The Land God Made in Anger. John Davis Gordon
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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.
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