"What are you doing?” I asked.
"That is an old ancestral burial site."
"Nonsense, Heiseb, I watched you pile up those rocks myself."
Instead of replying, he asked, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper, “Why did you kill your wife?"
At first I thought I hadn't heard right, but then I understood. The flickering light of the campfire was reflected in Heiseb's eyes. It was as if they were spraying sparks, and Heiseb wasn't a man anymore, but a spirit or devil that had come from another world, just for me. That was when I knew my life was in danger. It took a moment before I came to my senses, and then I jumped up and shouted that I didn't have to listen to lies like that. I ran to the Land Cruiser, got in, and turned the key, but it didn't start. I revved again and again. Nothing.
"Sounds like the tank is empty,” called Heiseb. He hadn't moved from his place by the fire. I opened the twenty-liter canister that I'd filled in Swakopmund myself. Empty. Not a drop! I panicked and nearly bolted into the night. Then I decided that Heiseb was waiting for me to do just that. I would wander for hours through the desert without being able to shake him off. At some point, his shadow would tower over me. Or behind me. I reached for the hunting knife and sat down again at the fire.
"Why did you murder your wife?” asked Heiseb, with a tone that suggested nothing had happened. As if he asked everyone that question, just to pass the time of day.
"I didn't murder my wife,” I said.
"Then why is her spirit after you?"
Her spirit? It's true, since last night memories have been haunting me again. In my mind, I can't get rid of the images of that awful day. The lamp on the nightstand had been on. The lampshade had thrown its usual shadows on the wall. The curtains were open, and the snowflakes drifted so weightlessly outside that I couldn't tell whether they were falling or rising.
I was sweating. It had to be the glowing fire, or the heat radiating from the rock wall. I forced myself to calm down, wanted to tell Heiseb that Christine had killed herself. That she had taken sleeping pills and then slit her wrists. That she had been depressed. That people with depression often try to commit suicide at Christmas, of all times, because...
* * * *
Heiseb had disappeared. I hadn't even noticed that he'd stood up. His beer can was still there, but the rock he'd been sitting on was empty.
"Heiseb?” I called out into the night. The silhouette of the Bloedkoppie loomed up darkly against the sea of stars. Below it was impenetrable blackness that swallowed every contour. The crickets sang from the bushes, but no rustling or fluttering penetrated their ancient song. The spirits come and go noiselessly. I didn't crawl into the tent. I just pulled back against the cliff wall, holding the knife. I didn't close my eyes all night.
* * * *
December 26, morning
I haven't had a drop to drink in twenty-four hours. Heiseb has hidden the water canisters somewhere. He keeps turning up and disappearing, just like that. One moment I see him moving through the desert, far away, like a Fata Morgana, and the next moment he's sitting high above me on the cliff, humming “Silent Night.” Maybe I keep falling asleep, even though I draw the blade of the knife across my hand every time I feel my eyes starting to close.
The shade from the cliff is melting like snow in the desert. The sun's already burning my legs. The lizards have started to come so close to me that I can almost touch them. I think they're on my side, but I can't be sure. Heiseb's pile of rocks seems to have grown bigger overnight. I can hear voices whispering all around me, closer and closer, but I can't understand their language. I create new words and say them out loud to keep myself awake: “desertwinter, knife-snow, sunflake."
I should have left as soon as I noticed that Heiseb had disabled the Land Cruiser. I should have taken my chances, walked through the night. As soon as the Southern Cross was visible, I could have oriented myself and headed for Main Road C28. Every now and then a car comes down that way. Someone would have picked me up. I would have gotten away.
"Why didn't you save your wife?” Heiseb asked earlier, circling around me like a starving hyena. If I didn't have the knife, he'd have torn me to pieces a long time ago.
"She was already dead,” I moaned. “My car had broken down and I got home three hours late. It was Christmas Eve. I couldn't get a tow truck anywhere."
I'd walked through the night. Through the cold. Through the softly driven snow. Through an untouched white desert. The snow lay on the meadows like a shroud. I'm shivering. My mouth is terribly dry. I don't know whether the heat or the cold is killing me. How long does it take to die this way?
"And if you'd come home on time?” asks Heiseb's voice from somewhere. “If she'd still been alive and..."
Heiseb's words become a dull roar. The cliffs of the Bloedkoppie give a glowing answer. Or is that the pounding in my head? I'm growing weaker and weaker. I can't wait much longer. I still have the knife. Now or never. Heiseb or me.
* * * *
The last entry ended with these words. The handwriting had become shaky. Hohner shut the little black book and said, “That looks a lot like murder to me."
"That cannot be ruled out,” said the police officer.
"Have you found this Heiseb?"
The officer shook his head.
"But you've put out a bulletin, you're looking for him?"
It had grown quiet next-door. The soft rattle of the ceiling fan was now the only noise. The policeman said, “We have found no sign that anyone besides your brother-in-law was at Bloedkoppie."
"You should have his journal translated properly,” said Hohner. “He writes about a tall, strong man who claimed he was a Damara and—"
"...and who reads minds, conjures up trout, turns up like a spirit, and disappears again."
"What are you trying to say?” asked Hohner.
"We found bones from lamb chops, but no fish bones. The tank of the Land Cruiser contained precisely forty-five liters of gas. The jerry can was full. The car started without any trouble the first time we turned over the engine. The water canisters were standing right next to the body of your brother-in-law at the base of the rock wall. His journal was lying right in front of it, weighted down with a rock so the wind couldn't blow it open or carry it away."
Hohner stared at the black cover of the notebook. The sticker on the cover said “Counter book, 96 pages” and the fine print claimed that it had been bound with extra thread to withstand heavy use.
"This Heiseb must have seen your brother-in-law writing,” said the police officer. “He must have known he'd be mentioned in that notebook. Valuable evidence. So why didn't he take it?"
Hohner shrugged his shoulders.
The policeman went on, “Your brother-in-law bled to death. His wrists were slit. Both arms. With his own knife."
"Suicide? But you said yourself that you..."
"...cannot rule out murder, that's right. Or at least something that comes very close.” The officer opened the journal at the last page that bore any writing and pointed with his index finger to a sentence near the end of the entry. “What if your brother-in-law had come home on time? He finds his wife alive and reaches for the telephone to call an ambulance. And while he's dialing the number, he thinks that everything would have been over, he would have been free to emigrate to Africa if only he'd come home an hour or two later. If, for example, the car had broken down and he'd been delayed. And then he puts down the receiver and gets into his car and..."
"That's impossible!” protested Hohner. “The German police already looked into that. There wasn't even enough to file charges."
"It's not easy for a man to kill himself,” said the police officer, “even when his conscience has tormented him for two years. A part of him clings to life. It resists, justifies its actions, represses memories, runs away to the desert, but even there it can't get away from the other part that remembers everything, that pricks him and prods at him constantly and never stops demanding at
onement."
The air was completely still now, not even a breath moved, even though the fan continued to turn. Fast enough that Hohner couldn't say for sure how many blades it had. Three? Four?
The policeman went on, “I have no idea why white people always think that guilt wears a black face. But I can imagine how someone came to call that black man Heiseb. Heiseb was a demigod of the Nama and Damara. Death had no power over him. Every time he died and was buried under a heap of stones, he got up and went on singing his mysterious songs from the bushes. He was someone you couldn't get rid of, any more than you could get rid of your own conscience. But I don't believe in demigods. I think this Heiseb only existed in your brother-in-law's mind. It was the part of him that acknowledged his guilt in the death of his wife and wanted to make a clean sweep of it. So it's no wonder he knew what there was to eat at Christmas, or why your brother-in-law fled to the Bloedkoppie, and what really happened in Germany two years ago."
A soft flurry of snow on Christmas Eve. Hohner remembered that everything had still been white at the funeral. The open grave had looked like a deep, fresh wound in the blanket of snow.
"He just let my sister die?” Hohner shook his head.
The police officer was silent. The fan hummed softly. Hohner stood up. The policeman said, “I'm sorry."
"I'm going back to Windhoek today,” said Hohner, “and I'm catching the next flight back to Germany."
He left the police station. Outside, a fresh wind was blowing up from the southwest; it made the heat more bearable. Hohner crossed the street and walked down to the water. He passed the beach on his right, full of people, passed the Ocean Basket restaurant, waved away a street vendor selling carved wooden animals, and strolled all the way to the viewpoint at the head of the breakwater. For about half an hour he stood watching the seals on the square blocks of stone, and then a tall man walked up and came to a stop next to him, an Ovambo maybe, or a Herero.
"My name is Heiseb,” said the man.
"Heiseb what?"
"Just Heiseb."
Hohner had no idea whether the name even existed. He nodded briefly. Then he reached into his pocket, removed the envelope containing the five thousand euros, and handed it to the man.
Copyright © 2009 by Bernhard Jaumann; translation Copyright © 2009 by Mary Tannert
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Reviews: BLOG BYTES by Bill Crider
If you're interested in reviews of short fiction, there are several places you can find them on the ‘Net. I've previously mentioned Nasty, Brutish, and Short (nastybrutishshort.blogspot.com) and Eastern Standard Crime (easternstandardcrime.blogspot.com). A new place to check is “Short Thoughts on Short Fiction,” located at www.bookspotcentral.com. Brian Lindenmuth is the reviewer, and his column is “devoted to ... (mostly) online short mystery/crime fiction. The goal is to read one short story a day then write about them briefly at the end of the week.” It's not easy to find the column, or at least I had a little trouble. You have to go to the site and then scroll down until you find “Columns.” Lindenmuth's is listed there, and if you click on it, you'll arrive at the latest reviews.
While we're talking about reviews, we might as well move on to those of longer works. Mystery Reader Discussion (misterreereeder.blog-spot.com) is a good place to look, since its stated purpose is “To discuss mystery writers, mystery books, and characters in mysteries.” You'll find more than reviews there, however. It's a place where writers show up when they're on “blog tours,” which means that instead of going on the road, the writers do a virtual tour, stopping off to write posts on various blogs. Recent visitors to Mystery Reader Discussion have included Kristin Callender and Don Bruns.
What's that you say? You don't want reviews but rather a more general discussion of crime fiction? Then head on over to Jungle Red (www.jungleredwriters.com), where “writing well is the best revenge.” This is a lively group blog hosted by Rosemary Harris, Hallie Ephron, Hank Phillipi Ryan, Rhys Bowen, Jan Brogan, and Roberta Isleib. You can find convention reports (with photos), author interviews, and commentary on all kinds of things (book clubs, BSP without fear, and so on).
And let's close this month's ramblings out with a look at Jiro Kimura's Gumshoe Site (www.nsknet.or.jp/~jkimura), which has been around since 1996. That's ancient by Internet standards, I suppose, but it's still a place to check often for news of the mystery world. Brief obituaries, lists of award nominees, publishing news, and even a few links are all there. The site's not updated as often as it once was, but it's current every time I check it out. You should make it one of your regular Internet stops, too.
Copyright © 2009 by Bill Crider
For Bill Crider's own blog, Bill Crider's Pop Culture Magazine, go to billcrider.blogspot.com.
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Fiction: DEATH WILL TIE YOUR KANGAROO DOWN by Elizabeth Zelvin
A newcomer to the mystery scene, Elizabeth Zelvin is fast earning recognition. Her short story “Death Will Clean Your Closet,” from Murder New York Style, was nomin-ated for a 2007 Agatha Award. In 2008, Library Journal praised her first novel, Death Will Get You Sober, for “smooth prose and outstanding storytelling ability.” A New Yorker, and a psychotherapist, Ms. Zelvin is debuting here for EQMM. Not to miss this fall: her novel Death Will Help You Leave Him (St. Martin's).
When I got sober, I thought I'd had it with drunken strangers. But the Australian asked if he could share my table in a crowded Starbucks and sat down before I could chug the rest of my triple espresso Venti latte and get out.
"G'die, mite,” he prefaced his request. I half expected him to pull a crocodile out of his pocket and start to wrestle it. Instead, he informed me he'd just flown in from Oz and New York was not bad.
"Did you click the heels of your ruby slippers together?” I felt sour. It was midmorning and I needed a full tank of high-test to turn human.
He scratched his head and then said, “Oh. Right. I flew Qantas.” He stuck his right hand out across the table. “Rufe."
"Bruce."
As we shook, he offered to buy me a refill. I never say no to coffee. He threaded his way through the clots of baby strollers and the next-Pulitzers scowling at their laptops. The back of his jacket said “Brumbies.” A nascent bald spot betrayed the promise of the shock of reddish hair that overhung his forehead like a sandstone cliff. Halfway to the counter, he turned and said, “I'm skint. Can you sling us some cash?” I'd done variants of the same enough times in my drinking days that I should have recognized the technique. Instead, I fished in my pocket and handed him a twenty. Nobody to blame but myself.
I chewed on a toothpick until he got back with our coffees. He'd treated himself to a fancy scone along with his latte. No change. He dropped into his chair, kicking his faded backpack aside with a big, booted foot. Then he grabbed it by one strap and swung it toward him. From a tight outside pocket of the bulging pack, he pried out a battered metal flask. Unscrewing the cap, he sloshed some in his tall cup. He held out the flask.
"Want a splash?"
I shook my head. He didn't need to know about my divorce from booze. The flask explained how come a guy with ethanol seeping out of his pores didn't mind sitting in a Starbucks. He'd bellied up to bars not unlike mine. Except where he came from, everything hung upside down, not just the twinkling bottles. Or so I pictured it.
"Local talent's not bad, eh, mite?” He looked around. “Check out the knockers on that blonde."
I sighed. How do you explain Politically Incorrect to a boy from Oz?
"Got to take the old kangaroo out for an airing once in a while.” He gave me a lubricious wink.
He tilted his chair onto its back two legs, looked at the ceiling, and started whistling through his teeth. The lyrics came back to me a moment before he started singing in an off-key undervoice: “Tie me kangaroo down, sport."
I didn't think the songwriter had meant what Oz-Boy meant. But I got the idea.
I can't quite explain
how this encounter ended up with Rufe sleeping on my couch for the next few weeks. I wondered as I handed over my spare blanket and the good sheets I usually kept for female company. And my extra key. And various garments I'd planned to wear myself. He borrowed with great charm.
Speaking of female company, Rufe's charm worked fine on women. Or else they agreed to come home with him because they couldn't understand a word he said. My home. My couch. My interrupted sleep. Their noise. When I protested, he said, “Right,” and went on bringing them home.
My friend Barbara, who's a counselor, diagnosed sexual compulsive disorder. She suggested I take him to SCA, a twelve-step program for guys who couldn't keep their kangaroo tied down. But that wasn't going to happen.
"I can't help it if they like me old kangaroo,” he said.
I couldn't get him to AA either, though I tried. I succeeded in getting his beer out of my refrigerator, where it looked dangerously at home. But that was the only rule he ever obeyed. I kept finding wisps of Victoria's Secret underwear in the bathroom and waking up in the middle of the night to groans and thumps from the sofa. It got so I wished he'd just go hit the bars and come home sloppy drunk. Vomit on the rug and piss on the shoes in the closet I could have dealt with.
"Just ask him to leave,” Barbara said. “Set a boundary."
"I've tried,” I said. “I've told him there are cheap hotels, or he could try the Y. He goes, ‘Right,’ and reminds me that he's skint, mite. I can't throw him out on the street."
So I was stuck with him—until the day I came home and found him dead.
Rufe had been stabbed with one of my kitchen knives. He lay sprawled half off the sofa. He'd leaked blood on the couch, the rug, and his backpack, and more blood decorated the wall in spatter patterns that seemed to interest the cops. So did my story of how come the guy was living on my couch. Luckily, I could prove I'd been at work all day. I hated having my apartment turned into a crime scene. But when it came to sorting through his backpack—he didn't have much else—and sniffing women's underwear, better the cops than me.
EQMM, August 2009 Page 13
