A Twist of Sand

"I'll tell you when we hit the Cunene," I said offhandedly. "Now go to hell."

He hesitated a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. He knew he was wasting his time. He strolled off to collect some naras bush for a fire. I noticed that he had tucked the Luger away in his waistband.

I sat in the comfortable sand. I couldn't say where my thoughts were. Anne jerked them back to the moment.

"Geoffrey," she said, "can you manage another couple of steps?"

The use of my Christian name made me roll on to my elbow and gaze at her in astonishment.

She looked at me levelly.

"From that hill we might see the sea."

"It's not far away," I agreed cautiously. "A few miles as the crow flies, maybe."

"Shall we have a look-see ?" she persisted. "One never knows."

I nodded and rose stiffly. I called to Stein, for I didn't want a bullet following us. "We're going to have a look at that hill over there."

He grinned and waved his hand in a wide gesture. He's damn sure of himself, I thought. I knew myself that we couldn't get far. The only escape road was the way we had come. Even if I made a break for the beach, he'd find me there before the next tide revealed the causeway.

Anne said nothing. We trudged together across the deep sand. Before we reached the western edge we were blowing like two spouter whales. We lit a cigarette each to still the pounding of our hearts and climbed up the gnarled flank of the hill. We reached the top. There, about five or six miles away, was-the sea. There seemed to be a bank of cloud far out.

I waited.  She fenced for her opening.

"So near and yet so far," she said, twisting down the corners of her mouth.

"Very far indeed," I said. She'd come to say something. She'd kept up magnificently all day, despite Stein's blow. There was a faint mark under her cheekbone. Let her make the opening herself. I pointed to the jagged fret on. the seaward side of the hill. "Those projections are like razors. All summer the south-westerly gale eats away at the solid rock, and then in winter the easterly wind comes scouring down from this side. It's quite remarkable, really -- it's not a high altitude wind. It sticks close to the desert, picking up the warmth of the sand as it goes. I've felt the grit in my mouth miles out to sea. When it hits the cold sea -- fog, nothing but fog. You saw for yourself."

"Geoffrey Peace," she ruminated. "Those two names go well together.  Peace is ironical for a man of war and violence, though."

I said nothing.  She came up close to me.

"You saved my life this morning," she said, almost accusingly.

I laughed it off.  "It was one of those things," I said.

"It was not ' one of those things '," she retorted vehemently. "Take it as read that my life did not matter one way or another. I'm looking at it from your point of view. You had nothing to gain at all by doing it. In fact, if Stein had shot me, it would have given you the moment of diversion in which to cope with him -- and Johann. You wouldn't be here now. You would have been sitting pretty. You could have made both of them prisoner. ..."

I remembered our first encounter.

"No gain but my gain," I said ironically.

"No, Geoffrey," she said. She repeated it as if the sound pleased her. "No, Geoffrey."

It sounded good to me.

"A person can do many wrong things for right motives, but eventually they get so caught up in the doing that the Tightness of the objective gets lost sight of," she said. "That's the way it is with you. The U-boat, the old freighter, your secret landing-spot -- it all fits into the pattern."

"Anne," I said. "You're just trying to excuse me. You're trying to rationalise away a whole past -- and a present -- which doesn't bear looking at under a spotlight. It's not very pretty. You may be right about motives. But the means I have used would outweigh the ends."

"If you'd run true to the general picture you're trying to paint of yourself, you would never have done what you did down there on the beach," she argued. "I refuse to accept it."

"You're just grateful to me for saving your life," I rejoined. "The confessional makes allowance for the pendulum swinging too far the other way. That's the way it is now. There comes an inevitable levelling-out. But it was nice to know."

She shook her head.

"In fact, I'm curiously ungrateful for your having saved my life. I might be a little resentful about losing it if I had something to care about which would make it worthwhile not losing. Even Onymacris has its shortcomings, you know. Does that sound terribly mixed up? But I am curiously grateful for what that incident has shown me of you."

"I thought you'd seen quite enough," I mocked.

She rounded on me angrily.

"What are you -doing wasting yourself -- a man like you, chasing some will-o'-the-wisp you won't confide, and some resentment from the past you won't concede? What are you doing here on this isolated coast when, in the great world outside, things could be so full, so complete. . . ." Her voice trailed off and she threw the cigarette butt away savagely.