The Land God Made in Anger. John Davis Gordon
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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?