by William Boyd
“No.” Liesl took her bottom lip between her teeth. “I suppose not.”
Von Bishop set his beer glass down and put his arms around his wife and pulled her to him. She was thinner but her body was still soft. He felt a sense of happiness wash through him. He squeezed her shoulders.
“Soon we’ll be in Germany,” he said. “But perhaps one day they’ll let us come back.”
Chapter 5
9 December 1918,
Dar-es-Salaam, German East Africa
Felix stood in the dappled moon-shadow beneath a cotton tree looking at the von Bishops’ house. He cursed his luck. How typical of the way everything had gone that within two days of arriving in Dar he should practically fall over von Bishop’s wife outside the Kaiserhof. He had looked right through her, pretending not to recognize her face and had turned and walked off quickly. He couldn’t tell if she recognized him, however, and to allay any possible suspicions he had not stirred from the hotel for the next few days.
Now he pulled the collar of his linen jacket up above his ears. He was wearing civilian clothes. A cool breeze was coming off the sea. He seemed to have been standing under this tree for hours. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, feeling as he did so the barrel of his service revolver scrape across his pelvis. The gun was too large to go inconspicuously into his jacket pocket so he had thrust it into the waist of his trousers. He took the gun out now and opened it, catching the moon’s gleam on the six brass cartridges. He wondered if the time was right for him to make his move but decided to wait a few more minutes. One of the rooms of the tin bungalow was lit, the other was completely dark. He looked up and down the dusty streets. They were deserted. The moonlight had turned the dust an ash colour and despite the balminess of the night the scène looked cold and chilly. Felix decided to wait a few more minutes. Just in case.
Getting official permission to come to Dar-es-Salaam had presented few problems. He had telegraphed to the Provost Marshal in Dar, saying he had information about the death of his brother, Captain Gabriel Cobb, that might constitute it a war crime. Permission was promptly granted and he went by train to Mombasa, and from there by coastal steamer to Dar. At the Provost Marshal’s office they had been most helpful. He told them the story of Gabriel’s death, leaving nothing out except von Bishop’s name. The harassed and overworked young lieutenant appointed to investigate the case had provided all manner of information about the surviving German officers. Securing von Bishop’s address had not been difficult.
He had set wheels in motion, but he knew they would move very slowly, such was the clutter and chronic disorganization of Dar-es-Salaam. Other cases of alleged German brutality were also pending, let alone the myriad of usual disciplinary matters attending a large and idle occupying army. Felix’s accusations would just have to wait their turn.
Then he had seen the von Bishop woman and, in the interests of safety, had lain low in his tiny room at the top of the Kaiserhof for three days. During this period of inactivity he concentrated on sustaining the mood of hatred and desire for retribution which he’d felt so fiercely all these months.
But, somehow, now he was almost in sight of his quarry he felt his resolve wavering. He decided to let von Bishop speak for himself, to see if he had any defence to offer.
Those few moments when a voice in his head asked him if it was worth persevering were easily overcome. He simply had to conjure up the images of that dreadful day on the plateau. The only trouble was that they brought a train of associated but unwanted memories. Memories of Gabriel and Charis on their wedding day, of Charis’s appallingly misleading reassurances on the train between Aylesbury and London, of her own frightful death. Soon he would be shaky with guilt and unhappiness again, fully aware of his own problematic motives, and yet above all conscious of the overwhelming imbalance, the dreadful unfairness of everything. He was lucky, he reminded himself. He had it in his power to do some squaring up, knot a few of the dangling loose ends. At these times when he was most low he would try to imagine von Bishop’s face, try to visualize the features of the man who had killed his brother. Temple had said it was thin, shaven-headed with a large, sharp nose. It was not much to go on but in his imagination it readily acquired the lineaments of despicable cruelty. He felt instinctively that he would recognize von Bishop anywhere.
He weighed the gun in his hand. It was time to go. Keeping as much as he could to the shadows Felix moved towards the von Bishop house. Not far off a dog began to bark, but it soon fell silent. As he crept towards the bungalow, the gun held in readiness by his side, he felt suddenly possessed of an avenging strength and confidence. There was, he decided, an irrefutable rightness in the doctrine of an eye for an eye. It had a logic that brooked no backsliding: it allowed man some say in his fate; some little control of the order events took upon his planet.
He saw the shadow of a figure against the lighted square of window. He wondered if it were von Bishop. He crept up to the house. He could hear no conversation. He thought suddenly of von Bishop’s wife, and the fact that she might be a witness. He paused. It would be necessary to mask himself somehow. Felix felt through his pockets. He had no handkerchief with him. It was paramount that he disguise his face.
Cursing under his breath, he took off his linen jacket and wrapped and knotted it awkwardly under his chin. Simply by pulling up one fold his face was effectively masked. But somehow this ad hoc pragmatic operation had deprived him of his mood of vengeful omnipotence as swiftly as it had arisen. He felt foolish and vulnerable and, try as he might, he couldn’t help wondering what he must look like with his jacket wrapped around his head. Already he was bathed in perspiration, sweat running uncomfortably down his muffled neck.
He looked again at the gun, hoping that the sight of the agent of destruction would inspire him once again, but it only brought another unwelcome thought to mind. When he fired, when he pulled the trigger, the noise in an enclosed space would be deafening. Without doubt it would bring back his partial blindness again, his fractured vision. What would he do then? How would he get away? He threw back his head in desperation and looked at the vague stars in the sky. Why now, at the eleventh hour, were all these obstacles massing in his path? Don’t think, he told himself angrily, just do.
He eased round to the dark end of the house. Here the shutters, to what he assumed was the bedroom, were flung wide to cool the room as much as possible prior to the occupants retiring. Reaching up he grabbed the sill. The gun in his hand clanged noisily against the corrugated iron. He dropped immediately into a crouch. But there was no reaction from inside. Ordering his leaping heart to still itself, Felix stuffed the gun back in the waistband of his trousers, stood up and, with some effort, clambered into the empty bedroom. He stood by the window listening for any suspicious noises from the sitting room. All was quiet.
Slowly his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness of the bedroom. A wooden chest against one wall. The tall shape of a cupboard. A stand with a basin on it by a bed. The two beds themselves with tall crude cast-iron bedsteads, rumpled sheets on one of them—
He felt a silent scream of shock echo through his head. One of the beds was occupied. He tried to swallow but his Adam’s apple seemed to have swelled to block his throat. As silently as he knew how he drew the gun from his waistband and took a tentative step nearer the bed. The person lay on its back, sound asleep, its large sharp nose silhouetted against the pale wall.
Felix felt his stomach churn with nausea as he realized that the sleeper was von Bishop. He took another small step nearer the bed. Miraculously there was no squeak from the wooden floorboards. He had him now. He aimed the gun. It trembled wildly in his grasp. But he was so close he couldn’t miss.
“Von Bishop,” he hissed. “Wake up.”
There was no movement from the bed.
“Wake up,” he croaked. “Wake up.”
Von Bishop slept on peacefully.
Felix lowered the gun. What now? He took a step closer. He stood almost
above him. Felix could hardly hear the sound of his breathing. Hand wobbling, he levelled the gun at von Bishop’s shadowed face.
“Wake. Up.” He reached forward to shake him by the shoulder. This was absurd, he thought, it was going to be impossible to shoot the man now.
Behind him the door swung open.
“He’s dead,” Liesl von Bishop said in a calm voice. “Leave him alone.”
Felix reeled round in horror and aghast surprise, frantically hauling the folds of his jacket up over his face. He lost his balance and staggered, a hand slamming down on the bed for support, thwacking von Bishop’s immobile leg.
The light from the oil lamp she carried illuminated von Bishop’s face. His eyes were shut, his mouth slightly open, his skin looked stretched tight.
“Oh my God,” Felix exclaimed tremulously, bending over, gasping for air. “Oh God, Jesus!” He felt as if he were about to fall apart, so critical was the shock he’d received.
“He died this evening,” Liesl said dully. “About three hours ago. Influenza. Spanish influenza, the doctor said.”
Felix felt his rioting body come under minimal control.
“What’s wrong with your face?” she said.
“What?” Felix touched the masking folds of his jacket.
“Your face, why is it covered? And a gun,” she said with more alarm. “Why have you got a gun?”
“In case,” Felix improvised, tearing away his jacket, hoping he wouldn’t have to try and explain that. “Self-protection,” he concluded lamely.
“I saw you outside,” she said. “Standing under the tree. I was waiting for you to come to the door.” She gave him a weary, tolerant smile, as if he were an idiotic child who kept getting into trouble. She moved to one side to let him pass, and Felix walked out of the bedroom into the narrow hall. He put on his jacket and tucked his gun away with some embarrassment.
“You wanted to ask Erich about Gabriel?” she said.
“Yes.” It was odd hearing the sound of his brother’s name on her lips, she used it so familiarly.
Her face went serious. “I must tell you. You know that he’s dead?”
Felix nodded. “I know. I found him.” He looked again at this perplexing woman. He remembered that she had known Gabriel for what amounted to the last two years of his life.
“Did your husband…did he tell you what happened? About Gabriel?”
“Oh yes.” Liesl said.
“But why?” Felix said imploringly, suddenly aching for some sort of explanation. “That’s all I want to know. Why? Why? Why?”
“Why what?” Liesl frowned.
With an intuition of dream-like clarity Felix realized that she knew nothing of the truth of Gabriel’s death. She had no idea of what happened that night on the plateau, had no conception of her husband’s part. He decided at once not to tell her. He knew, again with a surprising sense of conviction, that it was better to leave it as it was. After all, he thought sadly, we all have our secrets to keep. The heavens wouldn’t fall for such a trifle.
EPILOGUE
3 January 1919
Mombasa, British East Africa
“It’s ironic,” Felix said. “After four years of war, to die of influenza.”
“To say the least,” Temple agreed.
“Over half of them have died, you know,” Felix went on. “Of the surviving German officers.”
“I heard,” Temple said. He seemed preoccupied. “Anyway, what happened after that?” he asked. He, his wife and Felix were standing on the quayside on Mombasa Island. Felix was going back to England. The Smiths had come to say good-bye.
“We talked on for a short while,” Felix said. “I asked about Gabriel. She said she knew him very well. She liked him a lot. ‘A very nice man,’ she said. ‘Very quiet, very kind.’” Felix paused. “I didn’t say anything about the plateau. I thought nothing would be served.”
Temple stroked his moustache.
“What’s she doing now?”
“Still waiting to be repatriated. She said she was looking forward to that.”
“She didn’t talk about von Bishop at all? In any way?”
“No. Not at all. I thought—you know, given that he was lying next door…”
“Yes, of course, I see.” Temple seemed agitated. “She didn’t by any chance mention the word ‘Decorticator’, did she?”
“What?”
“Decorticator. She didn’t give any hint as to what von Bishop may have done with it?”
“No,” Felix said. “What’s a Decorticator?”
“So the secret dies with him.” Temple put his hands on his hips and looked at the ground. “It’s a mystery,” he said. “I’ve searched every German farm on Kilimanjaro and the Pare hills. No sign. Nobody knows what happened to it. It seems to have disappeared into thin air. But how could it?” He looked genuinely distressed. “Did they melt it down, or what? Break it up? But it was too big.” He looked to his wife for support. “Wasn’t it, dear?”
“Of course,” Mrs Smith said gazing dreamily out to sea. “Extremely big.”
She reminded Felix of his mother. And this thought brought Stackpole to mind. What would life be like when he got home? No Gabriel, no Charis, his father shut away. He was filled with gloomy foreboding.
Further down the quayside a military band struck up a jaunty tune, dispelling his morose reflections. Drawn up in neat ranks was a battalion of Indian troops preparing to embark. A dazzlingly white-suited official inspected the guard of honour. Four light artillery pieces attended by spruce KAR gunners stood with their barrels pointed out to sea in preparation for the official salute.
“When those guns go off they aren’t going to do your eyes much good,” Temple said.
“Oh, I think I’m better now,” Felix said without much confidence. “Finally got rid of Wheech-Browning’s legacy. I’d hate to be reminded of him every time there’s a loud noise.”
“I warned you,” Temple laughed. “Do you remember? The first time we met.”
“What happened to Wheech-Browning?” Mrs Smith asked.
“God knows,” Felix said. “I never saw him after the explosion.”
“I wonder where he is?” Temple said.
They were all quiet for a while.
“It’s another mystery,” Felix said.
“You can’t know the answers to everything,” said Temple.
“Life doesn’t run on railway tracks. It doesn’t always go the way you expect.”
“That’s a very profound remark, dear,” Mrs Smith said.
Temple looked at her. “Are you making fun of me, Matilda?” he said, a little annoyed.
“Of course not.” Mrs Smith touched her husband’s arm reassuringly.
“Well it was good of you to come and see me off,” Felix said to them both. “It’s a long way, for a good-bye.”
“No trouble,” Temple said. “I wanted to come to Mombasa anyway. I’m going out to a rubber plantation this afternoon.” Temple made an expansive gesture with his arm, and for a moment looked transported with his vision. “I see the shores of Lake Jipe as one great green rubber forest.”
There was another pause. They didn’t know each other very well.
“At least it’s over, anyway,” Temple said. “We should all be thankful for that.”
“What?”
“The war.”
“Oh, the war. Yes, that’s true.” Felix thought about the news he was carrying back to England.
A boy came and picked up Felix’s case. The launch was ready to take the few passenger to the liner, the Conway Star, which rode at anchor some sixty yards away from the quay.
Felix said good-bye.
“Come back soon,” Temple said. “Don’t wait for another war.”
“I might,” Felix said. “You never know.”
Felix leant on the wooden guard rail around the sun deck, looking round the beautiful bay. Mombasa Island seemed very green and pretty from this side. Beyond the harbour buildi
ngs, scattered among the trees, were splendid white houses with arches and long verandahs. In the distance was a line of hills.
A small promontory showed a silvery stretch of beach. A cluster of palm trees leant out towards the sea. Around the Conway Star were other ships. A liner for the Indian troops, an old steamer, some dhows and two small tidy destroyers.
Felix looked back at the wharf. Temple and his wife had promised to stay until the boat sailed and, true to their word, they had remained. Felix saw them at the edge of the small group of well-wishers who had assembled to say good-bye. He waved, and Mrs Smith waved back. Temple had moved a few paces away and was looking at the crowd that had gathered to see off the Indian battalion. Felix squinted up into the sun. Above him stretched an immense deep-blue sky occupied by a few small clouds. The sky seemed higher in Africa, he thought vaguely. On shore, the military band broke into ‘God Save the King’ as the colonel of the battalion embarked. Felix returned to his musing. How can the sky be higher? he rebuked himself the sky has no height. He looked again. Then he realized, with an absurd sense of achievement, that it was the clouds which were higher in Africa. They sailed higher than the clouds in Europe, and that was what made the encompassing blue seem so toweringly out of reach.
BOOM! went the first of the guns in the farewell salute. The other three followed in quick succession. Felix felt the shock and crash of the cannonade echo in his head. The view before him trembled, misted and then fragmented, as he knew it would. The quay, the ships, the sea, the leaning palms, glimmered fitfully between the swirling chasms of mica dust. Never mind, Felix told himself in resigned compensation. It would be quiet on the voyage. He waved at the place where he thought Temple was standing, just to show him that he was all right and, in case he was concerned, to put his mind at rest. The guns boomed again. Quiet on the voyage, he repeated, dazzled and distracted, looking up at the small unfailing clouds dancing quite contentedly in the repercussing air.
THE END