The Eye of the Leopard Read Online Free PDF Page A

sandwiches. The mumbled voice repeats his order and says it will be brought to his room at once.
    After an almost two-hour wait, a waiter appears at his door with a tray. During these two hours he was incapable of doing anything but waiting – with a crushing sense of being someonewho does not exist, not even to the person who takes the Room Service orders.
    Hans Olofson sees that the waiter has a pair of shoes that are almost falling apart. One heel is missing, and the sole of the other is gaping like a fish gill. Unsure how much to tip, he gives far too much, and the waiter gives him a quizzical look before vanishing silently from the room.
    After the meal he takes a nap, and when he awakes it is already evening. He opens the window and looks out into the darkness, surprised that the heat is just as intense as it was that morning, although the white sun is no longer visible.
    A few street lamps cast a faint light. Black shadows flit past, a laugh comes from an invisible throat in a car park just below his window.
    He looks at the clothes in his suitcase, uncertain what would be proper for the dining room of an African hotel. Without actually choosing, he gets dressed and then hides half of his money in a hole in the cement behind the toilet bowl.
    In the bar he sees to his surprise that almost all the guests are white, surrounded by black waiters, all wearing bad shoes. He sits down at a solitary table, sinks down into a chair that reminds him of the seat in the taxi, and is at once surrounded by dark waiters waiting for his order.
    ‘Gin and tonic,’ he says politely.
    One of the waiters replies in a worried voice that there isn’t any tonic.
    ‘Is there anything else you can mix it with?’ asks Olofson.
    ‘We have orange juice,’ says the waiter.
    ‘That will be fine,’ says Olofson.
    ‘Unfortunately there is no gin,’ says the waiter.
    Olofson can feel himself starting to sweat. ‘What do you have then?’ he asks patiently.
    ‘They don’t have anything,’ a voice replies from a nearby table, and Olofson turns to see a bloated man with a red face, dressed in a worn khaki suit.
    ‘The beer ran out a week ago,’ the man continues. ‘Today there is cognac and sherry. For a couple of hours yet. Then that’ll be gone too. Rumour has it that there may be whisky tomorrow. Who knows?’
    The man finishes his speech by giving the waiter a dirty look and then leaning back in his chair.
    Olofson orders cognac. He has the feeling that Africa is a place where everything is just about to run out.
    By his third glass of cognac an African woman suddenly sits down in the chair next to him and gives him an inviting smile.
    ‘Company?’ she asks.
    He is flattered, although he realises that the woman is a prostitute. But she arrived too early, he thinks. I’m not ready yet. He shakes his head.
    ‘No thanks. Not tonight.’
    Unfazed and still smiling, she gazes at him.
    ‘Tomorrow?’
    ‘Perhaps,’ he says. ‘But I may be leaving tomorrow.’
    The woman gets up and disappears in the darkness by the bar.
    ‘Whores,’ says the man at the next table, who seems to be watching over Olofson like a guardian angel. ‘They’re cheap here. But they’re better at the other hotels.’
    ‘I see,’ replies Olofson politely.
    ‘Here they’re either too old or too young,’ the man goes on. ‘There was a better arrangement before.’
    Olofson never finds out what the prior arrangement consisted of, since the man again breaks off the conversation, leans back in his chair, and closes his eyes.
    In the restaurant he is surrounded by new waiters, and he sees that they too all have worn-out shoes. One waiter who sets a carafe of water on his table has no shoes at all, and Olofson stares at his bare feet.
    After much hesitation he orders beef. Just as the food is set on the table he feels an attack of severe diarrhoea coming on. One of the waiters notices that he has put down his fork.
    ‘It doesn’t taste good?’ he asks