lifted out of another ship, and in one of the nets deposited on the quays were several elegant sofas and armchairs.

  The half-naked workers were dripping with sweat as they carried their burdens along swaying gangplanks. And wherever she looked there were white men in topees keeping watch over their slaves like hungry beasts of prey. She soon decided she could no longer bear to watch all these tortured and torturing people. She left the harbour.

  Just as she was leaving the waterfront she decided she would take an indirect route back to the hotel. With the sturdily built Judas behind her, she had no need to feel afraid.

  He’s my fifth attendant, she thought: Elin was first, then Forsman, and then Berta, Lundmark, and now this gigantic black man who doesn’t dare to look me in the eye.

  She spent a long time wandering around the town that afternoon. For the first time she had the feeling that she was se
eing everything clearly. Before, everything seemed to have been shrouded by the strong sunlight. Now at last she was able to become acquainted with this town to which she was originally scheduled to pay merely a fleeting visit in order to take on board fresh water and food supplies before Captain Svartman set off for the long voyage to Australia in his Lovisa.

  But she had jumped ship here, and was still here. All the darkness she had experienced was now at last beginning to disperse. She was beginning to see properly the foreign world which now surrounded her.

  It suddenly dawned on her that it was Sunday. One of the first days in October. But the seasons had changed places. Now it wasn’t winter and the cold that was in store. On the contrary, the increasing heat indicated that summer had arrived early this year. She had heard Senhor Vaz discussing this with his brothel clients. The sun can burn you just as the cold can burn you, she thought. But perhaps my skin is hardened to the heat, thanks to the fact that I’m used to the cold?

  She had come to the end of a street that opened out on to a hill, on the top of which the town’s as yet unfinished cathedral towered up towards the heavens. The bright sunlight was reflected off the white stone walls. She had to screw up her eyes so that what surrounded her was not transformed into a mirage by the heat haze. Wherever she looked, everything seemed to be deserted. There were no other people about. Only the big black man behind her, always motionless whenever she turned round.

  She walked up the hill. The cathedral doors were standing open. She stopped in the shadow of the tall tower. It’s like a meringue, she thought as she looked at the white stone. Or a cake that I saw in Forsman’s house when one of his children was having a birthday party.

  She stood in the shadows, wiping her face with a handkerchief. Judas was standing in full sunlight. She tried beckoning to him, indicating that he too should come and stand in the shade. But he stayed where he was, with sweat pouring down his face.