The business card of someone else. Eight out Jefried has his name and telephone number written.
Ship's steward runs up the hill, he follow the signs to the 'receptie'. The ticket in his pocket.
Also shoot the by him: What if they did not have a room for me? But then they will need a taxi to call him if he should go somewhere else. It does not matter. He is there, that is what it is all about.
The reception looks neat and clean. A scale apples, a rack postcards. A man in a white shirt would welcome him and asks a ship's steward under what name he booked.
'I have not reserved,' he says, 'I am sorry, it came there are not more of. It was all quite unexpectedly. Do you have a room for two, three nights?'
'For how long exactly? Two or three?'
'three nights. It depends.'
There is no prompt which. The man begins in a large book to browse.
On twenty meters away are the two guys at Hofmeesters suitcase. They look at him. They are waiting.
'you are lucky,' says the receptionist. 'We have a room free. A beautiful, spacious room.'
'Fine' says ship's steward. And then: 'Dank you.' as if it is a privilege granted.
Ship's steward picks up an apple and bites. He has dried out.
'If you want to enroll here?'
A guestbook is laid down for him. He fills everything neatly in, where he lives, passport number, only where he will be that he does not know. He lets the but open.
'I will show you your room,' says the man.
The room is really nice. Even in European terms, and that are the only concepts that ship's steward know. A four-poster bed, a bath, a rose next to the sink. Africa. For a ship's steward in any case. Until now.
The two boys come together to him his suitcase. He gives both their money.
Then he only. He sits down on a chair. This is Windhoek, Namibia. Here they wanted, and his daughter, here they had to its world travel. Well, world tour, Africa Travel. She has read a lot about, she has seen some photos. She is committed, Ibi is also commit. As his children. They learn the quick AF.
He puts his briefcase and the hat on the bed. Are Required he hangs in the cabinet. Skirt and trousers he throws have a chair. Pants and socks he makes in the bathroom.
For a viewing mirror himself. It is best for a man of his age. The abdomen, the sheet. The decay.
Then he under the shower.
The water does it correctly it gives him energy. He let the minutes walk over in without having to move in this direction. Without thinking.
Then he pulls a light trousers and a shirt with short sleeves. From its required he retrieves the envelope with the photo and his telephone. He wants to leave the room, but consider themselves and picks up the briefcase and the hat of the bed.
As he walks to the reception.
'Can I here somewhere a little food?' he asks.
The receptionist takes him to the other side of the building where a terrace with views of the city.
There is also no one.
It installs itself. The envelope and its telephone he explains on the table. The briefcase and hat on a chair.
A girl asks him not particularly friendly what he wants to drink.
'I would also like to eat,' he says.
He puts his telephone and slide the photo from the envelope. Lively eyes, it is true. That is the way it is. They are so terrible vivid, which eyes. This is odd that nobody sees that they such beautiful lips and cheekbones, beautiful cheekbones.
After a short examination of the lunch menu he chooses for kipkebab. This will provide little can go wrong, kipkebab.
'And drinks?'
He looks like in the menu.
'Mangosap.'
'Mangosap and kipkebab.' She writes it is not.
'And run but a glass of white wine.'
'In place of the mangosap?'
'No, together. With the mangosap. At the same time.'
He has range, he sees. After a slight hesitation he calls the wife, but it does not record. 'I arrived,' he speaks of 'I am in Windhoek. It looks good here. I am speaking you later.'
From his briefcase he retrieves the manuscript and pencils. He rummages in the bag and finds that he has forgotten sharpener. One of these days he will need to purchase a sharpener.
If the drink is charged, he sees how the girl look to the photo that is on the table.
My daughter,' says ship's steward with a friendly smile, 'my youngest daughter. Tirza.'
"How?'
'Tirza.'
He must spell the name. It seems to be a strange name in these parts.
'It is here in Windhoek,' he says, 'it is here on holiday. Maybe you have ever seen her.'
It is not a question and there is therefore no reply.
The mangosap eagerly he drinks and then the wine.
In the distance he sees a building. The highest of the city, apparently. There is 'Kalahari Sands'. He tail are a while. Kalahari Sands.
Now he is here, he should have a plan in mind. But the longer he to the city looks below him is, how army and kaler his thoughts. What he think of it, it is already disastrous for even before he started.
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 penciclass="underline" '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.