by Ellin Carsta
“If you turtledoves would excuse me for a minute,” Florentinus said, standing. “Nature calls.”
“Therese,” Karl started to say the moment Florentinus was out of earshot, “I’ve been thinking a lot about us and want to tell you something.”
“Sure.”
“The thing we’ve talked about a lot recently . . . you know?”
“Yes?”
“I’d like us to pay more attention to each other. I’m going to make a serious effort. You are the most important person in the world to me. My life would be pointless without you.”
She squeezed his hand and looked deep into his eyes. “I’m so glad you said that.”
“Who cares about work? All the money in the world isn’t worth it if we don’t have each other.”
“That’s right. You’ve made me very happy.”
They gazed lovingly at each other as Florentinus returned to the table.
“I’ve ordered another bottle,” he announced, and sat down.
“Another?” Therese looked at him wide-eyed. “Tino, it’s the middle of the week, and we have an early morning. Well, Karl and I at least.”
“Oh, my dear little sister, don’t always be so reasonable. There’s something to celebrate.”
“Well. What?”
“Well, today’s Wednesday.”
“And?”
“Wednesday, August 14, 1889.”
“And?”
“Well, it’s a holiday. A major holiday.” He raised his glass. “Everybody knows that, and I’ll drink to it.”
The trio clinked glasses.
“Florentinus Loising, you’re completely insane!” Therese gave a hearty laugh, hiccupped, and closed her eyes briefly. “Oh dear. Hiccups. I think I’m a little tipsy.”
“Just a little? That’s not enough,” Florentinus said, and laughed when the waiter appeared and refilled their glasses.
When they left half an hour later, Florentinus paid and took the half-full bottle along.
“You haven’t seen our new office yet,” Karl said with a bit of a thick tongue. “Come on. Let’s go to the office, and I’ll boast about it properly.”
“No,” Therese replied. “I want to go to my bed.”
“Come on, Therese, for my sake,” Karl implored her. “I desperately want to show off to my brother-in-law, just for a bit.”
Therese couldn’t stop yawning. She pointed a finger straight ahead. “I will go straight down this street and home. The two of you will turn left, and you, my dear love, can show Tino the office. But I’m going to bed.”
Karl protested, but she was already on her way.
“I’ll leave a blanket and pillow on the chaise longue,” she promised her brother. “And you two be very quiet when you come home, understand?”
“Yes, madame.” Karl bowed, almost losing his balance. Florentinus grabbed him before he fell over.
“Fervent thanks, dear brother-in-law, my fervent thanks,” Karl said, and Florentinus laughed.
Arm in arm and singing loudly, the two of them headed for Karl’s office and stopped in front of the facade.
“All this is mine,” Karl declared, and made a wide, sweeping gesture that almost cost him his balance again.
“The Hansen Company,” Florentinus read on the sign over the entrance.
“The Viennese Hansen, that’s me.” Karl thumped his chest, fumbled for the key, and opened the door on the fourth try. “Be you pleased to enter, Herr Loising.”
“I thank you so very, very much, Herr Hansen. After you. I insist.” Florentinus bowed as deeply as he could without staggering.
Karl entered. “Let there be light.” He flipped the switch beside the door, and the room was illuminated by electric light.
Florentinus exclaimed excitedly. “So bright!” He went around the room, taking in the scent of cocoa beans. Dark wooden shelves stood behind the waist-high counter stacked with large china containers standing neatly next to one another. The goods were ready and waiting for customers to make their selection.
“The previous owner was one of the first here to install electricity.” Karl made another sweeping gesture. “Impressive, isn’t it?”
Florentinus slid a hand over the counter as he took in the space. “Herr Hansen, I must say, you’ve made a real jewel out of this old ruin.”
“Thank you, Herr Loising, a thousand thanks. I’ll drink to that.”
Karl grabbed the bottle out of Florentinus’s hand and took a good swig before handing it back.
“Come this way. I’ll show you the storage area.”
They went through a door in the back, where Karl switched on another light. Here, too, racks were hung on the walls, but in a lighter color than those in the salesroom; they held sacks with various labels and identifying marks.
“It’s all coffee and cocoa, anywhere you look.”
“I’ll drink to your success, Karl!” Florentinus lifted the bottle and drank deeply.
“To success!” Karl took the bottle and drank the last drop before putting it down on the floor and looking around. “This used to be stuffed with textiles, did you know that? Filled to the brim. But you can make more money with beans,” he went on.
“You and Therese have done so much.” Florentinus walked to the nearest rack, ran his hand over the rough sacking, and leaned against the wall. “I wish I had your courage.”
“Courage? It’s nothing to try to stand on your own two feet. You are the one with courage. You’ve had to measure yourself against your father’s success every day.”
Florentinus smiled. “No, I’ll never be able to hold a candle to him. They don’t say it, but I’m a failure in their opinion.”
“You? The firm is better off than ever, isn’t it?”
“Money . . . It’s just money. But what’s here, you can see it and touch it. Passion and sweat are in these walls. You have built something. I’ll never manage to do that my whole life.”
“And here I had thought you never doubted yourself,” Karl said, taking a step closer. “My wife’s successful big brother, always in a good mood, while success just falls into his lap.”
Florentinus snorted. “Nonsense. Quite the opposite.”
Karl looked at his brother-in-law. Something strange and exciting in an improper way radiated from Florentinus in that moment. Their eyes met; neither said a word.
Then Florentinus turned his head to the side. “Don’t look at me like that. I can’t bear it.” He made eye contact again.
“What can’t you bear?” Karl asked, his throat now feeling dry and rough.
Florentinus paused before pushing off from the rack and taking a step toward Karl so that they were very close. Florentinus raised a hand, stroked Karl’s cheek, trailing down past his chin. “I love my sister, but I desire her husband.”
Karl’s heart was in his throat. He knew he ought to turn on his heel and leave as quickly as possible. That would be the right thing to do. Leave Florentinus there and forget what he’d just said forever. Instead he closed his eyes and drew nearer to his brother-in-law, until their lips met. A shiver ran through his whole body. He gingerly lifted his hand, put it on Florentinus’s neck, and drew him closer. They embraced, holding on to each other like people drowning, their kisses growing more urgent, more demanding. Then they tore off their clothes and yielded absolutely to their desire. Nothing existed at that moment but the two of them and their longing for each other.
Afterward, breathless, they looked into each other’s eyes and kissed once more. Neither said a word. When some time had passed, they dressed, picked up the empty wine bottle, and left.
Before Karl turned out the lights, he looked around the room again. Everything was the same as before. And yet what had just occurred would transform their lives forever. They left the building together, and Karl locked up.
“Therese must never know of this,” he said without looking up.
“No,” Florentinus answered. “Never.”
They walked
to the apartment in silence. Florentinus lay on the chaise longue, and Karl crept into bed with Therese. Neither slept a wink before the gray of dawn.
Chapter Sixteen
Cameroon, September 1889
Entry in Luise Hansen’s diary:
September 2, 1889
I’m looking forward to harvest time, it’s almost here. Hamza and I have been together every day for the last several weeks. I know him so well now, better than anybody else. We talk a lot, share our thoughts. He’s learned to speak German fluently, almost perfectly. He told me in confidence that it was his greatest wish to go to Germany for some education so he could go into business for himself, despite his love for his people. Because of him, I realize how lucky I am to have been born in Germany and for the opportunities it’s given me that I’d never have if I’d been born here. Yes, I’m a woman, but I have choices. And I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t want a life like my mother’s or my aunt’s. I want to stay here in Cameroon and take over Father’s plantation one day.
I’ve had the same dream the last several nights in a row, and it is confusing and wonderful. I’m standing in front of the farmhouse and looking out over the plantation. There’s no one else around, and I marvel at the stillness. I can’t see anybody working on the plantation, so I go out to look. On the way, I hear children’s bright laughter, and I’m reminded of the Duala in their village. As I get closer I see a young boy and a little girl, and then I recognize Hamza playing with them. He waves, and the children run to me, hug me, and call me Mother. Then Hamza kisses me, intimately and tenderly. Everything feels right, everything good. Neither of us says a word.
When I wake up, I need a moment to remember it was only a dream and Hamza is not my husband, but Malambuku’s son. He’s more to me than that, though I know that dream can never come true. We are on the same continent, in the same place, on the same plantation. Nevertheless, we live in different worlds. I wish he could actually go and live in Germany, though I would miss him with all my heart.
Father and I have talked a lot without Mother and Martha here. And we see a lot of things more clearly now. I don’t think either one of us will ever return to Germany except for the occasional visit. And not only because of the plantation or the revenue but because Father and I realize that we don’t belong there. It’s odd. Hamza is burning with desire to go to Germany, and I’m longing just as much to stay here.
We went to church yesterday and talked to the other Germans as usual. I think there’s a looming divide among us, with different opinions that will affect the life of everyone in the colony. To my surprise I’ve been getting along well with Raimund Leffers—Martha used to fancy him. He’s just as different from his father as I am from my mother. I cannot stand Sigmund Leffers and the way he talks about the Africans, and what he says about conquering them and being their masters is absolutely sickening. Raimund sees it the same way, but it’s impossible for him to avoid his father’s ideas. Sometimes when Sigmund rants about the natives and says how stupid they are, I see Raimund lower his eyes in shame so as not to look at his father. I cherish the hope that he’ll take over his father’s position as the imperial envoy in a few years and show the natives the respect and esteem his father doesn’t.
We keep hearing stories about real atrocities in East Africa that Carl Peters is said to have committed. Some Germans believe them; others don’t. For my part I don’t know what to make of them. Is it conceivable that a German man, whose father was a missionary with connections to the highest circles of society, can behave like that? Is it thinkable that any man could do what Peters is accused of doing? I can scarcely imagine it. And yet I hear his name again and again, and there have already been meetings with some tribal chiefs here in Cameroon who have heard these allegations and fear for their safety.
Sigmund Leffers has a strong opinion about it, of course. He said the natives are afraid for no reason because no German is stupid enough to kill them when they are more useful than pigs. Then he laughed, and Raimund and I looked at each other. I tried to console him by smiling sadly, but his despair over his father’s words was unmistakable.
A letter arrived from Martha a few days ago. She said things were going well in Hamburg and Mother was much better. I don’t know if I believe it, but I must admit I don’t really care one way or the other. I feel so separated from Hamburg and life there that it would take more than one trip for me to return to my old life.
As I write this, I wonder what was really so important about Hamburg. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t think of a single thing. On the other hand, everything that happens here touches our lives. Everything feels real: the colors in the sky; the animals on the steppe; the Duala and their rhythmic, melodic songs. No wasted words about morality and civility, solidarity and love. And yet these words are truly lived out, and with an intensity unlike anything I saw in Hamburg. It saddens me that I frittered away the first fifteen years of my life on superficial and mindless things. Here I can pick up a handful of soil and let the earth run through my fingers, feel the sun’s rays on my skin, sweat from the hard work, and smile when I see a Duala mother holding her child protectively in her arms. Here nature is raw and yet beautiful—it bestows the beans on us.
I’m putting my pen down and will sleep until the sun turns the sky pink. I’m looking forward to that moment already.
Luise snapped her diary shut and put it back in her desk. Then she crawled under the sheets and closed her eyes. Several hours must have passed, but day hadn’t broken when she was awakened by loud voices. She needed a few seconds to get oriented. Then she quickly put on her bathrobe and ran into the hallway. A babble of voices came from in front of the house. She couldn’t figure out what was happening, so she raced down the stairs and outside.
Luise looked around—and her heart was in her throat. The smell of smoke nearly suffocated her. What had happened? Where was her father? She looked toward the forest and put a hand to her mouth in horror. Flames reached high into the night sky. Close to the plantation, but the flames hadn’t reached it yet.
Luise ran back up to her room to put on pants and a blouse. She hastily tied her hair back and rushed out of the house, following some Duala running toward the fire. She saw her father helping pass pails of water from the reservoir above the plantation to a chain of natives attempting to fight the fire. She joined the line, handing the pails along.
The flames devoured the jungle piece by piece, moving toward the plantation. Luise saw Hamza shouting directions to his people. He looked wild-eyed at the flames, then at the reservoir. Luise ran to her father.
“We won’t be able to do it like this, Father!” she shouted at him.
Robert didn’t answer, just glanced up at her. Desperation was etched on his face. If the flames managed to get to the plantation, the harvest, the trees, and their whole future were lost.
Hamza shouted something Luise didn’t understand. At this the Duala dropped their pails and followed him.
“Hey, where are you going? Come back!” Robert shouted after them, but nobody listened.
Under Hamza’s direction the men began pounding the stones on the reinforced east bank of the reservoir, then pulling them out to allow the water to flow into the forest.
Luise stared up at the reservoir, transfixed. The water ran along a narrow pathway on the border between the plantation and the jungle, broadened out, then transformed into a torrent. The plantation’s border was drenched as the water wet the trees and spread into the forest. The ground hissed as the fire was extinguished, but flames continued burning in the upper reaches of the trees. Hamza yelled again, and the Duala followed him, grabbed their machetes, and ran back to the forest, where they cut down wet branches that fell hissing into the flames. Luise got her machete and slashed wildly at the branches, working alongside the Duala as they moved ahead little by little.
The fire was pushed back farther and farther from the plantation so that it was contained. It took hours, but by the end
only a small area of the forest was still burning, and she finally dropped her machete, completely exhausted.
Robert came to his daughter while Hamza rushed to the plantation to check on damage to the trees and fruit.
“We did it,” Robert said, exhausted and sighing.
“Yes,” said Luise, whose face was black with soot and whose unruly hair stuck out in every direction.
Hamza returned from the plantation with Malambuku.
“How bad is it?” Robert asked immediately.
Malambuku, whose expression betrayed nothing, grinned. “The fruits protected the beans,” he reported.
Hamza nodded in confirmation. “The fruits were not hurt. The harvest will be good.”
Luise and her father looked at each other and embraced. They wouldn’t suffer much loss. Tears of relief welled up in Luise’s eyes.
When they inspected everything later that day, they saw the fire had indeed been devastating, though the plantation had been spared. Smoke still rose from the forest and hung heavy in the air. Everything smelled of burnt wood, and Luise was alarmed to discover a layer of soot blanketing the rabbit pen. The animals had crept into their shelter and looked terrified when Luise pulled them out one by one. But apart from some ash on their coats, they were unhurt.
Malambuku, Hamza, Robert, and Luise went to the forest on the edge of the plantation.
“What do you think, Malambuku? What caused it?”
“The fire came from there,” he said, pointing to where he meant. “Sometimes, when very warm for a long time, the fire comes.”
“So you don’t think it was set on purpose?”