by Paul Twivy
‘When do you feel at your strongest, Selima?’
Selima didn’t have to hesitate.
‘When I’m out in the dunes, or swimming in the sea…or driving in my father’s jeep. Or helping him fix an engine.’
‘Then try to take that feeling of strength with you in the classroom. Be patient and strong. Think of a sentence as like an engine you sometimes have to strip down to make it work.’
Just then, the door to the sitting-room burst open and a book dropped to the floor, splashing its pages.
‘Hannah, how many times have I told you not to come into the sitting-room when I have a pupil here?’
Hannah stared open-mouthed.
‘Selima! Oh my God,’ Hannah exclaimed.
‘Hi Hannah!’
Sarah was taken aback.
‘How come you two know each other?’
‘We met on the school trip to Sossusvlei’ Selima explained. She had known that this encounter would happen at some point, ever since Hannah made the comment on the coach about her mother being a special needs teacher.
‘But hold on,’ Hannah said, ‘when I asked if you knew my mum, the special needs teacher, you said no.’
‘I didn’t want you to think…’
Sarah understood immediately and intervened.
‘No-one wants to be defined by so-called ‘special needs’, Hannah. It’s a ridiculous term, demeaning. It should be banned. Selima has dyslexia like many other students.’
‘I’m sorry, Hannah, I shouldn’t have lied,’ Selima said.
‘Don’t be silly. I would have done exactly the same,’ Hannah said, sitting down on the sofa next to her.
Seeing the two girls light up in each other’s presence, Sarah decided to abandon the extra lesson and bow out.
‘I’m going to make some supper and leave you two girls to chat. You can stay if you like Selima.’
As soon as she’d left the room, Hannah and Selima burst into giggles and Hannah fell on to the sofa and swung her legs over Selima’s.
‘This is so weird,’ Hannah exclaimed.
‘Not as weird as it is for me,’ said Selima. ‘Your house is amazing. It’s so tidy.’
‘That’s my dad. He’s obsessive.’
‘Yes, but you’ve got things from all over the world in here.’
‘True, but, I often wish we’d just stayed in one place for longer. This must be my …’ she counted through them in her mind, ‘… fifth home.’
‘Perhaps you’ll settle here.’
‘I doubt it.’
Selima felt a rush of sadness at her friend’s honesty.
‘You’ve got so many books,’ Selima said gesturing to the bookcase that almost occupied an entire wall.
‘Books are my friends,’ Hannah replied. ‘When I was younger, other children had friends, I had books.’
‘Didn’t you have any friends?’ Selima asked, surprised but comforted by Hannah’s honesty. As an only child, Selima had often felt lonely.
‘Yes, I had a few friends. They also had books as friends.’
Since she was five, Hannah had counted stories as companions: walked the paths of their words, fallen headlong into their illustrations, been hugged by their covers.
People were stories too of course. Indeed, older people, like her grandparents, were whole libraries of stories. But people weren’t as open, as revealing, as expressive or as succinct as books.
‘I love languages,’ Hannah confessed. ‘My parents brought me up to speak Mandarin and English. Chinese letters seemed like paintings to me. I loved watching my father scratch away with a calligraphy pen. I used to ask him “Are Chinese characters actually pictures Baba?”’
‘What did he say?’ Selima, thinking of her own father who would always rather be making something rather than writing or reading.
‘He used to pick me up, put me on his lap, point to the letters, and say “Well little one, this is the character for mountain - Shan - and you can see that it looks like a mountain.” And it does. Look I’ll show you.’
Hannah got up excitedly from the sofa and went to a writing desk. She pulled out a sheet of creamy-white paper from a drawer and a calligraphy pen from a pot. She grabbed a book from the vast bookshelf to use as a rest and returned to the sofa.
She drew the three upward strokes, the largest in the middle, and a cross stroke to show Selima. Selima immediately felt she would rather have learned a language like Chinese where the letters were like pictures.
‘But then, we can add another character underneath…’
Hannah drew an elegant blend of lines underneath as Selima gazed on entranced.
‘Now these two characters together have a totally different meaning.’
‘What do they mean?’ Selima asked.
‘They mean … Mountain Mist. And what happens in a mountain mist?’
Hannah put down the pen, paper and book, covered Selima’s eyes with her hands and blew cold air on the back of her neck, making her shiver.
‘You get lost and lonely in the mountain mist!’ Hannah shrieked in her ear.
They both fell about laughing.
‘That’s what my dad used to do to me. He’s so good at calligraphy. He learned it as a child. I suppose, being an engineer, he’s good at practical things.’
This was the explanation her mother had given her many years ago. It seemed to Hannah to be plausible and so she accepted it, repeating it for the rest of her life.
‘I always wondered why I was an only child,’ Hannah confessed. ‘Did you?’
‘Yes,’ Selima said. ‘All my friends had siblings. I told them I was jealous. Then they used to laugh and tell me hideous stories about fights and being forced to share.’
‘Mine too. But I was still jealous. One night I heard my mother sobbing through the bedroom wall and Baba trying to soothe her. The next morning, I saw streaks of dried blood on the bathroom floor and fresh blood in the toilet.’
‘She’d obviously had a bad period,’ Selima said.
‘No, she had a miscarriage. I didn’t understand at the time, but I didn’t want to ask. I remember she stayed in bed for two days, touching her tummy all the time in a slow, circular motion.’
‘How sad,’ Selima empathised.
‘Then one day, when I was nine, they told me I was going to have a baby brother or sister.’
‘Oh my God, you must have been so excited,’ Selima said.
‘I was. I kept thinking of the adventures we’d have together. I wanted to make him or her a present, something special. Then one morning, it came to me. I would make the baby a book. Not an ordinary baby book with pointless questions about time of birth, or weight, or with spaces to glue in locks of hair. A real book.’
‘You wrote a whole book?’ Selima asked in amazement.
‘Well, it was quite short, but every day I added drawings or little stories to it. When I’d finished it, I went out to our garden in Shanghai and picked some leaves from our mulberry tree to press in the middle of it.’
‘What happened?’
‘It seems like a day from another universe now. When my mum went into labour, time seemed to slow down, almost stop. I remember sitting down at our piano to try and pass the time. I decided the black notes were for boys, the white for girls. I went up and down the keyboard. In the end, I was thumping them out of frustration. Then Baba appeared. He looked as pale as a ghost.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said “Hannah… your mother is all-right. But I’m afraid the baby was stillborn.”’
‘What does stillborn mean?’ Selima asked, knowing already from the chill in Hannah’s voice.
Hannah uttered the single syllable.
‘Dead.’
They sat in silence staring at the wall. Selima now understood the emptin
ess she had felt in the house.
‘Two weeks later, I remembered the baby book and where I had hidden it. I took off the blue bow and pink tissue paper and opened it. In the middle of the book, where I had crushed the mulberry leaves, there was a brown, dead silkworm. I buried the book in the garden, under a tree. I didn’t touch another book for a year.’
Sarah, who had walked back to the sitting-room to tell the girls that supper was ready, heard Hannah’s story through the open door. She stood silently in the hall and wept.
6
The Skeleton Coast
Ben Kaplan sat at the breakfast table sifting through Darius’s photographs, sometimes turning them to examine the body’s position from a different angle. Occasionally he reached for a magnifying cube and placed it over a detail of the picture. The whole family had gathered in the kitchen the morning after the find.
Joe patiently watched over his father’s shoulder.
The remains of the family breakfast were scattered over the scrubbed, wooden table like the remains of an archaeological dig. Barbara brought over a cafetiere of fresh coffee.
‘How far down did they find the body?’ Ben asked.
‘I’m not sure. Six feet perhaps,’ Barbara replied.
‘The details of the uniform have largely gone, but there’s probably enough to identify it. I’ll need to check in regimental records, try and find a match,’ Ben said.
Joe picked up the Victorian pocket-watch and turned it on to its front.
‘It’s got to be him, Dad,’ he said staring at the faded initials carved on the back.
‘Who?’ Barbara asked, feeling excluded, as she often did when Joe and his father got into a huddle over something.
Ben sounded as if he was writing the headlines for an obituary.
‘James William Alexander. Scottish Captain of the British Army. Fought in one of South Africa’s Frontier Wars and then came to Namibia to study the Herero and Nama.’
‘Joe, how do you know about this?’ his mother asked, trying to break into the charmed circle of knowledge.
‘When I went with Dad to the archives at half-term, his was one of the boxes we emptied. Dad told me his story. It could be another person with the same initials...’
‘It could be. Never rule out coincidence. And never get prematurely excited about anything. Those are two things I have learned over the years,’ Ben reflected.
Joe was pleased to have his caution validated.
‘What about the date on the watch though? 1829. I thought you said he was exploring here in the 1830’s,’ Joe challenged.
‘He was. 1829 would be the date when he was given the watch… or perhaps when he purchased it and had it inscribed,’ Ben pointed out.
‘Of course!’ said Joe. ‘I was thinking it was the date he had died.’
‘Most people do. It’s a very interesting phenomenon,’ Ben said. ‘The tendency is to think of anything with a date stamped on it that’s found in a grave as the date of burial. It’s the way our minds initially grasp it. But there’s a whole preceding history in a grave. It has its own chronology, running backwards from death to birth.’
‘So, if this is the person you’re thinking of…?’ Barbara asked, wedging her way into the conversation.
‘If it is him, we know that he was revered by the local tribes,’ Ben replied.
‘So that would explain the garland around his neck?’ Barbara added.
‘Exactly. We also know that he was exploring a secret burial ground when he died.’
‘So, this site is that burial ground?’ Barbara suggested, finding herself now as wrapped up in this Victorian secret as her husband and son.
‘Ah but no, it isn’t,’ Ben said emphatically.
‘What do you mean, Dad?’ Joe asked.
‘You remember what I told you, Joe. He was searching for a sacred burial site that the Herero would not go anywhere near. They refused to accompany him. So, since we know from the garland that he has been buried and decorated by the Herero…’
‘We know that this can’t be the site he was pursuing: the one they were too afraid to go near,’ Joe said, pleased to be able to follow the logic of his father’s detective work.
‘Precisely. Barbara, how much of an area have they excavated round the body?’
‘I couldn’t say exactly, but not much. As soon as they had uncovered the body, they downed spades and found us.’
‘Good. Do we know if they have left the site untouched since then?’
‘We put tarpaulins over the body and left the site with “No Entry” signs dotted around. There’s always someone patrolling the site. So hopefully not.’
‘Excellent. Let’s just hope the Ministry hasn’t sent in their own archaeologists.’
‘It’s quite possible they have,’ Barbara started to explain. ‘Ilana…’
‘My friend Selima’s Mom,’ Joe intervened, explaining a crucial detail his mother had failed to mention.
‘Yes exactly, thank you, Joe,’ Barbara continued. ‘When I mentioned getting you to come and examine the site, Ilana said that Namibia had its own anthropologists.’
‘In which case, I need to phone the Ministry and stop them jumping in with both feet. We also need to get a permit from them to examine the site. That could be tricky. I’ve got to know a few people, win their trust, but they’re not senior enough to have clout.’
‘Wait!’ Joe had a brainwave. ‘My friend Freddie’s father is the British High Commissioner. Couldn’t we ask him to help us? He must be well-connected into the Government.’
‘Well it’s worth a try,’ Ben replied.
‘If we get a permit, we can go at the weekend,’ Barbara suggested.
‘Can we go with Hannah, Selima and Freddie?’ Joe pleaded.
‘It’s too many people,’ Ben objected. ‘You need as few people disturbing a site as possible.’
‘Hold on, Dad. Selima’s father, Darius, was the one who found the body in the first place. Her mother is an expert on tribal customs. They could be incredibly helpful to you. What’s more, Hannah’s mother is a linguist. She studies dialects. She might be able to help with any translations. They live in Swakopmund and so does Selima’s family. I’m sure we could stay with them if I asked.’
‘And what about Freddie and his family?’ Barbara asked.
‘They live in Windhoek. I can’t leave Freddie out, and if his father’s going to help us…’
‘Ok, we’ll see. Can you get Freddie’s father’s number for me? I’d like to speak to him as soon as possible.’
‘Of course.’ Joe started to message Freddie on the WhatsApp Group.
‘In the meantime, why don’t I speak to Ilana and ask them for a good bed and breakfast in Swakopmund,’ Barbara added.
The door to Ralph Wilde’s office was opened with a definite vigour.
‘Ben Kaplan and his son to see you, High Commissioner.’ Ralph’s secretary was always efficient and polite, qualities on which he had already learnt to rely.
‘Thank you, Tulela. Please show them in.’
Joe was curious to meet Freddie’s father. He had already formed a mental image of Ralph: very English, eccentric, probably with a cut-glass accent and slightly stern. He had also imagined him wearing a suit regardless of the weather. So, he was somewhat taken aback to find him wearing a crisp white shirt and no tie. His trousers though had been so well-pressed that you could have cut paper on their creases, and his shoes were polished enough to pass muster on a parade ground.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Kaplan, and, you must be Joe…’ His voice was soft, assured and light. They shook hands.
‘Joe, Freddie’s next door looking very bored. I’m afraid I’ve run out of even vaguely interesting jobs to give him. Why don’t you relieve him of his chores? You can go in through that door.’
Joe
opened the internal door into the next room, deliberately leaving it slightly open.
Freddie was sitting at a computer screen, painfully entering data of some kind. On hearing the door open, he turned around, grateful for any kind of distraction.
‘Joe! Thank God. Entertainment at last.’
Freddie walked over to him, clasped hands and slapped shoulders.
‘Glad you think so. I thought perhaps you’d had enough of me by the end of last week.’
Freddie reeled back and looked at him quizzically.
‘Why on earth would you think that?’
‘My strange obsessions,’ Joe said. ’I thought perhaps they were boring you.’
‘I don’t find them strange or boring,’ Freddie reassured. ‘In fact, you’ve shown me whole new ways of looking at things.’
‘I have?’
‘Of course. Now, please find something interesting in this data my father’s given me to crunch.’
Freddie got up, sat Joe down in his chair in front of the computer, then dragged a second chair to be next to him. They had already forgotten the awkwardness of their fathers meeting for the first time in the room next door.
‘So, you’re an anthropologist Freddie tells me…’ Ralph beckoned to Ben to take a seat opposite him at his meeting-table by the window.
‘Correct, yes. The cliché tells us not to dig too deep into the past. Well, I can’t dig deep enough.’ Ben was tired of how often he had said this by way of an introduction, but it remained, nonetheless, true.
Ralph poured them both a glass of iced water from a jug, freshened with lime, and passed one across.
‘I am imagining, Namibia is a treasure-trove for someone like you.’
‘You’re not wrong. I’m a child in a sweet shop here.’
Ralph laughed. ‘So, how can I help?’ he asked.
‘My wife, Barbara, has been excavating on a potential hotel site in Damaraland. They unearthed the remains of a Victorian soldier, whilst doing a test dig on the foundations.’
‘How inconvenient!’ Ralph commented. He added a coda on seeing Ben’s discomfort with his remark, ‘Inconvenient for them, but highly revealing for you I suppose…’