1982 - An Ice-Cream War (2 page)

Temple turned, he was surprised to hear impeccable English accents among so much German. He was even more surprised to see that it came from an officer in the
Schutztruppe
.

“Good God,” Temple said, his American accent contrasting strongly with his interlocutor’s. “Erich von Bishop. What are you doing in that outfit? I thought you’d left the army.”

Von Bishop was Temple’s neighbour. Their farms both lay in the Kilimanjaro region, separated by a few miles and the border between German and British East Africa. Von Bishop was a tall, lean man with a melancholy, clean-shaven face. He had a large sharp nose and an unusually long upper lip which, Temple supposed, was responsible for him looking literally so down in the mouth. He was one of those men who narrowly miss being freakishly ugly: the odd features were just under control. The most surprising thing about him was his voice. It was boyishly high and reedy, full of air and sounding as if it would give out any second. Like von Lettow-Vorbeck, his commander, his head was shaven to a prickly grey stubble. He wore the brilliant starched white uniform of a
Schutztruppe
captain and carried a sabre by his side.

“I’m in the reserve,” he reminded Temple. “Everyone’s been summoned for the celebration, there’s a big parade later today. And besides, I’m meeting my wife. She’s arriving from Germany,” he gestured at the harbour. “On the
Tabora
.”

“Well, I won’t detain you any further,” Temple said. He had never met von Bishop’s wife, but knew she had been away for over a year.

“No, please,” von Bishop said. “I insist on you meeting her. After all, we are neighbours of a sort.”

“Delighted,” Temple said. He was, he had to admit, curious. He didn’t know von Bishop well. They had met perhaps four times in the three years since Temple had settled at his farm, but he had formed sufficient opinions about the man—he thought he was extremely odd—to wonder what his wife looked like.

Von Bishop was in his early fifties and, as Temple knew, half-German and half-English. For some reason, in his youth he had gone to the German military academy at Kassel and had come out to East Africa in the nineties. He had distinguished himself in the putting down of the brutal Maji-Maji rebellion in 1907 and had been awarded the honorary title of ‘von’ in recognition of his services. He had a large and thriving farm growing maize and bananas.

The two men moved towards the crowd that was greeting the arriving passengers. Temple saw von Bishop stiffen with recognition as a woman walked up the steps from the lighter to the jetty. She was wearing a simple air-blue ankle-length dress with small ruffs at the end of the long sleeves. Her face was shadowed by a wide straw hat. Temple waited for von Bishop to go forward to greet her but he didn’t move.

“Ah-ha,” he said cautiously. “There she is.”

“Who?” Temple asked. “Is that your wife?”

“My dear wife,” he said feelingly. He clasped his hands in front of him and stood his ground. Temple wondered why he didn’t step forward and welcome her.

“Oh dear,” von Bishop said, making his face sadder.

“What’s wrong?”

“She looks…she looks different. What shall I say? Very healthy. Yes, healthy.”

The woman seemed in no particular hurry either. She stepped off the jetty and looked idly around. Every now and then she reached into her bag and put something into her mouth.

“Erich!” she had seen him and came over. Only then did von Bishop go to meet her. He politely kissed her on the cheek and spoke some words in German. He offered his wife his arm and led her over to Temple.

“This is Mr Smith, our neighbour in British East Africa. Mr Smith, my wife Liesl.”

“How do you do,” Temple said. “I hope your trip was enjoyable.”

“Yes,” she said slowly in English, with a strong German accent. “It was quite tolerable, thank you. I’m happy to meet you.” They shook hands. A strong gust of peppermint came from her mouth when she spoke.

She was a well-built woman, Temple noticed, who looked to be considerably younger than von Bishop, perhaps in her mid-thirties. She was tall, like her husband, and had broad shoulders and a heavy bosom and hips. Her skin was very pale and creamy and her face was covered in large freckles. Her nose was slightly hooked and her eyes were green. Her mouth was wide and her upper lip was the same size as her lower—if not slightly larger—which gave her a look of constantly biting back her words. From beneath her hat some strands of crinkled bright ginger hair had escaped.

Von Bishop left to supervise the loading of her luggage into a rickshaw.

“And what are you doing in Dar?” Frau von Bishop asked abruptly.

“I’ve come down to buy coffee seedlings,” Temple explained. “We have nothing like your botanical garden in British East. But, I must confess I wanted to see Dar and, um, your splendid new railway.” He wondered why he was talking in this ridiculous manner. It was something to do with the almost permanent mood of censure that seemed to emanate from the woman.

“You are not English, I think?” she said, cocking her head to one side, as if she had caught him out in some way.

“No,” Temple confessed. “I’m American. From the United States of America. I came over in ‘09 with President Roosevelt on his hunting trip. And I, ah, decided to stay on.”

“I see,” she said. There was an awkward pause. “What
is
Erich doing? Would you like a peppermint?” She offered Temple a paper bag.

“Why, thank you.” He put the sweet in his mouth. He didn’t like peppermint that much.

“For…
mal de mer
. How do you say it?”

“I’m sorry? What’s maldermare?” To Temple’s surprise Frau von Bishop energetically mimed a vomiting motion, complete with noises.

“Sick,” she said. “At sea.”

“Oh. Sea-sick. Yes, mmm.”

“Sea-sick?” She seemed irritated at the simple logic of the word. “It’s for sea-sick. Peppermint.”

Temple nodded his comprehension vigorously. There was another pause. “Well,” Temple began uneasily, “it must be nice to be back.”

She seemed about to make an answer but was interrupted by the return of her husband.

“They have it all,” von Bishop announced cheerily, referring to the luggage. “Shall we go?”

He and his wife climbed into a rickshaw.

“We are guests of the Governor,” von Bishop said. “Can we take you anywhere?”

“No thank you,” Temple said thankfully. “I think I’ll observe the pomp and circumstance a little longer. Then I intend to sample some of your German beer.”

“Of course, good-bye then.”

“Good-bye, Mr Smith,” Frau von Bishop said with impressive finality. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Good-bye,” said Temple, raising his hat.

“Wait!” squeaked von Bishop. “When are you going back to Taveta?”

“Well…tomorrow.”

“Excellent, excellent. We can travel together. ‘Till tomorrow, Smith.”

As they drove off Temple saw Frau von Bishop snapping harshly at her husband. What strange people, Temple thought. He watched the small caravan of rickshaws—the von Bishops leading three others carrying luggage—move along the gentle are of the harbour front, past the Catholic church, the post office and the European club towards the Governor’s palace nestling in its grove of palm and mango trees at the mouth of the lagoon. He let his gaze swing round to the crowded flotilla on the sparkling water, then he turned away. He moved through the crowd and walked to the back of the Port Offices. He called a rickshaw over and climbed in. The half-naked African pulling it looked round for instructions.

“
Die Brauerei
,” Temple said. If he was going to be travelling back with the von Bishops he’d better make the most of his last day.

Later that same evening Temple slipped out of the Kaiserhof. It was half past ten and the moonless sky was filled with stars. Unthinkingly his eye picked out the constellations and stars as it always did: Orion’s Belt, the rest of Orion scattered vaguely about, the Big Dipper, Cassiopeia, Venus. The streets around him were empty and dark. Electric light shone from the windows of the Kaiserhof and from the lounge came the tinkling of a pianola. The night was very warm. From the warren of the Indian town sweet smells wafted and there were shouts and drum beats, as if someone were having a party. Temple walked a few yards up Unter den Akazien. He didn’t want to go into the Indian town on foot on his own. He saw a rickshaw and called it over. He gave the name of a hotel on Marktstrasse. The rickshaw boy pulled him swiftly through the dark lanes. Temple sat back on the hard wooden seat and enjoyed the slight breeze.

“Here, bwana,” said the rickshaw boy. Temple got down and paid him. ‘Kitumoinee Hotel’ it said, in faded painted letters above the door. Temple walked in. Oil lamps set up a soft inviting glow. There was a babble of muted conversation.

About a dozen sailors from the
Königsberg
sat around tables in the large ground floor room. Some civilian engineers from the railway played cards. In one corner was a small wooden bar in front of some shelves with bottles of alcohol on them. Behind the bar stood a swarthy Goanese.

“
Bitte, mein Herr?
” he said as Temple approached. Temple walked over and placed his hands carefully on the bar surface. He swallowed.

“
Guten Abend
,” he said. “Do you speak English?” Some of the sailors looked round at the unfamiliar accent. Temple felt the close heat in the room cause his clothes to stick to his body. He wondered why he was bothering to go to all this trouble.

“
Englisch?
” said the Goanese. “
Nein
.”

Shit, Temple swore to himself. “Upstairs?” he said, pointing at the ceiling.

The Goanese smiled his comprehension. “
Oh ja
,” he said. Then indicated the sailors. “
Ein Moment, ja?
”

Temple sat down and drank two glasses of beer. Three sailors clattered down the wooden stairs from the first floor, smiling and grinning. and immediately went into a huddle with their friends.

Temple smoked a cigarette. He tried to keep his mind empty of thoughts. He concentrated on the taste of the beer. It was good beer, he said to himself, brewed right here in the city, as good beer as he’d tasted in Africa…He looked round the bar. For a bar it was decidedly quiet, he observed. A muttering of conversation from the sailors, a flip of cards from the engineers, the occasional scrape of a chair on the paved floor. It was as if everyone were afraid of drawing attention to himself, wanted to be as unobtrusive as possible.

Two more sailors descended the stairs. The Goanese proprietor came over and took away his beer glass. He smiled and nodded at Temple, shooting his eyes in the direction of the floor above. Temple stood up. He was about to walk over to the stairs when the proprietor touched his elbow.

“
Vier Rupee, bitte
,” he said. Temple paid him the money.

He climbed the stairs, acutely aware of the clump of his boots on the wood. On the first floor landing were three doors. Gently he tested the first, but it seemed locked. He was about to open the second when a German sailor came out. Temple stood to one side and the sailor moved past. He said something to Temple in German but Temple didn’t understand, but he smiled wryly, shrugged his shoulders and gave a chuckle. He sensed it had been that sort of remark. Temple moved to the third door, pushed it open and went inside. The room was small and bare except for an iron bed. In one wall was a small window which overlooked Marktstrasse. The shutters of this window were open a few inches and a native woman stood in front of them looking down on the street. On a ledge above the bed was a crude lamp, a burning wick in a bowl of oil.

The woman by the window was chewing something vigorously. She was wearing a rough cotton shift and had a bright fringed shawl loosely about her shoulders. With the toes of her right foot she scratched the back of her left calf.

Temple cleared his throat and shut the door behind him. The woman looked round.

“
Abend
,” she said dully and went over to the bed. She looked a strange mixture of Arab, Indian and Negro, Temple thought. Her hair was long and wiry and tied up in a complicated knot. Around her neck she had ropes of beads and metallic neck-laces. On her thin arms she had a large collection of bracelets. The bed was covered in a grey blanket. Temple moved closer. He saw that her hair was thickly oiled, and indeed that her entire body was covered in a thin layer of shiny grease. Dark blue tattoo marks stood out against the dark brown skin of her forearms. Set in her nose was a brass stud of a simple flower shape. Her middle parting had been smeared with a rusty, ochrous unguent. A cloying, oddly farinaceous smell came from her body. Temple wondered how many races, cults, theologies and customs were meeting in this small room tonight, and what little portion he would add to the mix.

He looked around him and became suddenly aware of the accumulated filth of the place. He saw the rickety bedstead strengthened with wire, saw the flies and insects buzzing and crawling round the flame of the lamp. He could sense the blanket alive and twitching with bed bugs.

He scratched his head. He’d been in some fairly primitive whore-houses in his time, but this won first prize. Still, he thought, he’d come all this way: it seemed pointless not to see the thing through.

The woman folded her shawl carefully over the end of the bed. With a single movement and a clank of bangles she removed her shirt. She was now wearing only her jewellery collection. More strings of beads were wrapped round her waist, Temple noticed. It would be like going to bed with the bric-a-brac counter at a dime store. He wondered vaguely if the beads were talismen of some kind.

The woman sat down and with an innocently lewd gesture parted her legs in order to examine more closely the irritation on the back of her left calf. To his annoyance, Temple realized he was smoothing down his hair. The woman’s breasts were low slung and oddly pointed. The tattoos he’d seen on her forearm were extended over portions of her torso.

Unhappily he unbuckled his belt and undid the buttons on his trousers. He was wearing no drawers but the woman didn’t spare him a glance. She only looked up when he stumbled as he tried to step out of his trousers. He’d forgotten, in his absorption with the exotic, to remove his boots.