‘Yes, possibly,’ Strebel replied, curious as to how Mr Tabu had involved himself to such a degree as to know about dead bodies found by the police. But he had in his mind, then, an image of the drivers sitting under a tree, chatting for hours on end. Taxi drivers were like Google: they knew everything. Some of their information was reliable, but much of it was gossip, speculation, opinion disguised as fact.
Kulunju carried on down the steps. ‘It is unfortunate that our mortuary is without electricity, so we have taken the deceased to the fish factory. They have a generator and have agreed to keep him in their refrigerator. Can we take your taxi? My car—’ he began and then simply shrugged. ‘This country.’
Mr Tabu hurried to open the Corolla’s door. Kulunju glanced distastefully at the back seat before getting in. Strebel sat beside him. Carefully — because he had to check — he said, ‘The body is that of a man. You’re sure?’
‘My knowledge of anatomy is limited. But I am fairly sure men are the same, white or black.’ Strebel wasn’t sure if Kulunju was smiling as he said this.
‘It’s just, there’s a woman missing.’
‘White?’
‘Yes. About thirty. Dark hair.’
There was a long pause. ‘You wazungu and your marital dramas. Do you behave this way in your own countries? Or just when you come to Africa?’ He drew out Africaaaaa to make the point. Then added, ‘No, nothing about a woman.’
The factory was on the outskirts of town. There were fewer lights and the black horizon of buildings became lower and more erratic. Then the darkness yielded suddenly to the blazing security lights that illuminated a high chain-link fence topped with razor wire. A security guard approached the taxi, and, seeing Kulunju, snapped a salute and ran to open the gate. Inside the compound, Strebel saw order: neat paths, whitewashed buildings, clipped grass. The business, Kulunju told him, was owned by an Italian and managed by a Greek.
The Greek, a polite young man, stood waiting under the light in a whirling halo of moths and flying ants. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he said to Strebel. Strebel gave a polite nod. They went inside. There was only the faintest odor of fish — for it turned out the business was calamari and octopus for export to Europe. The Greek pointed out that the Mediterranean had been bereft of both for nearly two decades, due to overfishing. He led the way through an office and toward a set of high steel doors.
‘We have done our best,’ he said to Strebel. ‘I hope you can appreciate the circumstances.’
The Greek switched on a light, opened the door, and they stepped inside. The cold embraced Strebel and he wanted to sigh with relief. The cold was delicious, pressing against his skin: he could strip off his clothes and stand naked just to feel the coolness on his balls. But instead he followed Kulunju and the Greek back between the shelves of frozen squids. In the very rear of the refrigerator, Koppler lay on a metal table. He was covered to his neck with a white sheet. He was mottled, his skin pale and flaky as pastry. His eyes were covered with packing tape. They had no lids and probably no eyeballs. Strebel considered that his face bore no less expression in death than it had in life.
‘Is this the man you know?’ Kulunju asked.
‘Yes,’ Strebel said. ‘Ernst Koppler. How did you know he was Swiss?’
Kulunju handed over a damp red passport. ‘He was carrying this.’
Strebel studied Koppler. He had begun to rot. ‘Can you tell me where — how he was found?’
Delicately, Kulunju pulled down the sheet to Koppler’s waist. He had been partially eaten by things with small mouths. ‘Fishermen. It’s hard to say how long he had been in the water. Perhaps one day. Not much more. His eyes — small crabs…’ Kulunju paused to make sure Strebel was not about to be sick. ‘Small crabs and other marine animals but also the sea cause such damage.’
‘Did he drown?’ Strebel asked.
Kulunju shook his head, and turned Koppler’s hands palm-up, revealed the deep wounds on his wrists. ‘It appears he committed suicide.’
‘And then jumped in the sea?’
The chief constable shrugged. ‘What would you like me to say? That it is possible, impossible? Sometimes those who kill themselves wish to be found, as a punishment to their families. Others want privacy.’ He replaced the sheet and stood back.
Strebel thought about what would happen now in Switzerland: the forensic team would scour every trace of the Raskazone house, of Gloria’s house and Harry’s house, their cars. He and his team would bring them both in for questioning. And the old boys at the bar. They’d locate Mr Peter in Usimba. The pathologist would decide if the knife wounds were indeed self-inflicted, or if there was evidence of foul play. How long the body had been in the water, and if he’d been alive or dead upon entry. The investigation would be exhaustive. And yet everyone would know from the outset that Koppler had killed himself and had reason. How his body got into the sea — by his own hand or another’s — only mattered as a curiosity. No more: an exercise in efficiency. As if efficiency, like explanation, could ward off the stupid, random wanton cruelty of life.
‘We have arranged for one of the fish trucks to take him to Dar,’ Kulunju said.
‘Thank you,’ Strebel nodded. He saw then that someone had put a jar filled with frangipani blossoms on the floor near the metal leg of the sorting table. He noticed also the makeshift reverence of the room: an effort had been made to clear a place for the table away from the boxes of squid. He noticed the cleanliness of the sheet (where had it come from?). He noticed that someone had combed Koppler’s hair, for it was smooth against his scalp. Care had been taken; strangers had been gentle.
Why did that surprise him so?
Lies had been told, obfuscations proffered, mysteries had dropped before him like little black stones. He would never solve them. There would be no statements. Peter the driver would never be found and no one would explain to him how Koppler ended up in the sea. Mr Tabu, the old men at the bar, the Greek manager, Kulunju — they were without malice. They accepted that life had marooned them here on the edge of the continent.
He could keep looking for Pilgrim, and he would find her — alive, he was certain. Gloria, whatever her conspiracy, had not filled him with dread. He recalled the transformation of her face when she saw the children, how she was almost beautiful.
Pilgrim was safe. Somewhere. But she had not summoned him. Had not phoned. The letter she sent had not been to him. So Strebel rode in the front of the fish truck with the driver. Five hours later, just after dawn, they reached Dar es Salaam, and the Swiss vice-consul met them at the morgue. He offered Strebel the guest room at the Embassy and Strebel accepted. Soon, he was resting on a bed in an air-conditioned room, and if he’d been able to blot out the searing African light, he could have been in a hotel in Belgium or Reykjavik: the mustard-colored bedspread, the high speed Wi-Fi.
There would be questions. The vice-consul, his superintendent, Ingrid. He would answer, but he could not explain.
He shut his eyes. And he felt her move next to him, in her sleep, reaching out for him, with the deepest honesty of her unconscious. ‘Paul,’ she murmured, and he turned so that his body cupped hers. He held her lightly in his arms, ‘I’m here,’ he said. ‘My darling, I’m here.’
HARRY
Mohemedi told him there was a boy at the gate asking for him.
‘What’s he want?’ Harry had just ordered another beer and it was cold and slender in his hand. It fit just right. He was feeling good about now, sixth beer into the evening. Smooth, slippery. He liked to maintain this oozy sensation for as long as possible — another three or four beers. And then he stumbled downhill, drinking faster and faster, and around a sharp bend, so that he’d end up where he started: the particular feeling of sand under his skin. He’d drive home, maybe stop at the Casa Chica and dance with Sugar and things would be better for a few hours. Or maybe just drink more at home, pass out. Start all over again.