Kitabı oku: «The Land God Made in Anger», sayfa 2

PART ONE

1

Nowadays, beyond the cold horizon, the Atlantic is lit up like a fairy land at night with the fishing fleets from around the world raping the icy Benguela current; the Russians, the Japanese, Norwegians, Spanish, Portuguese, the South Africans, all with the most sophisticated gear, and factory ships for refrigeration. The South African boats bring their catch back to Walvis Bay, and the smell of fish hangs like a cloud. Yet it is said that you only cry twice in Walvis Bay: the day you arrive, and the day you leave. McQuade couldn’t understand it: the town was an eyesore, row upon row of squat, drab dwellings with corrugated iron roofs standing in dismal plots of desert sand, stretching back from the odiferous wharfs and the railway line. The shops are aggressively unattractive, and the sand blows down the streets and banks up in the gutters. Forty kilometres up the coast, beyond the enclave’s invisible borders, is the town of Swakopmund, with old Bavarian architecture, elaborate old public buildings and homes and nice hotels with gemütliche bars with flowering, shaded courtyards under the desert sun. Both sun-blistered towns were built at the same time, at the start of this century: the difference being (according to McQuade) that Swakopmund was built by real Germans with culture behind them, whereas Walvis Bay was built by Afrikaners who had been detribalized from Europe for three hundred years. Yet he was always happy when he saw the flat, drab port come up over the horizon and he felt an extraordinary affection for the place. Maybe that was because anybody would be happy coming back after four weeks on the heaving Atlantic, or maybe it was the steamy thighs of the Stormtrooper awaiting him – (‘When will you marry me, you englisches Schwein, you cad, you unspeakable bounder?) (‘Liebchen, I’m still married.’) (Liar …) Or maybe it was the magnificent desert. But it was more: there was a colonial youthfulness about this ancient land, a sense of optimism, a comradeship amongst its people, almost a conspiracy against the heavy hand of faraway Pretoria. He had been back two years and the company was still in debt, but although it was still the plan to sell up as soon as possible, go back to Australia and start that passenger line, till then he was glad he had come back to Africa. That is how McQuade was feeling that afternoon of the 20th April as his trawler, Bonanza, came churning through the oily harbour of Walvis Bay to off-load her refrigerated catch, and give the crew a few nights’ shore-leave. He tied the Bonanza up alongside the Kuiseb wharf, where he always sold his fish, and left Potgieter in charge while he went to the bank to draw some money for the Coloured crew.

McQuade and Tucker and the Kid and Elsie went uptown in the Kid’s new car. The Kid’s real name was Nigel Childe and he used to be a captain-gunner in the All England Whaling Company fifteen or more years ago. His father had been chairman of the board and the Kid had come into a lot of money, but he had spent most of it before McQuade persuaded him to invest in Sausmarine. The Kid could not afford this new car, but said that he could not afford to do without it either on account of he was now forty years old, a sombre anniversary for a hedonist, and he was madly in love with his wife, Beryl the Bitch, who was always threatening to leave him; while he was at sea, she prepared long memoranda of her grievances. Today the Kid was hurrying uptown to the dentist to have his new smile fitted, which he could also ill-afford, as a surprise for Beryl: last month the dentist had filed his upper teeth down to points and fitted temporary caps while his smart permanent ones were being made, and now he wished he’d kept his own old ones. Hugo Tucker was the ship’s engineer, the smallest ex-shareholder in Sausmarine, and he could play the mouth organ, music as mournful as his countenance. Tucker was always worried, often about the Bonanza’s engines, mostly about his own money, and always about his wife. He was a South African but married to Rosie, an Australian who used to earn her very own money as a dress-maker in Adelaide – and now where was she? – broke in fucking Walvis Bay! From heaven to hell in one airline ticket, and all because of McQuade, the Kid and Elsie and their hare-brained schemes. Elsie’s real name was L. C. Brooks, the ship’s cook and book-keeper, who had been with McQuade and the Kid on the whalers in the old days. Elsie did not have woman-trouble because he did not like women but now that he was over fifty he had given up the other way too. ‘There’s nothing more pathetic than an ageing queer,’ Elsie said, ‘I’ll just bite the bullet and grow old gracefully.’

They all got into the Kid’s new car. It was a Renault and he called it Rene because it was electronically programmed to speak to him. ‘Bonjour, Rene,’ the Kid said as he switched the ignition on.

Rene said: ‘Fasten your seat belts please.’

‘You heard him,’ Kid said, ‘fasten your bleedin’ seat belts before he calls the gendarmes.’

Rene said: ‘Oil pressure is satisfactory.’

‘Merci, Rene,’ Kid said.

‘Water pressure is satisfactory.’

‘Merci, Rene.’

‘All systems are satisfactory.’

‘Merci, Rene.’ He put the car into reverse.

‘Release your handbrake,’ Rene requested.

‘What happens if you actually drive off with your handbrake on?’ Tucker asked with morbid professional interest.

‘He screams Mon Dieu, mon Dieu! and heads straight for the AA.’

They drove out of the sandy compound, into Oceana Road. There were big oil tanks and acres of container-yards on the raw desert shore, and the sand lay across the tarmac road in thick streaks and ridges. They drove past the fishing compounds and the Kid said mournfully, ‘At least you’ll grow old gracefully with your own teeth to bite the bullet with, Elsie.’

‘But why did you do it?’ Elsie complained.

‘She wrote me this memorandum,’ the Kid said, ‘which went: “Nag-nag, nag-nag, and furthermore I wish you’d do something about your teeth.” And that got me right here.’ He tapped his heart. ‘She’d never complained about my teeth before.’

‘The only time she won’t complain is when you strike an oilwell in your backyard!’

‘Please,’ the Kid said. ‘Please, don’t talk about her like that.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ Elsie said firmly, ‘but why don’t you let her go if she’s always threatening to leave, instead of borrowing thousands of rand to have your perfectly good teeth filed down like a goddam Amazon headhunter. Honestly, what you boys do for women!’

‘We don’t want to grow old gracefully, Elsie,’ McQuade said. ‘We want to grow old shagged out.’

‘I’m serious,’ Elsie said seriously. ‘Look at you all! You’re all a mess! Kid should be a millionaire and all, but what is he? – an ageing playboy! And look at you, James, the Stormtrooper’s always throwing tantrums because she’s thirty-five and wants to get married so you can spend the rest of your life supporting her—’

‘In be-yoo-tiful condition for thirty-five,’ the Kid murmured.

‘And look what happened to you when you did get married: Vicky writes you a Dear John letter while you’re in prison—’

‘It wasn’t exactly a Dear John,’McQuade corrected mildly.

‘But the state you were in when you came to England, and the money you spent looking for her! You were all screwed up for years, but look at you now, forty years old and with all your brains, you should be at the top of the tree, but instead you’re a rolling stone who’s gathered no moss. Look at Tucker – every penny he earns he gives to Rosie but does he get any gratitude? Moan, moan, moan.’ He snorted. ‘And now Kid and his stupid new teeth!’

‘Please don’t say they’re stupid,’ the Kid whined. ‘It’s done now.’

‘Yes, Elsie,’ McQuade agreed.

Elsie suddenly looked worried. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. What I mean is I worry about you boys! Look, I’m not against women – I just wish you’d marry the right girls.’

‘You better be careful, Elsie!’ Tucker suddenly shouted. He looked close to tears.

Elsie groaned and sat back. ‘Oh dear.’ Then he put a hairy hand on Tucker’s shoulder. ‘Look, all I mean is, I do the accounts and I know every penny you earn. Remember … you guys are the only family I’ve got.’

The episode was terminated by their arrival at the municipal market. Elsie got out to do the revictualling for the ship. He leant in the window and shook the Kid’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry.’ He turned and lumbered off into the market. McQuade said:

‘He means well, Kid. And Beryl’s going to love ‘em.’

The Kid groaned. ‘Will you please, please, please for Christ’s sake quit talking about my stupid new teeth!’

They parted outside the dentist’s surgery. They wished the Kid luck but he did not even answer, just stomped off belligerently. McQuade and Tucker walked to the bank and cashed a company cheque for the Coloureds. Tucker returned to the ship to pay them, and McQuade walked to his house in Fifth Street.

He called his house Railway Yard View, which is a pretty bloody awful name for a house, but then, as McQuade said, Walvis Bay is a pretty bloody awful town. Half the houses in Fifth Street were empty, windows broken, paint peeling, abandoned. McQuade’s windows were intact and the Stormtrooper had made him some curtains (‘How you can live like this, Englisch!’), he had a coloured maid called Maria who came once a week to sweep up the dust that came in every crack when the Ostwind blew, and the second-hand furniture he had bought was not too bad. He had built the big double bed himself by knocking together stout planks, and had put in some nice lamps and indoor plants, but it was still a bloody bleak old Railways house, and the garden was desert sand, one cactus plant and a rubber bush alongside the garage and servants’ room, as depressing as all get-out but what the hell, what do you expect for thirty rand a month in Walvis Bay? He was here only temporarily, he would have a proper place in Australia, next year. He let himself in the front door and walked through to the room which he used as the company office. There was no mail except a bank statement which he did not care to open. There were no messages on his telephone answering-machine. He dialled the Stormtrooper’s cottage in Swakopmund. It rang and rang. He glanced at his watch. School was over and today she had no hockey practice. He went to the bathroom and ran water into the old enamel tub.

He proceeded to scrub himself up for the Stormtrooper. He washed his hair cheerfully to be beautiful for the Stormtrooper, then shaved and put on Eau de Cologne to smell nice for the Stormtrooper. Thinking about her magnificent thighs.

He still had the old Landrover he had bought two years ago in Cape Town. He drove over the railway bridge and the desert opened up, the barren coast on one side of the tarred road, yellow sand dunes towering up on the other, ridged and fluted by the wind. He was in a good mood. Twenty-five minutes later he crossed the bridge over the dry Swakop River, into the little German town that is so different to bleak Walvis Bay.

He turned down a wide sand street towards the sea and parked outside a house. He walked down to the cottage at the back, and entered the Stormtrooper’s sandy garden. All the windows were closed. He tried the front door. Locked. He knocked, and waited. Then he retraced his steps. It was after five o’clock, so she could not be shopping. He drove to the Europahof Hotel.

It is built in Alpine style, with beams inlaid into the walls. There was singing in German as he walked into the bar. There were a dozen men whom he knew by sight. As he entered, the singing abruptly died away. McQuade gave them a polite nod and went to the empty end. There was a moment’s hush, then conversation picked up, in German. The bartender came over. Maybe it was the way the singing had stopped but McQuade had the feeling the man’s smile was frosty. ‘Good afternoon, Klaus,’ he said. ‘A beer, please.’ He put the money on the bar. ‘Have you seen Helga this afternoon?’

‘Not this afternoon.’ Klaus took the money to the till.

McQuade was surprised. He felt distinctly unwanted. Yet he had often used this place, and the Germans had always been polite. He could only think that they knew something about Helga. They knew he dated her, but something had happened. He felt uncomfortable. He could feel them looking at his back. He thought, Well to hell with this. He lifted the glass and just then there was a shout:

‘Heil Hitler!’

McQuade turned, astonished. A fat man stood in the door, his right arm out, his feet together, a drunken solemnity on his flushed face. There was a silence, then several men admonished him in German. The fat man dropped his arm, glanced around drunkenly and then came in, grinning unsteadily.

McQuade turned back to his beer. Jesus Christ. He drank the rest of his beer down, down. He got up and turned for the door. ‘Auf Wiedersehen,’ he muttered.

He walked back to his Landrover, and sat behind the wheel, thinking about the atmosphere in that bar.

Never encountered it before, and he didn’t simply mean the man giving the salute. That was just a drunken fool. No, it had something to do with Helga. Had she found herself another boyfriend? He wouldn’t have credited it but he felt a stab of jealousy. Anyway, he was going to get to the bottom of this. He started the Landrover, and drove up the sand street, to Kukki’s Pub.

Which is another nice bar, in an old German building, patronized by the younger South Westers. English was the language most heard in here. It was half full. McQuade got a stool at the bar, nodding greetings. Kukki came over. ‘Beer, please, Kukki. Listen, have you seen Helga today?’

Kukki looked blank. ‘No.’ He reached under the counter for the beer.

‘No idea where she might be?’

Kukki looked puzzled. ‘No.’

‘Would you tell me if you knew?’

Kukki looked mystified. ‘Sure. Why?’

McQuade felt embarrassed saying it, but Kukki was his friend. He beckoned. Kukki leant closer. ‘If she’s found herself another boyfriend, I’d like to know.’

Kukki smiled patiently. ‘If she had, I’d know. And I know she thinks you’re the greatest thing since bratwurst and sauerkraut. Which shows there’s no accounting for taste.’ He moved off down the bar.

McQuade sipped his beer. All very well, but that wasn’t solving his problem of getting laid. Where was the Stormtrooper? She of the magnificent Teutonic thighs goldened by the desert sun, her magnificent sweaty arse in her scanty skirt as she bullied for the ball on the hockey pitch, she of the magnificent breasts which gave him such bliss when she wasn’t giving him a Teutonic hard time. (‘You think I just do this for dinners, huh?’) Well, he wanted to buy her the finest damn dinner, then take her back to that gemütliche cottage and make havoc with her well-nourished body. He went to the public telephone and dialled her again.

Still no reply. Well, he had better leave her a note telling her where he was, so he quaffed back his beer.

The cottage was still silent. He pinned the note to her door and walked back up the sandy lane. As he passed the window of the front house there was a tap on the glass. Annie, the neighbour, beckoned him. She opened the window.

‘Hi! Helga’s gone to her parents’ place for the night.’ Annie said.

McQuade’s heart sank. Helga’s parents lived on a ranch near Usakos, two hundred kilometres inland. ‘She’s spending the night there?’

‘She said she’d be back in the morning in time for school. She’ll be mad that she missed you.’

‘Not as mad as I am. May I use your phone?’

He went into the house, without optimism. He dialled exchange and asked to be put through to the radio tower. He asked the operator to try the call-sign of the Schmidt ranch’s two-way radio.

‘Sorry, no response,’ the man said.

‘Oh shit …’

And he made up his mind. No way was he going another night without a screw. He thanked Annie and drove back to Kukki’s Pub. He bought four cold beers, two bottles of wine and borrowed a glass. He drove out of town, onto the tarmac road for Usakos and the Schmidt ranch.

The sun was going down as he roared out into the desert, gleaming golden pink on the dunes and rocky outcrops, the big water pipeline stretching away into the darkening east. He snapped the cap off a beer, and it tasted like nectar.

2

He had finished the beers by the time he reached the farm gate shortly before Usakos. Here the desert was turning to thorn trees, scrubby low mountains. This was the start of the cattle country. McQuade closed the gate behind him and set off on the long dirt road through the Schmidt land. It was nine o’clock when he rounded the hill and saw the Schmidt homestead twinkling ahead.

He was taken aback by the number of cars. It appeared that a big party was in progress. There was a black guard with a flashlight at the gate. McQuade wondered if he was doing the right thing, showing up uninvited. The black man recognized him. ‘Goeie naand, Baas Jim.’ He pointed his flashlight, indicating parking space. McQuade parked near the back of the house, and when he switched off the engine he heard orchestra music.

He felt very doubtful about this. This was a large formal party and he didn’t even have a tie. But, hell, he’d just come back from sea and the old people always made him welcome. (‘You come to marry my dodder, aha-ha-ha!’). He mounted the steps to the verandah and walked towards the front door. As he passed the living-room window he stopped, and stared.

The big room had been cleared of furniture and two dozen couples were waltzing. From one wall hung a massive flag, red, white and black with a huge swastika in the middle of it. On another wall hung another flag, almost identical, but the swastika was three-legged: the flag of the AWB, the Afrikaner Weerstand Beweging, the right-wing Afrikaner movement. The women wore ball gowns; half the men were in military uniforms. Some wore black, some grey, with shiny black boots, and each was wearing a swastika armband. Some younger men were in smart khaki uniforms, wearing the AWB swastika armband. McQuade stood on the dark verandah an astonished moment, then suddenly a voice boomed behind him, ‘Willkommen!’ He turned around. Helga’s father was lumbering down the long verandah towards him.

He was a big man, with a barrel chest and a balding head with a round face wreathed in beery smiles, his big arms extended. On his arm was the swastika. McQuade took an uncertain step towards him, and the old man stopped. He stared at McQuade in surprise; then he dropped his arms. ‘What are you doing here?’

McQuade said: ‘Excuse me.’ He made to turn and leave.

The old man cried: ‘Who invited you?’

McQuade stopped. ‘Nobody. I’m sorry, I’ve just got back from sea.’

‘Not even my stupid dodder would invite you today!’

‘She didn’t.’

‘So can’t you see today is a private party?! So what we going to do now?’

‘Forget it, I’m leaving.’

McQuade strode across the verandah. The old man suddenly lumbered after him. ‘Jim – Jim, I’m sorry …’

‘Goodnight, Herr Schmidt.’

‘Jim …’ the old man pleaded, then he bellowed: ‘Helga!’

McQuade was on the lawn when Helga burst onto the verandah. She stared at McQuade disappearing into the darkness, then she clutched up her evening gown and ran down the steps. ‘Jim!’

McQuade was halfway across the lawn when she caught up. ‘Jim!’ She grabbed his arm. Her blue eyes were aghast. ‘What are you doing here?’

McQuade looked back at the house. Half a dozen figures had emerged onto the verandah. ‘What are you doing in there? Dancing under the Nazi flag. With gentlemen wearing uniforms and swastika armbands! And wearing this!’ He pointed at a black velvet choker around her neck, from which dangled a little gold swastika.

‘Didn’t the guard stop you at the gate?’

‘Yes but he thought I was a Nazi too.’ He frowned with amazement. ‘Do you do this often?’

She glared. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Don’t you know what the date is? The twentieth of April!’

‘So?’

She glared at him. ‘Oh, don’t be dense! Whose birthday is on the twentieth of April?’ She waved a hand at the homestead. ‘This is just … a little traditional celebration. The English do the same thing on the Queen’s birthday.’

‘Whose birthday is the twentieth of April?’

She glared at him sullenly. ‘Adolf Hitler’s, you fool!’

McQuade stared at her. Absolutely amazed. He couldn’t believe this. But suddenly he understood what had happened in the bar of the Europahof Hotel, and he was staggered that she was part of this. ‘Jesus Christ.’

She opened her mouth but he went on in wonder: ‘So every year you celebrate the Führer’s birthday? With great big swastika flags and SS uniforms and Nazi armbands? And this …?’ He flicked the little golden swastika.

She hissed. ‘That is just jewellery – the swastika is an ancient international symbol of good!’

‘The Nazi Party was good?’

‘You drink a toast to the Queen on her birthday …?’

He wanted to shake her. ‘The Queen of England happens to have an unblemished political record! You are celebrating the birthday of the most brutal mass-murderer the world has ever known! The man who ordered the Holocaust of six million Jews!’

Her hand flashed in the moonlight and cracked across his face. He stared at her, shocked, his face stinging, and she screamed: ‘That’s the hoax of the twentieth century! There was no Holocaust!’ Her breasts were heaving.

McQuade took a deep breath to control his fury. ‘Goodbye, Helga.’ He added sarcastically: ‘Heil Hitler.’ He turned and strode away.

Helga stood on the lawn, her eyes bright; then she shrieked; ‘Yes, Heil Hitler!’ She stamped her feet together and shot out her right arm and screamed: ‘Heil Hitler!’

A man leapt over the verandah rail and started running towards the Landrover. McQuade got in, slammed the door, and started the engine. He roared off down the gravel drive.