‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Why is Senhora Ana helping this woman who stabbed her husband?’
‘Because I know I might well have done the same thing myself.’
‘He should never have got involved with a black woman.’
‘Isn’t that what white men do every evening in my establishment?’
‘Not in the way that Senhor Pimenta did. He sired children with her, and recognized them as his own. That could only end in one way.’
They walked in the shadow to the low building where Indian vendors sat at their stalls smelling of foreign spices.
Ana paused and looked at Judas.
‘I’m going to keep on fighting until I’ve got Isabel out of prison,’ she said. ‘You can tell that to everybody you talk to.’
Commanding Officer Lima was standing on the steps to the building where the fort’s weapons were stored. He seemed to be bored stiff, and was rocking back and forth on his heels. On this occasion he simply waved her through without a word. Judas handed her the basket, then stood there motionless at the spot where she had left him. As usual, he waited for her in the scorching hot sunshine. Ana could hear that Lima was talking to one of the soldiers. About me, she thought. No doubt scornful comments about me.
Isabel was sitting on her rickety bunk. She said nothing, didn’t even look at Ana when she stepped into the murky cell. Despite the fact that Isabel smelled awful, Ana sat down beside her and took hold of her hand, which was very thin and cold.
Not a word was said. After a long silence, Ana took the empty basket from the previous day, and left the cell. As long as Isabel kept eating, there was still hope.
Two days later Ana took the train to Johannesburg. It was a journey she had never made before, and she would have liked to have a companion: but there was nobody she could trust among the whites she knew — at least, not in connection with the matter she hoped to resolve.
A horse-drawn cab took her to the house in the centre of town where the lawyer Pandre had his office. When she arrived, she was surprised to find that he was in — something she had hardly felt able to hope for. He even had time to speak to her, albeit for quite a short time before he had to attend a court proceeding.
Pandre was a middle-aged man, wearing Western clothes but with a turban lying on his desk. He was addressed as munshi by his male secretary, who was also Indian. He invited her to sit down, and Ana could see that he was curious to find out why a white woman would want to come and consult him, so far away from Lourenço Marques. His Portuguese was not fluent, but significantly better than Ana’s. When she asked if he spoke Shangana, he nodded — but gave no explanation of why he had bothered to learn one of the languages spoken by the blacks.
He listened intently while she told him about Isabel, and how she had killed Pedro Pimenta.
‘I need advice,’ she said in the end. ‘I need somebody to tell me how I can convince the Portuguese that she should be set free.’
Padre looked at her and nodded slowly.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why should a white woman want to help a black woman who has landed in the worst possible of situations?’
‘Because I have to.’
‘You speak broken Portuguese. May I ask where you come from?’
‘Sweden.’
Pandre thought over her response for a while, then left the room and returned with a dented and stained globe in his hand.
‘The world’s a big place,’ he said. ‘Where is the country that you come from?’
‘There.’
‘I’ve heard about something called the Northern Lights,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘And that the sun never sets during the summer months.’
‘That’s true.’
‘We all come from somewhere,’ said Pandre. ‘I’m not going to ask you why you have come to Africa, but please tell me what you are doing in Lourenço Marques.’
During the long train journey she had made up her mind to tell the truth, no matter what questions were asked.
‘I run a brothel,’ she said. ‘It’s very successful. I inherited it from my husband. A lot of my customers come from Johannesburg. Just now there are thirteen women of various ages and various degrees of beauty in my brothel, so I can afford to pay for your services.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Go to visit her. Get her to talk. And advise me what to do in order to have her set free.’
Pandre sat there in silence, slowly rotating the globe and pondering what she had said.
‘I shall charge you one hundred English pounds for my visit,’ he said eventually. ‘And I also have an extra request, bearing in mind the business you conduct.’
Ana understood without his needing to say anything more.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘You will have access to the brothel whenever you feel like it. Gratis, naturally.’
Pandre stood up and looked at a clock hanging on the wall.
‘I’m sorry, but I have to go now,’ he said. ‘One of my clients, who I unfortunately failed to defend successfully, is due to be hanged in the municipal prison. He has requested that I should be present. It’s not something I’m going to enjoy doing, of course; but on the other hand, it doesn’t upset me all that much. Anyway, I take it that we have reached an agreement. I can pay a visit to your black woman next week.’
It required quite an effort on Ana’s part not to storm out of the room when the lawyer displayed such total indifference to the plight of a client who was about to be hanged. Just how would this man be able to help Isabel?
‘Is it a man who’s going to be hanged?’ she asked.
‘Of course it’s a man.’
‘Black?’
‘White. A poor man who could only afford an Indian lawyer to defend him.’
‘What had he done?’
‘He cut the throat of two women, a mother and daughter, in an attack of jealousy. Very brutal. It was obviously impossible to avoid the death penalty. Some accused can be saved, others can’t. And some don’t deserve to be saved. Unless we are intent on transforming human beings into beasts of prey.’
Pandre bowed, rang a bell and left the room. The obsequious secretary came in, and noted down her address in Lourenço Marques.
‘What does munshi mean?’ she asked.
‘The word means “a man who is a teacher” in Hindi. It is usually an honorary title. Herr Pandre is a wise man.’
‘But nevertheless his clients are hanged?’
The secretary flung out his arms as if he were regretting what he’d said.
‘That very rarely happens. Herr Pandre has a good reputation.’
‘Does he have any black clients?’
‘He never has had so far.’
‘Why not?’
‘The courts decide which lawyers will represent blacks. All blacks have to be defended by whites.’
‘Why?’
‘To avoid any suggestion of bias.’
‘I don’t understand that.’
‘Laws and jurisprudence are matters for specialists. Herr Pandre understands. As I said, he is a wise man.’
The following day she travelled back to Lourenço Marques. She had not forgotten the secretary’s words.
When she returned to the brothel Felicia informed her that somebody had placed a headless chicken on the steps outside the prison governor’s residence. An amateurish drawing of Isabel on a piece of brown wrapping paper from one of the Indian stalls had been attached to one of the chicken’s legs. It could only mean that a lynching might take place at any time.
The threat had become more menacing, more imminent. Things are closing in on me, Ana thought. Everywhere, everything.
59
After her trip to Johannesburg Ana began spending more of her time in the brothel. Felicia, who was by now her only confidante, had told her that certain clients had suddenly begun to mistreat the women. Ana therefore wanted to be present among them as the men were hardly likely to try anything on in her presence. She could see immediately that the women were both surprised and grateful. On the other hand, if any of them treated a customer off-handedly or merely did the minimum necessary to satisfy his desires, Ana would immediately give the person concerned a telling-off. They were not allowed to use their treatment of clients as a way of taking revenge on those who wanted to harm Isabel.