‘Ouch, Pietro, stop it.’ Marina pulls the hair at the back of my head and I let go. We look at each other crossly, but only for a second. Neither of us can keep a straight face for long.
*
I park the combi on the side of the sandy track that leads down to the beach. We pull out the two surfboards. Marina’s is a longboard. The sky is clear but there is a strong breeze which catches the board as she walks and sends her zigzagging across the road. I take her board under one arm and carry my own shorter board under the other.
Moçambique is a right and left beach break. It’s not a hard wave, so the water is often crowded here. But today there are surprisingly few surfers out. Marina and I paddle out next to each other. The water is not cold and there is no need for a wetsuit. I duck under a couple of waves and soon find myself out in the ocean, beyond the break. Marina catches a wave on the inside, taking it all the way to the beach. I am alone.
I sit on my board. My feet dangle in the water. The sun is high in the sky. In front of me, Moçambique is a strip of bright white sand offset by the greenery at either end of the beach. There are no white apartment blocks here. This is how the island would have looked to the first Portuguese settlers, five hundred years ago.
I allow the first three waves of a set to pass me by. I was anticipating a four, but the fourth doesn’t come. It doesn’t matter. I feel at peace. I notice my breathing, now slow and even after the exertion of paddling out. My breath rises and falls like the swells of the set that just passed.
If I hadn’t grown up here, would I still love surfing? If I had grown up in the mountains, would I be a climber? If I had grown up in war-time, would I be a soldier? To what extent is one predisposed towards a certain way of life, and to what extent is it something you learn? What would Seu Otto be like if he had been born on this island in place of me?
The wind has dropped and the ocean is smooth, almost glassy. These are optimal surfing conditions, and yet I always feel a slight apprehension when it’s like this. It was on a day like this that João’s younger brother Miguel almost drowned. One moment he was surfing with us, alongside us, the next his limp body was washed up on the beach. I didn’t notice until the lifeguards came running down to carry him further up the beach. By the time we were with him, they had already resuscitated him. His face was pale and oddly green and there was a yoyo of drool hanging from the side of his mouth. He was shaking pretty violently too. The strange thing was, he could never tell us what had happened. He didn’t remember it at all. The waves weren’t particularly big and there were no hidden rocks. He was probably hit on the head by a surfboard. There were a lot of surfers in the water that day. If someone did hit him, they never admitted it. In fact, they left him to drown. Bastards. On the other hand, maybe they didn’t know they’d hit him. I hope that was the case. Poor Miguel, he never surfed again after that.
When something happens suddenly, I guess you don’t know how you’ll react. I mean, maybe it was another surfer who hit Miguel that day, and maybe that surfer had never thought of himself as the kind of person who would pretend it hadn’t happened. It seems to me that we really don’t have all that much control over our split-second decisions. How do you know how you’ll react until something like that actually happens?
But then, with some people you can be pretty sure that they’ll react the right way. Take Seu Otto. I’d trust him to make the right split-second decision, like he did when he jumped into the frozen lake to save Siggi. So maybe the way you respond in those split seconds is not entirely due to chance. Maybe you can cultivate your character to make it more likely that you’ll react in a certain way? Isn’t that what Seu Otto’s Hitler Youth training set out to achieve? It encouraged him to take risks, to challenge himself, so really it should be no surprise that he attacked the gunman in the shop.
I suddenly feel worried that I’m not cultivating my character in the right way. I’d like to think that if I accidentally hit someone with my board, I’d dive in to check that they were ok. But it has never happened, so how can I be sure? There are aspects of my life that I am not proud of, and I wonder whether, if they started to pile up, they might influence my ability to make the right split-second decision.
When Seu Otto was young, he tested himself by climbing. Maybe that’s where he learnt to overcome fear. You can do the same thing with surfing. I mean, you can really challenge yourself – bigger waves, shallower breaks. You can always push your limits.
But it’s about more than just surfing or climbing. It’s about finding a life that challenges you, that enables you to be the best person you can be. That’s what Marina wants for me. Sometimes she can be a bit pushy, and then I get irritable. But really she just wants the best for me, and I love her for that.
I know I could stay on this island, and surf, and, with a bit of luck, I could start making some money from promoting. But there must be more to life than this. If Seu Otto were my age, I’m sure he’d have bigger plans. He’d want to get off Santa Catarina and make a name for himself. Lead a life to be proud of, even if it meant starting again on the other side of the world, which is what he did. I don’t think there are many people here who would understand that, but I do.
I think I am onto something with Seu Otto’s story. I hope I’ll be able to sell it to a newspaper, maybe even to a TV channel. That’s where the big money is. I’ll have to decide on an angle. But first I have to ask him about Siggi’s death. I sense his reluctance to talk about it. It must be painful. Or perhaps Seu Otto is even hiding something? But I don’t think he’d do that.
I should ask him about the holocaust too. Perhaps he is afraid I will think he is a Jew hater and a racist because he knew what was being done in the concentration camps. But he was a young boy – what could he possibly have done to stop any of it?
There is one professor at my university with whom I have a good relationship. He is called Paulo Monteiro, Doutor Paulo Monteiro. He is one of the few professors I really respect. He teaches journalism but he’s adjunct faculty – he’s still active in the field. I’m always suspicious of the professors who teach but don’t practise. If they are so knowledgeable, then why don’t they put that knowledge to use in the real world, at least some of the time? Often, I suspect it’s because they couldn’t make it in the real world. But Paulo Monteiro is not like that. In fact, he’s pretty well known for his journalism. He may be able to help me.
*
I see another set approaching. My anticipation mounts. This time I pick a wave and start to paddle. Dropping in, the lip of the wave pitches in front of me, allowing me to pull right into the tube on take-off. I drop in and stand up at the same time. I am immediately inside the hollow of the wave; the cylinder of water is barrelling all around me. I drag my hand in the wall of water. I am deep in the tube but I can see the daylight ahead, as if through a telescope. I drive towards the light, pumping for speed. And then I am out of the barrel, back in the light and the sun. I feel reborn.
The sets come in smooth and regular for the rest of the afternoon. I haven’t enjoyed surfing so much for years. Occasionally I see Marina, but she prefers the smaller inside waves. I lose track of time. It is only when the setting sun begins to blind me that I realise how late it is.
When I come out of the water, I see Marina sitting on her surfboard on the beach in front of the dunes, where the sand is dry and warm. I go to join her.
‘Looks like you were having fun out there,’ she says, smiling.
Marina is an attractive girl, but it’s still amazing what a few hours in the sun and the ocean can do. Her hair is lighter. The little freckles on her nose are more pronounced. Her green-grey sun-strained eyes are clearer than usual. I can even see a hint of brown around the pupil. I sit on the surfboard beside her and we kiss. Her lips are salty but her mouth tastes sweet and I spy the can of coke in the sand beside her.
We sit and watch other couples walk along the beach. The men here are gym bunnies who mostly look as if they’d pop if
you pricked them. Their girlfriends are used to being stared at. Their tiny tangas are often invisible between their bronzed butt cheeks. I am sure many of them have had surgery, though I don’t always find it easy to tell. And yet, for once, I am not interested in any of them. I am happy to be with Marina.
Chapter 18
I HEAR the sound of my own voice. I open my eyes and see that I am still in the ante-room of the operating theatre. A puzzled, dark skinned nurse is looking at me.
‘Ó Senhor Eisinger, fala muito,’ she says.
‘But when are they going to operate on me?’
‘Já o fizeram, they’ve already done it.’
‘Already?’
‘Sim senhor. How do you feel?’
‘I feel fine. My hip is throbbing a bit. And I’m hungry.’
‘O Senhor has the morphine drip on his right. Now we will return you to the ward. Dr. da Silva will visit shortly.’
I feel very sleepy, very dreamy. The world is soft and fluid. A second nurse enters the room and positions herself behind my head. Together the two nurses wheel me back down the corridor and into the lift. I barely register the jolt as we pass over the metal threshold. The dark-skinned nurse apologises. I reach up and press the button for the morphine drip. The effect is almost instantaneous. As I am wheeled along the pastel green corridor, I feel like a boat drifting on a spearmint sea. My eyes keep closing but I do not fall asleep. I am back in that twilight world between waking and sleeping, a world in which I can consciously steer my dreams. If only ordinary life were more like this.
My bed is wheeled back into the ward where Anna-Maria is patiently waiting for me. At first I keep my eyes closed and pretend to be asleep; I do not yet have the energy to face her. Then, out of curiosity, I open one eye a tiny amount so that I can observe her. She is a woman of robust good health. There is also something of the Italian peasant about her. She has that stolid, bovine quality which centuries of unquestioning faith breeds in womenfolk. As I watch her, she releases hold of the little package on her lap and begins to toy instead with the crucifix around her neck. Then she leans across to smooth the sheet that covers me. The little package slips off her lap and spills its contents onto the floor. I see a number of Polaroid photographs of a lawn, of my lawn in Sambaqui. Very green in the sunlight.
‘Anna-Maria, tudo bom?’ I say.
‘Seu Otto, graças a Deus! Como se sente? How do you feel? How is your hip? Does it hurt? I was so worried!’ Her brow is furroughed with concern.
‘Com calma Anna-Maria, com calma… I feel fine, just tired.’
‘I did not know what to bring you, so I bought a photo camera and took these photos of the lawn. It was looking so beautiful today.’ She passes me the photos.
Anna-Maria is right, the lawn looks more beautiful than I have ever seen it. Its greenness is so fresh and so intense that it appears to pulsate with energy, with life-force. When I stare at the picture, it seems as if I can smell the grass and hear the whisper of the brave little shoots pushing their way up through the soil.
In one of the photos, Valdemar is leaning on a rake and beaming at the camera with his thumb raised.
‘Valdemar is very proud,’ says Anna-Maria.
‘He should be. The lawn looks wonderful.’
‘Not of the lawn. Of you, Seu Otto.’
I continue to look at the photos but my thoughts are elsewhere. I realise that I do not pay sufficient attention to the feelings of others. Anna-Maria had bought a photo camera and taken pictures of my garden as a present for me and I almost hadn’t opened my eyes because I find her matronly solicitations a little straining. In fact, all I am conscious of at such times is her resemblance to a peasant woman. And when I think of Valdemar, I think of nothing but his indolence, yet here he is grinning from ear to ear because he is proud to work for me. Truly I am an ingrate. How does that sad song go? No peito dos desafinados tambem bate um coração3.
‘Seu Otto, are you alright?’ asks Anna-Maria.
‘Yes. I’m tired, that’s all,’ I reply.
‘You should sleep. I can call Pietro to tell him not to come. I know he was planning to pass by later this evening.’
‘Well, I would like to see him, but maybe you could ask him to come first thing tomorrow morning?’
Tomorrow morning will be a fresh start, fresh like the young green shoots in my lawn.
‘And Anna-Maria, thank you for the photos. Thank you very much.’
When I say that she looks genuinely happy. And I feel happier too.
*
I spend the next few hours drifting in and out of pleasant morphine dreams. Dr. da Silva materialises at my bedside. How funny, I think to myself, he has silver hair and is called da Silva. I try to explain this to him but he looks confused. Then I realise that it is only humorous if you also understand English. It is strange how languages are getting confused in my mind.
Dr. da Silva tells me to rest. He looks at the bag of i.v. morphine above my head and warns me not to take more than I need, but I am too old to worry about addiction. Then he says that tomorrow I will have to try to move my hip with the help of a physiotherapist.
Depsite my tiredness, or perhaps because of it, I cannot sleep. The pain in my hip becomes a crescendoing throb which can only be alleviated with repeated presses on the morphine button. The night is long and slow and painful. When I press for more morphine, I feel my body relax but the images of the past crowd in on me and I cannot fight them off. Some are frightening, and these are the most insistent. I see the faces of the past - beautiful faces, battered faces, faceless faces. But eventually the cold grey light of dawn insinuates itself around the edges of the window blind. Thereafter, there is some respite as I drift out of consciousness.
*
When I wake, there is the bustle of activity in the ward. Pietro is sitting in the chair beside my bed, reading. On the bedside table there are two green coconuts with straws in them.
‘For breakfast?’ I ask.
This time Pietro is not startled.
‘Yes, if you feel like it.’
Coconut water is a popular drink on the island – in summer the roads are lined with vendors. If you buy a coconut they will make two holes in the green husk, one for the straw and one for the air to escape. In the past I have not particularly enjoyed the salty sweet taste, but on this occasion I found it surprisingly pleasing.
I think Pietro could see that I was tired since he settled himself into his chair and we both sipped our coconuts in companionable silence. The coconut water had a vivifying effect – I soon began to feel less tired, although with greater wakefulness came greater pain in my hip. I disregarded Dr. da Silva’s advice and gave myself a couple of generous presses on the morphine button.
‘So…’ I say.
‘Um, well, I just thought you might be tired and want to rest,’ replies Pietro.
‘I shall rest when I am dead.’
Pietro smiles. ‘Are you sure?’ he asks. I nod in reply. ‘Well, I’d really like to know about Siggi. What happened to him? You said he had an accident.’
I have known from the beginning that Pietro would eventually want to find out what happened to Siggi. Nevertheless, I feel ill prepared to answer. Siggi’s battered face has haunted the night from which I have just emerged. His death feels more recent than at any other time during the last half century. It also signified the end of my own childhood, and for that reason it is doubly painful. I have managed to banish it from my mind for the best part of my adult life, but in the last few days, since the incident in the shop, I have felt myself moving inexorably closer to it. Well, perhaps now is the time to bring it into the open. Didn’t Fernanda say that the patients who talk the most get better the fastest? What’s more, my body is full of a chemical whose purpose is to combat pain. I should take advantage of that.
‘Siggi’s accident…’ I took a deep breath. ‘It is not something I like to speak about. I have tried not to think about it.’
‘Well,
if it is very hard for you –’
‘No Pietro, I think that would not be fair to you. I have told you so much about him already. And then you also remind me of him.’
‘I do?’
‘Yes, very much. Ever since you were a young boy you have looked similar to him. You have many of the same characteristics. If Siggi were here now, and if he were your age, he would be doing exactly what you are doing. He also liked to ask questions.’
‘Really?’ asked Pietro. He looked like he was about to break into a grin.
‘Yes, I swear it,’ I said. ‘And I will tell you everything that happened. But first will you pass me the water?’
Siggi leant across to pick up my glass and I gave the morphine another squeeze.
‘So,’ I said, ‘I told you that Siggi and I were chosen to climb the Matterhorn as part of an HJ expedition?’
‘Yes. When was that?’ asked Pietro, his pen once again poised.
And I start to prise open the lid.
*
Autumn 1944. Two weeks after the climbing competition, after being awarded the dagger, the announcement is made public: Siggi and I have been chosen to join an elite team of HJ climbers on the Matterhorn. We are excused duties so that we can train. While the others have to spend their days packing up the camp and filling in the latrines, we climb with Kurt Gruber. We range far from the usual routes. In the mornings we walk through the woods to an untouched face that Kurt knows; after all, these are the mountains in which he grew up. Then we climb for an hour or two, until our forearms feel like lead and we cannot continue. We stop to eat a sandwich on a ledge or at the top of the face before finding a walk off and returning to camp. Often Siggi and Kurt go off together because they both climb faster than I do.
The idea that a Hitler Youth team should climb the Matterhorn originated the year before, as a propaganda exercise said to have been dreamt up by Goebbels himself. The ministry hopes that photos and news reports of the next generation of HJ boys achieving such feats for the Fatherland will raise the morale of German soldiers everywhere; this is especially necessary following the disaster of the Russian campaign, though of course we never refer to it as such. That’s also why it is important to climb a mountain like the Matterhorn – it is iconic, perhaps the most famous peak in the Alps.
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