The Death of Adolf

Adolf was 39 years old when he was found dead, in my car, with multiple gun shot wounds to his head and chest; he had been shot execution-style.   I don’t know what he was doing and I don’t know why he was dressed in army fatigues.   Who chased him in the dead of night, cornered him and shot away his life?  I still don't know.

 

....................

February 1987

 

A few days before this, we had spent a weekend in Dullstroom, a delightful small town, one of the great trout-fishing destinations of South Africa at the time.    It was raining that day and cold fingers of mist hovered sluggishly around the stone and wooden log homes, lending the town an air of the Scottish Highlands.   Pine trees grew everywhere, fenced in by barbed wire and large signs warning people to stay off the privately-owned land.  Empty gaps appeared in places in the forests, evidencing the constant tree cuttings necessary to satisfy the ever-hungry maws of the nearby paper mills that were polluting the atmosphere with grey smoke and foul odors.  

 

From the damp grounds of these forest floors sprout a range of mushrooms, and it was to pick these delectable fungi that we were there.  Armed with Swiss Army knives we swept away the needles and sliced the mushrooms clean off at their tender bases.    As the morning wore on, the forest became a sizzling sauna; steam forced its way through the dank pine needle carpet and spread out into the already oppressive air.     When we had collected all the mushrooms we needed we built a fire and fried mounds of chopped porcini mushrooms in lard and garlic.   Fresh rye bread scraped with a clove of garlic and then fried in the lard completed our feast.

 

As Adolf had to go to a meeting on Monday, we'd come up to the forest in two cars. 

Monday morning came all too quickly, and it was time for Adolf to drive to Swaziland for his meeting, and for me to take the dogs and the mushrooms and head home.

 

“See you later, mon cheri,” he yelled, the car’s pistons singing joyfully as he accelerated and hurtled out of sight.    He was driving my brand new, cute little metallic grey VW and I was in the Mercedes.  

 

 

I drove home in a warm glow of happiness.  It was raining and the windscreen wipers swooshed hypnotically back and forth on high speed, making visibility possible only every few seconds. 

 

“Life is good,” I thought, as I drove past fields of corn and sunflowers, through small towns and villages and arrived home a few hours later. 

 

 “Boss Adolf called and told me to cook dinner for you, Ma’m,” our maid Miriam said as I walked into the house.    Most middle to upper class families in South Africa boasted a maid and a gardener at that time, and we were no exception.    There were two sides to life in South Africa before Nelson Mandela, and it all depended on your skin color which side of life you were on.

 

Adolf didn't call that night, and that worried me.  The following morning, Miriam and I cleaned and sliced all the mushrooms and laid them out to dry in the sun on sheets of newspaper.  The phone rang and I ran to the study to answer it.  "Hello," I said, relieved that Adolf was finally calling.  The handset hissed and crackled in my ear and finally I heard a voice.

 

"Do you know the man who was shot to death last night, in a car registered under your name?"  Hiss. Crackle. Hiss.

 

The handset fell from my numb fingers.  I felt a primitive scream form in the pit of my stomach as I fumbled for the cigarettes that Adolf kept in the top drawer of the desk.  I ripped the packet apart, and yanked out a crumpled cigarette.  I had not smoked in eight years.  As I put the Camel to my mouth, the scream finally reached my throat.  I will never, ever, forget the sound that came out of me.   Miriam ran into the study, and without knowing why I was howling like a dying rabbit that'd been attacked by a coyote, she began to ululate in grief.   Just as I knew, she, too, knew that Adolf was involved in some kind of criminal activity, and that he was now dead.   She found my brother's telephone number and called him.

SOMEONE ALWAYS HATES SOMEONE

I met a Jehovah's Witness the other day.  She didn't try to hand me tracts of religious literature. And she didn't try to lure me in to a lengthy conversation about religion.  Instead, we had a marvelous time chatting and laughing - religion was never mentioned. 

A few days later I met a Muslim family, mom, dad, and two beautiful children, Fatimah and Abdul.   Fatima told me her granny had been called by Allah to come and stay with Him in heaven.  She cried, we all cried.  It was all good.  They are nice people and reminded me of my beautiful niece who has converted to the Muslim faith.  She is a gentle woman, with strong morals and beliefs and is bringing up her two boys to be like her.   I admire her and her fortitude and I know she's found the right path for her journey.

 Whatever religion we practice, we are all moving toward the same destination, the same Higher Force - Him/Her/It call it whatever you want, it's still the same destination and we'll all arrive there one day.  And then we'll have to account for our actions and our cruelty to each other. 

 Somehow I knew that I could find the words I wanted to express myself about this fact of life.  I found them through someone else's words, and that's fine.  Now I' sharing them with you.

 Take a minute to ponder about man's inhumanity to man…..  and to all living creatures.

                              --------------------------------------

 SOMEONE ALWAYS HATES SOMEONE

 Written by Mike Rutherford and Christopher Neil

Sung by Mike and the Mechanics

 Last night I shook hands with the devil

In a dream that I can never lose

He laughed when he saw me cryin'

At the pictures on the evening news

He said it's not really a dilemma

You're just a little out of touch

Don't think of the situation

Cos it'll make you think too much

 

Someone always hates someone

Someone always hates someone

Someone always sells a gun

Cos someone always hates someone

 

A child will be born tomorrow

As open as an empty cup

And we'll fill it with hope and sorrow

The very things that messed us up

We'll ask him to join the congregation

A Hindu,  Muslim, Christian, or Jew

Pretty soon he'll recognize his brothers

But soon he'll know the enemy too

 

Someone always hates someone

Someone always hates someone

Someone always sells a gun

Cos someone always hates someone

 

I died and I went to heaven

In a dream I never had before

A good friend who had gone before me

Had kindly left my name at the door

I looked on the face of the Almighty

Couldn't help myself

I started to shout

How come you made a mess of things

How come you didn't work it out

 

He said

Someone always hates someone

Someone always hates someone

Someone always sells a gun

Cos someone always hates someone

THE INCREDIBLE SADNESS OF BEING

It's dark and the night breeze rustles the tall conifers.  Ahead of me, at the end of the long driveway is our house.  The whole place is lit up and the curtains aren't drawn.

 It's a comforting sight, like a beam of hope in the slightly ominous, uneasy darkness that I find myself in.

 I can see my husband, Adolf, moving around in the kitchen.  He's wearing a blue and white striped butcher's apron and has his favorite scarred wooden spoon in his hand.

 I hope he's cooking stew and dumplings.  He's a great cook and I love Czech food.

 I tap lightly on the window as he takes the lid off the pot and carefully stirs its contents.  He doesn't hear me.

 I rap a little louder.  I can hear music filtering through the closed windows and I watch as he tastes the food and throws in a pinch of salt.

 I knock louder.  Why can't he hear me? 

 Someone calls to him from another room. 

 "I'm coming, mon cheri," he replies.

 Who's in my house?  And why am I outside at this time of night?

 I run around the house, peering in each window and eventually I find him in our bedroom, embracing a woman.  He throws his head back and laughs loudly. 

 I bang furiously on the window, but they don't hear me.  I run to the front door.  It's locked.  So is the back door.

 I start to panic.  I run to the study window as I usually leave this window open so that Bimbo, our miniature schnauzer can go and pee.

 The window is locked tight.  I see Adolf and the woman walk down the hallway, hand in hand, and enter the kitchen.

 I run back to the kitchen window - the woman is sitting on my favorite bar stool while Adolf pours her a glass of my favorite wine.

 I feel as though I'm living in a nightmare. 

 Bimbo wanders into the kitchen and she bends over to pat him fondly.  He wags his tail ecstatically and licks her hand.  I call out to him, but he too doesn't hear me and then I realize the truth.  I'm dead, no one can hear me.

 My head makes popping sounds, flashing lights scream in front of my eyes and I know I'm falling into an abyss of insanity.

 "Nooooo!" I scream in anguish and fall into the blackness…..

 I wake up.  I'm alone in our bed, Bimbo curled up at my feet. 

 Another day to get through with the reality that Adolf is dead and I'm here in the house, alone. 

 My life is the nightmare and my dream is but a dream.

 

The Bungalow

The bridge swayed gently as the wind wound around the deep ravine.  Tufts of untidy sun-bleached grass sprung from the crudely knotted handrails, like a little girl’s wild pigtails at the end of a busy play day.

 “D’you think it’s safe to cross this old thing?"  Ariel asked anxiously, still unnerved from the turbulent flight and the equally chaotic journey from the island's small airport to this desolate canyon, brought here by an old hippie-looking native driving a dilapidated Jeep with missing seats and ominous cracks in the chassis.

 The suspension bridge creaked a little louder and sullen grey clouds lumbered across the sky.  The air was heavy, dull, a precursor to the impending storm.

  “C’mon girl, it’s still a long way to the bungalow and that cold beer.  Git!.”   Paul gave her a gentle shove, but kept his hand on her shoulder for a moment.   It felt good to touch her, albeit briefly.   The next two days would either make or break them, as a couple.      

 Ariel gingerly stepped on the bridge, trying not to look down, where ageless, steaming thermal mud pots were scattered, each sending out their skeletal misty fingers into the air, hoping to find an unsuspecting victim.  They beckoned, and lured anyone to enter into their dark, mysterious ruptures and to perish among their steamy, molten rocks.  

“The storm’s coming” Paul urged, "Hurry up, will you?"

Ariel shook her head to free herself of the hypnotic influence of the watery wisps and concentrated on crossing the bridge without falling into their deadly embrace.

 At last, she stepped onto firm ground on the other side and watched as Paul made his way across the bridge, as sure footed as a young leopard.   

 A few moments later they reached the fragrant blue ocean and the bungalow they had rented for the weekend.

 The verandah looked cool and inviting and they dropped their tote bags on an old fashioned rattan lounger which was strewn with overstuffed cushions upholstered in bold reds and oranges and slashed with zigzags of pinks and whites.

 “Isn’t this great?” Paul hugged Ariel tightly.   He was hopeful that they could sort through their problems and not get divorced as Ariel was now threatening. 

 They ran to the water’s edge, feeling the warm ocean washing over their sandaled feet, and they breathed in the fresh and tangy salt air. 

 Two small fishing boats bobbed around on the ocean.  A seagull overhead screamed a warning and flew off.  The wind picked up and the fishing vessels bobbed crazily, like two plastic ducks in a bath tub.

 They watched as the two frantic fishermen began rowing back to shore.  The wind howled hungrily, and the sky darkened more.    Unable to fight the waves, the fishermen dragged their oars onto the boats and waited for a wave to bring them to shore.  As soon as they reached the beach, they jumped out and dragged their boats onto dry sand.  They looked alike, brothers, both tanned to a walnut color, bodies lean and stringy.

 “Doesn’t look as though they had a successful day, does it?” Paul said flippantly, but Ariel didn’t hear him as the wind began howling in earnest and whipped her hair across her face.  

 Behind them, the old bungalow let out a gut-wrenching shriek and a jagged piece of its corrugated iron roof flew off in the direction of the ocean.

 The airborne sheet of metal flew directly into the fishermen and cleanly decapitated them.  The two men stumbled around for a moment, as though unsure what to do next, and then crumpled into a misshapen heap.   Bright red blood gushed from their headless torsos.  The golden sands turned deep crimson.

 As if in slow motion, the two decapitated heads rolled towards the broiling ocean and were quickly swallowed up by the heaving waters.  The white froth turned a soft shade of pink and then reverted to white.

 “Where are their heads?” Ariel asked.  “Where are their goddamned heads?”

 “They’ll come back with the tide,” Paul replied stupidly, unable to comprehend what he'd just witnessed. 

 Screeching seagulls landed on the inert bodies, and snacked greedily on the warm flesh.  The wind died down.  An eerie yellow light pervaded the area.  

 “Oh, God, I can’t watch this, can’t we do something?”

 Spurred into action, Paul ran forward, waving his arms and shouting loudly.  The seagulls flew up a few feet, screeched angrily, then swooped back down again missing his head by a few inches, and then they flew away again and hovered and waited…

 “Get some blankets,” Paul shouted, “whatever you can find.  Hurry!”

 A few moments later, Ariel stumbled back carrying an armful of blankets, sheets and towels.

 “This can’t be happening,” she thought, “we’re supposed to be the only people on this side of the island!”

 She avoided looking at the grotesque bodies as Paul carefully covered the lifeless forms.  The disappointed birds flew off. 

 “Nothing we can do till morning," Paul said, "Let’s get inside, it’s wet out here.”

Ariel felt sour bile flooding her mouth.  “I’m going to be sick,” she muttered.

 “Gonna join you!” he replied. 

 Later on that evening, they stood on the verandah and looked out into the darkness, stunned by what had happened.  The crashing of the surf against the large boulders was comforting and felt normal, something they could understand.     

 When dawn broke Paul and Ariel went down to the water's edge, wondering what they were going to do with the two bodies.  The stretch of beach sparkled and glittered softly in the morning light.  The row boats rested quietly on the sands - it was a pure Kodak moment.  Not a single headless body to mar the perfect picture.

 Ariel stared at the waves as they softly lapped against the pristine sands. 

 "Not a shred of evidence left behind," she whispered in awe, wondering if perhaps she had suffered some kind of delusional seizure the previous evening.   

 The tides had done their job and removed whatever shouldn't have been on their property.

 Paul held out his hand.   Without hesitation she took it and smiled at him.   They walked back to the bungalow. 

 "I'm starving," she cried, "whats for breakfast?"

 

I WANT TO BE ME - ONLY BETTER! A REINCARNATION WISH

(A tongue-in-cheek fable)

I want skin that can tan, hair that's thick and lustrous, feet that don't hurt when I turn 56, a cast iron stomach, blue eyes, blonde hair. 

 I'd like a wealthy family so I don't have to work hard, but I want the same parents.

 I also need a couple of extra inches in height.

  I must be smart, academic, philosophical and philanthropic and be able to sing arias.

 I want to be wealthy but keep my integrity, have skin that never wrinkles, a back that doesn't ache and a stomach that is flat.

Cheek bones that are high, a house with an ocean view, a wit that is sharp, a large generous spirit and a small waist.

Hell, I want to be me, but different, and I want it now!

What's Dr. 90210's phone number?