At the Edge of the Desert

by Basil Lawrence

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Cool. Won’t be long.’

  I followed him through the gravel quad, past a pyramid of ten-gallon drums on their sides, into his workshop.

  ‘Yes, a lot of flotation,’ he said when he saw me looking at the impressive triangle. ‘Problem is they rust too quickly.’ The room smelt of burnt wood because he’d been jigsawing chipboard. ‘Cleaning your place motivated me to pull my own together. What do you reckon?’

  The mound of junk at the other end of his workshop had been cleared away. In its place were shelves holding tools and hardware.

  ‘Looking good,’ I said. ‘Much better.’

  We went to the table where he’d examined the Harmony blueprints with Keanu. Here he emptied some washers, screws and other bits and pieces out of a jam jar. While sorting through this jumbled metal, but without looking up at me, he said, ‘I’m sorry you haven’t been well …’ He found an Allen key, which he bounced on the palm of his hand. He swapped the jigsaw cutter’s old blade for a new one.

  ‘Hardly anyone visits me now that Keanu’s gone,’ he said. ‘And if they do, they want to bitch about the noise. I’m back in the harbour so everyone’s complaining. I usually don’t answer my gate.’ He came to me, close enough to touch, as he reached for the cloth slung over a nearby sawhorse. ‘Do you still want to film me?’

  ‘When I’ve got more energy.’

  ‘Well, I’d like that.’ Wiping his hands, he asked if I wanted coffee.

  His lounge was clean: its walls repainted.

  ‘Do you remember anything about Agate Beach?’ he said from the kitchen.

  ‘Most of it.’

  ‘Do you mind—’

  ‘Yes. I mean, no: I need to talk.’ My sister wouldn’t tell me anything. ‘Like did they find that Belgian guy in time? Yanis.’

  ‘No, I went to his memorial service. You didn’t know that? His family came out. They flew his remains to Brussels.’

  ‘And Keanu?’

  ‘His father drove from Swakopmund to collect his body. Keanu’s buried next to his mother.’

  If we were both waiting for my reaction, none came. It was as if Quinty was speaking to me from behind a thick sheet of glass. As if he was broadcasting over a muffled radio.

  ‘I remember the CPR when they pulled him out the water,’ I said.

  ‘That I don’t recall.’

  ‘It wakes me up at night.’

  ‘Shit, I’m sorry …’

  I smiled as best I could. ‘Because of my meds, my thoughts feel like they belong to someone else. Like they’re on loan to me for the day. But some nights I know I’m responsible for his death.’

  Quinty brought the coffee into the lounge. ‘Don’t say that, Henry. It was an accident.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. When I’m awake everything feels second-hand, but at night I’m back on the beach.’

  ‘You need to know that it was out of your control. Out of all our control.’

  ‘Will didn’t do anything.’

  ‘Yes, that I remember. Him holding up both hands as if he was directing you and me.’

  I worried that by speaking so freely about Agate Beach, I was doing the spadework for a depressive reaction. Perhaps sensing my discomfort, Quinty told me that his husband had sent their sons out to Namibia to visit.

  ‘My boys stayed a couple weeks,’ he said. ‘At massive bloody expense, I might add, but I was glad to see them. I mean, you and I could have done with their help when we were trying to pull Keanu out of that water.’ He rocked forward to explain the logistics of flying from Perth to Lüderitz with the same patience I’d witnessed over Will’s blueprints.

  ‘He lost his job,’ he said, still talking about his spouse. ‘That was another reason why he sent them over, I suppose; to get them out of his hair while he sorted out his life. The funny thing is that he was in Lüderitz just a couple weeks before Agate Beach. He’d been trying to convince me to make another go of things – between us, I mean – but I think he’s finally realised that there’s nothing left to salvage. What’s done is done. But he’s one of those people who lives in eternal hope.’

  ‘I always thought I was too. You’re not going back?’

  ‘I don’t follow?’

  ‘You’re not leaving Lüderitz?’

  ‘No, I’m here for good. You can’t get rid of me that easily. I’ve even renewed my mining licence. There’s a hundred thousand diamonds waiting for me on the seabed and I’m going to haul each and every one of those tiny buggers up to the surface if it kills me. But I don’t think you came here to listen to me talk about offshore mining.’

  ‘How long’s it been?’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Since I went AWOL.’

  ‘I don’t know. Five months? Why do you ask?’

  ‘My sister won’t tell me.’

  ‘What’s a few months, anyway, give or take? Are you hungry? I can grill us some crayfish.’

  Although I hadn’t eaten all day, I didn’t have the appetite for a meal. ‘You know what,’ I said, rising, ‘I should probably go back. I visited my house before coming here, and I’m beginning to flag.’

  He put an arm around me as he helped me outside, and offered to drive me home.

  ‘No, I’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘I want to walk.’

  After unlocking his front gate, he hugged me. ‘You’re looking well.’

  ‘You’re seeing me on a good day.’

  His face softened. ‘Please stop blaming yourself about Keanu.’

  ‘I’ll try. But I can’t do much about my dreams. There’s something I wanted to ask you.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Has my sister said anything to you about selling Twin Palms?’

  He raised his eyebrows. I hadn’t meant to ambush him. He said, ‘That’s a conversation you should have with her, mate.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. This all feels a bit overwhelming. I’m not ready to live on my own. I don’t feel strong enough. She hasn’t decided yet, but if she does, do you think I could rent your spare room? Until I find somewhere else?’

  ‘Don’t worry. You can stay with me for as long as you bloody like, Henry. I don’t want your money.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s finally going to convert the cabanas into guesthouses.’

  He smiled. ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  I said, ‘But I won’t be moving in with you tomorrow, so you don’t have to worry about that.’

  ‘Either way, I wouldn’t mind. Why don’t you chat to her? And come over next Friday, and if this is something you still want to do we could discuss the ins and outs.’

  As it happened, I never saw Quinty that Friday, nor any of the month’s other Fridays for that matter. My visit stirred up memories of Agate Beach; and overnight, what I can only describe as terminal guilt drenched my world. Smothered it. I couldn’t get out of bed.

  My doctor twice increased my dosage, and the heavy psychic dust began to lift. Frank discussions with him made me promise to stop smoking zol. We also agreed that sleeping in bed all day with the curtains drawn was probably not a good idea. On both counts, I was mostly compliant. The heaviness never quite left me, having colonised my mind, but there came a time when it no longer sapped my every resource.

  As my stamina increased, my sister visited my cabana most evenings after work. She hinted that her charity was having a difficult time, and I was left wondering if she’d cut back most of her projects. Soon thereafter the radio informed me that the ongoing attacks in Europe had resulted in the EU slashing its foreign aid. European voters were demanding that their money fix problems at home, and I worried how populism would harm everyone my sister needed to help.

  But because of the Windhoek estate agent’s note I’d attached to the fridge, we were able to talk about the man who’d been calling her about Twin Palms. And how, with my sister’s every rebuff, Wendell Zuanshi, a Chinese businessman, kept upping his offer.

  ‘I don’t think I�
��ll sell,’ she’d said, perhaps to reassure me. But selling would be her only way of recouping Shane’s investment. If she was hesitant, it was because Twin Palms had become my de facto convalescent home.

  ‘Shane was always on the lookout for a deal,’ I reminded her. ‘If he was alive, I bet he’d consider the offer.’

  ‘No, it would betray his hard work. If someone offered you money for your place, would you?’

  ‘In a heartbeat.’ I felt able to leave town again. I’d never afford a similar house again – and selling couldn’t be undone – but a better future had to lie elsewhere. I was sure of it.

  ‘The Chinese guy wants to turn Twin Palms into a guesthouse,’ she said. Shane’s original idea. ‘I feel bad for never finishing it.’

  ‘You could always rent to this guy. Let him run it as a guesthouse while you retain ownership.’

  ‘You think he’d do that?’

  ‘Ask him. And if he wants to buy a house in Lüderitz, tell him your brother’s looking to sell.’

  ‘I suppose I could fix up Twin Palms, and let it out.’

  ‘Now that’s an even better idea,’ I said. ‘Quinty’s your man. Why don’t you borrow money from Will? We could always live in my place, and that way you’ll have an income no matter what happens with the EU.’

  With Quinty’s help, a neon sign replaced Twin Palms’s flagpole. Red Chinese characters outshone the smaller English and German translations advertising daily rates for the main residence and the six garden cabanas. My sister and I moved into my aunt’s place where she set up my computer. I still wasn’t able to look at the Herero interviews, but with her encouragement I submitted my prison documentary to Doc/Fest.

  At Quinty’s prompting, I paid for a sperrgebiet permit in order to accompany my sister on her next trip to Elizabeth Bay. It wasn’t a journey I felt able to do by myself, especially not after my experience at Kolmanskop, but I wanted to see Will’s new home and Quinty offered to drive.

  He bought food from the deli on Woermann Street, their just-baked bread reminding me of Rupertine. It invoked a memory that I lost again. Because there wasn’t any fresh water in Elizabeth Bay, Quinty bought two gallons along with a few groceries, and even remembered to fill an old jerrycan with diesel for the generator.

  We travelled for most of the morning to reach the still-active mine in the sperrgebiet. Quinty found the turnoff, just beyond the slurry-filled lagoons, that would take us to Will’s new home. Even with our permits, we were urged by my sister not to linger near the mine. Bored security guards had interrogated her in the past, even demanding small bribes, which complicated Will’s life because he complained to the mine manager.

  The company had given the nod for him to stay in Elizabeth Bay on condition that no one else joined him. Officially he was camping, and the mine turned a blind eye to his living in one of their old shipping containers in preference to his tent.

  After a long journey we reached the abandoned seaside town. The strong wind cleared the sky, roughened the Atlantic. To prevent spray coating his bakkie, Quinty parked in an abandoned factory among the rust-speckled machinery. We followed my sister into a dark steel rectangle with ‘MAERSK’ painted on its side to fetch Will because she wanted us to visit her favourite spot on the bay.

  ‘I always think of Auntie Elisabet when I’m out here,’ she said as we huddled in a nook behind an old concrete mill that afforded us a good view of the water. ‘Us celebrating her birthday on the Zanzibar.’

  ‘When will you be done, Will?’ Quinty asked at one point.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It’s all falling apart.’

  We sat inches away from the shrieking wind, which was so cold that I had to fetch our anoraks from the bakkie. I felt a crinkle in my sister’s pocket, and found a letter she’d addressed to Will. I didn’t read it.

  We ate meat and potato salad, but Will wasn’t hungry. We warmed ourselves with Quinty’s thermos of spiked coffee. Teetotal Will knocked back a shot of the hot drink, but that was all.

  Overcome by sadness, and not just because the whiskey was doing a number on me, I fought the urge to tell Will to stop living like a refugee.

  He surprised me by asking about my work.

  ‘I’ve started a project about the Herero massacre,’ I said.

  A weak smile was his response. I felt a terrible sense of self-recognition: so lost, so cut off, so lonely. Out of a desire to connect to him, I fetched my laptop from the bakkie, the four of us making ourselves as comfortable as we could, to watch Ouma Gendredi’s interview.

  ‘That’s what my next film’s about,’ I said in an attempt to encourage a response from him. Anything but his detachment. ‘I want to film something tangible about the massacre. After we leave you today, we’re taking a roundabout route back to Lüderitz to try and find one of the graves.’

  ‘Have you given up on your prison gangs?’

  ‘It’s with a festival. I haven’t heard anything yet, but that’s to be expected.’

  ‘I never did send you my friend’s details.’

  I asked if he wanted me to film something for him at Elizabeth Bay, but my sister interrupted.

  ‘No, we’re not starting that again,’ she said.

  Sensing that the two of them needed to talk, Quinty and I went to explore the town.

  My sister found me in the deserted home we’d visited on the day my aunt died. All its rooms were empty save for the one overlooking the ocean where I’d found a wooden chair. I’d turned it to face the sea. For decades the wind had worn away the house’s seaward wall, perforating it with brick-shaped holes, rectangular gaps in the crumbling mortar. I’d been watching Quinty on the beach sidestepping the frothy waves that rushed towards him. I couldn’t bear to be out there with him, but at the same time I needed to make sure he didn’t slip.

  ‘Will used to watch the sunset here,’ my sister said as she stood alongside me.

  ‘Did you have a chance to speak to him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he coming back with us?’

  ‘He says he’s glad to be away from the others, but that’s about all. If I’m honest, I’m not sure how much longer he’ll be able to survive out here.’ She was looking at me as if there were something urgent she wanted to communicate.

  ‘Maybe the mine will kick him out,’ I said. ‘Save the rest of us the trouble.’

  She smiled. ‘That would answer my prayers.’

  ‘Tell him he can move into my place. I’ll stay with Quinty.’

  She didn’t need to think about this: ‘Let’s hope he does.’

  ‘Should I ask him to come back with us today?’

  ‘He’s not in the right frame of mind. You’ve seen what he’s like.’

  ‘Let me speak to him,’ I said, even though I couldn’t think of what to tell him.

  ‘It won’t help.’

  ‘Whatever you’re thinking, Lucia, don’t do it. You can’t help him out here. Just tell him to come back with us.’

  She took my hand. ‘I won’t stay for long, but I need to make sure he doesn’t do something stupid.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘please don’t do this.’

  ‘I got Will an appointment with your doctor at the end of the week, and I want to drive him back to Lüderitz myself to make sure he arrives there in one piece. I’ll be fine. Promise.’

  The stillness was profound, a painful ringing in my ears. I had to leave this place, but until then all I could do was stare at my sister’s face.

  As Quinty navigated the service road back to the mine, a security guard waved at us and we both saluted the man.

  ‘That’s right,’ Quinty muttered as if afraid the guard might overhear, ‘we’ll keep on driving. You won’t stop us.’

  We chose the track that took us parallel to the coast where the dunes rose and plunged on either side like dolphins keeping pace with the bakkie, continuing until we reached the coordinates I’d found online.

  ‘Christ, I wasn’t expecting tha
t,’ I said after Quinty turned off the engine.

  ‘He’s not in a good way,’ Quinty said. He held me in his arms. His stubbled cheek brushed my face as he comforted me. Only after I’d calmed down did I realise that my camera had been around my neck during my visit, but I hadn’t thought to take a photo of my sister.

  ‘We can go back,’ he offered when I told him.

  ‘No, I never want to see that place again.’

  We stared at the desert, at driftwood lying between the dunes, littering the shallow valley, but saw nothing. I pushed my door open, contravening the terms of our permit, to get out and piss on the forbidden territory.

  ‘I’ve got water coming out both ends,’ I laughed when Quinty came to relieve himself alongside me.

  ‘From the old mine,’ he said when we’d both finished.

  I wasn’t sure what he meant, so he pointed to a corroded hulk half-buried by sand.

  I took a few illegal paces into the sperrgebiet to better see the equipment. And then an involuntary step back.

  Femurs, tibias and skulls, like scattered flotsam after a terrible wreck, lay undisturbed in the valley before me. Thousands of bones on the sand. Tens of thousands of human bones. Until now, I’d only read about the parched, shallow pool of death. It was silent and unforgiving, and only visible because the Namib allowed the valley to exist.

  I crouched to get a better look at fragments of cloth scattered among the remains. Some of it was white, possibly lace. There was black bombasine and hessian. Almost all of it was hessian. Buttons, smooth as pearl, and tarnished belt buckles along with a detachable gentleman’s dress collar. Thick shoe-leather with eyelets still holding firm.

  Fingers – forgotten and eroded by the wind – once touched these possessions. That simple thought defeated me, and I raised my camera to begin again.

  AFTERWORD

  More than a century has passed since the German colonial troops’ genocide. At the time of writing, reparation talks between the two countries are inconclusive. Although Germany has repatriated genocide victims’ remains to Namibia, some institutions may still hold unaccounted-for human remains. Germany has not formally apologised for the atrocities.