The Lie of the Land

David Utley

Description

The Lie of the Land is a novel set against the background of the German colonial wars in Namibia in the early 1900s. The central character is an academic in linguistics who occasionally acts as a British agent. He is a cynical, private individual who sees himself as a neutral observer but is eventually forced to take sides when he witnesses the atrocities of the Herero and Nama genocide and, above all, meets a young Nama woman who enchants him. The novel explores the shifting nature of the oppressor and the oppressed. Despite the unfolding tragic events, the story is lightened by surprising bursts of humour, and is ultimately a love story.

Sujets

• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: University of Namibia Press
• Date de parution: 05 juillet 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 4
• EAN13: 9789991642369
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

University of Namibia Press
www.unam.edu.na/unam-press
[e-mail]
Private Bag 13301
Windhoek
Namibia
© Jaspar David Utley, 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means, e.g. electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the publisher.
First published:
2017
Cover design:
Nambowa Malua
Cover map:
From Kriegskarte von Deutsch-Südwestafrika. 1904. Blatt Keetmanshoop. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer. Reproduced by courtesy of the National Archives of Namibia.
Frontispiece map:
John Kinahan
Design and layout:
Vivien Barnes, Handmade Communications
Printed by:
Times Offset (Malaysia)
ISBN
978-99916-42-35-2
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Distribution
In Namibia by Namibia Book Market: www.namibiabooks.com
Internationally by the African Books Collective: www.africanbookscollective.com
For Nahum and Sharon Gorelick
‘Old sins cast long shadows’

One
‘You’d better come in.’
I’ve seen warmer eyes on an African puff adder.
Her face was as unyielding as if it had been carved out of granite. Thin fair hair was scraped back from her forehead in a severe bun. A faded brown dress covered her from neck to toe. In contrast, a small lace ruff at her throat, adorned by a red stone brooch, seemed almost frivolous. Her faded blue eyes stared at me contemptuously. They took in my homespun suit and heavy boots and glanced at my tanned face.
‘Come in now, before the wind blows the dust inside,’ she sniffed.
She was as inviting as an open grave but the autumn streets of Munich were even more unappealing, with a bullying wind shoving the leaves aside, and at least she didn’t tell me to go to the Tradesman’s Entrance: von Epenstein’s letter must have had some effect. I went in and she slammed and bolted the door behind me. She pointed to the doormat marked ‘ Willkommen and I wiped my boots several times until she gave a curt nod.
I followed her down a dark, cold corridor deadened by brown and green wallpaper. It smelled of lavender with an underlay of wet dog. We came to a heavy door crafted out of some dark wood. They like that sort of thing in the Kingdom of Bavaria: it gives the illusion of strength and permanence. She opened it and indicated to me to go in.
‘Wait here,’ she said and was gone, closing the door behind her. I half expected her to lock it.
The room had an uncomfortable air about it as if guests were not expected to linger. Heavy brown velvet curtains were drawn across the window and the only light came from an oil lamp perched on a side table.
The furniture was as heavy and solid as the door and seemed afflicted with an epidemic of antimacassars. No doubt they were for decoration as I could not see the woman allowing anyone to wear hair oil in her house. Framed photographs of frowning relatives who looked disapprovingly at the cameraman covered most of the available spaces on the sideboard and the mantelpiece. Portraits of poor, mad King Otto and the other Otto, von Bismarck, took pride of place above the empty fireplace. To emphasise the coldness of the room, a large ornate and unlit potbellied stove stood in one corner. In Bavarian fairy tales, they burn people in stoves like that.
In short, it was a room that could have existed in a million homes across the kingdoms of Germany. Except for the wall opposite the fireplace. A huge head of a stuffed antelope hung on one side. The large curling horns and big ears were those of a kudu. On the other side was the head of an oryx, its long slender horns pointing towards the ceiling.
I examined the sjambok lying casually on an occasional table: no doubt a memento of Germany’s civilising mission in Africa. It seemed in good working order. I was wondering what Webb had got me into when the door opened. The woman entered and held the doorknob while checking the room with a quick glance to make sure everything was still in its place.
‘ Reichskommissar Göring will see you now,’ she said.

Earlier, in London, Webb had been very affable, offering me a cigarette, and I knew something nasty was about to come up. Mind you, the Department specialised in nasty stuff so I wasn’t too surprised.
‘The people upstairs are very pleased with you,’ he lied, absent-mindedly stroking his glossy, brilliantined hair. I have always suspected there were no people upstairs at all and that this cramped office he shared with a couple of filing cabinets was the entire Department. ‘Your work in South Africa, especially at Mafeking, was outstanding and still no one suspects what you were up to: not the Boers, certainly not the Germans and not even us, come to that. Well, Baden-Powell may have had an inkling but he kept it under his large hat.’ He smiled unconvincingly and touched his small moustache as if it were a talisman. Maybe it was. He also sported a deep tan, Indian army I guessed.
‘So all that will come in handy.’
I grimaced. I’d only just started again on my research and I didn’t know if the University would take kindly to my sailing off again. I was sure, however, that Julia would object.
‘Come in handy for what?’ I asked.
Webb took a long drag on his cigarette, blew a cloud of smoke in the air and then stubbed the thing out in a brass ashtray.
‘What do you know about German South West Africa?’
A thin ray of sunshine that had managed to penetrate the fog slipped in through the window and glinted off one of his uniform buttons. But it didn’t illuminate anything else.
‘German South West? Well, I know that von Bismarck reluctantly decided that Germany should have some colonies after all and, among other places, claimed the area in the 80s.’
‘1884,’ said Webb. ‘They didn’t call it a colony despite sending in settlers. They said it was an Imperial Protectorate.’
‘Really? What were they protecting? The place is mostly desert with no permanent rivers except on its northern and southern borders.’
‘It’s all that was left in Africa after we, the French, the Portuguese and the Belgians had taken what we wanted.’
Again Webb smiled. ‘Oh, and we took over Walfish Bay before they could. It’s the only decent port in the country.’
‘That didn’t stop them for long.’
Webb nodded. ‘That’s true. The Germans are a very industrious people. As you must know.’
I didn’t rise to the bait. I may have had a German father but that didn’t make me a German. Mind you, I had an English mother and that didn’t make me English. I stuck with being British.
‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘They’ve already got on with Swakopmund and Lüderitz as ports of a sort and settlers are pouring in. They’ll make a go of it, all right.’ I paused a moment. ‘So what’s bothering you about the place?’
He lit another cigarette by way of punctuation.
‘In the war, you had dealings with the German Commando at Elandslaagte.’
‘I was a member of the Commando, as you well know. On your instructions.’
‘Quite. And Germany sent arms to the Boers.’
I nodded.
‘So we have already had an instance of Germany interfering in our affairs. Now that they are developing a Protectorate, it won’t be too long before they’ll be a powerful influence in the area. And that could pose a bigger threat to our colonists in South Africa. They might even decide to take over Walfish Bay.’
I could see where this was leading.
‘So when do I leave?’ I said.
He stiffened. ‘I haven’t briefed you yet. Besides, you need to go to Munich first.’
I sat back in my chair. ‘I’ll have one of those cigarettes after all, if you don’t mind.’
It took two more cigarettes before he was done.

Unlike the rest of the house, the Reichskommissar ’s room was full of a dry heat. It was full of many other things as well, most of them dead, including more animal heads on the walls and several African curios. I half expected to see the stuffed head of a Hottentot. I noticed a small drum in one corner. Two large dogs raised an eyebrow as I entered but otherwise remained lying on the zebra skin that served as a carpet. Their master, wearing an old smoking jacket, also stayed sitting where he was on an over-stuffed sofa, one slippered foot resting on a stool made out of an elephant’s foot. A pair of tusks formed a gong stand near to hand. A large curved pipe made of meerschaum shared a side table with a photograph of what I assumed were his Bavarian wife and children. He liked his comforts, did the master of the house. An empty cup and saucer next to a brandy bottle showed he had already had his coffee.
A letter was in his hand as he indicated me to sit on an uncomfortable carved ebony chair.
He was a portly, bull-necked man in his sixties with a huge grey moustache and a pair of piercing grey eyes. The deep sagging bags under his eyes made him look older than he was. I had the feeling that he didn’t smile very oft