‘I very seldom whip my Negroes. I don’t pinch them with tongs, don’t box their ears, don’t teach them the catechism. I do keep order, it’s true. But I don’t rip them up by the roots so they’ll fall dead in the snow of Sweden. I ask you a very simple question: which is worse?’
‘I’ll prove you’re wrong.’
‘You have given me your promise. To come back. And tell me.’
They ate the rest of the dinner in silence. Andersson was soon so drunk that his gaze began to wander beyond the light from the whale-oil lamp. It struck Bengler that he resembled a confused insect at night, searching for a point of light that should not have been there.
That night, as his last note to Matilda, he wrote: Tomorrow I set off. Andersson fluttered like a moth around the lamp. I don’t know if he is an evil man. But he is a foolish man. He refuses to see through his own actions. Because I drank two glasses of wine I began to fantasise that he was actually an insect that I had pinned down on a sheet of white paper.
He still hadn’t made a single note about Daniel. He had decided to wait until they left. When the trading post disappeared behind them he would begin to write about him.
Daniel was sleeping on the rug. His mouth was still shut tight. Bengler wondered what he was dreaming about.
Despite the fact that he was tipsy and had also had to drag Andersson to bed, he managed to have one last moment of love with Benikkolua that night. He had stumbled out of the room where the ivory was once stored and tripped over her where she lay on her raffia mat. As usual she was naked under her thin cover. He was surprised that she never seemed to be chilly in the cold desert night.
In the morning he woke very early. The sun had not yet risen. Daniel was asleep. Bengler went silently out of the door. Benikkolua was gone. She had taken her raffia mat with her. But she had hung up the thin cover on a projecting edge of the roof. It waved like a farewell to him, Benikkolua’s flag. It brought tears to his eyes and he thought it was as crazy for him to leave as it had once been to come here.
He had just as many questions, and just as few answers.
He was sure of one thing. The responsibility he had assumed for the boy lying in Andersson’s pen was something he did not intend to regret. What he wasn’t able to give himself perhaps he could give to someone else.
Bengler waited until Daniel woke up, then he smiled, put his best shirt on him and carried him outside. When Daniel caught sight of the wagon with the oxen hitched up, he suddenly began to shriek and flail about. Bengler held him tight, but the boy was like a wildcat. When he sank his teeth into Bengler’s nose he had to let him go. The boy ran straight out into the desert. Bengler followed him with blood running down his face.
For an instant he thought he would have to hit him, but when he caught the boy the thought was already gone. He was still howling and flailing his arms but this time Bengler didn’t let go, and dragged him back to the wagon. He tied him down with the baggage, just as he had once bound Amos and the other ox-driver to the wagon wheels. The boy pulled and tore at the rope, and his screams cut through Bengler like knives, but he couldn’t change his mind now.
Andersson had come out onto the steps and was watching the commotion.
‘I see you’re leaving,’ he shouted. ‘A quiet departure. I just don’t understand why you have to torment the boy. What has he done to you?’
Bengler rushed towards Andersson. Now he had no more fear.
‘I intend to save him from you.’
Then he threw himself on Andersson. They rolled about in the sand. Andersson had met the attack with a roar. Around them stood black people silently watching the white men fighting like madmen.
Then it was over. Andersson knocked Bengler to the ground with a punch to the stomach. It took several minutes before he caught his breath.
‘Leave now. But come back and tell me how the boy died.’
Andersson turned and went into the house. In the wagon the boy continued screaming and tearing at the rope. Bengler wiped the blood off his face and called to the ox-drivers.
The black men stood silent.
For a moment Bengler thought he had made a mistake.
But he quickly dispensed with the thought.
The boy didn’t stop crying until late in the afternoon. He fell completely silent suddenly, without warning, and closed his eyes with his mouth shut tight.
Will I ever understand what he’s thinking? Walking beside the wagon, Bengler watched him for a long time. Then he loosened the rope. The boy didn’t move. He knows that I wish him only the best, thought Bengler. It will take time. But already he is beginning to understand.
When they reached Cape Town a few weeks later, Bengler heard that Wackman was dead. He had had a stroke at his brothel, which had now been taken over by a man from Belgium.
Daniel had stopped shrieking. He didn’t speak and never smiled, but he ate the food Bengler gave him. Yet Bengler was still uncertain whether he might try to escape again, so he always tied him up at night and kept the end of the rope wound around his own wrist.
In early July they boarded a French freighter, a barque, that was bound for Le Havre. The captain, whose name was Michaux, promised that there would be no difficulty in finding a ship there to take them to Sweden. The money that Bengler got for the wagon and the oxen paid for their passage.
Late in the evening of 7 July 1877, they set sail from Cape Town. Bengler was afraid that Daniel would throw himself overboard, the way the slaves used to do, so he made sure he was tied up when they were standing by the railing.
Daniel kept his eyes closed.
Bengler wondered what he was seeing behind those eyelids of his.
Chapter 7
The ship was called the Chansonette and had come most recently from Goa on the Indian peninsula. Steamy aromas of mysterious spices that Bengler had never smelled before wafted up from the holds. When he took a promenade on deck he discovered some strange iron fittings screwed into the planks. At first he couldn’t identify them other than as vague images from his memory. Then he remembered that he had once seen them in a comprehensive English book of plates that illustrated in detail the instruments and tools with which slaves were held captive during the journey to the West Indies. So he found himself on a former slave ship. It aroused a violent discomfort in him. The scrubbed deck was suddenly filled with blood that smelled stronger than the spices loaded in sacks and barrels down in the holds. He looked at Daniel, whom he was leading on a rope. So that Daniel wouldn’t tear himself loose in one of the quick and always unexpected lunges he made at irregular intervals, Bengler had designed a harness for him. He had explained to the captain that Daniel was his adopted son and was going with him to Europe. Michaux hadn’t asked any questions or shown the least sign of curiosity. Bengler asked him to inform the crew that Daniel’s unpredictable moods made it necessary to keep him in a harness: it was a safety measure, not a display of cruelty. Michaux called over one of his mates, a Dutchman named Jean, and asked him to tell the crew.
They had been given a cabin near the stern, right next to the captain’s quarters. After attempting to break free in a violent fit of desperation, Daniel had sunk into apathy. To calm him, Bengler had strewn a thin layer of sand on the floor. He had tried to explain that the ship was big and safe. The sea was no monster, the slight motion of the hull nothing more than the same motion that Daniel must have felt when he was carried around on his mother’s back.