A Gathering of Strangers

A Gathering of Strangers

A Novel of Namibia

By Lee Pound

Published by Solutions Press at Smashwords

©2004 Lee Pound

ISBN: 978-0-9827646-0-2

This book is available in print at www.leepound.com/SolutionsPressBookstore.htm

All rights reserved. Except as permitted by applicable copyright laws, no part of this book may be reproduced, duplicated, sold or distributed in any form or by any means, either mechanical, by photocopy, electronic, or by computer, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the express written permission of the publisher/authors, except for brief quotations by reviewers.

This book is a work of fiction. Resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

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Dedication

To my mother, Jessie R. Pound

To my wife, Sheri Long

To Sol Stein and the members of the Chapter One Writing Seminar for their close reading of and invaluable comments on portions of this book

Chapter One

To her friends in Capetown, the desert of southern Namibia was oppressive, a place to be avoided.

To Liese Beck, the desert was home.

As a child, she played hide and seek among the lava rocks with the three Tiwolo boys, children of Papa’s black foreman. In her teen years, she studied in a segregated school to the whip-whip of ceiling fans stirring the hot air. When at twenty she married Andreas Beck, her friends filled the pews long before she walked down the aisle holding her father’s arm. Her hands trembled in Andreas’s as they sang their vows and lingered over their first kiss as husband and wife.

Liese enjoyed the easy life of a traditional German housewife. She cooked hearty dinners, sent Andreas off with trays of apple strudel to share with the other clerks at the Labor Ministry, and listened when he came home upset over a difficult case.

Day after day, she cooked and cleaned in endless repetition until one day she stopped halfway through loading the dishwasher, tossed her apron aside, and called Andreas. Come home, she said, it’s time we talked.

The next morning, with Andreas’s permission, she scanned the journalism course listings at the college admissions office. She chose the advanced news writing course, permission of instructor required to enroll. Worth a try, she said to the clerk, who prepared the paperwork. That afternoon, the professor questioned her about her background across an acre of polished desk. After a close examination of her writing samples, he jotted his initials on the enrollment card, settled back in his leather chair and said, Any illusions about getting an A?

You don’t give many?

He tapped his fingers together twice. You get an A, I’ll recommend you to any newspaper you choose.

One of the locals will be fine.

We’ll see. He slid the enrollment card across the desk. Good luck, young lady.

Her first assignment came back with the two top paragraphs exed out and a bold red It Starts Here aimed at the third. She handed it to Andreas without comment. When he finished reading, he hugged her and said, Don’t worry. You’ll do fine.

She studied and wrote. She served dinners late. Dust accumulated on the coffee table.

Two days after she submitted her mid-term paper, she listened in surprise to the Windhoek Post editor’s gravel voice on the phone. Professor thinks you’re good, he said. Here’s your chance to prove it.

That evening, as she strolled through a haze of small talk at the Post Office Ministry’s reception, her dream of a banner headline dissolved to two paragraphs on the back page. Then she heard the voice of Rolf Reissman, Minister of Mines, familiar from the days he’s served as deputy to Papa at the Education Ministry, slurring out a tirade against diamond smugglers. What news! With a secret smile, she slipped her note pad out of her purse.

She filed the story. In bed, she spent the first hours of the night staring at the ceiling while Andreas snored beside her. The next day, she danced into the bank with a check for one hundred rand.

At semester’s end, the professor handed her a sealed envelope addressed to the editor of the Post. I hear he needs a good reporter, he said.

The day after her interview, she sat for the first time at the High Court press table as the judge gavelled to order the trial of a farmer accused of murdering his wife’s lover.

She thrived on her transformation from the anonymous wife of a bureaucrat to reporter courted by politicians. She’d sit through a session of the Legislature in the morning, interview the mayor in the afternoon, meet deadline with minutes to spare and drive home eagerly anticipating the next day’s schedule.

Andreas listened to her talk about her day, said little about his, and soon withdrew to the den. He left for work early and came home late, exhausted while she still exuded energy. She bought him a new suit when the government promoted him to senior clerk. He worked harder, as if competing with her. He became section head. She hosted a dinner party for him. He worked harder.

One morning he called her at the office with a fresh brightness in his voice.

Darling?

Yes.

You must attend a reception tonight.

Tonight?

With me, he said. I’m the new deputy Labor Minister.

You got the job! Liese shuffled the work on her desk. I’ll be there.

When work forced her to leave the reception early, he said, Can’t your deadline wait? This one time please stay.

It couldn’t.

At the next election, he’d run for office, the only promotion left to him. If he won . . . How could she cover the Legislative Assembly when her husband served as a member?

**********

One night soon after Andreas’s promotion, she came home late and found him sitting at the kitchen table, a steaming towel draped across his forehead, his face pale.

What’s wrong? she asked.

My head. The worst headache I’ve ever had.

Aspirin didn’t help.

The next morning she persuaded him to see their doctor, who ordered tests.

When the results came back, the doctor called Liese. I want to talk to you and Andreas together, he said.

The doctor with his round glasses and thick pen motioned them to sit in twin chairs in front of his desk, wide as a moat. They listened, her hand wrapped in his, as if eavesdropping on the doctor’s throaty rumble about somebody else.

We found a tumor under the hypothalamus.

For a second Andreas said nothing.

Operable? Andreas asked.

Liese said, A specialist?

I talked to three.

What about the United States? You must know someone.

The doctor inhaled. It’s too deep. I’m sorry.

Andreas’s voice, as if from a distance, asked, How long?

The doctor tapped his desk with his pen. We can’t be sure.

Then Liese, louder. How long!

In a case like this, many factors complicate matters.

How long?

The doctor shifted his gaze from Liese to Andreas. A month. Who knows, maybe two.

The doctor left them alone. Andreas took her in his arms. She savored the warmth of his body.

They went home, where she winced at each stab of pain he endured.

The last day, he lay on his back in bed, breathing in shallow gasps.

Remember me, he said.

Forever. She kissed his cheek, red with fever. I’ll miss you.

Andreas closed his eyes. His chest rose and fell in shudders. He blinked once and said, Please sing to me.

She gave him music and words of love and hope. He smiled before he took his last breath, a long sigh of loss, and she let her grief carry his soul into eternity.

**********

After the funeral, condolences still in her ear, Liese drove to the house that no longer felt like home, to the foyer where after a rough day Andreas would never again greet her, to the den where he would write his proposals to help migrant laborers while she prepared his schnitzel and gravy, to the bedroom where she fluffed his pillow knowing that only memories would embrace her.

Papa and Mama stayed with her that evening as she talked too much and wept too little. Mama cooked. Liese didn’t eat. When she went to her room, she prayed for Andreas and castigated the God who kidnapped him. Before dawn broke, a sudden thought snapped her awake. She was free. Andreas’s ambitions no longer conflicted with her own. She buried her face in the pillow.

Liese announced her decisions that morning. To Papa: sell the house. To her editor at the Post: please, may I have a letter of recommendation. To her college professor: please, may I have a letter of recommendation. To her travel agent: one ticket to Capetown.

Two weeks after she left the desert behind, the Capetown Daily Rand hired her to write stories about apartheid.

We don’t like it, the editor said.

I don’t either, Liese said.

One night soon after she started, halfway through writing a story, a spider of a man with Irish red hair and gray eyes stuck a plump sandwich bag in front of her computer screen. Harry Enderby, he said. I’ll wager you’re hungry.

I heard they transferred you back, Liese said.

If the bosses offer you Germany, take it, Harry said.

That good? She remembered the sparkle in his voice when he called in stories from Bonn and Berlin to the rewrite desk, where she’d spent her first month at the Rand.

He wagged the sandwich bag.

She smiled. I’m starved.

They shared lunches and commiserations. When he asked her to dinner, she said, It’s too soon after Andreas. He told her she shouldn’t work such long hours. She asked how else she could get a promotion.

Soon he stopped asking her out. When he announced his transfer to Windhoek to a surprised Liese, he said, I asked. It’s my last chance to report on the founding of a new country.

She drove him to the airport. Come visit when you’re in town, he said. She watched the sky long after his jet vanished.

Her editor gave her Harry’s old beat, the South African Parliament. She developed a network of sources, some Harry’s, some her own, which produced exclusives on the most controversial stories of the era: Namibia’s fight for independence, the repression of South Africa’s blacks and Nelson Mandela’s release from prison. A Johannesburg-based reporter, Nate Womack from the New York Times, once pulled a copy of the Rand from his briefcase during a break at a session of Parliament. Did I ever tell you you’re my best news source? he asked.

At the next annual meeting of the Cape Province Press Association, she won Journalist of the Year honors. She walked onto the stage, hesitating at the top step as if she expected Andreas to get up from his seat and come forward to embrace her.

**********

As February faded into March, while she worked on a feature about Namibia’s imminent independence, the phone’s cricket chirp startled her.

Long distance from Namibia, the receptionist said. Herman Weber.

One second, two seconds, then she heard Papa’s weary voice.

Are you all right? she said.

She heard his labored breathing.

What is it?

He didn’t answer.

Tell me.

It’s Mama.

Mama what?

In the night. Last night. Oh Liese, come.

She’s dead.

Please come.

I’ll be on the next plane, Papa, she said, squeezing her eyes shut.

At the funeral, she placed three red roses on Mama’s white casket before the pallbearers lowered it into the ground. She had no words to comfort Papa.

**********

That September, when she returned to the newsroom from a lunch hour spent buying three new shirts for Papa’s fiftieth birthday present, the receptionist said, Stryker wants to see you.

The managing editor occupied his desk like a general, tie loosened, pipe bobbing in his mouth.

Sit down, he said.

She sat, hands folded in her lap. What’s wrong?

This. He waved a sheet of yellow paper with one hand.

Liese slipped forward. What is it?

Namibian Justice Minister, Julius Shilongo, killed himself.

She searched for Stryker’s eyes and found them firmly lowered toward the paper.

And.

He laid the paper on the desk and allowed her a glimpse of his eyes, which reflected sympathy.

Your father . . .

She stiffened.

Found the body.

He handed her the wire story. If you need time off . . .

Thanks, she said. She called Papa from her desk.

**********

After arriving in Keetmanshoop that afternoon, she cooked dinner and baked Papa’s birthday cake while he satisfied his urgent need to talk.

Late that evening, he asked, Did you bring your recorder?

She had.

I want my story on tape while it’s still fresh, he said.

After he answered her last question, he added, Keep it safe, honey.

The next morning at breakfast, Liese suggested a drive through his sheep farm’s backcountry in his new Land Rover. He talked with such pride about the windmills and fencing he’d installed since Mama died that he didn’t mention Shilongo’s suicide until near the end of the tour.

I keep wondering why he killed himself, Papa said. He seemed so confident when he called to set up the meeting with me.

Liese squinted through the sparkling dust on the windshield. Are you sure he committed suicide?

The Land Rover, rocks popping under its tires, bounced past kokerboom trees, spiked candelabras clinging to parched hills.

When I found him . . . Papa coughed. I’ll never forget. His knuckles whitened as he kneaded the steering wheel. His right hand frozen around the gun. The blood. He shifted the visor. I hope you never see . . .

Liese shut her eyes but couldn’t turn off her imagination. Why did he want to see you?

He mentioned my years at the Education Ministry. Beyond that, I never found out.

Papa stopped the Land Rover where the road plunged off the plateau. Below them, the equipment shed’s steel roof gleamed like a shimmering pool. A row of acacia trees sheltered the house from view.

Liese aimed a slim finger at Papa’s foreman in the clearing below, a blur of arms and legs rushing toward them.

Papa laughed for the first time since her arrival. Mtiste Tiwolo can’t wait for us to cut the cake. The Land Rover crunched down the trail. Liese tilted her safari hat to block the sun.

Tiwolo stopped running at the end of the track, still waving his arms.

He’s so excited, Liese said.

Papa rolled down the window as the Land Rover slid to a stop a foot from Tiwolo, breathing hard from his run.

What’s happening? Papa asked.

Police. At the house.

A constable?

Many men. They asked for you.

Get in, Mtiste, Papa said. When the back door slammed shut, he shifted the Land Rover into low gear and accelerated.

They rounded the equipment shed. Police vehicles occupied the dirt clearing in front of the house with military precision, vans on each side, a patrol car in the center, and a semi-circle of black constables armed with Uzis in front of the gate.

Liese recognized the red-haired inspector standing by the car in his crisp blue uniform with silver stars on his shoulders, his nose pointed straight ahead. Hendrik Hoos. A friend until she reported in the Post that he’d tortured a black bombing suspect. An acquaintance since then.

When Papa stopped the Land Rover, she dropped her hat on the seat and jumped out. Remember Hendrik Hoos? she asked. Last I heard he worked in Windhoek investigating murder cases.

Papa caught her arm. He still does.

Oh, Liese said.

Tiwolo jumped out of the back seat. Together they approached Hoos, their footsteps crunching on gravel. Hoos straightened.

Herman Weber?

Papa stopped walking. What do you want?

You are Herman Weber?

Of course I’m Herman Weber.

Hoos pulled a sheaf of folded papers from his coat pocket.

State your business, Papa said.

The Chief assigned me to the Shilongo case, he said. Yesterday we received the laboratory tests on Shilongo’s hands.

Liese tensed.

No gunpowder.

So he didn’t commit suicide? Liese asked.

Shilongo couldn’t have fired the gun, Hoos said.

Liese glanced at the constables, faces blank like robots.

Why send a squad of police and a Chief Inspector from Windhoek to tell me that? Papa asked.

Liese glared at Hoos.

We determined the approximate time of Shilongo’s death.

When?

Within the half hour before you found him.

What are you saying? Papa asked.

I am sorry, Hoos said. You are under arrest. He removed handcuffs from his belt. For the murder of Justice Minister Julius Shilongo.

Papa’s eyes widened. He raised his hands as if to ward off a blow.

Liese froze. That can’t be, she said.

Hoos handed her the documents, folded twice. Arrest warrant and search warrant. He snapped one cuff onto Papa’s right wrist and reached for his left.

This can’t be right. Liese read the accusing words, on or about September 12, 1990 said Herman Weber did shoot with intent to kill . . . She couldn’t finish the sentence. She flipped the pages, finding Hoos’s scribbled signature on the last one, above the magistrate’s.

Hoos closed the second cuff. To two nearby constables, he said, Take him away.

Papa turned to her, his voice hoarse. Call Gerrick. Now.

She embraced him, resisting the tug as Hoos pulled him away. Her hands slipped from his shirt, damp with sweat. She followed him to the car, the sun silhouetting him. Papa sat in back, the two officers in front, the door slammed and dust boiled up as the car sped toward Windhoek, five hundred kilometers north. She fought the urge to run after them.

The distant hills blurred. Her hands blocked the light from damp eyes squeezed tight.

Chapter Two

. . . already went inside. Tiwolo’s scratchy baritone.

Liese spun, hands clenched, her straggling tears snatched from her cheeks by a thirsty breeze. Tiwolo hurried across the clearing, exploding tiny dust clouds with each step. He stopped a shadow’s breadth away. Searching the house, he said.

The warrant. She flicked a glance behind her, where a white paper fluttered against the fence, dropping to the ground when the breeze paused, resuming its flutter with the next gust.

Papa’s last words slipped from behind the shadow of shock.

I have to call the lawyer, she said as another realization struck. Damn, I left Papa’s tape in my room.

Tiwolo narrowed his eyes in an unspoken question.

I taped Papa’s statement about the murder. I can’t let the police find it.

Is it incriminating?

Behind Tiwolo’s shoulder, Hoos trudged toward them.

No. Liese hurried her whisper. It’s the words. Reorder them and an innocent statement can be twisted into a confession.

The police will be watching you, Tiwolo said.

Liese’s glance flicked from Tiwolo to Hoos. I can fool them if they let me in the house, she said. Stay close. Louder, she said to Hoos, Where are you taking Papa?

Hoos’s shadow touched the tip of Liese’s left shoe. His eyes iced over. What are you two taking about? he asked.

To Windhoek?

Hoos focused his iceberg gaze on her, treating Tiwolo as an invisible man. I asked you a question.

Nothing that concerns you, she said. She tested him with a step toward the house.

Wait until we’re finished. You shouldn’t see . . .

My house being searched? The instant Hoos should have used to stop her passed. Don’t worry. I won’t bother your men.

Hoos’s words followed her through the gate. I didn’t expect you to be here.

She gripped the stone pilaster, cocking her head enough to meet his eyes. You never answered my question about Papa.

Through a fleeting smile under thawing eyes he said, Windhoek. Where else would we take him?

Her heels clicked soprano notes on the concrete walk, accompanied by the bass drum of Tiwolo’s work boots.

In the living room, a constable steadied a three-step ladder in front of Papa’s book case while his partner, swaying atop his shaky perch, fanned the pages of a book. Liese said, Why break your neck for nothing? The constable sneezed into the puff of dust he’d created and swayed toward another book.

In the dining room, a coffee-skinned constable raised Mama’s wedding portrait from the wall. You won’t find a safe, she said. The constable dropped the portrait, jumping at the sharp crack when it hit the wall, and turned his attention to the table, to Papa’s birthday cake, which filled the room with the sweet scent of chocolate icing.

From Papa’s office she heard filing cabinet drawers rumble open and slam shut. Voices jabbered over discoveries Liese could not imagine.

At the door to her room, Liese said to Tiwolo, If that’s how the new police department operates, this country is in trouble.

Liese reached past the end table clutter of phone, purse, and alarm clock to the tape recorder. A punch of the eject button gave her the tape, a neon light flashing for attention.

Now what, she said. She was rewarded with the notion that she should exchange Papa’s tape for the blank tape in her purse, an idea she instantly rejected. Hoos would search her purse. She’d leave the blank tape for him to find.

She tossed Papa’s tape on the bed.

Hoos’s voice, full of orders to his constables, grew louder.

Tiwolo, in a crouch by the door, whispered, He’s coming.

Liese surveyed the room with frantic eyes. The bed: too easily torn apart. The dresser: three drawers, all empty. The closet: he’d search the clothes.

She opened the closet, her eyes flicking from the clothes to the tape to the suitcase. The suitcase.

Hoos’s footsteps, of a man in no hurry, approached down the hall. Tiwolo waved his arms. Liese snatched up the suitcase. He better not move it, she thought as she swung it onto the bed, on top of the tape.

As Hoos stepped into the room, she picked up the phone as if only the call to the lawyer concerned her.

We rang him, Hoos said.

That was nice of you.

The ringing changed to a musical voice. Gerrick Carstens Law Offices.

It’s Liese. Is he in?

The police rang us, the secretary said. I’m so sorry for your father.

An instant of silence later, Carstens said, Are you coming to Windhoek?

The police are here, she said.

With you?

She looked into Hoos’s eyes as she said, Yes.

We can talk about your plans later. Are they searching the house?

Still with her eyes locked on Hoos, she said, Yes. When can I see Papa?

That may be difficult.

Later then, she said.

After she hung up, Hoos smiled from the doorway. Liese opened the suitcase with a nonchalance she hoped concealed her anxious heartbeat. She folded a dress. You’ll have to take care of the farm, she said to Tiwolo. She reached into the closet for a pair of shoes.

Hoos hung his cap on the doorknob.

What are you doing? he asked.

Liese dropped the shoes into the suitcase. Packing. She bit the word off like a crisp apple.

I’ll have to check the suitcase.

I doubt my clothes would interest the police.

Hoos opened the top drawer of the dresser. That’s correct. He stared into the drawer.

Are you implying I’d smuggle evidence out?

Would you? Hoos contemplated the empty interior of the second drawer.

Liese shrugged as she folded a dress.

You’re upset, Hoos said.

She jammed the dress into the suitcase. Where did you get that idea?

Leave her alone, Tiwolo said.

Soon, Hoos said. He opened the bottom drawer, examining it as if it contained gold. Liese removed two skirts and a blouse from the closet. She brushed a stray wisp of hair from her face, damp from tiny beads of sweat.

This wasn’t my idea, Hoos said. He peeked into the closet, turning his head in a slow arc.

Are you apologizing for arresting Papa? Liese asked.

We had no choice, Hoos said. The evidence . . .

So-called evidence. She folded a blouse too fast and had to fold it again.

Hoos said, You’ll want to visit your father in Windhoek.

I suppose you’ll make the arrangements?

Yes. He wandered into the bathroom.

When?

After the bail hearing tomorrow. His voice echoed off the ceramic fixtures.

She shifted two pair of shoes to make more room in the suitcase. Glass rattled from the bathroom. Stay away from my perfumes, she thought.

Hoos said, I’ll drive you to Windhoek if you’d like. He ambled back into the bedroom, stopping across the bed from Liese, who pushed her last skirt into the suitcase as she translated her first reaction to his offer into words she could say without angering him. No, she said. I’ll drive myself.

It’s a long way.

She exchanged stares with him.

I want to help, he said.

She nodded at Tiwolo, who watched from the door with his hands behind his back. Show Inspector Hoos out, she said.

When are you returning to Capetown? Hoos asked.

Mtiste? she said.

Tiwolo stepped toward Hoos.

You’ll need an airline ticket from Windhoek, Hoos said. I can arrange one.

What makes you think I’m going back to Capetown?

You have a job.

I’m on leave.

Let your father’s lawyer handle the case.

She aimed a stiff finger at him. You don’t want me asking questions, do you?

Have it your way, Hoos said.

Whatever you’re searching for, Liese said, you won’t find much useful. She slammed the suitcase shut. Leave this month’s bills.

They might prove interesting.

I need to pay them. While she glared at Hoos, Tiwolo stepped toward him. Hoos walked around the bed, past the bed stand.

I’ll need to check the suitcase, he said.

You saw me pack it.

What are you nervous about? Hoos asked.

Liese sensed Hoos following her gaze to the recorder.

What’s on the tape? he asked.

She edged toward the stand. Nothing.

Hoos picked up her purse. Liese reached for it but he stepped back. She held her breath, creating the guiltiest expression possible.

He rummaged in the purse with one hand, smiling when he found the blank cassette. What’s on this? he asked.

It’s blank, Liese said.

He slipped the tape into his pocket.

Liese listened until the echo of his boots faded down the hall.

It worked, she said. I’d love to see his expression when he plays that tape. She fished under the suitcase for Papa’s tape.

Tiwolo