The Marks Of Cain Part 32

Simon agreed. With a pang of wild surmise. The archivist is losing his faith. losing his faith. Why? Why?

Julius was still talking.

'You have not told me, Herr Harrison, you are here to admire Le Corbusier? What you think?'

'Ah...er. Le Corbusier. Yes. I think he's OK.'

'Ja? What aspect of his work is it that you like?'

'The, er, villa in Paris.'

'Savoie?'

'Yes that one. That one's OK.'

Julius beamed.

'True. I admire the Villas. And perhaps Ronchamps. But this building, it is a disaster. No?'

Now Simon shrugged. He couldn't manage an intricate discussion about 'roughcast concrete', or 'the modulor' not when he was so alarmed about things at home.

But he made a stab at sounding coherent.

'The building is rather...disconcerting. That is true. Those noises everywhere in the...ah...the top bit.'

'Every sound amplified. Yes yes! And I think it is worse at night. I think I hear the monks masturbating.' The German chuckled. 'So. I wonder why it is designed like that, ja ja? To punish the soul?'

'Yes...or to stop you doing anything bad in the first place...a security thing. So someone will hear you...'

Julius had stopped laughing. Simon tried to push the conversation along. One last go. One last go.

'So, Julius, I'm guessing guessing you don't like Le Corbusier. you don't like Le Corbusier.'

'Nein. I do not. And this place confirms it.' I do not. And this place confirms it.'

'Why?'

'Because Le Corbusier was a liar!'

'Sorry?'

The German frowned behind his gla.s.ses.

'Remember what Le Corbusier said, in English.' Julius Denk's expression was pensive, and almost contemptuous. 'Remember?'

'No.'

'He said form follow function. Ja? Ja? But did he mean it? I think not.' But did he mean it? I think not.'

'OK...'

'And I can show you something. Can prove it! Hier Hier.'

Julius Denk reached in his bag, and took out some paper. Simon stared.

It appeared to be...a blueprint.

The German gestured. 'An example. I bring this with me. A schematic of the whole building, from the Corbusier museum in Switzerland.'

A schematic. A blueprint.

This was was interesting. This was interesting. This was very very interesting. An entire plan of the monastery. The journalist's eyes widened, he tried not to show extreme curiosity. interesting. An entire plan of the monastery. The journalist's eyes widened, he tried not to show extreme curiosity.

'And...?'

'Here.' The German pointed. 'You see. If everything is so functional, what is that?'

'That' was a mess of complex dotted lines and faintly traced angles, with numbers and Greek letters attached. He couldn't see what Julius meant. He'd been pretending he was an architect for six hours. He couldn't keep up the lame and feeble illusion.

'Looks alright to me.'

'You do not see?'

'Why don't you tell me me?'

Julius's smile was triumphant.

'I have been studying the building. But this section here makes no sense.'

'The...?'

'The pyramid. The pyramid has no apparent function at all. no apparent function at all. It just sits there doing nothing, in the middle. I have checked, there are no heating ducts, no engineering purpose. No one can explain it. I have therefore concluded it is mere decoration. You see?' It just sits there doing nothing, in the middle. I have checked, there are no heating ducts, no engineering purpose. No one can explain it. I have therefore concluded it is mere decoration. You see?'

Simon hesitated, his throat slightly choked.

'I see.'

'It means he was a liar! The great Le Corb was a fraud. He added this pyramid pyramid as pure ornament. A purely decorative addition to the architectonics. The man was a charlatan! Form follow function? it is nonsense!' as pure ornament. A purely decorative addition to the architectonics. The man was a charlatan! Form follow function? it is nonsense!'

Picking up the schematic, Simon looked close. The pyramid sprang from the bas.e.m.e.nt. If it was accessible, it must be accessed from the lowest floor of the monastery. The dark and mysterious underchapel.

This had to be it, if anywhere: this had to be it, the only place he hadn't looked.

The pyramid.

33.

'Disgusting, isn't it?'

David turned. A large blond man in a rugby shirt had sat down at the next table; he was staring at the roistering Germans.

He had a kind-of South African accent. David shrugged, not knowing quite what to say.

'Sorry.' The man burped. 'But I overheard your conversation. The waiter is right. Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are celebrating the n.a.z.is. The ascension of Hitler to power.'

He ran fingers through the thick blond hair; he was tall, tanned, vigorous, about thirty-five.

'And I am German! At least by descent,' he said. He extended a manly hand. 'Name is Hans. Hans Petersen. Only come here for the Tafel, best beer in Swakop.' He smiled again. 'My people are from Otasha. Cattle farmers.'

David offered his own name, and he introduced Amy.

'So...' David tilted a glance at the partying n.a.z.is. 'Why...do they do it? Is it a joke?'

'For some of them, yeah.' Hans swigged from his Tafel. 'They fly here from Germany and make a big joke of it. They say it is...ironic. Shocking the bourgeois. But for others it is no joke. Some of them are descended from n.a.z.is, or n.a.z.i families, who fled here after the war. Some are from old colonial families they've been celebrating Hitler since 1933.' He wiped the beer from his lips with a thickly muscled wrist. 'So what about you?'

The Germanic singing had subsided; many of the 'ironic' n.a.z.is were departing the bar, cold blasts of air slapping the room every time the door swung open.

'We're...trying to get a lift to Damaraland. To meet someone. Seems kind of...impossible.'

The German's stare was almost unblinking.

'You say Damaraland?'

'Yes.'

He surveyed them.

'Well, could be your lucky day.'

'How?'

'I can take ya. Maybe. I'm heading up there with some conservationists tomorrow, do some work with the ellies.'

'The what?'

'Desert elephants. S'what I do. I left the farm to my brother. Too boring.' He chuckled. 'I help ecologists, the government. Safaris for tourists, run a fleet of 4 by 4s. Namibia is not the easiest place to get around.'

Amy smiled, anxiously. 'We noticed.'

Hans nodded and laughed and bought a beer. He asked a couple more searching questions, then a couple more questions and then he stood and laid some Namibian dollars on the table, and waved at the waiter. 'OK. Let's call it a deal! Happy to give you a hand. Sounds like you need it.' He walked and paused, at the doorway. 'You'll have to get up early though, guys. Seven a.m. start. It's a long old drive.'

'But...Where?'

'Meet by the Herero Monument. You won't miss us we'll be the guys with the DEP Land Rovers.'

David stared at Amy as Hans disappeared into the night. They had lucked out. They sighed their relief, paid the tab, caught a cab, and headed back to their hotel.

But their optimism was swiftly checked.

As they were pa.s.sing the reception, the bashful, defeated face of Raymond appeared: barring the way to the elevators.

'h.e.l.lo.'

'Raymond.'

The man was evidently concerned: he waved a hand across his mouth, indicating they should be very quiet. A second gesture beckoned them to a darker corner of the lobby.

He hissed. 'Please please. Please come. Please listen.'

'Raymond.'

He frowned in the shadows. 'People are looking for you!'

'Who?'

Amy's eyes were wide with alarm. Raymond shrugged, still frowning. The entire hotel was darkened, and hushed.

'A short man. Quite fat. Almost a beard. Accent Spanish.'

Amy whispered, David's way: 'Could it be...Enoka?'

David snapped the question: 'What did he say? This man?'

'Not much. He say he was just looking for a white couple. Your descriptions. I tell him nothing...but he is looking for you. Tattoo on his hand. Like a German...swastika.'

'Enoka,' Amy confirmed.

Enoka.

David felt like he was being force-fed a diet of terror. The burning images had never left him. Miguel's servile accomplice in the witch's cave, scuttling away. And then Miguel. Raping Amy. Not raping Amy.

Amy was already making for the lifts.

'Let's get inside.'

They fled to their room and double locked the door and lay fully clothed on the bed and barely slept.

When David woke, he had only the memory of a bad dream in his mind, like the bitter aftertaste of some sleeping pill. A dream with s.e.xual elements. A dream of Amy and Miguel. He was glad he could not remember the details.

The fog had quite gone. They shoved their kit in their cases, gazed at the sea now shining in the sun and snuck out of the hotel and cabbed the few hundred metres to the Herero Monument. They sat low in the car seats as they drove. Frightened and cowering.

As promised, Hans and his cars were unmissable: two big ochre Land Rovers with 'Desert Elephant Project' stencilled on the side. The Land Rovers were piled high with equipment. Hans greeted them with another manly handshake, and gestured at the second Land Rover.