A Good Man in Africa (24 page)

“How,” Morgan cleared his throat to bring his voice down from piping falsetto. “How … serious is it? I mean, have you the facilities out here to deal with such cases? You see I’m worried about whether I’ll have to be flown home.” He swallowed. “And what about my … f-f-face … and the rest of my body?”

Murray scrutinised the blurred hieroglyphics on his blotting pad. Oh Jesus, Morgan thought, he can’t look me in the eye.

“You’ve been reading books, haven’t you?” Murray said resignedly.

“I’ve been what? Books? … Well, I may have glanced …”

“Let
me
do the diagnosing, Mr. Leafy. You’ll save yourself a lot of grief.”

Morgan resented the patronising tone in Murray’s voice. “One’s naturally concerned … to know. The worst, I mean.”

Murray looked at him intently. “A few cc’s of penicillin, Mr. Leafy, and three weeks quarantine.”

“Quarantine! What do you mean? Isolation?”

“No. I mean going without sex. Abstinence.”

“That’s all?” Morgan questioned, sudden relief mingled with an obscure sense of being somehow cheated. “An injection and … only three weeks?”

Murray raised his eyebrows in mild amusement. “Two injections actually, just to make sure. Why, what were you expecting? Sulphur baths and amputation?”

Morgan felt foolish, an emotion he was coming to associate with Murray more and more. “Well,” he said reproachfully. “One has no idea.”

“Precisely,” Murray said with some force. “We get on average three or four cases of non-specific sexual diseases a day. And not all of them among the students or the workers. We inject a lot of penicillin into senior staff.” Murray’s voice was studiously
neutral but Morgan felt he was automatically being classed with a gang of mental defectives. Now that the prospect of a lingering piecemeal death had receded he found Murray was beginning to get on his nerves yet again.

“I need a few facts,” Murray said, and took up his pen. “First the names of your sexual partners over the last two months.”

“Is that absolutely necessary?”

“The law requires it.”

“Oh. I see. Well, there’s only been one.” He spoke Hazel’s name with some venom, thinking how close he had come to adding a second. Murray asked her age and address.

“Now,” he said briskly. “Have you and, ah, your partner indulged in oral or anal sex?”

“Good God!” Morgan said, reddening. “This is absurd. You’re not doing research, are you? What do you need to know that for?”

Murray’s features hardened. “She could get oral or rectal ulcers, Mr. Leafy—if it’s not treated.” Morgan gulped and muttered oral in a chastened tone of voice. He’d never thought about the other alternative. “Right,” Murray went on, “I have to pass her name and this information on to the Ademola clinic in town. It might be better if you personally made sure she went along there. She must be treated too, obviously, and her other sexual partners traced.” He smiled grimly.

“There aren’t any other sexual partners,” Morgan said righteously but without much confidence. He thought for a moment or two. “Listen, Dr. Murray,” he said. “Do I, ah, need to get involved in this any further? I mean go to the clinic—have my name passed along? There is my … my position here to consider—it could prove a little embarrassing. Couldn’t we on this occasion forego the absolute letter …?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Leafy,” Murray interrupted unsympathetically. “It takes two to tango, as they say, and I’m afraid it’s unwise to give too much thought to embarrassment under these circumstances. Why should you get treatment you’d deny …?”

“Alright, alright,” Morgan interrupted bitterly. “Point taken. But at least can’t she be treated here? Don’t worry, I’ll pay. I’m happy to pay for her as a private patient.”

“No,” Murray said. “Absolutely out of the question.” He scribbled something down on a piece of paper. “Take that to
sister in the surgery. She’ll give you your first injection. Come back in six days for the next.” He walked to the door and held it open for him. “Remember, Mr. Leafy,” he said. “No sexual intercourse and no alcohol for four weeks.”

“
Four
? I thought you said three,” Morgan objected.

“I think in your case we’d better make it four.”

Sitting in his office an hour later Morgan calmly decided that currently he probably hated Murray more intensely than any other human being in his life, though as always, there were a few contenders for first place. He couldn’t understand, though, why he was letting Murray persistently get up his nose like this. He was just a functionary, after all; someone with a temporary responsibility for his health whom he was obliged to consult at the moment. One met lots of obnoxious people in this category—civil servants, bank clerks, traffic wardens, dental receptionists and so on—in the necessary course of one’s life, but they didn’t inspire this energy-consuming hate. What was it about Murray, he wondered, that made him want to dash out his brains, run him over with his car, hack him into dog-meat with a machete? It wasn’t simply his repeated unhelpfulness towards a fellow Briton, his refusal to acknowledge his diplomatic status, or the cynical enjoyment he seemed to take in his, Morgan’s, discomfort. Thinking about it further he decided it must be something to do with the way that Murray implicitly set himself in judgement—as a sort of human rebuke, a living breathing admonition to others. It was as if he were saying, look how feeble, pathetic and pretentious you lot are. Certainly that was the dominant impression Morgan gained from his encounters with him. And it was the cast of his features too, he thought: the short hair, the wrinkled suntanned wisdom of his face, his clean clothes, his exclusive healer’s knowledge, the apparent absence of doubt and uncertainty in everything the man said. That was it, Morgan thought; when you met Murray all the shabby moral evasions that made up your life, all the grey zones of questionable behaviour, the whole sad compendium of self-regarding acts suddenly stood up to be counted. But what was worse, what was particularly galling about Murray was that, having somehow brought this effect about, he didn’t really seem to care any further, wasn’t especially surprised to find out that there were
so many. We all meet people from time to time who make us feel like shits, Morgan admitted, but Murray was different. He was like a hygiene inspector who points out the filth, the grease and the rat droppings in the condemned kitchen but then goes away, clears off without telling you what to do to get rid of the mess, quite unconcerned whether you clean up the place or not.

Morgan wandered over to the window and stared out at Nkongsamba baking in the heat of the afternoon sun. He was getting tired of the view, it brought no relief, provided no sensations sweet, afforded no glimpses into the life of things for all the hours he spent contemplating it. He was annoyed to find his thoughts dwelling so exclusively on Murray; he had more important problems that demanded all his attention, namely how he was going to repair the awful damage to his relationship with Priscilla, what he was going to do about Adekunle, and the nature of the retribution he was going to inflict on Hazel.

For this last item he contented himself, three hours later, with a ringing slap on her face, but when Hazel collapsed wailing on the bed he was stricken with remorse and apologised, comforting her and covering her face with kisses. He felt like hitting her again, though, when she admitted to three other part-time lovers. He raged up and down the room for five minutes fouling the air with his curses and threats. He then drove her up to the Ademola clinic, a mean and fetid building down a side street near the law courts. They sat in a grubby, finger-smeared waiting room filled with crying children and tired mothers while they waited for a harassed Kinjanjan doctor to attend them. Eventually they were called into a small room and the doctor took down the details of the case. Hazel gave her name and those of her three sexual partners in a quiet voice, her eyes fixed on her hands which fidgeted on her lap.

The doctor looked up at Morgan. “I believe you are having treatment at the university clinic,” he stated. Morgan admitted this, reflecting that Murray hadn’t wasted any time getting on the phone. “And your name?” the doctor asked. Morgan was surprised, Murray had obviously not told him everything. “My name?” Morgan said thinking fast, and applying a silencing pressure on Hazel’s elbow. “Jones,” he said. “Denzil Jones. D,e,n,z,i,l. And my address is …”

Five days later Morgan stood again in the small arrivals hall of Nkongsamba’s airport. A sense of déjà vu impressed itself on him strongly. There was the same heat, the Dakota stood on the tarmac, its nacelle still shrouded. The sulky girl still sat behind her badly stocked bar and the magazines in the revolving rack were unchanged. Only the well-dressed family were absent. Morgan looked at his watch: thirty-five minutes late. He’d made a point of ringing the airport in advance and had been assured that the plane was on time. He paced about the floor shaking his head in disbelief. He couldn’t even rely on his precautionary measures in this country; all your prudent checks on projected actions turned out to be a waste of time too.

He was at the airport to meet the new man, one Richard Dalmire. He had brought his own car and was to take Dalmire to the university guest-house where he would be staying until his accommodation was fixed up, and then on to the Fanshawes’ for a lunchtime welcome drink. Morgan had been invited too but was not looking forward to it. He had kept a very low profile as far as the Fanshawe family were concerned since his disastrous night with Priscilla, immersing himself in his work, and he wasn’t at all sure what sort of reaction he’d get from mother and daughter in public. Fanshawe himself had been away in the
capital for a couple of days, finalising arrangements for Project Kingpin, about which he still enthused, and briefing the High Commissioner on developments in the Mid-West regarding the approaching election. Morgan had been busy cobbling together a report of sorts for him to deliver, based entirely on studious sifting through the previous month’s newspapers and what gossip he could pick up around the bar in the club. It was wholly subjective and largely unverifiable but he’d peppered it with jargon and official-sounding language and he had to admit that it looked rather in-depth and professional. He had worried a little about its lack of objectivity but he was coming round to the opinion that it was an impossible ideal, and anyway, nobody else in the capital would know any more than he did about it all.

He spotted Dalmire immediately among the plane’s passengers and was surprised to find him so young. He was wearing a light-coloured suit with a pale-blue shirt and, of all things, a straw panama hat. He didn’t seem to be feeling the heat at all and Morgan thought he looked like a courier on an up-market package tour, confident, and primed with all the requisite knowledge.

“Hello,” Morgan said, going up to him. “Dalmire, isn’t it? I’m Morgan Leafy, First Secretary.”

Dalmire beamed at him and shook his hand energetically. “Hello,” he said. “Glad to be here. I’m Dickie by the way.” His voice had a high, perfectly accented pitch.

Morgan had a curious reluctance to address Dalmire so familiarly; he couldn’t explain why, but it would seem somehow like giving in before a shot had been fired. “Let’s get your bags,” he said.

On the way to the university guest-house Dalmire told him how grateful he was to be met by Morgan himself, how pleased he was to make his acquaintance and how thrilling he found it to be sent out to Nkongsamba. “I mean, just look at it,” he said, indicating some flimsy huts and a small herd of goats by a railway crossing they were drawing near. “Unique, isn’t it. Africa. That heat … the life.… It’s all so different. We’ll never really change it. Not deep down.”

Morgan averted his face to conceal the smile that had appeared on it. Jesus Christ, he thought, where do they dig them up
from? He had romanticised about Africa too, once, but that had been back in Britain, before he’d left for it. His colourful images and fond illusions had lasted about five minutes. Dispelled by the furnace blast of heat, littering his path on the walk from the plane to the humming immigration shacks at the international airport. All his Rider Haggard,
Jock of the Bushveldt
, Dr. Livingstone-I-presume,
Heart of the Matter
pretensions fell from him with the sweat from his brow. Dalmire’s naïvety was of a firmer, more adamantine cast than his had been; he would give him about two weeks.

They booked Dalmire into the guest-house, deposited his luggage and set out, after a pause to freshen up, on the road again for the Commission. Dalmire was full of questions, like a new boy on his first day at school, and happily conceded the rightness of every opinion Morgan expressed.

“Fanshawe’s a Far East man, isn’t he?” Dalmire asked.

“Yes,” Morgan said. “So they sent him to Africa.”

“Does seem a bit odd,” Dalmire agreed, still gazing entranced at the passing landscape. “How long have you been out here?”

“Getting on for three years.”

“Ah well, I suppose that’s why they could send Fanshawe—you’d know the ropes.” Morgan looked round sharply to see if Dalmire was joking, but he seemed serious.

“You may be right,” he said, turning into the driveway of the Commission.

Half an hour later Morgan stood with an orange juice in his hand, watching sidelong as Dalmire talked with Priscilla. It had not been as bad as he had feared; Priscilla had greeted him pleasantly enough—no one would have guessed anything was amiss. Fanshawe had been bluff and hearty, needlessly reintroducing him to Dalmire and making some patronising but flattering remarks about his value. Only from Mrs. Fanshawe had a palpable chill emerged, her eyes narrowing slightly as she asked him if it was sherry as usual. Morgan had smiled as broadly as he could and said no, he felt like a soft drink if she didn’t mind.

“Oh,” she said obviously surprised. “Everything alright?”

“Oh fine,” Morgan said confidently. “Spot of upset tummy, that’s all.” The frosty smile on her face as she handed him an orange squash let him know that she wanted to hear nothing
further of his intestinal complaints. He was astonished, though, to hear Dalmire’s response to Mrs. Fanshawe’s fluted, “Sherry for you, Dickie?”