William Boyd - An Ice-Cream War

“Von Bishop,” he hissed. “Wake up.”

There was no movement from the bed.

“Wake up,” he croaked. “Wake up.”

Von Bishop slept on peacefully.

Felix lowered the gun. What now? He took a step closer. He stood almost above him. Felix could hardly hear the sound of his breathing. Hand wobbling, he levelled the gun at von Bishop’s shadowed face.

“Wake. Up.” He reached forward to shake him by the shoulder. This was absurd, he thought, it was going to be impossible to shoot the man now.

Behind him the door swung open.

“He’s dead,” Liesl von Bishop said in a calm voice. “Leave him alone.”

Felix reeled round in horror and aghast surprise, frantically hauling the folds of his jacket up over his face. He lost his balance and staggered, a hand slamming down on the bed for support, thwacking von Bishop’s immobile leg.

The light from the oil lamp she carried illuminated von Bishop’s face. His eyes were shut, his mouth slightly open, his skin looked stretched tight.

“Oh my God ,” Felix exclaimed tremulously, bending over, gasping for air. “Oh God, Jesus!” He felt as if he were about to fall apart, so critical was the shock he’d received.

“He died this evening,” Liesl said dully. “About three hours ago. Influenza. Spanish influenza, the doctor said.”

Felix felt his rioting body come under minimal control.

“What’s wrong with your face?” she said.

“What?” Felix touched the masking folds of his jacket.

“Your face, why is it covered? And a gun,” she said with more alarm. “Why have you got a gun?”

“In case,” Felix improvised, tearing away his jacket, hoping he wouldn’t have to try and explain that. “Self-protection,” he concluded lamely.

“I saw you outside,” she said. “Standing under the tree. I was waiting for you to come to the door.” She gave him a weary, tolerant smile, as if he were an idiotic child who kept getting into trouble. She moved to one side to let him pass, and Felix walked out of the bedroom into the narrow hall. He put on his jacket and tucked his gun away with some embarrassment.

“You wanted to ask Erich about Gabriel?” she said.

“Yes.” It was odd hearing the sound of his brother’s name on her lips, she used it so familiarly.

Her face went serious. “I must tell you. You know that he’s dead?”

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.

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.