William Boyd - An Ice-Cream War

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.