The Marks of Cain Page 25

  Amy and David found a table in the corner and sat down, warm at last. A black waiter came over and he asked them, above the noise of the singing German voices, if they wanted anything.

  David said, hesitantly: ‘Ein bier…?’

  The man smiled. ‘It’s OK. I speak English. Tafel or Windhoek?’

  ‘Ah,’ said David, slightly blushing. ‘Tafel, I guess.’

  Amy was staring, with an expression of perplexity, at the exuberant and warbling German men. She motioned to the barman as he turned to go.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘Why…’ She was talking quietly. ‘Why are they so happy?’

  The waiter half shrugged.

  ‘I think it is Ascenscion Day. I believe.’

  Amy frowned.

  ‘Ascension Day, that’s forty days after Easter, isn’t it? Usually in May.’ Her frown deepened. ‘This is September.’

  The waiter nodded.

  ‘No, not Jesus. Hitler.’

  32

  Simon tried not to shout as he read the visitor’s book: to shout in triumph. David’s father had been here. His father had actually been here. Fifteen years ago. He’d worked out the same link. He was halfway through the same mystery.

  The last thunderclap abated. And then Simon’s excitement faded. So David’s father, Eduardo Martinez, was here fifteen years back? So what? That didn’t mean he found anything.

  To search is to find?

  Why the question mark? What did that mean? If Eduardo Martinez had actually found something surely he would have put To search is to find. Just that – with no question mark. But then, why did he leave a comment at all? He must have felt he was at least searching for something. It was no coincidence he’d been here.

  Simon was glad when a buzzer sounded the monastic signal for dinner. He was hungry, as well as confused. And he could still hear the ceaseless prayer of his conscience: go home, go home, go home. Find Tim, find Tim, find Tim.

  At the rasping sound of the buzzer the whole monastery had come alive. From all the concrete corners, from the chapel and the roof and the cells and the gardens, monks and pilgrims and retreaters were all gathering in the big refectory, to drink from jugs of local wine and eat salad and lamb from the long steel buffet.

  Feeling an almost first-day-at-school bashfulness, Simon sat at the longest table with the most people. His shyness fought with his anxious need to get information. Quickly. He had one evening. Then leave before dawn. He wanted to drink wine. He drank water. Between courses he texted his wife: any news? She texted back: no news.

  At the other end of the long table, the monks sat and ate. Some conversed with the visitors, some stayed quiet and contemplative; one bald monk in his sixties with a sorrowful face talked, very passionately, with a young blond man, evidently a visitor. The monk was in his ordinary day clothes like the other monks; the sad old monk seemed to be drinking a lot of wine.

  Simon spoke with people on his own table. A Slovakian artist, seeking inspiration. A Belgian dentist having a religious breakdown. Two Danish students who were apparently here for a lark: the scary monastery that sent people mad! A couple of earnest Canadian pilgrims. Believers.

  The storm had passed; blue and purple darkness enveloped the depths of rural France. Simon had finished his dinner and was again despairing. He had a few hours to go. He was sitting forward, feeling lonely, sipping coffee. Yet again he texted Suzie.

  Sorry no news.

  But then, as he sat there, hunched forward, muscles tensed, he overheard it, the telling phrase: Pius the Tenth.

  The journalist edged slightly nearer this overheard dialogue, even as he stared resolutely ahead.

  Two people were chatting next to him. A fortyish monk, and a pilgrim: an older woman. American, or Canadian maybe. He listened in.

  ‘Brother McMahon has been here eight years now.’

  ‘Uh-huh?’

  ‘As I said, Miss Tobin, the previous librarian was…well…rather a bad influence. Member of the Society before they were excommunicated.

  ‘Gotcha. And this was when? When you were a seminarian?’

  ‘Yes. Many young monks trained here in the 1990s. But the librarian was like a malignancy, in his teaching. The Society had a lot of influence here, in those days. He taught injudiciously. From inappropriate texts and materials. But now we have Brother McMahon. And we are no longer a teaching institution. Would you care for some more wine?’

  The woman proffered her glass. Their dialogue dwindled.

  Simon finished his coffee, not even tasting it; he tasted a very small triumph instead. So that was it – the explanation. Tomasky had been here, an eager young Catholic seminarian. And he’d learned something from the librarian.

  But what was it? What changed people? There were supposedly secrets in this monastery which could induce a severe religious militancy, even murderous violence.

  And yet there was no sign of the archives themselves.

  He stood up and got ready to leave the refectory – maybe he should do another search through the books in the library. Perhaps the archives were hidden in the books: in a foreign language. Greek. Arabic. Or in code?

  Of course this was desperate, but he was desperate. He had one evening and that was that: go home and hug Conor and find Tim. Simon turned for the exit – and he saw the young blond visitor, the man who had been chatting with a monk, was now sitting at the long table, on his own.

  Pensive.

  What had the two of them been discussing so passionately? The man and the monk?

  The journalist took the opportunity and extended a hand. The young man smiled cheerily.

  ‘Guten tag. Julius Denk!’

  ‘Sssimon ah…Edgar Harrison.’

  A stupid mistake. But Julius Denk didn’t seem to notice or care. He was animated – and yet distracted. His thin-rimmed spectacles reflected the lamplight. He spoke good English; he said he was a trainee architect from Stuttgart, interested in Le Corbusier. The journalist knew just enough about architecture, from his father, to sound like he was also an architect, albeit a pretty stupid one. They swapped opinions.

  Then Julius talked of the balding monk: their conversation at dinner.

  ‘That monk. Very unhappy. American Irish. He drinks. Has been here seven years.’

  ‘Yea?’

  ‘Ja. I think he is the archivist. He says he is having a crisis of faith. He is losing his faith in God. Not so good for a monk I think!’ The young German laughed. ‘I feel sorry for him you know. But he talk too much. The wine is good, nicht wahr?’

  Simon agreed. With a pang of wild surmise. The archivist is losing his faith. Why?

  Julius was still talking.

  ‘You have not told me, Herr Harrison, you are here to admire Le Corbusier? What you think?’

  ‘Ah…er. Le Corbusier. Yes. I think he’s OK.’

  ‘Ja? What aspect of his work is it that you like?’

  ‘The, er, villa in Paris.’

  ‘Savoie?’

  ‘Yes that one. That one’s OK.’

  Julius beamed.

  ‘True. I admire the Villas. And perhaps Ronchamps. But this building, it is a disaster. No?’

  Now Simon shrugged. He couldn’t manage an intricate discussion about ‘roughcast concrete’, or ‘the modulor’ – not when he was so alarmed about things at home.

  But he made a stab at sounding coherent.

  ‘The building is rather…disconcerting. That is true. Those noises everywhere in the…ah…the top bit.’

  ‘Every sound amplified. Yes yes! And I think it is worse at night. I think I hear the monks masturbating.’ The German chuckled. ‘So. I wonder why it is designed like that, ja? To punish the soul?’

  ‘Yes…or to stop you doing anything bad in the first place…a security thing. So someone will hear you…’

  Julius had stopped laughing. Simon tried to push the conversation along. One last go.

  ‘So, Julius, I’m gues
sing you don’t like Le Corbusier.’

  ‘Nein. I do not. And this place confirms it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Le Corbusier was a liar!’

  ‘Sorry?’

  The German frowned behind his glasses.

  ‘Remember what Le Corbusier said, in English.’ Julius Denk’s expression was pensive, and almost contemptuous. ‘Remember?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He said form follow function. Ja? But did he mean it? I think not.’

  ‘OK…’

  ‘And I can show you something. Can prove it! Hier.’

  Julius Denk reached in his bag, and took out some paper. Simon stared.

  It appeared to be…a blueprint.

  The German gestured. ‘An example. I bring this with me. A schematic of the whole building, from the Corbusier museum in Switzerland.’

  A schematic. A blueprint.

  This was interesting. This was very interesting. An entire plan of the monastery. The journalist’s eyes widened, he tried not to show extreme curiosity.

  ‘And…?’

  ‘Here.’ The German pointed. ‘You see. If everything is so functional, what is that?’

  ‘That’ was a mess of complex dotted lines and faintly traced angles, with numbers and Greek letters attached. He couldn’t see what Julius meant. He’d been pretending he was an architect for six hours. He couldn’t keep up the lame and feeble illusion.

  ‘Looks alright to me.’

  ‘You do not see?’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me?’

  Julius’s smile was triumphant.

  ‘I have been studying the building. But this section here makes no sense.’

  ‘The…?’

  ‘The pyramid. The pyramid has no apparent function at all. It just sits there doing nothing, in the middle. I have checked, there are no heating ducts, no engineering purpose. No one can explain it. I have therefore concluded it is mere decoration. You see?’

  Simon hesitated, his throat slightly choked.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It means he was a liar! The great Le Corb was a fraud. He added this pyramid as pure ornament. A purely decorative addition to the architectonics. The man was a charlatan! Form follow function? – it is nonsense!’

  Picking up the schematic, Simon looked close. The pyramid sprang from the basement. If it was accessible, it must be accessed from the lowest floor of the monastery. The dark and mysterious underchapel.

  This had to be it, if anywhere: this had to be it, the only place he hadn’t looked.

  The pyramid.

  33

  ‘Disgusting, isn’t it?’

  David turned. A large blond man in a rugby shirt had sat down at the next table; he was staring at the roistering Germans.

  He had a kind-of South African accent. David shrugged, not knowing quite what to say.

  ‘Sorry.’ The man burped. ‘But I overheard your conversation. The waiter is right. Those bastards are celebrating the Nazis. The ascension of Hitler to power.’

  He ran fingers through the thick blond hair; he was tall, tanned, vigorous, about thirty-five.

  ‘And I am German! At least by descent,’ he said. He extended a manly hand. ‘Name is Hans. Hans Petersen. Only come here for the Tafel, best beer in Swakop.’ He smiled again. ‘My people are from Otasha. Cattle farmers.’

  David offered his own name, and he introduced Amy.

  ‘So…’ David tilted a glance at the partying Nazis. ‘Why…do they do it? Is it a joke?’

  ‘For some of them, yeah.’ Hans swigged from his Tafel. ‘They fly here from Germany and make a big joke of it. They say it is…ironic. Shocking the bourgeois. But for others it is no joke. Some of them are descended from Nazis, or Nazi families, who fled here after the war. Some are from old colonial families – they’ve been celebrating Hitler since 1933.’ He wiped the beer from his lips with a thickly muscled wrist. ‘So what about you?’

  The Germanic singing had subsided; many of the ‘ironic’ Nazis were departing the bar, cold blasts of air slapping the room every time the door swung open.

  ‘We’re…trying to get a lift to Damaraland. To meet someone. Seems kind of…impossible.’

  The German’s stare was almost unblinking.

  ‘You say Damaraland?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He surveyed them.

  ‘Well, could be your lucky day.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I can take ya. Maybe. I’m heading up there with some conservationists tomorrow, do some work with the ellies.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Desert elephants. S’what I do. I left the farm to my brother. Too boring.’ He chuckled. ‘I help ecologists, the government. Safaris for tourists, run a fleet of 4 by 4s. Namibia is not the easiest place to get around.’

  Amy smiled, anxiously. ‘We noticed.’

  Hans nodded and laughed and bought a beer. He asked a couple more searching questions, then a couple more questions – and then he stood and laid some Namibian dollars on the table, and waved at the waiter. ‘OK. Let’s call it a deal! Happy to give you a hand. Sounds like you need it.’ He walked and paused, at the doorway. ‘You’ll have to get up early though, guys. Seven a.m. start. It’s a long old drive.’

  ‘But…Where?’

  ‘Meet by the Herero Monument. You won’t miss us – we’ll be the guys with the DEP Land Rovers.’

  David stared at Amy as Hans disappeared into the night. They had lucked out. They sighed their relief, paid the tab, caught a cab, and headed back to their hotel.

  But their optimism was swiftly checked.

  As they were passing the reception, the bashful, defeated face of Raymond appeared: barring the way to the elevators.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Raymond.’

  The man was evidently concerned: he waved a hand across his mouth, indicating they should be very quiet. A second gesture beckoned them to a darker corner of the lobby.

  He hissed. ‘Please please. Please come. Please listen.’

  ‘Raymond.’

  He frowned in the shadows. ‘People are looking for you!’

  ‘Who?’

  Amy’s eyes were wide with alarm. Raymond shrugged, still frowning. The entire hotel was darkened, and hushed.

  ‘A short man. Quite fat. Almost a beard. Accent Spanish.’

  Amy whispered, David’s way: ‘Could it be…Enoka?’

  David snapped the question: ‘What did he say? This man?’

  ‘Not much. He say he was just looking for a white couple. Your descriptions. I tell him nothing…but he is looking for you. Tattoo on his hand. Like a German…swastika.’

  ‘Enoka,’ Amy confirmed.

  Enoka.

  David felt like he was being force-fed a diet of terror. The burning images had never left him. Miguel’s servile accomplice in the witch’s cave, scuttling away. And then Miguel. Raping Amy. Not raping Amy.

  Amy was already making for the lifts.

  ‘Let’s get inside.’

  They fled to their room and double locked the door – and lay fully clothed on the bed – and barely slept.

  When David woke, he had only the memory of a bad dream in his mind, like the bitter aftertaste of some sleeping pill. A dream with sexual elements. A dream of Amy and Miguel. He was glad he could not remember the details.

  The fog had quite gone. They shoved their kit in their cases, gazed at the sea – now shining in the sun – and snuck out of the hotel and cabbed the few hundred metres to the Herero Monument. They sat low in the car seats as they drove. Frightened and cowering.

  As promised, Hans and his cars were unmissable: two big ochre Land Rovers with ‘Desert Elephant Project’ stencilled on the side. The Land Rovers were piled high with equipment. Hans greeted them with another manly handshake, and gestured at the second Land Rover.

  ‘Second car is full. You better come with us.’ He took their bags and shunted them in the boot of the first car. Then scrutinized them with
a wry smile. ‘You guys OK? You look…kinda rattled.’

  ‘We’re fine. Just…wanna get going.’

  ‘Least the fog’s gone AWOL, eh? Like I said, you’d better come with me and Sam. Unless you want to talk about zoology for twelve hours. Hey. My Herero lieutenant! Sammy!’

  A young black guy turned and grinned. Hans jerked a thumb at Amy and David. ‘These guys are with us. Dropping them off past the Ugab. Gonna sit them with us.’ He turned to David. ‘OK, let’s saddle up.’

  David and Amy immediately climbed in the Land Rover. They held hands. The seconds dragged past. The cars remained stationary.

  ‘C’mon,’ Amy was whispering, to herself, very quietly. ‘What’s the problem? Can’t we just go?’

  They waited. And sweated. Trying to look as invisible as possible in the darkness of the car. Six minutes passed, then six and a half minutes, then six and three quarter minutes, and then Hans vaulted on board and slammed his door and whistled loudly and the cars rumbled into life. They were doing it, getting out of town, trundling out of the Swakop suburbs; passing some red and blue painted bungalows, a hint of shanty town, the last dusty supermarket, a disused railway track: and then – then the desert.

  The silence and vastness seemed to swallow them. David felt a headrush of relief. The cars had seemed big and important and all too conspicuous in the amiable Swakop streets; now they were two tiny specks in an austere immensity.

  Good.

  David and Amy were in the back, Sammy and Hans were chatting in the front. Speaking in Herero, or so David guessed: some tribal language anyway. Hans had the GPS coordinates given him by Amy. Every so often the German cross-checked them with his satnav, and nodded, apparently content.

  The gravel road was nearly empty in the diagonal morning light. Occasionally a rusty truck or big new 4WD would pass them coming the other way, kicking up its own dust trail, making orange smoke signals in the empty blue air. Some pick-up trucks had black workers in grey overalls lying in the back, smoking, or sleeping. The glossy SUVs generally contained a solitary white man who lifted one lazy finger in acknowledgement as they passed.

  David wondered: had Raymond really seen Enoka? Maybe it was just paranoia, a mistake, an innocent mistake? But the tattoo was unmistakable. He had seen Enoka.