Dieter tapped his chin with a clenched fist. Should he comply with Ingrid’s wishes and remain silent? Did Otto not deserve to hear about the sister he had never known? Who was Ingrid protecting?
Ten
That night all three of the Adermann children were independently reminded of the suffocating solitude of Lüderitz, shrouded in its cocoon of fog, trapped between the vast Atlantic Ocean on one side and the expansive Namib Desert on the other: the Koichab Pan of the Great Sand Sea to the north and the forbidden territories of the diamond fields to the south and east. Only the occasional vibration of the foghorn and fuzzy halo of sweeping light from the lighthouse testified to Lüderitz’s still–beating heart.
Ingrid sat alone at a table in the lounge bar nursing a generous scotch and ice, staring emptily at flickering images of a travel documentary advertising local tourism on a wall–mounted television.
“The small settlement of Lüderitz was built by diamond prospectors into the only rocky outcrop along the entire inhospitable South West African coastline,” said the baritone voiceover. “It is referred to as the Skeleton Coast because of the numerous carcasses of rusting shipwrecks spread along it – over a thousand in total – victims of its legendary sea fogs. The Bushmen of the Namib Desert called it The Land God Made in Anger, and the Portuguese sailors referred to it as The Gates of Hell.” The heavy tones of Wagner accompanied panoramic views of sand, sea and desolation.
Ingrid wondered what she was doing in Lüderitz, why she had defied her instinctive reluctance and decided to join her brothers at Mother’s funeral. The hotel was average, the food forgettable and Lüderitz more provincial than she recalled. Her uncomfortable encounter with Dieter at the cemetery – not only her first conversation with him in so many years, but also on a prohibited subject cast to the very darkest recesses of even her own mind – had filled her with an immediate desire to return to her sunny Manhattan apartment.
Up on Bülow Street in the old family home Dieter was preoccupied with curled sheets of fax paper, wielding a calculator in one hand and a Mont Blanc pen in the other. He barely even spoke to Otto, who was sitting just yards away from him on the brown velvet sofa looking through the aged contents of a tattered Klipdrift brandy box marked heimfilme. There had been one phone call from Hong Kong, which Otto answered. A man calling himself Jim asked to speak to “my Dieter” and when Otto called him, Jim said, “Thanks darling.”
Otto had recoiled slightly from this unexpected familiarity and then spent the next ten minutes trying hard not to eavesdrop on Dieter’s conversation – which seemed to be all about business – as he studied the metal cans of film in the box. There were six in total, some beginning to show patches of rust despite Lüderitz’s arid climate: less than one inch of rain per year. Must be the fog, Otto thought. Each can had been numbered and dated with black marker pen in Father’s handwriting. Two larger cans bore the title of an old film Otto remembered enjoying with the family: One Million BC, part 1 and part 2. He smiled. The old films were just begging to be watched.
There were, of course, also important matters to discuss: the funeral notice and arrangements; disposing of Mother’s possessions and the house; not to mention the unpleasant uncertainty hanging over them regarding the unidentified child’s body found in the back garden. Otto was desperate to talk to Dieter but never got even the slightest opportunity. Surrendering to his mounting frustration Otto retired to bed, thinking about the memories and mysteries that awaited them on several thousand feet of film.
*
Morning broke with a vivid blue sky and blinding sunshine, revealing the contained swell of Lüderitz’s German colonial architecture – towers, turrets, steep tiled roofs and gables, oriel and bay windows – all perched precariously on parched black rock and aggressively surrounded by sand as far as the eye could see. Ingrid did not appear at the house in the morning and, had it had not been for Frans’ visit, Otto wondered whether she would have come at all.
Frans arrived mid–morning, his squint looking less marked than it had the afternoon before, leading Otto, with his GP hat on, to question whether his ocular oddity might be a latent exotropia accentuated by fatigue towards the end of the day.
“The fog has lifted,” Frans said, shuffling nervously and appearing ill at ease.
“Yeah, looks nice,” Otto said, “but I see a fog bank out there over the sea.”
“Ja, but fog out there means settled weather for us here. It’s when the south–wester blows the fog away that we have shit weather,” Frans explained and then smiled. “That’ll be in a few days.” He chuckled.
Otto made coffee and they sat around the kitchen table.
“You get sorted with the fax machine?” Frans asked.
“Thanks. Perfect,” Dieter replied with an accompanying hand gesture.
“Which local newspaper would be the best for a funeral notice, Frans?” Otto asked.
“Definitely the Lüderitzbuchter. Everyone here reads it.”
Otto nodded. “Their offices?”
“Down near Customs House, just before you reach the harbour.”
They drank coffee in silence.
“What can we do for you, Frans?” Dieter asked eventually.
Frans cleared his throat but would not make eye contact. He played with the unshaven folds of skin beneath his chin.
“I will need to speak to all of you again, more formally you understand, about the body. The Commissioner in Windhoek has ordered a detailed enquiry, given that it’s a child’s body and the fact that, to our knowledge, only one family has ever lived on this site.”
“Mum and Dad built this house,” Otto said.
Dieter shot an admonishing look at Otto as if to say keep your mouth shut.
Frans shrugged. “Ja, well that’s why I will need to speak to each of you to see what you can remember.”
“Well, nothing – I don’t remember anything about a body,” Otto said.
Dieter leaned in. “What are you suggesting here, Frans?”
Frans put his mug down and opened his hands. “Look, they want to know how long the body has been down there and who it is. Tests may tell us some things—”
“What sort of tests?” Dieter interrupted.
Frans drew a deep breath. “Apparently there is some new test developed in England… I don’t know much about it. Something to do with DMA… I think.” He twisted his jowly face.
Otto nodded. “DNA profiling… yeah, I’ve heard about it. It’s very new; not widely available, I don’t think.”
“What does that mean?” Dieter said, his face furrowed with concern.
“Our DNA is like our fingerprints – unique,” Otto explained.
Frans listened, his head unmoving as his eyes flitted between Otto and Dieter, like a predator watching its prey. “Ja, OK, well they want to do DNA tests and… er… we can also do something very simple right here in Lüderitz to give us a pretty good idea of the age of that grave.” Frans gesticulated towards the kitchen window with his index finger.
Otto and Dieter glanced at each other apprehensively.
“That was a fairly large camelthorn tree in your garden, its roots covering the body, so we think it grew after the burial,” Frans said. “Do you know when it was planted?”
“I don’t remember, I was too young I suppose, but I have in mind that we – Mum and Dad – planted that tree after the house was built,” Otto said. “Would you agree, Dieter?”
Dieter nodded and shrugged. “Yeah, I think so.”
Frans leaned back in his chair, which creaked in protest. “That would fit with the tree being about forty years old. Anyway, we’ll cut through it and count the rings and that will tell us exactly how old it is.”
“Objective, simple and very clever,” Otto said.
“But I do want to speak to Ingrid, though. Being the eldest, she may well remember more.” Frans looked around. “Where is she?”
Frans’ impromptu visit left Otto feeling unsettled and shaken
, as though the spectre of this unexplained body was drawing ever closer, threatening to overshadow Mum’s funeral. Otto phoned Ingrid, who sounded hungover and moody. When she heard about Frans’ visit she fell silent and arrived at the house a short while later wearing another dazzling fur coat.
Eleven
A phlegmatic atmosphere hung over the three of them as they sat at the kitchen table, Dieter and Ingrid barely even making eye contact. Otto seemed to do most of the talking and decision–making, affirmation from the other two coming predominantly in the form of nods and grunts. At times the ticking of the grandfather clock from the living room was deafening amidst uneasy silences.
They agreed the text for a funeral notice to be placed in the Lüderitzbuchter; they finalised an order of service and choice of hymns to take down to the Felsenkirche, the tall, imposing Victorian Gothic church built high upon a black rock, hence its name; and they settled on having a wake after the funeral service at the Goerkehaus, a grand restored palace and former residence of an early manager of the diamond company.
“Mum wanted to be buried,” Otto said, staring at papers in his hands.
Dieter and Ingrid sat stiffly at opposite ends of the kitchen table, their faces frozen. Ingrid’s arms were folded tightly around her coat, seemingly worn as a shield, while Dieter busied himself eating rye bread and salami.
“The cemetery is apparently not far away… just out along Bay Road,” Otto said, failing to elicit eye contact from either of them.
Ingrid’s lips were pressed together firmly, and Dieter rhythmically drummed his fingertips beneath his chin as he chewed.
“Are either of you interested?” Otto said in exasperation. “What’s the matter with you two today?”
“Yeah, I think I know where the cemetery is,” Dieter replied, casting a subtle look in Ingrid’s direction. “Any idea why Dad chose to be cremated and not buried in it?”
Ingrid stiffened. Otto shook his head. “As I recall, Mum said his wish was to have his ashes scattered on Shark Island – you know, it juts into the bay.” Otto shrugged and pulled a face. “Perhaps he loved going there. It is a great spot for watching the seals and dolphins.”
“What does it matter?” Ingrid snapped irritably. She closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “What else do we still have to do?” she added coldly.
Dieter and Otto shared a glance, and then Otto studied the sheet of paper on the table.
“There’s the undertaker to speak to, and pay, we need pallbearers, aside from you and me, that is…” Otto glanced at Dieter and raised his hand.
“Do I not count?” Ingrid asked, looking up with narrowed eyes.
Otto, flustered and apologetic, tried to sound nonchalant. “Of course you can join us, I just didn’t think you… would want to.”
Ingrid’s eyes wandered over Otto’s face for a few moments, leaving him to wonder what she was thinking. “Who is organising the tea afterwards?” she asked.
“Would you like to?” Otto suggested.
“Not particularly.”
Otto shrugged. “Then I imagine the church will co–ordinate with the staff at Goerkehaus.”
“What are we going to do with this house?” Dieter asked, looking around at the walls adorned with heavily framed paintings: Hamburg’s grand and imposing Rathaus, a wintry landscape of Freiberg University, the preserved red brick buildings of Wismar in western Pomerania, and a stag’s head mounted on the living room wall. Behind Ingrid in the kitchen, various copper pans hung above an old black cast iron cooker.
“Sell it, surely,” Ingrid said. “As soon as possible.”
“I don’t think we can do anything with it while it’s still technically a crime scene,” Otto said.
“That’s a bit dramatic,” Dieter protested. He pushed his chair back and reached for a jar of mustard on the kitchen counter behind him.
“What?” Otto raised his palms. “It is a crime scene until the police close their investigation. In any case, who will want to buy a house with an uprooted tree in the back garden surrounded by police tape?”
Ingrid exhaled noisily, like a whale surfacing for air. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes.” Otto fingered one final letter. “The executor of the estate, Willem Krause, wants to meet us all to read Mum’s last will and testament.”
“Ugh. I don’t want anything,” Ingrid said, pushing away from the table.
Dieter ignored her outburst. “There’s so much still to do. Are we the only benefactors, Otto?”
“I presume so. Perhaps grandchildren? You two got any children tucked away?” Otto asked with a smile on his face.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ingrid said.
“Not very likely, brother,” Dieter said, pushing his eyebrows up to emphasise his point.
*
Ingrid, Otto and Dieter walked into Lüderitz town centre, about half a mile away along Bismarck Road with the imposing Gothic stone architecture of Felsenkirche towering above them on their left. The newspaper offices were situated along Hafen Street, close to the harbour and Ingrid’s hotel. A blue sky above provided an artist’s canvas for swooping and shrieking white seagulls. Out over the unusually calm blue ocean the distant grey fogbank clung to the water like scum.
“I’m going to nip to the library quickly,” Dieter announced, breaking the awkward silence.
Otto felt his annoyance surfacing. “For God’s sake, Dieter. We’re arranging Mum’s funeral!”
Dieter looked at him innocently. “I’ll only be a few minutes. I’ll see you at the buchter’s offices.”
Otto shook his head and sighed noisily, looking towards Ingrid for support.
“Don’t look at me, Otto, what do you expect from your brother?”
The Lüderitzbuchter was produced out of a small and unassuming building near Woermann House, very close to the harbour. The pungent smell of freshly gutted fish wafted through the air as the concentration of seagulls intensified. At dusk the fishing fleet would return with holds brimful of Atlantic hake and rock lobster caught in the fertile waters fed by the cold Benguela Current, but for now the quayside was relatively deserted.
Behind a plain wooden desk in the office sat a woman in her fifties, greying brown hair tied up in a bun, prominent moles on her cheeks and nose.
“Can I help you?” she asked in a heavily guttural accent.
“We’d like to place this funeral notice in the buchter please,” Otto said.
Ingrid hovered slightly behind him, studying the plastic chairs and cheap framed prints hanging off–kilter on the walls with a look of disapproval on her face. The woman took the notice from Otto and glanced at it.
“Oh my, it’s for Ute Adermann!” She looked up at Otto with wide, doleful eyes. “You must be her children. I am so sorry about your ma.”
Otto smiled and nodded. “Thank you.”
“She was so well liked in our little town.” The woman paused and frowned to emphasise her point. “So well liked. Your father too, Ernst, what wonderful parents you had. You must all be very sad.”
“Thank you.” Otto smiled politely. “We are, of course.”
“My name is Wilma. I knew your mum really well; we played bridge together every week down at Goerkehaus. What a shock. This whole business in the garden… what a shock! It’s bound to be a Herero, mark my words.” Wilma sat and shook her head in disbelief, eyes fixed on Otto’s face. Then she straightened and glanced at Ingrid. “You must be Ingrid. And you must be…” She thought for a moment, sizing Otto up. “Dieter?”
“I am Otto, but Dieter is here too.”
Wilma’s face lit up with joy. “Ah, Otto!” she clasped her hands together and looked at him maternally. “Your ma spoke so much about you… so much… I think you must have been her favourite. You were her life, you know.”
Wilma seemed oblivious to the discomfort that Otto felt rising within him, heightened by Ingrid stiffening beside him. He nodded in silence, smiling politely.
“I’m sure I was not her favourite.”
Wilma tutted. “Oh you were, and just look at you.”
Ingrid sighed beside Otto, deepening his embarrassment.
“Is it too late to place Mum’s funeral notice in tomorrow’s buchter?” Otto asked.
Wilma inhaled deeply and studied the funeral notice again down the length of her nose. “I will make sure this is in tomorrow’s edition, don’t you worry.”
“I appreciate that very much.” Otto paused, glancing at Ingrid. “We appreciate it.”
“I see the funeral is on the 20th of April?” Wilma raised her eyebrows.
“Yes?”
“Ernst would have been so proud, if you know what I mean.” Wilma was shaking her head as she studied Otto and Ingrid. “So proud. He would have thought it an honour befitting the Adermann family.”
Otto had no idea what Wilma meant but smiled and nodded, as did Ingrid. They paid for the notice and left amidst further effusive compliments and gushy rhetoric from Wilma.
“What the hell was that all about?” Ingrid asked as they stepped outside, immersed once again in the shriek of gulls and the fishy harbour smell. “Oh, prodigal son…”
“Stop it,” Otto said, walking into her purposely. “I have no idea.”
There was still no sign of Dieter so on their way home they stopped first at Goerkehaus to discuss the funeral tea, followed by Felsenkirche to hand in the order of service and choice of hymns.
“The wind’s changing,” Otto remarked, turning his face towards the coastline. “Let’s go home and watch the home movies I found. Dieter might be there.” He rubbed his hands with childlike glee.
“It’ll not bring back happy memories,” Ingrid said tersely.
“Why ever not?”
Ingrid looked deeply into his eyes with a steadiness that she had not maintained since her arrival.
“Because there aren’t any.”
Twelve
Back in the living room Otto felt as though he was thirteen again, holding the weight and substance of the twelve–inch metal film reel in his hands as he clicked it onto the rectangular spindle. Everything came flooding back: the somewhat vinegary smell of the film stock suffused with stale cigarette smoke; the shiny, smooth texture of the 16mm film emulsion, perforated down each margin; the heavy solidity of the Bell & Howell Filmosound projector with its two reel–arms extended above its head in a gesture of surrender, amid a faint odour of machine oil.
16mm of Innocence Page 5
