At the Edge of the Desert

by Basil Lawrence

  By the time the larder door scraped open, signalling Rupertine’s arrival, I’d burnt my final edit onto a disc. She very kindly made me an omelette from her baking eggs because I’d run out of groceries, and she delivered the plate to me as I double-checked my budgeting spreadsheet. I climbed into bed and slept all day and night, undisturbed by yowling dogs or children on bicycles, because the wedding was complete.

  The comforting smell of fresh marmalade loaves woke me in the morning.

  ‘There’s no food in this house,’ Rupertine said when I found her in the kitchen.

  ‘I’ll shop today,’ I said, and thanked her for yesterday’s omelette. She nodded while she glazed the top of each steaming loaf with homemade conserve. On returning the lid to its jar, she fried me two eggs without asking if I was hungry.

  Dressed in a jacket and tie, I drove down to Chesley’s office that lay halfway between my home and Shark Island. Although I hadn’t booked an appointment, he saw me without any fuss.

  Two filing cabinets replaced the dental apparatus. A calendar on Chesley’s desk – a paper tepee – reminded me today was Friday.

  ‘I have a call in twenty-seven minutes,’ he said, consulting his laptop, before using most of the time to tell me about his honeymoon at a private lodge near the Fish River Canyon where prices were in US dollars. He invited me around to his side of the desk to check that the wedding played on his machine, and promised to show it to Zenaid that evening.

  In an attempt to impress Chesley, I’d printed out my notes from our previous meeting, along with Zenaid’s emails containing additional requests and ideas, most of which I’d incorporated into the film. I gave him this paperwork before returning to my chair.

  ‘If there’s anything else Zenaid wants changed,’ I said, ‘please tell her to contact me and I’ll be happy to get it done.’

  ‘I’m sure this is fine,’ he said, patting my folder, ‘but you know what women are like.’ He kept glancing at his computer screen, so I assumed that it must be time for his call. But he said, ‘You knew a lot of people at the wedding.’

  ‘Actually, I think it’s more a case of them knowing me. I only recognised a few faces. But my aunt taught me good manners.’

  ‘Ja, I heard about your aunt. You definitely knew more people than I did. My mother drew up the guest list.’

  ‘She’s quite a lady, your mother.’

  We mined this vein, neither of us mentioning the kid on the bike, nor our complicated family relationship, until I asked how soon he’d be able to pay me.

  ‘Ja, of course,’ he said, leaning to search through his desk drawers. ‘Let’s do that right now.’

  ‘It’s just that it’s the end of the month soon …’

  ‘Ja, no, natuurlik.’ He confirmed what he owed me before making his cheque out to Interloper Films, my production company. He promised to recommend me to a local Chinese businessman – a client of his – with a new fiancée. ‘And, of course, the same goes for anyone else I hear about,’ he said as he gave me my money. ‘We’ll keep you nice and busy.’

  ‘Thank you. There was something else I wanted to speak to you about.’

  ‘Ja?’

  ‘I’m interested in more corporate work. You told me about your interviews ….’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘I thought I’d ask, because I’m really keen to get back into the business.’ Remembering his wife’s curiosity about my television experience, I added, ‘I should put my time with Reuters and Associated Press to better use.’

  ‘It’s just a few interviews, Henry. Nothing fancy. I can tell you right now it’s not arty. Someone just needs to read out a list of questions from a piece of paper and film the answers. But if I’m not mistaken, I think one of my Cape Town partners has found someone. You don’t need this hassle: enjoy your quiet life in Lüderitz.’

  ‘I don’t have much choice.’

  He responded with concern: ‘Something else will crop up in the future.’

  I sat forward to demonstrate how eager I was for any work he might offer. ‘Interviewing people is what I do, Chesley. It’s what I’m good at. The difference is that I usually ask my own questions, but I can ask anything you need me to. I love hearing people’s stories. I love giving them a voice.’

  ‘Ja, but it’s nothing like that. It’s a big, boring case. And, like I say, my partners have probably found someone. Between you and me, this project won’t last long. And it involves lots and lots of driving around the country. We just need a record.’

  ‘Evidence?’

  ‘Sort of. Basically it’s supporting material for our claim. Not evidence, per se, but something we can use.’

  ‘And the lawsuit?’

  ‘You don’t give up easily, do you?’

  ‘I want you to know that if this other filmmaker can’t do the work, you can rely on me.’

  His desk phone rang and he yelled at his assistant to tell his colleagues he’d be five minutes late.

  ‘Some time ago the University of Cape Town’s law clinic reached out to my firm,’ he said, his phone going silent, ‘and we’re partnering with them in a class action. We’re suing a big legal entity for reparations. But for our claim to work, we need credible testimonies to help the public and the media understand what’s at stake for our clients. And I’m the man in Namibia because my mother’s from here. It’s the reason I came to Lüderitz. I’m not just here to set up a practice. Even if every scrap of this town’s work comes through my doors there won’t be enough to pay my salary. But this way everything appears to be “business as usual” while we build our case. If the other side gets wind of the interviews, it’ll complicate our negotiations.’

  ‘And that’s why I’m perfect for this job, Chesley. If your partners fly someone in from Cape Town, everyone here will want to know why this person’s poking their camera into Namibian business.’

  His screen distracted him.

  ‘I really need this work,’ I said after he’d finished typing on his keyboard.

  His phone rang again and he shouted that he’d join the conference in a few minutes.

  ‘It’s your mother,’ his assistant responded.

  He lifted the handset to his ear. ‘Hello, Mommy?’ he said. ‘Ja, I got the details. You need three Blue Hill dinner plates and a dozen bread and butter plates. Yes, Noritake. I wrote everything down. Ja, in my hand luggage.’ With his palm covering the mouthpiece, he said, ‘Sorry, I have to do this.’

  As I collected my impahla from his desk, I said, ‘Who’s the other party? Who’re you suing?’

  ‘The German government.’

  I joined the lunchtime queue in the bank. My meeting with Chesley had lasted longer than I’d expected, and I felt a bit light-headed. Somewhat winded and disorientated. Although his money would help me catch up with my outstanding bills and pay off my South African debt, it nevertheless left me treading water.

  When it was my turn at the counter, I explained to the teller that I was depositing my salary and that the money needed to be available immediately.

  She glanced at my cheque. ‘I’m sorry, we can’t do that,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This will take a few days to clear.’

  ‘Even a salary?’

  ‘Listen, I’m just telling you how our system works. This money comes from a South African bank.’

  ‘Not if you put it through as a salary.’

  The bank worker shook her head but nevertheless input my details on her computer. She handed me the stamped receipt.

  I swam ten semi-decent lengths before visiting the supermarket. It had been a while since I’d shopped without keeping a running total of my basket.

  As the cashier scanned my purchases at the checkout, I rubbed some of the imported Swedish lotion on my hands. He shook his head no after unsuccessfully running my card through his machine. He rubbed the magnetic strip on his sleeve before giving it another go. This time he announced, ‘Not authorised,’ so t
hat the people near us could hear.

  I slipped the card into my wallet.

  The other shoppers were looking to see what the fuss was about, and one even began digging into her soft leather purse as if about to offer a few coins to solve my problem. I apologised to the man behind the till and said I’d be back.

  ‘It’s the bank’s fault,’ I explained. ‘I’ve got the money in my account, but they made a mistake.’

  He voided the transaction. His colleague began loading my items – the tin of imported coffee, the cherry preserve, the bottle of South African red, two dozen eggs for Rupertine, some vegetables and tinned fruit – into an empty basket. I used my last banknote to pay for the hand cream and a Bar One to go with it.

  I made the bank manager get Windhoek on the line to sort out their mess. But the man at head office kept telling me to calm down as he repeated that he couldn’t override the weekend batch.

  ‘I don’t know who told you otherwise,’ the voice on the phone said, ‘but your money will only reach your account by the middle of next week. It comes from South Africa.’ There was nothing that anyone, least of all him, could do about it.

  ‘Let me talk to your manager.’

  ‘I’m the manager. Now while I have you on the line, Mr van Wyk, I’d like to ask about your loan repayments. The system says you’re in arrears.’

  ‘Really? Your bank can’t handle a salary cheque, but you’ve got the time to give me the third degree about my loan?’

  ‘Mr van Wyk.’

  ‘You understand my frustration? If you’d cleared this money in the first place we wouldn’t be having this discussion.’

  ‘Ja, well, I just wanted to make sure you were aware—’

  ‘Well, there we are. Now I’m aware, and you’re aware. But neither of us gets what we want. Goodbye.’

  So frustrated that I could barely think, I sat in my bakkie without bothering to open the windows. I shoved bits of chocolate into my mouth, which didn’t make me feel any better. The tube of Scandinavian lotion on the passenger seat wasn’t helping to lift my mood, so I chucked it in the cubbyhole. The one thing I knew for certain was that I wouldn’t – couldn’t – ask my sister for money.

  After a few sweaty, stuffy, hungry minutes, I opened my window. And like an addict unable to help himself, I selected my sister’s number on my phone and listened to its distant ringing with my eyes closed.

  ‘Henry?’ she said. ‘Give me a sec.’ She continued another conversation, and hearing this made me want to hang up. Calling her wasn’t a good idea. She’d gladly lend me money for Rupertine’s eggs and for food to tide me over the weekend, but knowing this only made it more difficult for me to beg.

  ‘Hi,’ she said when she returned, ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Hi. I’m, uh … I’m sorry. Just give me a moment. I’ll call right back.’

  ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘Ja, I’ll call you.’

  ‘OK …’

  If I left now, I’d reach home in time to ask Rupertine if she could lend me some cash for the weekend. Or better yet, I’d wait until she’d left for the day, and I’d use the pantry’s spare key to help myself to a few of her supplies without bothering her. And then I’d make good her stash next week.

  My phone rang and I swore.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ my sister said.

  ‘Fine. I’ve just given Chesley his wedding film.’

  ‘Did he like it? I’m sure he loves it.’

  ‘Ja, hopefully. Are you home?’

  She snorted. ‘No, I’m at the office. Pop in for some tea.’

  ‘No, I’m fine. Can I see you tonight?’

  ‘Come for dinner. I’ve invited Will and Amanda.’

  ‘Oh, ja. Of course.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing, I’m fine. Just tired.’

  She told me she’d been speaking to Jago on the other line when I called, but I couldn’t concentrate on what she was saying. Without meaning to, I interrupted: ‘You’re seeing the Brits later?’

  ‘Ja. Join us.’

  ‘Do you think Will’s at his place right now?’

  ‘Harmony? He’s there. I’ll send you his number.’

  ‘I was thinking that maybe I could visit him this afternoon. He asked me to help with a script.’

  ‘He’d love to show you around. Remember the old police tower that burnt down?’

  ‘He’s out there?’ I said. Christ Almighty.

  —————

  I’d never had a reason to return to the squat circular building on the road to the lighthouse. The last time I visited it must have been when I was in school and meant to be swotting for my finals. It had been my first brush with celebrity, at least among newspaper readers.

  Early one morning distant sirens got me out of bed, succeeding where my alarm clock had failed, and I stumbled onto the veranda to see a muddy river of smoke flowing up into the sky from the other side of the Diamantberg. The stink of burning plastic hung in the air. Still half asleep, I grabbed my small 35-millimetre camera and my aunt’s car keys to investigate.

  The two-storey building lay a few kilometres out of town on the flat land where crystal islands grow in long saltwater moats. I’d heard rumours about the place. How the apartheid military used the fat tower to interrogate terrorists or to carry out experiments. But in pre-independence Namibia we ignored it, at least until that morning’s explosion invited our attention.

  I arrived to find a fireman on a ladder peering into one of the shattered windows, carefully avoiding the thick smoke. A nimbus of broken glass and smouldering debris circled the perimeter, and soon blackened my shoes.

  I took photos as I lingered among the onlookers. One man swore he could smell butane, and that a leaking gas canister must have blasted an unlucky smoker though the window above us. Another claimed to have witnessed the half-dressed body of a policeman flying over the Diamantberg towards the harbour, which got a laugh.

  I’d been keeping an eye on the entrance. The door opened to reveal a man in army fatigues carrying a cardboard suitcase. I hid my father’s Instamatic behind my back as he rushed to a parked car, dumping the case in its boot.

  He came past, yelling at me to bogger off on his return.

  I took a quick snap of his car. Because this was an opportunity for me to photograph something interesting instead of Lüderitz or the desert, I fixed a new flashcube to my camera and ducked into the building.

  With the door open behind me, there was sufficient light to give me an idea of the layout, and to confirm that I was alone. Two metal cages, each big enough to hold a crouching man, were in the centre of the room. A desk stood against the opposite wall near a concrete stairway where trickles of smoke cascaded down. Apart from the muffled voices outside, the room was quiet.

  I shot the cages, which left me with three remaining flashes.

  There was a filing cabinet alongside the desk. I tried opening its drawers – all locked – before taking another photo. Someone shouted from the top of the stairs and I pressed myself against the wall, hidden by the cabinet, and dared not move.

  Three detonations sounded above me. Blackness surged towards me, stinging my eyes as if I’d opened them in saltwater. The air was difficult to breathe.

  I shoved the camera into my tracksuit pocket; I started groping for the exit. More smoke choked the room. There was yelling close behind me. Someone grabbed my arm – unbalancing me – and we hit the floor. But even as I crawled in the direction of the door – my memory of the door – the world began to soften. It lifted me on a muzzy cloud that floated all the way up to the ceiling.

  I was on my back when I woke up, in bright sunlight, dizzy from exertion. A thousand dots popping and dividing in front of me. My body stiffened each time I coughed.

  Indistinct faces peered down at me until someone poured water over my eyes. It dribbled into my nostrils, which made me shake my head so as not to choke.

  The Windhoek Observer pri
nted my photo of the fireman at the top of his ladder, my name and age in parentheses, on their front page under the headline ‘Chemical Blaze’. The article called the building a scientific research facility.

  The paper never used my pictures from inside. They forwarded me a cheque along with my strip of negatives minus those interior photos. And until today, as I parked in the Harmony building’s shadow next to a Toyota bakkie, its sides coated with hard, thick mud, I’d forgotten about those cages.

  The wind ripped past the curved breeze-block wall still black from the old fire.

  I found Will inside. He hugged me and said, ‘What a wonderful surprise! Welcome to my ark.’

  The interior bore little resemblance to the dark cavern I remembered from my youth. It was much smaller – no bigger than my lounge – and the ceiling low. The walls were still unplastered, and I recalled their rough surface against my back when I’d escaped the fire. I recognised the curved staircase.

  Sailboards outnumbered mattresses in Harmony’s upstairs living quarters. My camera peered into a damp-smelling communal shower to find a man sanding another fibreglass board.

  Will spoke without pause: ‘One of my primary goals – I have seven in total – is to imbue farming and manufacture with pleasure. Civilisation’s biggest failure is that it doesn’t encourage us to love our work. It never has. Instead we spend our time hoping to win the lottery, or inherit money, so we’ll never have to work again. Such a shame. Such a waste.’

  Back downstairs he began telling me about the water tank that drip-irrigated his vegetable tunnel, and I suggested he show it to me.

  I wasn’t taping him as we hurried across white earth that the sun had fired as hard as concrete, but I nevertheless kept encouraging him to talk. If I made a doc about him it wouldn’t need much research. I’d simply point my camera at him, and murmur comfortingly while he pontificated. My real work would lie in the edit. I’d have to engineer a climax, but I’d worry about that later.

  I was sweating heavily by the time we reached our destination, where I could barely hear Will’s voice because Harmony’s diesel generator was pumping fresh water, via an underground pipe, to the main building. Through my viewfinder Harmony looked to be abandoned. A forgotten watchtower belonging to a deposed regime. Behind it lay the sea. On the Diamantberg’s windward rump I could just about make out the Felsenkirche’s spire. Behind me, there was nothing to break the view. I was the last man on earth.