David came right back with the answer:
'She was in her house, with a shotgun, pointed at us.'
A knowing nod was their response. Raymond turned, and reached down to the drawer of his desk to retrieve, and hand over, a slip of paper. Written on it was a row of digits and letters. David recognized the style.
'GPS coordinates.'
'Yes.'
'But where?'
The deputy manager shrugged.
'Damaraland? The bush. That is all I know…Now please I work, I am sorry — we are very busy. Swiss tourists.'
He glanced at them — with a sharp, wary expression. He obviously wanted these worrying people with these strange arrangements out of his office. This was fair enough, but it didn't leave Amy and David much better off than before. A bunch of coordinates, pointing them into the wilderness? David knew from his reading that Damaraland was a truly vast expanse of desert and semi desert, north and east of Swakop. How could they find someone, one or two people, in the middle of that? Even with GPS?
They got straight to work, finding someone to take them in-country. But it was hard; it was impossible. They stepped into travel shops, car hire companies, outfitters for treks. When they explained their requirement, the shop managers and outdoorsmen openly laughed. One Australian guy, in shorts despite the cold, threw a manly arm around David's shoulder, and said: 'Listen, mate, Damaraland? There are no roads. You need an expedition. You need two or three fourbys, and a fucking bunch of guns. This isn't Hyde Park. Try kitesurfing.'
And so it went, and so it continued, and then the fog came. They'd been there for two days of increasing anxiety and it was windy and cold throughout; and then the weather worsened. The Swakopmund fog descended: the infamous mists of the Skeleton Coast.
It was like Scotland in December: thick and dismal, shrouding the gay little cakeshops in dankness, sending the lederhosened German tour groups into their warm snug hotels, veiling completely the black factory boats that floated inert on the cold Namibian sea; only the yellow-orange men sitting on their haunches seemed impervious: narrowing their sunburned eyes, and sitting in their cardigans and holey jeans, staring at the grey damp nothing. They looked like the Basque men, in berets, staring at the mountain fog in the villages of the high Pyrenees.
On the foggiest night of all, as they were getting truly desperate, when they were shivering their way along Moltkestrasse, they found a bar they hadn't seen before: Beckenbauer Bar.
It was tiny and gabled and Bavarian-looking, and it was noisy, even from fifty metres away. Keen to escape the shrouding dampness they stepped inside the bar, which was giddy and packed; people were singing in German and ordering steins of lager and clashing the steins together. Chortling.
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.
