At the Edge of the Desert

by Basil Lawrence

  My phone rang, and I was surprised to see that Chesley beat Jago to calling me. I slowed, gravel popping under my tyres, as I coasted to the nearest shade. This might be a difficult conversation.

  ‘Are you running late for our meeting?’ Chesley said. His voice had a slight echo.

  ‘You’re back in Lüderitz?’ I said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hold on.’

  I edged under a thicket of soetdorings cut low by a veld fire, and turned my wheel to face the road.

  ‘I was about to call you,’ I said, cutting the engine. ‘I can’t see you this week.’

  ‘Hold on.’ He spoke to someone in his office with him. ‘You’re on speaker with Mitch Danker. Where are you, Henry? We’re waiting for you.’

  ‘Mitch Danker?’ I said.

  ‘Hello, Henwy,’ said the British filmmaker.

  ‘Hi,’ I said.

  ‘I was hoping to meet you today.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry about the mix-up. I’m near Grootfontein.’

  ‘You’re where?’ Chesley said.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if our meeting was going ahead.’

  ‘But didn’t …’ my cousin’s voice trailed off, and I heard him yelling at his assistant.

  I repeated his name a few times to attract his attention. With him back on the line, I said, ‘She sent me a message an hour ago, but it was too late.’

  ‘But we’re in my office,’ he said. ‘Mitch Danker and me. We’re waiting for you.’

  ‘You’ve done some amazing work for Chez,’ Mitch Danker said.

  My cousin cut in: ‘I only needed ten minutes of your time, Henry, but I suppose we have to do this over the phone.’

  I stared at the charred sociable-weaver’s nest hanging above me as I waited for him to decide my fate. Black thorns as thick as fingers defended the branches.

  ‘I’ve got some interesting news,’ he said, ‘which is why I really wanted you to meet Mitch face to face. It’s very exciting. Mitch has offered to help with the interviews. My partners showed him what you’ve done, and he says he’s keen to be involved.’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘When they showed me your work,’ the Brit chipped in, ‘I was genuinely moved and excited. It isn’t often that I look at something and know I need to be part of it.’

  ‘I … I don’t know what to say.’ I got out of the small rental car to breathe fresh air and clear my mind.

  ‘Yes, it’s very exciting,’ Chesley said. ‘Mitch is here for a few days, and then returns to Cape—’

  ‘There are loose ends I need to tie up,’ the other man said, ‘but how about we both go to Windhoek next month?’

  ‘Yes,’ was all I could manage.

  ‘But, Henwy, if, in the meantime, you could send me all your footage, I’ll view it and have a think about what to do next.’

  ‘I’ve already sent it to Chesley,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen what he has, but it would be helpful to look at everything you’ve shot.’

  ‘All of it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK, I can do that.’

  ‘Good. Could you get it to me while I’m still up here with Chesley? I don’t believe there’s a flight for a week, and I don’t have much to do in this town. I wish I knew how to windsurf.’

  I hesitated: ‘I’m back next week. Can I give it to you then?’

  ‘Why can’t you send it now?’ Chesley interrupted.

  ‘I, uh …’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Mitch Danker said, ‘next week is fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Chesley said.

  ‘Completely.’

  ‘So that’s settled.’

  ‘I’ve got some thoughts,’ Mitch Danker said. ‘One or two gaps that need to be filled. I’ll be in touch, OK?’

  ‘Great.’ And because the two of them were waiting for me to say more, I added feebly, ‘Welcome aboard.’

  I sat for a long time. Chesley’s news complicated my work here. When at last I started the car, I accelerated too quickly. My tyres spun and I stalled in the dust. As fast as I could, I scurried for my camera that flung itself at my feet. With it safely on my lap, I fired the engine.

  Each time I glanced at my rearview mirror I was hesitant of what I might see, but no one appeared to be following me. The terrain was hilly and the road curved unexpectedly, and I had to focus my attention on every twist and dip as I ventured deep into the scrubland worrying that I might crash … or be usurped. Jago called in the middle of all of this, and I let him go to voicemail.

  Eventually the road veered around a massive, dolerite-capped koppie. A wire fence accompanied me to the top of the next hill where I found the cattle gate I’d been looking for. I surprised myself by remembering how to get to Waldkappel’s farmhouse. A maid in a white uniform came out to investigate as I walked up the front path past the rose bushes. I told her that I was there for Zacharias and Ouma Gendredi, and she pointed vaguely at the direction I must travel, the mesh door flapping shut before I could thank her.

  Zacharias’s kraal was empty. No dogs. Nothing to do but wait.

  My lunch of beef leftovers and cherry cake from Jago’s fridge wouldn’t settle, and to make myself comfortable I undid my trousers’ top button. The rich food, in addition to the afternoon heat, made me sweat. And even with all the windows open, my lungs felt constricted.

  Jago phoned a second time, and I let it ring off.

  I was half asleep when I became aware of two people, accompanied by a pack of barking dogs, wandering up the dirt road towards me. The first was a woman I didn’t recognise – she repeated, ‘Meneer! Meneer van Wyk!’ – with a man following after.

  ‘Where’s the German money?’ the woman said, slapping my windscreen so that her palm smudged the glass. I told her to calm down, and pulled my door shut. The dogs ran around my car, one jumped against the passenger side.

  ‘Where’s the money?’ she demanded, her mouth almost touching my window, as the man pulled her away. I recognised Zacharias. He carried a knobkerrie.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I said.

  ‘Ouma is very sick,’ he said. ‘Very sick. The doctor says she needs the medicine.’

  I made as if to get out of my car, and the woman, who may have been Zacharias’s daughter, backed away as if I’d threatened her. Zacharias took her hand as if to reassure her.

  ‘She needs the German money,’ he said.

  I explained that they’d have to wait until after the court case, but the woman shook her head.

  ‘She is very sick,’ she said.

  More farmworkers trailing down paths began gathering nearby. I was beginning to reconsider the wisdom of my visit.

  ‘She needs the money,’ Zacharias said again.

  I told Zacharias and his daughter to get into my car. I offered to take them to a bank in Grootfontein, and they agreed. Even if I’d had cash with me, I wouldn’t have risked giving it to them in front of the onlookers.

  I started towards the main house when a bakkie, travelling in opposite direction, slowed in front of me.

  Zacharias lent across me to my open window. ‘Baas Pretorius,’ he called to the other vehicle.

  The farmer drew up alongside us to ask, ‘Wat maak jy hier?’

  ‘I’m visiting Ouma Gendredi,’ I said. ‘I interviewed her a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Do you know this is private property?’

  ‘Ja, sorry. I just wanted to see her again.’

  ‘No no no, my boy. Dis ’n klomp nonsens. You can’t just come driving around my farm when you feel like it. Zacharias, wat maak julle twee in hierdie man se kar?’

  ‘I was taking them to Grootfontein,’ I said.

  ‘Where you from?’ the man asked.

  ‘Lüderitz.’

  ‘We don’t get many of you lot up here. Come!’

  I reassured him that I knew my way back to the main road, but he insisted I follow him with a weariness I dared not challenge, so I did as I was told. He made a U-turn be
fore speeding ahead of me; my camera juddered uncomfortably as I kept pace.

  We arrived at a gate. I slowed down as I passed the farmer, apologising again, to which he merely nodded. He called Zacharias out to him. The two men spoke for a long time. Eventually Zacharias swung the gate shut behind me, and climbed into my passenger seat without comment.

  They stood on the pavement watching me in the Grootfontein bank as I withdrew my daily allowance. A lot of money for them, as it was for me. With every fibre in my being, I knew this was wrong. Not because paying was unethical – ethics never having been my strongest suit – but because I might be creating problems for myself: the fixers could get wind of this. I’d considered ringing Chesley, but after our phone call this morning I dared not speak to him or Mitch Danker for fear of what they might say. I couldn’t reveal what I was about to do.

  I paused at a small table in the corner, with my back to the window, to contemplate the banknotes. I put some – enough for a week’s groceries – in my pocket. I counted the remainder once more.

  Zacharias thanked me profusely before I gave him the cash, assuring me that my gift would help his grandmother, but his face turned solemn when he realised how little was in my outstretched hand.

  His daughter began to speak, but he silenced her.

  ‘I’m sorry your grandmother’s sick,’ I said. ‘I wish I had more to give her.’

  This his daughter didn’t believe.

  ‘Ja, baas,’ was all her father would say.

  The two walked off. They spoke to a woman selling grass baskets from a blanket next to the main road, who pointed them in the direction of the taxis. All the while, Zacharias’s daughter kept glancing back at me. She hurried after her father as he crossed the road, and I lost sight of them behind an idling HiAce.

  By now the shadows were long and the road busy. I had a four-and-a-half-hour journey to Windhoek that I couldn’t face right now. So I settled down in the Fort Namutoni Bar to a can of lager and a monkey-gland steak, confident that I’d given Zacharias a good amount of money, while struggling to reconcile my memory of Ouma Gendredi with my chaotic day.

  I dialled Jago when I was on the highway to let him know I’d be late. It would be the first time we’d spoken all day despite his messages. He answered on the first ring. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said. In the background, a German news programme repeated the word terroranschläge. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Are you OK? I called you five times today.’

  ‘It’s been a nightmare.’

  ‘Why are you travelling so late? You didn’t even say goodbye this morning.’

  ‘I’m on my way. Hold on …’ A slow truck, its beams on bright, approached me from the opposite side of the highway.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Jago said.

  ‘Hang on.’ I dropped him in my lap. Because I couldn’t see anything apart from the headlights, I slowed as much as I dared until they thundered past. Another lorry, hidden behind the first, was using hazard lights for illumination. My hands were clenching the steering wheel. ‘Sorry,’ I said, quickly putting the phone to my ear, ‘I can’t talk – I need to concentrate.’

  It was late when I eventually parked outside Jago’s. He hugged me and kept telling me how worried he’d been. Why had I left without saying goodbye, and why hadn’t I answered his calls?

  That night was the first time he shared his bed. After sex, he spooned behind me, kissing my neck, his hands grasping my torso. With some difficulty I turned to face him. I stroked the fine blond hair on his arms, and found comfort tracing the ink patterns.

  ‘Where did you get them?’ I said, and this led him to tell me about his favourite Berlin tattoo parlour. He described the view of that city from the top of the Teufelsberg, and I asked whereabouts he’d live if he ever moved back there. Although I’d been careful not to ask about us, he included me in his answer. And yet as close as we were, lying together this way, I couldn’t tell if this was a relationship, or if he’d escape to Germany one day and leave me behind.

  ‘Every time I go home,’ he said, ‘my mother greets me at her front door with a bottle of washing-up liquid. She says she has to clean the ink that’s spilt on me.’

  In the dark, after he’d turned off the light, his soft voice was my only connection to his world. And yet as he continued, my thoughts returned to Dollar.

  —————

  Jago’s friend who worked at Hardap Dam had arranged a special out-of-season rate for us. Thankfully Jago and I arrived at the game reserve just before sunset. I was happy to be off the main road: I had bad memories of my night-time Grootfontein–Windhoek trip.

  Jago navigated the park’s poorly lit track. He sucked his teeth at the occasional scrape to his low car’s undersides, until, just beyond a levitating rectangle – an outdoor cinema screen painted on the rockface, where Bertil Guve was convincing Harriet Andersson of ghosts – we found the main building.

  We ate dinner on the side of the cliff in a circular glass restaurant that resembled a crash-landed flying saucer. We were their only customers until an Austrian family joined us, grüß Gott–ing the staff as we were paying.

  It was a mild, quiet night to wander along the concrete balcony curving around the restaurant’s perimeter. I photographed the reservoir to send to my sister. At the end of the railing, near the cliff face, we found a cantilevered pool suspended over the valley. The warm water was perfect for swimming, so we fetched our cossies. I would have been happy to spend all night there, but the Austrians inevitably came to swim, and Jago suggested we head back to our room.

  ‘Let’s stay,’ I pleaded. ‘This is my best swim in weeks.’

  Contrary to his expectations, the family soon departed, and after a few laps we were floating wordlessly, arms outstretched, on the surface. My fingertips found his. Lying side by side, we held hands.

  We sheltered behind the perimeter wall, near our folded clothes, hugging each other to keep warm. He covered me with his towel as we slipped off our trunks. He grasped me even tighter. (More tourists filled the restaurant, and the night air amplified their conversations.)

  I bent down to get him in my mouth while his lips found my still-flaccid dick. We lay uncomfortably on the slasto paving as I sucked him until he was hard enough for me to wank. Tasting him made me want him inside me.

  He finally shot and attempted to move away, but I held him close so that I might swallow his cum. He pulled out and his hot semen ran down my neck. I kissed his softening cock. Still breathing hard, sweating in the cold air, we swam naked together. Afterwards we retraced our steps past the restaurant, laughing, certain that the diners had overheard us.

  In the morning, I pulled a chair close to the window to catch the sunrise. After a quick breakfast we eagerly returned to bed. By noon it was too hot for us to fuck again, so we fell asleep as a colony of rock dassies, sunning themselves on the low wall outside our window, watched our naked bodies.

  Mitch Danker had sent me a mail that opened chirpily: ‘Great to chat! Sorry to chase, but I’ve got some time to rework your unedited footage this weekend, and would appreciate if you could get everything across to me soonest. I merely want to zhoosh it up – nothing major! I’ve attached some thoughts. Feel free to add or subtract.’

  I considered a variety of replies before settling on: ‘So excited to be working with you! I’ll get everything across to you asap!’

  Notwithstanding the outcome of my enforced collaboration with Mitch Danker, I consoled myself that I’d make my own documentary about Namibia’s holocaust. It shouldn’t matter if the Germans only killed one person in the Namibian camps or a million, it shouldn’t matter if the Second World War overwhelmed our local atrocity, I would make something of it. But try as I might, the man kept dominating my thoughts: I had every reason to believe he’d eclipse me.

  A ‘name’ like Mitch Danker would never consider me his equal, and would almost certainly not give me the credit I deserved.
So I’d have to make my own film, and because of that I couldn’t risk handing all my raw footage over to the Brit for him to take the glory, or begin asking questions.

  A disturbing dream about Ouma Gendredi compelled me to get up and tinker around with my prison documentary in an attempt to take my mind off her. With my laptop on the windowsill, I distracted myself as best I could. Perhaps without much success because by morning the film had me questioning my meagre talents. Nothing I’d set out to achieve had found its way into my final edit.

  Jago got up to pee at sunrise, complaining that the mattress was too hard, and on his return to bed he came to see what I was doing. As he watched my clips of Dollar, he asked if I’d like to drive around the park and look for black rhino instead. From his tone I suspected that this wasn’t something he wanted to do, and he didn’t complain when I said I was happy to stay in the room with him.

  ‘Anyway, you’re working,’ he said.

  ‘I can stop this.’

  ‘No, let it run.’

  I was playing Dollar’s description of his gang’s kring: ‘The 28 all submit to 28 punishment. If you do wrong then you take that punishment. When a man joins the gang, the doctor, he grabs that man’s arm and pulls it back, and the doctor says, “I take your power for the 28. We are the same.” If the 28 say a man is guilty, then that man has the guilt.’

  ‘What sort of crimes do gang members commit?’ I asked.

  ‘Anything. They sell a man to another gang.’ He explained how selling members to rivals ran contrary to the 28s’ rules.

  ‘What is this?’ Jago said, and I paused the clip. ‘This guy is crazy.’

  ‘He’s not as bad as some of the others,’ I said. ‘Watch this bit.’ I pressed play.

  ‘If he disobeys the order or he kills a man of the 28 or he takes that man’s wyfie …’ Dollar concentrated his attention on me. ‘You know about the wyfie? You like that feeling?’

  I hit pause to tell Jago how the charity had warned me that if the ex-cons hinted about male wyfies, their prison ‘wives’, I was to distract them with other questions. The social worker advised me to keep sex out of bounds, no matter how eagerly the men alluded to it.