Earthrise Diary 1208

Earthrise Diary 1208

The Earthrise Diary

Don Diespecker

"I am now 72 years old and have almost completely retired from business. For the first time since my childhood, I feel that I have the leisure to sit back, to reflect and to recall. Even though 72 years is quite a long time, the memories of youth are as fresh and bright as they ever were. Because I had a happy, cheerful childhood it should be easy for me to tell about it and about the world and culture that have disappeared forever.
"The year 1914 and with it, World War I, was the first cataclysm to come down on the civilization into which I was born. The onset of Nazism in Germany swept away what was left. That I was able to save myself and pick up a new life across the sea is a constant source of wonderment and gratitude to me. The events of those days are forever in out blood and bones; they are the constant unseen companions of our feelings and reactions, and they will not go away until they are buried with us."

Joe H Dispeker, ‘The Dispeker's: A Family History,’ unpublished manuscript (1980).

(Summer Solstice December 2008). I begin the December Diary with an excerpt from my cousin’s introduction to his family history. Joe passed away recently, aged 100 years. I sometimes reflect on the notion that when each of us dies we do indeed ‘take with us’ uniquely personal memories, the last images of recent times and of times long past that we’re able to ‘see’ in our minds. If photographs and paintings and perhaps movies or videos survive, others may see something of what we each once saw and heard and even felt.

Sunday Nov 30 ‘08. I’m standing on the river’s side of the belvedere wall. This isn’t exactly the north face of the Eiger but it’s as well that I don’t absentmindedly step back to admire my work and plunge into the weeds and lawn cuttings between the wall and the river and not forgetting the snarling leeches waiting refreshment… My purpose here is to scan at eyelevel the relatively flat tops of stones dressing the inside of the wall (and I’ve been placing barrow-loads of good loam in the area, building it up for a renewed lawn. As I squint and then stare, a medium-sized goanna strolls into the frame from stage right, glances moodily at me clinging to the rock wall and calmly moves across the landscape to exit stage left. Nothing seems to trouble the goannas that share Earthrise.

Dec 9 ’08. Before dawn there was broken cloud and moonlight; by sunrise the clouds began shifting toward the Tasman and when I went for a walk at 07:40: no clouds at all. The air was crystal clear. Such a rhapsodic beginning is the consequence of far too much rain (showers and thundery showers, really). Going for a walk has necessitated taking an umbrella; gardening has had to be done between showers.

Sunday Dec 14 ’08. Sun at last. I walk early and for the first time in days, don’t carry an umbrella. The air is sparkling and clean after days of high humidity and showers (walk outside and stroll about the garden for five minutes and you’re drenched…). Maybe I can resume mowing, transporting soil, levelling, transplanting grass?
I’ve been thoughtfully recovering from strange maladies (hopefully, physiological rather than mental). So this is a fraught time for several reasons and also because the computer has been malfunctioning (you would scarcely believe the dysfunctional computer ‘events’). I remember times when I’d first write every word with a pen of some kind and then risk transcribing the best-looking or most agreeable words onto paper via an Olivetti Lettera 22 (remember them?). Now I’m remembering Pam and I on the Orient Express (!) in the ‘50s en route from Trieste to Ljubljana in what was then Slovenia, the northern part of Jugoslavia (or Yugoslavia, if you prefer) and a uniformed Customs officer sits with us, minutely examining the little typewriter. He even records its production number… He had a streaming cold and sniffed and snuffled. It was a long time ago. Those of us who now use computers surely have this in common: we take a lot of IT technology for granted, so much so that when a computer malfunctions many of us (I for one) have conniptions, turn pale, tremble, and frantically Seek Help? How can we manage without these things? Was there ever a time when we did (yes, there was)? The little Apple iBook at my fingertips is no larger than a book. If the Jugoslav (or Yugoslav) Customs guy 50 years ago had found this little beauty in my rucksack would he have supposed it was a ‘computer’ or possibly a Nazi Enigma machine ex WW 2 or a kind of typewriter used by spies?
When my computer malfunctions it is as if the machine is suddenly overwhelmed by a grossly contagious disease that is instantly infects me. I am now infected and as demented and deranged as the computer. My head spins; cold sweat pours from me. In desperation I telephone my good friend Kerry and although he is wonderfully capable and calm I suspect that the sound of my panic-stricken voice must surely trigger qualms, a clutching of the brow.
Enough. I’m presently sitting in front of a big machine that is generations, or is it light years ahead of the poor little iBook.

The year is ending. I’ll end this edition of the Diaries with one of my stories. And my best wishes for a Merry Christmas, a Peaceful Hanukkah and a Happy New Year to all my readers.

Once upon a time in Mozambique
© Don Diespecker 2008
There he sits: Colonel Gongora Nunes (retd).
He enjoyed sitting happily in his gardens every afternoon, watched lovingly through a window by his Amelie. Not watched all of the time, but some of the time because he so often was her inspiration. One must take it where one finds it. Perhaps it was more than enjoyed, she thought; he adored sitting in the gardens. Must get it right. And she lovingly watched him? Tenderly watched him, possibly? No. Lovingly felt better, was the better word. Accurate must I be. Nunes had become a man of new habits. The dear man was so much more available to her since he’d retired and was at home where she could cheekily call him ‘Nunes’ or ‘Colonel, dear.’ A young fair-haired blue-eyed Australian woman could get away with anything. Mustn’t call him by his given name however; ‘Gongora,’ a burdensome name we both dislike.
And Nunes always delighted sitting in his wonderful garden chair. Anybody could see that. He could use it simply for sitting of course although he used it for much else besides, especially writing. When he had his monocle up he’d be writing carefully, precisely really.
There were those colour-coded notebooks and there were weapons and ammunition in the chair and even food to nibble on in searching moments. When Nunes was in his chair, eyes open or eyes closed, he was working on one thing or another: he never fell asleep in the gardens. She knew, before she verified with the Zeiss monocular, that he was in a romantic mood and working on Gongorism, that ornate euphuistic old style of Spanish poetry that the dear man was named for. The language of his body unfailingly showed his mood. Her spyglass always confirmed the notebook code colour and yes there it was: red. Seen at a distance easily. He even looked deeply into the sky poetically and waved cheering flourishes at the heavens. She quite liked it when he indulged in poetry because he’d be calm and happy when he came in, completed somehow. Intelligence matters, the black book, left him in a mood of contrived cheerfulness. Such sinister matters, so unsettling. Caused him to hunch forward and she imagined him grinding his teeth, the way he sometimes did in bed, as if engaged in a deadly struggle. If he returned to the house smiling she knew he’d been writing in the green notebook. Gardening was the one that he wrote greenly to share with her. Green serenity. And the images of flowers seemed almost to float from the covers when she saw the green notebook. Together they planned bands of colour across the nearby hillsides: each contour created by a single species of coloured flower. There’d be millions of flowers. Soon they’d choose the species and choosing would be like prizes, awarded prizes. Even now she could visualise the coloured hills. Oh how wonderful it would be! Would coloured hillsides be reflected on Delagoa Bay? Would the water be calm enough, at least in places? And from where would it best be viewed? Above, possibly, if that could be imagined, probably only to be seen and fully appreciated by birds! Imagine a coloured hillside reflection shimmering, wavering, primary colours embracing? Was that possible? Surely, if that could be imagined it could be made, constructed, built? Designed first of course. Yes!
Ah! There they were, the four servants with clubs, his bodyguards all. Well concealed in dark green bushes near the circle of jacarandas enclosing Nunes. Advance warning he had. How beautiful was the blue of the late flowering jacarandas and the timely red of the poincianas. Or were all the hues darker there near Nunes? Merely her imagination perhaps was it? Don’t think of his black notebook, not on such a fine summer afternoon, definitely not on her birthday. Black was too bad. Whenever Nunes put on his black uniform, particularly his tunic, and he still did wear it sometimes everybody knew he was dangerous, unswervingly methodical and completely efficient. Black uniform. So unsettling for her and not for him. Presumably. At all other times and now that he wore casual shorts at home he was convincingly relaxed, informal and creative. Un-uniformed. De-uniformed? Retired and mostly out of uniform! That was it. Now life was almost a holiday for Nunes. And he’d be thinking happily in Spanish now, for the poetry. Thinking in English was for the black book, for Intelligence and all those dangerous damned secrets. Re-focus quickly the spyglass. No sign of green today. Clearly the poetry continued. Still code red. Good. Two other notebooks there were, not coloured, but he never said. Portuguese, English, French, Spanish, some Dutch, all fluently he spoke. Remarkable man, remarkable! And I so fortunate! And he wrote and read too. Easy linguistic voyages made depending on mood, choice and task. Such a big man, not looking Portuguese at all and his hair clipped short and that dramatic sabre scar from Academy days. Well before the Secret Police. He so loved sabres, even in retirement; ‘training,’ he called it, but never said what for. Discrete. Dangerous. Always. Thinking in English she was while Nunes thought in Spanish at the same time. She was sure. She might say something about that, lightly of course, just as a comment. Banter really. Quirky otherwise.
He’d never be completely retired. Everybody knew that. Besides, he was still in charge, really. Should she have spoken to him about that? Could she have? No, probably not. Colonel Gongora Nunes (retd), he was and still surrogate or was it proxy Director of the Lourenço Marques Intelligence Department, the Secret Police, and still the power too behind the Chief of Police, and also the Governor of Lourenço Marques and also behind the Governor-General of Mozambique, as well. Still so busy always! And, it should be remembered, the good friend he was too of the British Consul-General who secretly ran the British Lourenço Marques Intelligence Network, and of course Britain remained Portugal’s oldest ally. She wasn’t supposed to know about the Secret Anglo Portuguese Agreement and she was quite certain Nunes was not directing De Geheime Dienst, the South African Republic’s Secret Service, although she wouldn’t be surprised if he were, somehow. Secretly. Wouldn’t that be entertaining? Such a story that would be! Shouldn’t make light of such serious matters. Must be serious about those jobs, offices, tasks, services; now service was precisely the word; Nunes served whatever else it was he did! Served his country, served his people. Dedicated! To be of service and dedicated in desperate dangerous times and surrounded by spies of one kind or another with French and German state of the art guns still being landed at Lourenço Marques and railed across the border into the Transvaal. Contraband. Provocation. Such an open secret and everybody including allies turning a blind eye! The secret life was so…what? Entertaining? Enlivening? Possibly. Clandestine? Marvellous word. Looked it up. And another good one, exciting and mysterious was vespertine: late afternoon or early evening. Vespertine flowers opened in the evening. Ah! Must tell Nunes in case he doesn’t know it. He’d like it, be amused. Won’t mind my saying that. Would write a poem he probably would. Goodness. In English, would he? Dare I suggest?
There he sits. If she looked closely she’d see the butt of the big Mauser pistol partly concealed behind the cushion on his left side. Kept in the left side chair arm otherwise. How many enemies accumulated? How many for both of them? Really must consider if I have desperate enemies too, ones who might capture me, ransom me? Hold me to ransom? How did one put that? Could she properly use the semi-automatic Colt he’d given her? So daunting. And beautifully made the gun and so heavy. Somebody said there were fewer dangerous enemies in the town these days, but where were they now? Somewhere beneath the trees possibly, enriching the gardens, producing dark-hued flowers. Vespertine flowers? Oh! There’s a black thought! Could there be a story there? But shouldn’t joke about such matters, probably.
Such a regal chair my Colonel has and presently his Poetry Chair. Big like him, made of wicker and cane with the spacious compartment beneath the seat: his binoculars kept there, possibly for studying the hillsides yet to be coloured; the small folding Kodak, an ox-tail fly whisk, some crockery, a bottle of water, a sharp knife, and three kinds of sun-dried meat in a decorated biscuit tin: biltong made from wildebeest, beef and oddly, ostrich, all beneath the diagonally-placed shotgun with the shortened barrel. Buckshot. Such a chair! Made for him by that old African Nunes rescued from being beaten and robbed in the Fish Market. Years ago it was. Was that a story, possibly?
Oh? Why had he stood suddenly and what changed? Had his thinking and language changed, perhaps? She’d close her eyes for a moment, monitor his thinking, read his thinking if that were at all possible and then glance again. Aha! He’s thinking in Portuguese, not holding any notebook. Of course! He’s going to the Ocean Beach for a swim. Had forgotten. Almost forgot he’ll order dinner at the Estrela where he’ll go first oh I’m sure he’ll talk to Sergio and Rivka Samedo to arrange our dinner and of course there’ll be fish on the menu. Probably rock salmon or something special brought up from Durban overnight on the steamer. Barracuda perhaps for careful baking and accompanied by that wine from the Loire they always keep hidden for special occasions. Muscadet so dry, yet fruity, crisp and cold, that wine secret shared with us and also the British Consul-General’s Dorman brothers, Louis and Jules. Oh I hope there’ll be no trouble tonight! All those spies dining publicly at the Estrela! How absolutely insane! What can be the collective word for spies, an eye of spies, perhaps? Oh, I like that! And what could anybody do if our Secret Police and the British Secret Service and Kruger’s men should start an affray would it be or an assassination or an old-fashioned brawl oh it’d be too bad and what an insane family of spies they all are like mad babies unless Sergio has music to soothe the savages and surely Nunes will suggest Sergio have that big Zulu, Joshua, Louis Dorman’s best spy, play the marimba and our favourite guitarists Gustavo Moreles and Fernão Braga one each side on the little stage and if we’re fortunate the old Venezuelan man José Valera, will make it a bigger orchestra playing the bandoneon and if we’re truly very fortunate our marvelous fado singer Elvira Tomes will sing for us oh and it’s my birthday and Nunes will conceal a tear at the beauty of the music a gentle tear in the lamplight and I’ll dare to put my hand on his, yes! But first he’ll walk soon to the town and the Estrela the dear man grinning and waving up to the bordello girls waving down at him when he passes the Mountains of Heaven before his swim and possibly after as well and now he turns to me oh waving his towel and how did I forget he said he’d go swimming first and leaving shortly now certainly yes and what a splendid evening I hope awaits us all and not only is it my birthday but we’ll all welcome the New Year and leap from 1899 to 1900 and a new century at midnight! And she’d follow him down shortly. There he was instructing the bodyguards to escort her. Should she take the pistol? Best to. Must complete the notes first. Feel so preoccupied. How to write a novel and what on earth to write about? Oh! Perhaps the secret treaty: Nunes loved secret treaties. Could write a secret treaty story for him. Indeed, yes! Would be such a pleasure. Only where to begin? Begin at the beginning with ‘once upon a time,’ of course! Once upon a time, decidedly!
‘Yes, my love, we’ll follow in an hour, thank you! Take your good clothes to the Estrela to save time! Yes, meet at the Estrela at sunset!’
This Diary is No. 13 (new series). (Previously 1107, 108, 208, 308, 408, 508, 608, 708, 808, 908, 1008, 1108; this is 1208). DDD December 21 2008.