I set up my equipment while Samuel ripped away old newspaper stuck to the windowpanes to lighten the room. I’d planned on interviewing the older man, Saul, first and thereafter his nephew to see if the youngster had anything to add, but at the last minute I scrapped this in favour of filming them side by side to save time. Both men listened intently as I explained what I was doing here, and how they could help me. But as I began asking Chesley’s questions, neither could tell me about their ancestors. It didn’t take me long to stop for a break.
The men smoked cigarettes while I slotted the memory stick containing Ouma Gendredi’s interview into my laptop. I called them over to give them an idea of the testimony I was hoping they might be able to tell me.
‘The white men lay dead when the fighting stopped,’ Ouma Gendredi said onscreen.
Saul and Samuel watched her all the way to the end, and not for the first time it occurred to me that the old woman had more to tell. I filmed the two men for the remainder of the afternoon, and they spoke at length. Ouma Gendredi had invoked memories, and perhaps imaginations. All of it was good.
Back in my bakkie I played a few minutes of the interview to listen to their voices. Perhaps the lawyers might notice similarities if they watched it alongside Ouma Gendredi’s recording, but that would be easy enough for me to rectify in the edit. Chesley was paying for hand-me-down stories, and there was no way of him knowing where his subjects might have heard the tales in the first place. In any event, if their words corroborated Ouma Gendredi’s, they’d strengthen her testimony.
—————
I arrived at Jago’s place on Saturday evening wearing the smartest clothes I’d packed. He glanced at my ensemble and told me to follow him to his bedroom where he grabbed a white shirt from his cupboard before nonchalantly flipping open a lacquered box of cufflinks. His were clear Swarovski; he chose an ocean-blue agate pair for me.
The shirt had paper-stiff creases down its sleeves; Jago’s sweet scent permeated its Sea Island cotton. My cock hardened in my trousers. I could do anything dressed like this.
He nodded approvingly before returning downstairs to grab the bottle of Riesling chilling in his fridge. We walked side by side to his car, and I imagined us living in Berlin about to spend the evening with friends.
Jago’s Alfa Romeo Spider advanced cautiously up the suburban street towards the ambassador’s residence. Oversize Mercedes-Benzes, BMWs and Land Rovers filled every possible parking space on either side of us and narrowed our path. Outside the ambassador’s gate stood a Toyota Hilux, and as we inched past it – Jago cursing and swearing – I was relieved it couldn’t be the same vehicle I’d seen up north because it had South African plates.
‘What’s the reason for this party?’ I asked when we found a spot in an adjacent street, and I felt I could safely distract Jago.
‘Officially, trade,’ he said. ‘But any excuse for a party. How’s your German?’
‘Nicht so gut,’ I said. ‘Ich bin rostig.’
He corrected me: ‘Meine Deutschkenntnisse wird ein bisschen rostig.’
I knew enough to say, ‘Meine Deutschkenntnisse sind schön etwas verwirrt,’ which succeeded in making him smile because verwirrt means ‘confused’ even though I used it incorrectly. But, if anything, I was abgelenkt: distracted by the Hilux.
The ambassador’s lounge was devoid of furniture but full of people. Jago introduced me to Zelma, the ambassador’s wife, who wore a dress with embroidered peacock feathers. She clasped my arms as if reassuring herself of my existence, which she only released to accept our bottle of wine which she told a servant to store in the ambassador’s private chiller in the weinkeller.
Jago began chatting to her in German; Zelma was delighted to hear that I could mostly understand the language.
‘If you talk slowly,’ I clarified.
‘I haven’t been to Lüderitz,’ she said after asking where I was from, ‘but Jago has told me about your sister Lucy.’
He corrected her: ‘Lucia.’
‘Alzheimer’s,’ she apologised. She made a comment about the African sun shrivelling her brain.
‘As long as it’s not your skin, liebling,’ he said.
‘Yes, the neck,’ she said. ‘I have nightmares that I will become a wrinkled turkey like the British High Commissioner’s wife. Take me to Dignitas if that happens.’ She glanced my way to assess if I understood her reference. ‘So. Are you Jago’s boyfriend?’
I smiled. ‘Ask Jago that question.’
‘Why? Will he give me a different answer?’
That I couldn’t say.
‘Look,’ she said, adopting a child-like voice, clasping Jago’s chin with her fingers, ‘I made you blush. I never thought I’d see that.’ She turned to me: ‘I will tell you everything you need to know about this one. But first, you must reveal yourself to me.’
I began my spiel about Bushman paintings, which she interrupted to ask if I’d read Carl Jung: ‘He says images link us all. Our minds.’
‘Consciousnesses,’ Jago said pointedly. Her question about the status of our relationship must have embarrassed him. ‘Collective unconscious.’
‘Yes, the collective unconscious,’ she said. ‘You must read Jung because he talks about images and archetyp—’
‘Archetypes,’ Jago said.
‘Yes, archetypes that are the same for us today as they were for primitive people. I mean, I don’t know if this will help your film, but maybe it gives you something. But if you make films, there’s a delegation here you must meet. First, I must rescue that Chinese official’s wife who is so bored with my husband that her brain will soon fall out her head. Then I will introduce you.’ She kissed me before shouldering past the guests in the direction of her target.
Jago suggested we use the opportunity to find two bottles of Schorschbräu the ambassador had flown in from Munich that morning.
Barbara Braun and Hulga Meier – Zelma’s ‘delegation’ – weren’t filmmakers after all. The two women explained that they were from the German Information Centre, based at the Pretoria embassy, visiting Namibia on official business. During their lengthy reply, Jago set off with the ambassador’s wife in search of someone else to speak to.
‘You make films?’ Barbara Braun said. She was stout and straightforward.
I gave my old Assassinating Apartheid pitch. The rehearsed sentences came so naturally that I almost lost my place in their recitation. Where did those words hide?
‘Do you work in Windhoek?’ she said.
‘I’m here researching Bushman paintings.’
Hulga Meier, Barbara’s grey-skinned colleague, perhaps a smoker, scowled at me because she wanted to hear more about my apartheid film. Where might she watch it online? I explained that it wasn’t available, but that if she looked hard enough she could find a few clips here and there. I added, ‘It has German subtitles.’
‘You think I need subtitles?’ she said with a somewhat hostile stare.
‘I only meant to say that my film was released in Germany.’ To reverse out of the conversational cul-de-sac, I asked, ‘What brings you both to Namibia?’
‘A project,’ Hulga said, waving at someone on the other side of the room. ‘It involves a lot of driving on dirt roads.’
‘That sounds like my life. Maybe we’ve passed each other.’
‘Yes, maybe.’
‘What car do you have?’
‘What?’ she said. ‘The type of car? A Mercedes. What do you drive?’
‘Just a bakkie. So it’s not you who’s been following me in the Hilux?’ I’d intended this as a joke.
‘Why do you think we want to follow you?’
‘Paranoia.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Judging by her face, no humour could be found in my remark.
Out of desperation, I said, ‘Have you tasted the Schorschbräu?’
‘They have Schorschbräu here?’ Barbara Braun said, and she was off.
Now that I had Hulga t
o myself, I apologised again for good measure.
‘Are you in Windhoek for long?’ she said.
‘I leave tomorrow. I’m back in Lüderitz for a week, and then I return.’
‘How do you know the ambassador?’
I pointed to Jago, whom Hulga didn’t recognise. I told her his name, and she said she knew who he was, but hadn’t yet met him. Unlike the ambassador’s wife, Hulga didn’t ask about our relationship, but was interested in learning more about Jago’s work. Prefacing my explanation with caveats, I told her what little I understood about his NGO. Although I recalled his quip about books being bullshit from our first night together, I decided not to repeat this at the risk of another misunderstanding.
‘Do you think Barbara is lost?’ Hulga said with irritation. ‘As much as I like Schorschbräu, I was hoping to find something even stronger tonight.’
‘Perhaps she’s searching for the ambassador’s furniture.’
At last I’d succeeded in making Hulga Meier smile. ‘If you want something stronger, try this,’ I said giving her my remaining American spliff.
She accepted the joint with relish, and I wished her all the best with it. I slipped through the constellated guests in time to hear Jago telling Zelma about his upcoming holiday in the Dominican Republic.
—————
Dollar’s stink of sweat and cigarettes intermingled with the faint pharmaceutical tang of his antiretrovirals. The hair in my nostrils prickled as I recalled his smell: there was something of my childhood in his soupy stink.
A faded tattoo on his neck, obscured by a burn, was difficult to decipher even though I’d paused the clip to transcribe it. I could read ‘FREE YOURSELF’, something something, ‘LOVE WHO YOU ARE’ and then possibly ‘NEVER GIVE UP’. Remarkably upbeat sentiments for a man with his history.
I pressed play. Dollar kept staring at me. His cheek bones caught the light to create perfect hollows. He’d have been sexy without the pinprick tattoos and scabs. Perhaps his life could have taken a different path: male model, porn star. Unlike the other ex-cons, especially those with tattooed faces, I’d never have suspected from looking at him that he’d spent most of his time in prison.
‘Look at the wall,’ I said.
Someone had destroyed his back with ink. Bored from injecting ‘pinks’ or smoking zol, a jailbird Picasso had scratched a lopsided skull into Dollar’s glistening skin. If, by some miracle, Dollar had been hepatitis- or HIV-free before the tattooist started, he’d almost certainly have seroconverted by the time the man’s needle finished its memento mori.
‘Do you like it?’ he said.
‘Don’t talk.’
When I told him to face me again, he quickly turned and tensed his pecs, cupping them in his palms, as if reassuring himself of his strength. His hands slid down his torso, and came to rest on his waistband where his thumbs caressed the muscular creases running vertically to his groin. Two rampant lions, tattooed above these diagonal furrows, were poised, forelegs aloft, to attack.
‘Still?’ he said.
I confirmed that I was filming him.
‘Ek moet verduidelik?’ he said. ‘Wie sal my dophou? Americans?’
I’d zoomed into a row of tiny digits on his arm. ‘You’ll need to speak English because Americans don’t like subtitles.’
‘What?’ He scratched his stomach.
‘Keep still. Don’t move.’ The audio captured my deep inhalation before I went up to him. I’d quickly stepped back after shooting the numbers.
We carried on like this – me approaching for shots of his smaller tattoos – and I’d catch his whispers, which I hadn’t minded because they didn’t interfere with my work. Initially, I’d planned on ditching the audio from my camera’s inbuilt mic for this portion of my film, but now I wasn’t so sure: his breathy words might make an interesting accompaniment. Compared to some of the other men’s behaviour I’d witnessed, it was a minor distraction. One of them had been so busy arguing with himself there wasn’t time to answer my questions. Another kept slapping his face whenever he thought I wasn’t looking.
Dollar’s hands moved up to his neck, his fingers fidgeting. Keen for me to finish. I said to let go of his throat because his arms cast shadows over his sweaty torso. The lights were at their hottest. I remembered the perspiration on my back. He’d stop moving when I asked him to, but would just as quickly forget.
A verse containing the words ‘SILVER DOLLAR’ partly covered his chest.
‘Is that why you call yourself Dollar?’ I’d said. ‘These words?’
He nodded.
Long scars ran from his wrists up towards his elbows on both forearms. He’d sliced himself lengthwise, tracing his arteries, before someone saved him from bleeding out. The same medic must have created the dimples, parallel to each cut, sewing Dollar’s skin closed. They’d thickened into angry keloids.
—————
I reported for duty at Chesley’s office first thing on Monday morning, having spent all of Sunday on the road, only to learn that he was stuck in Cape Town.
‘He’s there for the partners’ meeting,’ his assistant informed me.
‘The partners’ meeting? Are you serious?’
‘He can see you Wednesday,’ she said, consulting her diary.
‘Do you think you could have told me this yesterday?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t work weekends.’
With a show of great reluctance, I updated my calendar before giving her my latest invoice and a record of my recent Windhoek expenses.
‘Is this everything?’ she said as she flipped through the receipts.
‘I’ve got some more editing to do,’ I said, ‘but I’ll include that work in my next one.’
‘You should bring that invoice with you on Wednesday.’
‘That sounds ominous.’
‘There’s lots going on.’
‘All of it good, I hope.’
‘He never tells me anything. This job is befok.’
I was glad to visit my sister that evening, and relieved to learn that Will was out of town. It was her birthday in a few weeks, and she made me promise that I’d celebrate with her on Agate Beach.
‘Is this one of the Harmony braais I’ve heard so much about?’ I said.
‘That’s it.’
‘I won’t forget.’
‘Will wants to talk to you. He’ll be there along with everyone else, but wants to chat with you before then. He’s got a lot on his mind.’
‘Still arguing with Amanda?’ I regretted my remark.
My sister took her time. ‘He’s sorry that you got caught up in their argument.’
‘Is that what he told you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing.’
‘He’s attempting to revitalise Harmony but she’s always on his case. I think he’s almost given up. If I’m honest, it’s finally dawning on him that she couldn’t care less about his ideas. He said something about asking you to follow people around. Do you think you’re able to spend a day at Harmony filming?’
‘Seriously?’
‘If you’re still cross about Kolmanskop, you should know that he apologised to Ben.’
‘That’s the least he could do. I haven’t got any time in my schedule to traipse after a slave at Harmony. Chesley’s keeping me very busy. But if Will really wants me to film something, tell him I’d rather have Sixten talking about his life than another of Will’s lectures.’
‘Sixten?’
‘That was the part of Kolmans that felt real. Plus Sixten’s vulnerable and nice looking, which is a good combination.’
‘But what about the rest of it?’
‘Lucia, do you seriously think any of Will’s theories are going to work?’
This she couldn’t answer. She went to lift the record player’s pickup arm, and spoke with her back to me: ‘It would mean a lot to me, Henry, if you did this for him. At least let me say you’re considering it.’
&nb
sp; ‘Tell him what you want,’ I said, ‘but I can’t promise anything.’
As my sister knelt to select another LP, I said, ‘Let’s not have any more music for the time being if you don’t mind.’
She retrieved a Ziploc bag from behind our aunt’s globe.
‘Here,’ she said handing it to me.
It was packed with dope and heavier than it looked. ‘Jesus, Lucia.’
She took the ashtray from the sideboard. ‘So how about rolling one, and then we can give each other unwanted advice about our love lives?’ She made herself comfortable beside me.
I opened the bag to reach in, but decided against it. ‘You know what? I think I’ll pass. I can make you one, but I’m not in the mood to smoke tonight.’
‘Is everything OK?’
‘All fine. Jago gave me some potent American dope, and I think I might have overdone it.’
‘Feeling paranoid?’
‘Ja, a bit.’
‘Put it on the table. So what can you tell me about your Bushman paintings?’
‘That they’re difficult to access.’
She laughed. ‘Surely you didn’t have to travel up north to find that out. You’re in a strange mood tonight.’
‘I know. Sorry. Do you mind if we don’t talk about work?’
‘Am I allowed to ask about Jago? I’m guessing it must be serious because he’s stopped updating me.’
‘I enjoy being with him,’ I admitted, ‘but I don’t know how he feels about me. I speak to him almost every night, so I guess we get along. But is it anything more? I’m not so sure. Am I on the cusp of love? Hell, I’m on the cusp of something.’
‘Why aren’t you up there now?’
‘Well …’
‘Unless you don’t want to talk about it.’
‘I’ve got lots to sort out in Lüderitz.’
‘You want to sell the house? What I mean to say is if you do want to sell, don’t feel like you need my permission.’
I recognised the same sadness in her voice from when I left for Jo’burg.
‘I don’t know if I want to sell,’ I said. ‘I can’t seem to be able to plan that far ahead right now.’
At the Edge of the Desert Page 15