1982 - An Ice-Cream War (51 page)

Felix nodded. “I know. I found him.” He looked again at this perplexing woman. He remembered that she had known Gabriel for what amounted to the last two years of his life.

“Did your husband…did he tell you what happened? About Gabriel?”

“Oh yes.” Liesl said.

“But
why?
” Felix said imploringly, suddenly aching for some sort of explanation. “That’s
all
I want to know. Why? Why? Why?”

“Why what?” Liesl frowned.

With an intuition of dream-like clarity Felix realized that she knew nothing of the truth of Gabriel’s death. She had no idea of what happened that night on the plateau, had no conception of her husband’s part. He decided at once not to tell her. He knew, again with a surprising sense of conviction, that it was better to leave it as it was. After all, he thought sadly, we all have our secrets to keep. The heavens wouldn’t fall for such a trifle.

3 January 1919
Mombasa, British East Africa

“It’s ironic,” Felix said. “After four years of war, to die of influenza.”

“To say the least,” Temple agreed.

“Over half of them have died, you know,” Felix went on. “Of the surviving German officers.”

“I heard,” Temple said. He seemed preoccupied. “Anyway, what happened after that?” he asked. He, his wife and Felix were standing on the quayside on Mombasa Island. Felix was going back to England. The Smiths had come to say good-bye.

“We talked on for a short while,” Felix said. “I asked about Gabriel. She said she knew him very well. She liked him a lot. ‘A very nice man,’ she said. ‘Very quiet, very kind.’” Felix paused. “I didn’t say anything about the plateau. I thought nothing would be served.”

Temple stroked his moustache.

“What’s she doing now?”

“Still waiting to be repatriated. She said she was looking forward to that.”

“She didn’t talk about von Bishop at all? In any way?”

“No. Not at all. I thought—you know, given that he was lying next door…”

“Yes, of course, I see.” Temple seemed agitated. “She didn’t by any chance mention the word ‘Decorticator’, did she?”

“What?”

“Decorticator. She didn’t give any hint as to what von Bishop may have done with it?”

“No,” Felix said. “What’s a Decorticator?”

“So the secret dies with him.” Temple put his hands on his hips and looked at the ground. “It’s a mystery,” he said. “I’ve searched every German farm on Kilimanjaro and the Pare hills. No sign. Nobody knows what happened to it. It seems to have disappeared into thin air. But how could it?” He looked genuinely distressed. “Did they melt it down, or what? Break it up? But it was too big.” He looked to his wife for support. “Wasn’t it, dear?”

“Of course,” Mrs Smith said gazing dreamily out to sea. “Extremely big.”

She reminded Felix of his mother. And this thought brought Stackpole to mind. What would life be like when he got home? No Gabriel, no Charis, his father shut away. He was filled with gloomy foreboding.

Further down the quayside a military band struck up a jaunty tune, dispelling his morose reflections. Drawn up in neat ranks was a battalion of Indian troops preparing to embark. A dazzlingly white-suited official inspected the guard of honour. Four light artillery pieces attended by spruce KAR gunners stood with their barrels pointed out to sea in preparation for the official salute.

“When those guns go off they aren’t going to do your eyes much good,” Temple said.

“Oh, I think I’m better now,” Felix said without much confidence. “Finally got rid of Wheech-Browning’s legacy. I’d hate to be reminded of him every time there’s a loud noise.”

“I warned you,” Temple laughed. “Do you remember? The first time we met.”

“What happened to Wheech-Browning?” Mrs Smith asked.

“God knows,” Felix said. “I never saw him after the explosion.”

“I wonder where he is?” Temple said.

They were all quiet for a while.

“It’s another mystery,” Felix said.

“You can’t know the answers to everything,” said Temple.

“Life doesn’t run on railway tracks. It doesn’t always go the way you expect.”

“That’s a very profound remark, dear,” Mrs Smith said.

Temple looked at her. “Are you making fun of me, Matilda?” he said, a little annoyed.

“Of course not.” Mrs Smith touched her husband’s arm reassuringly.

“Well it was good of you to come and see me off,” Felix said to them both. “It’s a long way, for a good-bye.”

“No trouble,” Temple said. “I wanted to come to Mombasa anyway. I’m going out to a rubber plantation this afternoon.” Temple made an expansive gesture with his arm, and for a moment looked transported with his vision. “I see the shores of Lake Jipe as one great green rubber forest.”

There was another pause. They didn’t know each other very well.

“At least it’s over, anyway,” Temple said. “We should all be thankful for that.”

“What?”

“The war.”

“Oh, the war. Yes, that’s true.” Felix thought about the news he was carrying back to England.

A boy came and picked up Felix’s case. The launch was ready to take the few passenger to the liner, the
Conway Star
, which rode at anchor some sixty yards away from the quay.

Felix said good-bye.

“Come back soon,” Temple said. “Don’t wait for another war.”

“I might,” Felix said. “You never know.”

Felix leant on the wooden guard rail around the sun deck, looking round the beautiful bay. Mombasa Island seemed very green and pretty from this side. Beyond the harbour buildings, scattered among the trees, were splendid white houses with arches and long verandahs. In the distance was a line of hills.

A small promontory showed a silvery stretch of beach. A cluster of palm trees leant out towards the sea. Around the
Conway Star
were other ships. A liner for the Indian troops, an old steamer, some dhows and two small tidy destroyers.

Felix looked back at the wharf. Temple and his wife had promised to stay until the boat sailed and, true to their word, they had remained. Felix saw them at the edge of the small group of well-wishers who had assembled to say good-bye. He waved, and Mrs Smith waved back. Temple had moved a few paces away and was looking at the crowd that had gathered to see off the Indian battalion. Felix squinted up into the sun. Above him stretched an immense deep-blue sky occupied by a few small clouds. The sky seemed higher in Africa, he thought vaguely. On shore, the military band broke into ‘God Save the King’ as the colonel of the battalion embarked. Felix returned to his musing. How can the sky be higher? he rebuked himself the sky has no height. He looked again. Then he realized, with an absurd sense of achievement, that it was the clouds which were higher in Africa. They sailed higher than the clouds in Europe, and that was what made the encompassing blue seem so toweringly out of reach.

BOOM!
went the first of the guns in the farewell salute. The other three followed in quick succession. Felix felt the shock and crash of the cannonade echo in his head. The view before him trembled, misted and then fragmented, as he knew it would. The quay, the ships, the sea, the leaning palms, glimmered fitfully between the swirling chasms of mica dust. Never mind, Felix told himself in resigned compensation. It would be quiet on the voyage. He waved at the place where he thought Temple was standing, just to show him that he was all right and, in case he was concerned, to put his mind at rest. The guns boomed again. Quiet on the voyage, he repeated, dazzled and distracted, looking up at the small unfailing clouds dancing quite contentedly in the repercussing air.