Arnon Grunberg - Tirza

The chicken eat it quickly and hastily, as a dog, without something to drink.

From his briefcase he retrieves Tirza's notebook and reads the sms and that they have received in the last few months. Crazy that the sender has not there. Or would they are all of the same person?

Perhaps the sms and which it has sent? No, that seems unlikely. The messages that are received. There is something of a bookkeeper in her, as thoroughly as they have the SMS and has to be recorded in the minutes. Some of these messages are not for outsiders to understand, as: 'I am here', or just one word: 'kiss'.

On a blank page he writes with pencil: 'Wind Angle, Kalahari Sands. Papa calls on the solar queen.' And including the date: 10 August 2005.

If the girl is clearing, he asks: 'Where are young people going here in Wind Angle? Tourists from Europe, where will they go?'

She looks full understanding to the man she operates.

'Where are they now?' he asks again. 'De tourist?'

'to the coast,' she responds. 'or to the desert.'

He puts his hat on, grabs his stuff, runs to the reception and ask for a map of the city, which they do not appear to have. He eventually gets a copy of a map of Wind Angle of a few years back.

'How far is it to the center?'

'Met the car?'

'on foot.'

'a minute,' says the receptionist. He draws on the map with a green pin how ship's steward must walk.

After five minutes walking the pavement. Ship's steward now runs through the sand, along a road. By the heat are his feet swollen. The walk is painful. Its leather shoes are not calculated on this road.

Occasionally a ship's steward and sweeps continues his face. He feels the sweat in his neck. Under his armpits are major spots. When he is back in the hotel, will he take a bath. He may have to look forward to.

After a walk of twenty minutes state he Independence Avenue, which, as has the receptionist said, the main street of wind angle is.

He looks to the right, then to the left then back to the right. Someone collided against him.

There are here in any case people. And shops.

He decides to go to the left. Perhaps he could the road to somebody to questions, but he does not know what exactly he should ask. How to get your thing? Ibi and the wife would otherwise have done. Shamelessly, without restraint. Without consciousness.

Ship's steward is a shopping center within, but he buys nothing. However he takes another thousand Namibian dollars. He watches the clothes and souvenirs in the shop windows.

The air conditioning shuts it well. Still a few shop windows he studies, without too much interest.

After ten minutes on the Independence Avenue has fallen, do his feet so'n pain that he must be stationary. To his joy he sees an ice cream parlor cum pizzeria, Sardinia called. Also here. The Italians were everywhere. Even in Windhoek.

He staggered toward the inside the most tables are empty. The operator is seated in a corner. He chooses a table from near the counter.

It is pleasantly cool. With a paper servetje rubs his forehead and his neck. Then he rummages servetje paint to a ball and stops in his pocket.

A guys like girl that for an Italian can continue to be asked what he wants.

He orders an espresso and a glass of white wine. Maybe it is Italian. It would be a nice start for a call: 'Are You Italian?' and then pull out the photo and ask 'Do you know this girl, have you ever seen her?' How are you looking for children if you have never previously done, adult children, in another country?

Until long after he has drunk it remains stuck. He realizes that he will have questions. He will have to start somewhere, why not here? It is precisely here, in pizzeria cum ice cream parlor Sardinia.

Of the table next to him he picks up a paper towel and rubs on the back of his neck, his forehead, his neck.

He rummages in his briefcase.

Than he is on and runs as normal as possible to the counter.

'De account,' he says. And then immediately he retrieves the envelope from his inside pocket and shall submit to the photo on the counter. 'Are You Italian?'

'I am born here.' She responds to him without him to look.

'Ah, I understand. Have you ever seen her here?' he asks.

'Who?'

He points to the photo.

The girl that as a little boy seems casts a glimpse of the photo. She gives a ship's steward the bon.

'No," she says, 'who is it?'

It counts the money, clears his throat. My daughter,' he says. My youngest daughter Tirza.'

And while he says, even while he is speaking is feels he said that they will not believe him.

'MAM,' calls on them.

He wants to store the picture. But he waits. Maybe something the mother.

A woman with bleaches its comes to him.

'How can I help you?" asks them.

Again he emphasized the photo.

My daughter,' he says, 'Have you seen happen to her?'

She shakes her head. She takes the father of Tirza in itself.

'tourist or businessman?'

'I am here for my daughter,' says ship's steward emphatically. The awareness that he does not like father forces him the Father in him what heavier. It stores the photo again. First time in the reply envelope, than in his pocket. He still needs to have something to ask what the people reassuring. For example: 'There is a large Italian community?'

'Are you looking for fun?' The voice of the mother sounds sharp but inviting.

It shakes of no, he walks slowly to the output.

The mother is chasing him.

'Are you looking for fun? Special entertainment?'

He is now outside on the street, the mother also.

Ship's steward must declare itself. He understands the. You can people not just a picture of your child show and say: 'I find my daughter.' They have explanation is necessary. Otherwise they do not trust. Background information.

'I am here for my daughter. She has never been in Africa. Three weeks ago, they moved to Wind Angle. Exactly three weeks ago. And since then we have heard nothing of her.'

The woman looks at him now as if they understand everything. He is relieved.

'No call, no e-mail. My wife says: "It is because we are so old." But what is the sense in your home to eat of the nerves if you also want to Namibia can? What is fourteen or eighteen hours fly in this time? And what is the cost of the well at all? How is this? With the tourist? You are here. There are many tourist?'

He speaks a little excited, but she smiles. Ach, mothers understand that sort of thing. They will help him. They will explain to him which he must go.

'Are you looking for special entertainment," she says, "is that it? I can help you.'

He begins to walk away from her. If he is also fit five, he turns to. They state for its case and looks at him after.

Ship's steward takes his hat. 'Thank you,' he calls, 'thank you for the trouble. I will certainly come back, but i am here for my daughter.'

Than he begins to walk up the hill in the direction of the Heinitzburghotel. Each step takes him now trouble. His shoes seem him four sizes too small. His underpants rubs unpleasant. He must be anus threads with oil. Everything is rough.

From the moment he has left Independence Avenue, is the quiet street has become. Occasionally he hears steps behind. He has the feeling that someone behind him follows several people, perhaps, but he does not dare to look.

He concentrates on each step to feel less pain. He clings to the briefcase. He has the feeling that Tirza in that bag, that he has taken her in his briefcase. The bag that he only have to open and that they will gain the upper hand.

When he finally reached the hotel, he seems a heart attack near. With a red and wet head and chest pain he calls at the reception are room number.