David rocked back and forth in desperation. Before the eyes of his companions the openness of his features dissolved and they beheld a man who had adopted the listing action of the world in which he lived and who now seemed, in his own despair, about to imitate that selfsame slide.

  “We thought,” he went on, “that the neurologists and psychiatrists would prove that the human soul is also biological in form. The biologists and physicists would reduce this biological form to chemistry and physics and the mathematicians would break the chemistry and physics down into arithmetic. It would then be up to us to reduce this mathematical exercise to a logical equation.

  “Human beings,” said David—and for an instant his voice rang with all the unshakable conviction of European science—“would be thoroughly accounted for by means of a handful of signs and the rules governing their various permutations.”

  At this point Joseph K. leaned across the table and for the first time that evening the old man seemed to have been drawn out of himself. “It is just as I have always known,” he said. “It is what I predicted in my books. And it will come true. To a visionary writer it is quite obvious. There is something … predictable about the human race. If one unearths its background, its … brooding urges, if one charts its shadowy inner landscape, at the end of the day everything appears so very, very simple.”

  He got to his feet with a jolt, propelled out of his chair by some powerful surge of emotion, and proceeded to limp back and forth across the floor. “As a boy I used to look at maps, I was … obsessed with maps, the white areas most of all. They denote those places of which we know nothing, dark spots in the universe that exert a … savage attraction. That is why I went to sea. I had to visit those places. So one travels and travels, through Asia, through South America, up the Congo River, and it is … it is … a journey into one’s self, the charting of a vast map. One becomes a … psychological geodesist. And then a landscape looms up that is so terrifying and dark that it takes, it takes … a real man to set foot in it, and one learns something, something or other. And there comes a day when one has seen it all, when one comes up against … a wall in the universe. One can go no further, there is nothing new under the sun, no more blank spots on the map. And yet there is still something that one does not understand. Inside human beings there are still some blank spots and one…” At this point he fell silent, staring vacantly through his pince-nez with brimming eyes. “This is where,” he said when he had regained control of his voice, “science has to step in. Once the artists and explorers among us have shown the public all that there is to be seen, it is up to science to prove that those last blank spots—guilt and religion and morality and … love—are a … what was it you called it?”

  “A logical equation,” said David.

  “Just so. A logical equation proving that we are all—you and I, General, and this young man here—in fact, one.”

  “I feel no kinship with you, chemically or in any other way,” said the general in a voice cold as ice and for a moment the girl was forgotten, as if this were a more crucial matter than the question of life and death. “This evening has shown me that you are an unscrupulous civilian and a coward, driven by the impertinence of an inferior race!”

  For a moment Joseph K. just stood there blinking disconcertedly in the face of this first verbal broadside from the self-possessed military man. Then the corners of his moustache turned upward in an infinitely compliant smile. “Ah,” he said, “you arouse my curiosity. By what noble and complex motives is the fatherland’s son driven, then?”

  “Till the day I die,” said the general without hesitation, “in all that I do I shall serve the spirit of Teutonic brotherhood as expressed by our great poet Goethe when he says: “Nimmer sich beugen, kräftig sich zeigen, rufet die Arme der Götter herbei.”

  “Well, as far as the day you die is concerned,” said Joseph K. thoughtfully, “that would appear to be taken care of. As regards Goethe, I must say that once again you surprise me by turning out to be … a man of letters. But when it comes to the bond between you and me, General, there is no way round it.” Leaning against the table he brought his face down to the soldier’s. “A few years from now our young friend will have united us in a … logical equation. A few years from now some young orderly will click his heels and pass a bundle of papers bearing a handful of signs and the rules for combining them across the counter in some dingy Prussian army camp, and say: ‘Here, down to the last detail, you have General Paul von Lettow Voerbeck!’”

  “I seem to remember your saying earlier,” the general remarked blandly, “that you had invested your entire being in a book about a journey through Africa. That being the case, then day after day a bundle of papers bearing a handful of signs and the rules for combining them must also be being passed across British bookshop counters, with the words ‘Here, down to the last detail, you have the great writer Joseph K.’”

  For the first time on the journey the old man appeared to be at a loss for words, and in the pause that ensued, David cleared his throat.

  “I am afraid,” he said, “that is most unlikely,” and he felt all eyes upon him. He surveyed the company, then his eyes met the girl’s and stayed there.

  “In Vienna,” he continued slowly, “I met … someone with a very clear view of things. He is working on a particular theorem, a proposition. When I saw this proposition it seemed to me to shatter my dream. Of course he is not the only one. There have, as I have said, been various indications of what was afoot. But he showed me Venice, he showed me that it is the foundations that are unsound. He has proved—no, he intends to prove—that when one is dealing with a complex system, and we humans are complex”—here he felt himself reddening under the girl’s gaze—“within any complex system there are certain elements that cannot be deduced from its basic characteristics. This may mean that, even had we known every particular of the circumstances surrounding this journey, we would still have been unable to guard against the unpredictable.

  “This proposition also suggests,” he continued, “that, even when fully aware of our point of departure, we cannot be certain of avoiding contradictions at a later date. And,” he said, and had to lower his gaze, “life is, as we know, full of contradictory emotions.”

  He lifted his head again. “At last,” he said, “it will be established that it will never be possible, as we had thought, to determine in advance what shape a logical theorem may take. At any rate, not in mathematics and possibly in no other area of life. We cannot”—and here he found himself searching for words—“do without … ingenuity and … emotion in mathematics.”

  He fell silent for a moment. “Until tonight,” he continued, “I had always thought it dreadful that there was nothing in this life, nothing at all, that was not, right from its inception, subject to uncertainty. Now, however, I have the idea … I have the idea that perhaps it doesn’t really matter anyway, that one could perhaps do some work. And now it is too late…”

  Using both hands, and with some difficulty, Joseph K. filled their glasses, as if preparing to toast whatever it was that was too late.

  “And yet,” said David slowly, “it is odd that tonight it should be we, the Europeans, who have taken the wrong turn. Each of us has left his native land. You, Joseph K., have left your writing behind, the general his soldiers, and I mathematics. We seem to be on the wrong track. You, Miss, on the other hand, appear to be”—David groped for a suitable expression—“in your proper place.”

  “You fool,” the girl said, almost kindly, “I am four thousand kilometers from my home.”

  “But perhaps only for the time being,” suggested David.

  “I was educated in England,” said the girl. “In my tribe we have a saying: He who wishes to dream like the otoyo, the hyena, must learn to eat corpses.” David looked at her blankly. She leaned forward. “The European languages,” she said, “are good for large numbers. In English, for example, the seven thousand slaves who built this railway are easily counted.”

  “Slavery,” said von Lettow, “has been abolished.”

  The girl regarded him thoughtfully. “We also say that the omuga, the rhinoceros, runs faster than it thinks, with the result that on the savannah one encounters little gusts of wind, those being the little thoughts from which the big beast has fled. In order to build this railway, Belgian troops rounded up four thousand Africans from the Gold Coast and Angola. Some were drawn by the promise of what was a very low wage but most came because it is hard to say no to a rifle barrel. They worked under armed guard, under the lash, and with steel rings around their necks so they would be easily recognizable should they run away. But we must finish our sum: the final three thousand were made up mainly of European convicts, most of them from Portugal; of these seven thousand workers, five thousand died of ill-treatment, blackwater fever, sleeping sickness, and overwork. In my tribe we say that the railroads across Africa run not over railway track but over African bones. What would you call slavery if not that, General?”

  Just then a shudder ran through the train and with a squeal of brakes the locomotive went into a sharp turn. The girl straightened up. “It is time,” she said, getting to her feet. Without so much as a glance at them she crossed the carriage floor and went out the door.

  Feeling slightly sick, David went limp. The girl had been the power that had held them all in a quivering, watchful state of suspense. As soon as she was gone they collapsed.

  Then the focus within the room shifted as Joseph K. produced a flat, dully gleaming pistol. “Gentlemen,” he said, “five minutes from now the train will brake as it goes into the third, very tight turn. That is where we get off.”

  David had noted how the general’s face when he saw the weapon stiffened into a suspicious mask, a sign that on this night his credulity had been stretched to the limit and that he would now meet everything that came his way with the most profound distrust.

  “General,” said Joseph K., “I have yet another mask: that of businessman. One of the freight cars trundling on ahead of us contains a number of boxes stamped with my name. These contain a consignment of excellent Webley rifles that I sold to that young lady. From my sailing days I have retained a taste for certain … enterprises more profitable than writing.”

  “So you are on the side of the Negroes?” said the general.

  “I am on my own side, General,” said Joseph K., “and in this century, I believe, that is the only possible side to be on.”

  “Words fail me,” said the general.

  “That I can well believe,” replied Joseph K. “It’s not as though the spirit of Teutonic brotherhood has any long story to relate. But I,” he said, taking out his pocket watch and considering it for a moment, “I have one last tale to tell before we jump. And it is only fitting, don’t you think, that the writer should have the last word.”

  Only now, so near the end, was David coming to understand the old man. He realized that throughout his life Joseph K. must have kept himself on a very tight rein. Yet all that time a fuse must have been burning away inside him. And now, just as he was about to meet his end, this hissing spark had reached the secret cache of powder in his soul. What they had been witnessing tonight was the great writer’s swan song which was bound to consist of one long series of explosions.

  “In Dar es Salaam,” said Joseph K., “on Biashara Street, there is a little shop. It is run by an Indian who was once tremendously fat but who had, over the years, cast off the burdens of this life and by the time of this story had already grown lean. This shop is possibly the only place in the African continent where genuine articles can be bought: the heavy silk kente cloth of the Ashanti tribe, interwoven with symbols whose significance was forgotten two hundred years ago; bronze statuettes from the vanished kingdoms of central Africa; gold ornaments from Zanzibar.

  “And on the wall of this shop hangs the rarest piece of all: a green dancing mask from the Maconde tribe, a crude, upward slanting face with an impassivity that makes it seem continually to be changing expression.

  “One day a couple of years before the war, an army officer visited the shop. A colleague of yours, General. As soon as he saw the mask he felt the need to buy it. When told that during a dance it took possession of its wearer and foretold the future, he insisted upon having it, as only a German officer in prewar Dar es Salaam could insist. The Indian explained to him that the masks of the Maconde people can neither be bought nor sold.

  “At that, the officer donned the mask, danced a few steps in his riding boots, and bellowed from behind the carved wood: ‘And if I buy you, where will that lead?’ And a voice replied: ‘To hell.’

  “At this the officer flew into a Teutonic rage and, service revolver in hand, forced the Indian to sell him the mask, that he might prove it to be harmless. Because, wherever European—and perhaps most especially German—people have encountered the primitive African idea of a mask and its bearer being one they have always cocked their guns.

  “Soon after this the officer left on a tour of duty, first to Arusha and then on to Bismarcksburg and Lake Tanganyika, and wherever he went he would put on the mask and dance for the white officers, who were thoroughly entertained, and the black soldiers and native inhabitants, who were not at all amused, but the mask never spoke again and its silence bored into the officer’s flesh like loa-loa, the worm that causes river blindness. Eventually he took to drink and one day in Ngoro-ngoro he danced himself into a seizure from which he did not emerge until his death three months later. His belongings were either given away or put up for sale in the garrison at Bagamoyo—I bought a razor with a tortoiseshell handle myself—and no objections were made when the Indian came for the mask.

  “The funeral took place the next day. It was during the monsoon, and the funeral procession was coming down Biashara Street when, just as the blue urn drew level with the shop window, the carriage bearing the officer’s ashes drove into a mud hole. The mask and the Indian looked at the urn and then the mask said: ‘To hell.’”

  Just at that moment the locomotive gave a long, drawn-out whistle, and with a bow their host invited them to step into the cloakroom. Then he kicked the car’s door open and the mountain air came rushing to meet them, cold and clear. The sky was milky with stars and ahead of them ran the train, taking the bend like a long, glittering worm.

  “Jump, gentlemen,” said Joseph K., brandishing his weapon persuasively. “Jump and let us see whether Africa will cremate us or glorify us.”

  * * *

  Soon afterward the same four people were standing facing one another just as they had once stood on the railway platform. On the track a group of Africans waited in silence. Off in the distance the train—no more than a string of twinkling pinpoints and a faint rumble—headed, on collision course, into the heart of darkness.

  The general made an attempt to brush the dust from his uniform with a tuft of grass.

  “I assume you will allow me a minute or two, that I can be sure to die looking soigné,” he said.

  Joseph K. looked at him benignly. “You are not going to die, General,” he said. “You are a free man, free to set out on the return journey.” He pointed back along the track. “I am sure that once you have walked the two hundred kilometers back to His Majesty you will have discovered a new meaning in the phrase ‘to live on one’s knees.’”

  The writer stuck his gun into his jacket pocket, turned on his heel, and started walking toward the waiting Africans. He was limping and in a flash David saw that this man must indeed greet every prolongation of his life with surprise.

  A moment later the general faced about and, with a spring in his step, began to walk back along the track in the direction from which they had come.

  For the first time David and the girl were alone. They eyed each other warily for a while. Then the girl said: “In my own language my name means ‘war.’”

  David nodded. “Europeans,” he said, unaware that he spoke as though this were a class in which he no longer formed a subset, “Europeans are experts when it comes to waging war.”

  “In my tribe,” said the girl, “we say: The croaking of the little frogs will not stop the cattle from quenching their thirst.” Then she shook David’s hand briefly, turned, and walked back to the men who stood waiting for her.

  David did not watch her go. Instead he sat down and buried his head in his hands. Above him Libra crossed the zenith of the night sky and dropped toward the horizon. European justice descending over tropical Africa.

  HOMMAGE À BOURNONVILLE

  The height of artistry is to conceal mechanical action and effort behind harmonious serenity.

  —AUGUST ANTOINE BOURNONVILLE, My Life in the Theater

  IT WAS MARCH 19, 1929, the beginning of the twenty-sixth night of Ramadan, the night on which Allah sent the Koran from heaven to earth, and in Lisbon harbor, just down from the Alfama district, two young men had, in all respects, reached the end of the road.

  They were sitting on the deck of a small sailboat of a kind known south of the Horn of Africa as a meli, a craft that has no business in Lisbon, its sails being designed for another sort of wind and its hull for another type of swell. Moreover, this one leaked slightly and sagged at its moorings as though drunk on the saltwater it had taken in or as though sinking to the bottom in despair over the two who sailed it.