bought was not too bad. He had built the big double bed himself by knocking together stout planks, and had put in some nice lamps and indoor plants, but it was still a bloody bleak old Railways house, and the garden was desert sand, one cactus plant and a rubber bush alongside the garage and servants’ room, as depressing as all get-out but what the hell, what do you expect for thirty rand a month in Walvis Bay? He was here only temporarily, he would have a proper place in Australia, next year. He let himself in the front door and walked through to the room which he used as the company office. There was no mail except a bank statement which he did not care to open. There were no messages on his telephone answering-machine. He dialled the Stormtrooper’s cottage in Swakopmund. It rang and rang. He glanced at his watch. School was over and today she had no hockey practice. He went to the bathroom and ran water into the old enamel tub.
He proceeded to scrub himself up for the Stormtrooper. He washed his hair cheerfully to be beautiful for the Stormtrooper, then shaved and put on Eau de Cologne to smell nice for the Stormtrooper. Thinking about her magnificent thighs.
He still had the old Landrover he had bought two years ago in Cape Town. He drove over the railway bridge and the desert opened up, the barren coast on one side of the tarred road, yellow sand dunes towering up on the other, ridged and fluted by the wind. He was in a good mood. Twenty-five minutes later he crossed the bridge over the dry Swakop River, into the little German town that is so different to bleak Walvis Bay.
He turned down a wide sand street towards the sea and parked outside a house. He walked down to the cottage at the back, and entered the Stormtrooper’s sandy garden. All the windows were closed. He tried the front door. Locked. He knocked, and waited. Then he retraced his steps. It was after five o’clock, so she could not be shopping. He drove to the Europahof Hotel.
It is built in Alpine style, with beams inlaid into the walls. There was singing in German as he walked into the bar. There were a dozen men whom he knew by sight. As he entered, the singing abruptly died away. McQuade gave them a polite nod and went to the empty end. There was a moment’s hush, then conversation picked up, in German. The bartender came over. Maybe it was the way the singing had stopped but McQuade had the feeling the man’s smile was frosty. ‘Good afternoon, Klaus,’ he said. ‘A beer, please.’ He put the money on the bar. ‘Have you seen Helga this afternoon?’
‘Not this afternoon.’ Klaus took the money to the till.
McQuade was surprised. He felt distinctly unwanted. Yet he had often used this place, and the Germans had always been polite. He could only think that they knew something about Helga. They knew he dated her, but something had happened. He felt uncomfortable. He could feel them looking at his back. He thought, Well to hell with this. He lifted the glass and just then there was a shout:
‘Heil Hitler!’
McQuade turned, astonished. A fat man stood in the door, his right arm out, his feet together, a drunken solemnity on his flushed face. There was a silence, then several men admonished him in German. The fat man dropped his arm, glanced around drunkenly and then came in, grinning unsteadily.
McQuade turned back to his beer. Jesus Christ. He drank the rest of his beer down, down. He got up and turned for the door. ‘Auf Wiedersehen,’ he muttered.
He walked back to his Landrover, and sat behind the wheel, thinking about the atmosphere in that bar.
Never encountered it before, and he didn’t simply mean the man giving the salute. That was just a drunken fool. No, it had something to do with Helga. Had she found herself another boyfriend? He wouldn’t have credited it but he felt a stab of jealousy. Anyway, he was going to get to the bottom of this. He started the Landrover, and drove up the sand street, to Kukki’s Pub.
Which is another nice bar, in an old German building, patronized by the younger South Westers. English was the language most heard in here. It was half full. McQuade got a stool at the bar, nodding greetings. Kukki came over. ‘Beer, please, Kukki. Listen, have you seen Helga today?’
Kukki looked blank. ‘No.’ He reached under the counter for the beer.
‘No idea where she might be?’
Kukki looked puzzled. ‘No.’
‘Would you tell me if you knew?’
Kukki looked mystified. ‘Sure. Why?’
McQuade felt embarrassed saying it, but Kukki was his friend. He beckoned. Kukki leant closer. ‘If she’s found herself another boyfriend, I’d like to know.’
Kukki smiled patiently. ‘If she had, I’d know. And I know she thinks you’re the greatest thing since bratwurst and sauerkraut. Which shows there’s no accounting for taste.’ He moved off down the bar.
McQuade sipped his beer. All very well, but that wasn’t solving his problem of getting laid. Where was the Stormtrooper? She of the magnificent Teutonic thighs goldened by the desert sun, her magnificent sweaty arse in her scanty skirt as she bullied for the ball on the hockey pitch, she of the magnificent breasts which gave him such bliss when she wasn’t giving him a Teutonic hard time. (‘You think I just do this for dinners, huh?’) Well, he wanted to buy her the finest damn dinner, then take her back to that gemütliche cottage and make havoc with her well-nourished body. He went to the public telephone and dialled her again.
Still no reply. Well, he had better leave her a note telling her where he was, so he quaffed back his beer.
The cottage was still silent. He pinned the note to her door and walked back up the sandy lane. As he passed the window of the front house there was a tap on the glass. Annie, the neighbour, beckoned him. She opened the window.
‘Hi! Helga’s gone to her parents’ place for the night.’ Annie said.
McQuade’s heart sank. Helga’s parents lived on a ranch near Usakos, two hundred kilometres inland. ‘She’s spending the night there?’
‘She said she’d be back in the morning in time for school. She’ll be mad that she missed you.’
‘Not as mad as I am. May I use your phone?’
He went into the house, without optimism. He dialled exchange and asked to be put through to the radio tower. He asked the operator to try the call-sign of the Schmidt ranch’s two-way radio.
‘Sorry, no response,’ the man said.
‘Oh shit …’
And he made up his mind. No way was he going another night without a screw. He thanked Annie and drove back to Kukki’s Pub. He bought four cold beers, two bottles of wine and borrowed a glass. He drove out of town, onto the tarmac road for Usakos and the Schmidt ranch.
The sun was going down as he roared out into the desert, gleaming golden pink on the dunes and rocky outcrops, the big water pipeline stretching away into the darkening east. He snapped the cap off a beer, and it tasted like nectar.
He had finished the beers by the time he reached the farm gate shortly before Usakos. Here the desert was turning to thorn trees, scrubby low mountains. This was the start of the cattle country. McQuade closed the gate behind him and set off on the long dirt road through the Schmidt land. It was nine o’clock when he rounded the hill and saw the Schmidt homestead twinkling ahead.
