Circle Around the Sun

by M. D. Johnson

  “Well, maybe. We’ll see,” Shallal responded awkwardly.

  “I absolutely insist, Alego. It’s part of your cultural awareness, nicht vahr?” Emily added a pout for good measure and turned to the other two women. “Of course we’ll come. Thank you so much for the invitation.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  “Club Catacombe” was dressed for a gala event. It resembled more a rain forest than the intended African jungle. There were potted palms everywhere, hibiscus plants and vines of every color and description and there were exotic birds in large, sound-proof cages. The furniture and walls were draped in emerald green, deep red, purple and gold. The music was loud and the atmosphere was deliriously happy and extraordinarily decadent. The band was playing “Ayioko Bia” and people were dancing in a long line up and down the stairs, glasses in hand.

  “This is unbelievable,” Shallal whispered, “I thought you said this was a convergence of left-wing radicals.”

  “You just don’t pay attention, Shallal. How many times have I told you that this IS the new left? In this country communist supporters are stinking rich and they do know how to party! Get with the program, Shallal. Can you dance?”

  They stepped onto the first level’s tiny dance floor. “This is ‘The Bump’, Shallal,” Emily maneuvered her hips to the rhythm of Osibisa’s “Pata Pata”. When the music stopped, Julian M’buto, the club owner who was Ulla’s boyfriend took to the stage and introduced the members of the band.

  “This is a private gathering of our friends to celebrate the new tour of ‘Osibisa’, a name which means in their homeland of Ghana, ‘Criss-cross rhythms exploding with happiness’. Because they are here with us tonight, we are their ‘Happy People’,” he told the audience, reminding them of the band’s most recent hit record. “You know,” he continued, addressing the circle of friends around the stage, “that you are all safe in here and we live for the most part very comfortable lives. We are doing well, you know,” his thick Cameroon accent caressing each syllable, “but there are people in other countries, in the ‘heimat’ if you will of some of us, who still live in fear. People who are powerless, who cannot even vote or walk out in the street without being afraid for their lives. There are people living in refugee camps who are totally disenfranchised and we who love freedom cannot let that continue. At each corner of the room there are large collection boxes. I ask you to give to the oppressed in Palestine, Lebanon, Nigeria and my own country. Do it because you can! This evening is free. There is an open bar and the food was made and donated by our women. Enjoy yourselves. Remember,” he began to sing in a rich baritone as the band began to play what had become an anthem for many Africans away from home, a song called simply “Woyaya”. The audience joined in with the Ghanaian band members singing in deep harmony. Europeans, African and Middle Easterners joining hands, moving rhythmically towards the stage some crying as they shuffled and swayed to the beat:

  “We are going, Heaven knows where we are going. We know we will. We will get there; heaven knows how we will get there. We know we will.”

  “Woyaya, Woyaye. Woyaya. Woyaye,” some of the Ghanaians in the crowd chanted with the band. The effect was magical. It was as though the audience was now of one body, one mind now softly repeating a mantra and Shallal, ever the cynic, couldn’t help but ask Emily what if someone, at this exact moment of love, peace and flowers, asked them to go outside and blow up a building?

  “I don’t know Shallal and these days I wouldn’t put it past someone to try. I’m going to the ladies room to freshen up. If I don’t come back, head for the exit and duck. You’ll know you were right.”

  Emily had taken great pains in her appearance that evening, wearing one of the long dresses she bought that afternoon. Her blonde hair, usually thick and bushy was drawn back into a large bun pinned tightly at the nape of her neck. Now in the ladies room, she secured it once again, making sure that it wouldn’t uncoil without considerable pressure. She reapplied her lip gloss and gave herself a hint more of Chanel No. 5. She shook her head slightly, mussing her hair in the front, so that she didn’t look too serious. Her long earrings were almost the same shade of green as the dress she wore. Around her shoulders was an amber and green paisley shawl. It was the picture of understatement, leaving everything to the imagination. She knew the effort had been worthwhile by the admiring looks of other men in the club. But there had been a hidden motive in her hard work. Tony Shallal was more than aware of her, and she knew what the obvious conclusion of the evening could be. This time, however, she would walk away.

  The music had slowed considerably and the band was about to close its set. Emily was intent on talking to them as she had not seen them since her wedding reception. She felt she owed them an explanation. When the music stopped she led Shallal to the side of stage, catching the eye of one of the band roadies. She touched his arm as he was leaving the stage; he turned around and broke into a wide grin.

  “Girl, we haven’t seen you since the weddin’ party. What happened to you? Thought you’d dropped off the edge of the universe. Did you get rid of that bastard yet?”

  “Oh Teddi, I am so glad to see you. I’m divorced. Possibly, if there’s any karmic justice maybe I’m a widow. He was last seen in Lebanon. Some people say he’s on his way to Afghanistan and others say he died in some sort of skirmish in a training camp in Beirut. I don’t know and I really don’t care.”

  “You’re better off without him. He was a real divvie, you know? Look,” Teddi continued, “we are meeting up at Julian’s place upstairs later. Why don’t you two come and join us. Wait until the crowd goes home. Did you see Axel Stadler and his old lady? They’re here as well. Man, that guy is crazy.”

  “I try and stay away from that lot, Teddi. Is Verena Stoltz here? You know, that little girl from Ulla’s shop.”

  “Oh yeah,” he replied, “I saw her. Just one more crazy chick. She was talking about that car blowing up in Karlsruhe the other day. The one with that judge’s wife inside. God, it was an awful thing, so I hear. The woman survived but she will be crippled for life. I mean, what did she do to deserve that? Alright, her husband signed a lot of the search and arrest warrants for the Baader-Meinhof people but this is just wholesale slaughter. They’re sick! They’re all sick people. I heard on the news that Baader and Ensslin were behind it. They don’t even bother covering their tracks. They want to be caught now. Verena was saying that was the plan any way. They’ll get caught and kill themselves in jail. That way they become martyrs to the cause. All fuckin’ mad if you ask me, man.”

  They said their goodbyes and when Emily was sure the musician was out of earshot, she turned to Shallal, “If Axel is still here, something is in the works. How far is American Intelligence involved? Are you all working together?”

  “Emily, you still don’t get it do you? Even though we cooperate with each other, it’s still a big contest. Whoever gets there first gets the prize. There is only going to be so much sharing of the spoils.”

  “But Tony, innocent people are being hurt. If you share information perhaps it can be stopped.”

  “As I said, only so much information will be shared. That’s the nature of the beast. At ‘6’, we have departments that don’t work together, much less intelligence organizations.”

  Emily, while listening to him had been assessing the exits in case of trouble and scanning the room for familiar faces. Finally she saw one. “Don’t look now, but we have an onlooker. It’s Axel. He’s on the balcony right above you on the next level. It might be worth something to say “hello. She quickly headed for the stairs, passing through the crowds of people, Shallal following behind her. “Quick,” she said, “Let’s head for the bar, get some drinks and pretend to look for a table. Maybe he’ll invite us in with them.”

  Shallal followed her instructions without question. It didn’t take long before Ingeborg Stadler spotted them.

  “Come over here, we have room. You remember my husband, Axel,” she said, motioni
ng them to sit down.

  “Yes, of course, I do. How have you been Axel? Still at the University?” Emily replied with a fixed smile almost glued to her face.

  “Ja. It’s where all the action is. The Sheisse Armee haven‘t closed it down yet. “Moment mal…Herr Ober!” He signaled the waiter and ordered another beer to add to the five or six empty liter mugs on the table.

  Emily could sense Ingeborg’s discomfort. Axel was already drunk and out for a fight.

  “So, Axel...heard from Ulrike?” Emily asked after Tony Shallal excused himself to make a phone call to his hotel.

  “Listen to me, Amina Desai. You may fool them. You don’t fool me.” He leaned menacingly toward her blowing cigarette smoke in her face. “I know your type. Ulrike is none of your concern.” Emily momentarily stopped breathing. Surely he didn’t know.

  “You, ‘Armee’ are all the same. Thrill seekers all of you!”

  “Thrill seekers?” Emily almost laughed out loud with relief, “And I’m not an American any more than you are. I’m British.”

  “Britisch…You think that makes it any better? All of you, you know nothing about sufferance, about poverty. You’ve never been without. We in Germany no longer have an identity. Our politicians have sold out to you sheisse bastards. You’ve carved up our country. A little piece for the Russians, another piece for the Britisch, one for the Amerikaners. Don’t you understand? We are a proud people! Our young people won’t allow this anymore. You’ll see. And we’ll keep going until we get rid of all of you and have Germany just for the Germans.”

  “You know something. Axel, you are the least German man I have ever met. You’re nothing but a rude, drunk, arrogant fascist. And you know something else. Mr. Middle-Aged Radical? You wouldn’t last five minutes in real, not imagined activism,” Emily said, getting up from the table, “Ingeborg, I really feel sorry for you. Why him? You could have had Hitler. He’d have been a vast improvement.”

  Emily saw Shallal coming back to the booth and blocked his path. “Tony let’s get out of here before I slap that burk’s face good and proper.”

  “Christ, Emily! This is the first time you’ve ever sounded like a Scouser,” he said, using the euphemism for a Liverpool local.

  “Look love,” she said blandly putting her hands on her hips, “If this were Liverpool, I’d ‘ave hit the bastard with a fuckin’ bottle.”

  “Very working class,” he answered embarrassedly.

  “Get bent!” was her response as they left the building and headed out into the cool night air.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Shallal called her the following morning. He was leaving for England and simply wanted to say goodbye. He hadn’t asked to spend the night with her and while she had entertained the idea of refusal she knew she probably would have agreed because he was attractive and she was lonely, without a shadow of a doubt. In retrospect Emily didn’t want a full time partner, but from time to time she did want to feel as though she was still a woman. These days she felt as though she was living in an emotional combat zone, neither male nor female, fighting an imaginary war with enemies that weren’t really hers. She was happy in her work. She dealt with affluent antique buyers and sellers; even the travel was fulfilling to an extent. She was not short of money and she had two delightful children and a gorgeous home. But there was so much missing in her life. She had no sense of purpose. “What a bloody hypocrite I am,” she thought out loud. “Here I am with a nanny, who also does my cooking and cleaning, what the hell do I know about being a single mother juggling the job and the home life. I’ve got it easy and I bloody intend to keep it that way too. As for Shallal, well maybe next time. I will not lapse into mediocrity waiting for James Bond on his bloody camel. I will go out more. Meet new people.”

  Emily rang Anne Gwynn, a friend of hers from Wales who worked as Secretary at the US Army Hospital in Heidelberg. Anne was a very sociable type, whose boyfriend was a major and the commander of the 207th Aviation Company, an army airfield where flights carrying military and political heavyweights from the States landed in nearby Pfaffengrund. The couple was active in the Rod and Gun Club. They frequently went on hiking and ski trips and were part of the active outdoorsy crowd that congregated in the officer’s club along with quite a few American ex-pats to plan future expeditions. Checking the timetable that Anne sent every month Emily saw that it was May 24th, the day after one of their monthly meetings, so she would be able to give her an update on coming events.

  Anne was more than agreeable to met Emily for a drink after work. In order to beat the traffic Emily left around four-thirty, thinking she could drive through the military installation gate without too much fuss at the checkpoint. The military police, despite the recent bombings still weren’t really checking vehicles not sporting the Green USAREUR license plates assigned to military personnel. She signed in, parked the car amidst the other local national vehicles which seemed to have their own unofficial parking some distance away from the Officer’s Club and walked towards the building. There was no security.

  Emily noticed two soldiers looking at a brand new, sunshine yellow, 1972 Ford Capri. One of them, obviously the vehicle’s proud owner, said “Hi” to Emily as she walked by. She turned around and smiled.

  “Nice night,” the shorter of the two young men said.

  “It certainly is, Captain,” Emily said observing bars on his jacket.

  “Makes you glad to be alive, doesn’t it? Have a good evening Ma’am.”

  “You do the same,” she replied.

  It truly was a beautiful Heidelberg evening. The spring sun was still shining. To complete the picture, a strong, healthy looking pregnant woman with a purposeful stride was walking slightly ahead of her on the opposite side, having just left her car parked next to the other military vehicles near the club. Now that’s a ‘Typische Deutsche’ wonder-woman, Emily thought, Typical of the Master Race. Big on the thighs, notorious backside with hips built for childbirth. Not like me. I could barely bloody walk at that stage. That chick looked like she could run a bloody marathon. It’s all in the diet, Emily mused, observing the bistro tables outside the club where men and women, some in uniform, happily chatted away as the sun began to go down, simply enjoying Heidelberg, the best assignment in the United States Army’s European command.

  Weird though, pondered Emily, as she continued to stare at the young woman who now, instead of going into the club like the rest of the people ahead of them, gained ground and was walking towards another empty car. She got inside.

  How odd. Maybe she’s waiting for someone, Emily thought as she saw Anne’s boy friend Tom Fagan waiting at the door to sign her in.

  “Hi, Em. It’s only ten of six and Anne’s not here yet. Go and find a table and I’ll be right there.”

  Emily found a table in the center of the room within sight of the massive window facing the grassy knoll and the bistro tables. Not much of a scenic view of old Heidelberg, Emily thought, but at least it’s a large table. She looked out of the window and saw the pregnant woman again. Emily contemplated the girl’s somewhat diminished belly. She really doesn’t look that big now from the front, Emily observed. It must be a boy. She’s carrying it all in her bottom. Within seconds, the woman got into a waiting car and drove out toward the exit.

  A few minutes later Tom came in with Anne and Howard Barrington, who owned the “American Café” in the neighboring village of Rohrbach, a popular place offering standard American fare much to the delight of the more homesick military families living off base. They had just ordered drinks and turkey club sandwiches when there was a terrible roar, then a loud hiss, followed by the first of two deafening explosions. The building rumbled and shook, debris flying everywhere.

  “Hit the floor now! Lie still and don’t move!” Tom Fagan screamed.

  The main entrance and front wall was blown apart. Windows cracked and fell in splinters like lethal icicles, glass chards falling like stars in brilliant contrast with the dark, highl
y polished parquet floors. It was mayhem. A few were screaming, but true to emergency training most stayed rooted to the spot, following directions. Outside the club there was wreckage everywhere. The large window had shattered, leaving a gaping hole in the building’s structure. The car next to the yellow Capri Emily had seen just minutes earlier had exploded. The young soldiers, Captain Clyde Bonner and his friend Ronald Woodward were killed instantly, their fragmented bodies hurled into oblivion. Another car bomb hit the computer center. Two fifty to sixty pound explosives had been somehow concealed in cars with stolen military tags. The drivers had gotten through the checkpoint without problem. This was an act of terrorism, aimed at civilians. Standard fare, observed Emily, low cost, few people involved, high impact. The end result, big publicity and a sordid place in history.

  After being interviewed by Military Intelligence and thoroughly examined by medical services personnel from the US Army hospital, Emily and her friends were released. They were bruised, and badly shaken but all things considered, still in relatively good shape.

  After telephoning Atiya with instructions to ring her parents in England, Emily left the others and drove home, where she was met by her crying nanny at the door. Emily’s daughter was screaming in her arms while Mason, unable to be held back, hugged her leg then led his mother to her favorite chair and offered Rupert his best teddy-bear to hold.

  “Here Mummy, cuddle this,” he said somberly, his arm around her in support.

  “There’s been a phone call from a Colonel Beresford. He said he’s at Mr. Wallace-Terry’s office in Frankfurt. Please ring him, Miss Emily. He was terribly worried about you. When he called from the Embassy, I thought it was Mr. Shallal, and I told him you were at the Officer’s Club at Campbell Barracks. I’m sorry. Miss Em. He sounded so like Mr. Tony. He was hysterical.”