her mind on the spot not to say that Henrik was dead. She could not cope with any more dead bodies just now. Henrik did not belong here, the thought of him being in that room with all the other corpses was too horrific to bear.
'Were you close friends?' Louise asked.
'He kept himself to himself. A lot do that in order to cope.'
'Was there anybody especially close to him?'
'We are all good friends.'
Good God. Answer my questions. You are not standing before the Good Lord, you are standing before Henrik's mother.
'You can't have been working all the time?'
'Almost.'
'What do you remember about him?'
'He was nice.'
'Is that all?'
'He didn't say very much. I hardly noticed that he was Swedish.'
Wim seemed to realise at last that something must have happened.
'Why do you ask?'
'In the hope of receiving answers. But I see that there aren't any. Thank you for talking to me.'
Louise suddenly felt furious at the fact that this pale, limp person was still alive while Henrik was dead. That was an injustice that she would never be able to accept. God's mysterious ways were as crude as the cawing of a crow above her head.
She left the room, emerged into the crippling heat. Laura showed them the living quarters for those who had volunteered to help the dying patients, the dormitories, the neatly assembled mosquito nets, the communal dining-room that smelled of soft soap.
'Why have you come here?' Lucinda asked, turning to Laura.
'To help, to do some good. I couldn't accept my passivity.'
'Have you ever met Christian Holloway?'
'No.'
'Have you ever seen him, at least?'
'Only in a photograph.'
Laura pointed at one of the dining-room walls. There was a framed photograph hanging there. Louise went up to it and examined it. A man in profile, grey hair, narrow lips, pointed nose.
Something demanded her attention, but she could not decide what it was. She held her breath and contemplated the picture. A fly was buzzing in front of the glass.
'We must go back now,' said Lucinda. 'I don't want to have to drive through the dark.'
They thanked Laura and returned to the car. Laura waved to them, then went back inside. The place was empty once more. Lucinda started the engine and was about to drive off when Louise asked her to wait. She ran through the heat, back to the dining room.
She looked again at the photograph of Christian Holloway. Then the penny dropped.
Christian Holloway's profile.
One of the black silhouettes in Henrik's bag was a reproduction of the photograph she was now looking at.
PART 3
The Silhouettist
'You are also affected
when your neighbour's house is on fire.'
Horace
CHAPTER 15
On the way back, during the short African sunset, Louise kept repeating the same thoughts to herself, like a mantra.
Henrik has gone forever. But perhaps I can get close to what he felt, and what he was determined to achieve. In order to find out why he died I must find out what made him want to live.
They stopped at the kiosks near the bus stop. Fires were burning. Lucinda bought some water and a packet of biscuits. Only then did Louise realise that she was hungry.
'Can you imagine Henrik there?' Louise asked.
Lucinda's face was lit up by the glow from the fires.
'I didn't like it. I didn't the last time either. Something about it scares me.'
'Surely everything about it was horrific? All those dead bodies, all those people waiting to die?'
'That's not what I mean. There's something about the place that can't be seen or heard, but it's there even so. I tried to find out what Henrik had suddenly discovered, and was scared of.'
Louise looked attentively at Lucinda.
'He was frightened to death on the last occasions I saw him. I haven't told you that before. All the joy had suddenly vanished. Something that came from deep down had turned him as pale as a sheet. He became so silent. Before that he'd always been talkative. Sometimes he would go on and on and tire me out. But then came the silence, as if from nowhere, and then he disappeared without trace.'
'He must have said something. You made love together, you went to sleep and woke up together. Didn't he have any dreams? Did he really not say anything at all?'
'He slept badly towards the end, often woke up sweating, long before dawn. I asked what he'd been dreaming about. "About the darkness," he said. "About all the things that are hidden." When I asked what he meant by that, he didn't reply. And when I persisted