William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

Morgan accepted a new gin from Simeon and topped it up with tonic. He decided to make this his last: it wouldn’t do to turn up at the airport and breathe alcohol all over the Fanshawes. He leant back against the bar and idly enjoyed the sparkle of sun on the pool water, finding the splashing of the fountain pleasantly soothing. It wasn’t such a bad life, he thought, sipping the chill drink: the weather was fine, he had status in the community, a reasonable salary, big house, servants and, he smiled with self-satisfaction, he had a black girlfriend with fabulous breasts. This brought him back to the recent topic under discussion.

‘It’s all very well for you,’ he remarked to Lee Wan, ‘but I can hardly ask for a gross of Durex Fetherlite to be brought in with the diplomatic bag.’ Lee Wan spluttered into his gin and pounded his knee with mirth. Morgan smiled: he wasn’t such a bad old chap was old Lee, he thought, revising his earlier uncharitable opinion. Real colonial character, good value, good man to have around.

‘Anyway,’ Morgan said. ‘Where do you get these contraceptive pills from?’

‘Send her to a doctor,’ Lee Wan advised.

‘Mmm…’ he countered, ‘but how much is that going to set me back? Can’t you get them at a chemist?’

Lee Wan found this funny too. ‘God, you lazy crumpet-merchant,’ he said admiringly to Morgan. ‘You’re shafting yourself stupid and you don’t want to spend a penny. Christ Almighty, man.’ He thought for a moment and then suggested, ‘You could try Murray perhaps. He might let you have some. All the white wives out here are on oral contraceptives and Librium. Ha ha,’ he gave a little laugh. ‘That’s Africa for you, eh? trouble-free sex and tranquillizers. What do they call it? Post-pill paradise or something. Load of nonsense. Never seen a more neurotic, glum bunch in my life.’

‘Do you think that Murray might give me some?’ Morgan mused. ‘I mean, do you know him well? Is he that sort of chap?’

‘Oh yes,’ Lee Wan said expansively. ‘My old friend Alex Murray? Tell him you’re a chum of mine.’

‘Might just do that,’ Morgan said. ‘I’ll drop into his clinic on the way to the airport. Here,’ he said, clinking his glass against Lee Wan’s, ‘drink up. I’ve just got time for another before lunch. Simeon? Two gins here, chop-chop.’

♦

Morgan drove through the university campus following Lee Wan’s directions to Murray’s clinic. The Federal University of Nkongsamba was the largest in the country and was set in an expansive well-appointed campus on which everything was contained including houses for the senior staffand a village for the junior staff and servants. All told there were upward of 20,000 people within its boundaries. Morgan drove easily along pretty tree-lined roads towards the administrative centre of the university. On either side of him were the fecund gardens and sprawling bungalows inhabited by the senior staff. The pale asbestos roofs seemed to be flattened under the weight of the midday sun, driving the walls inch by inch into the hard ground. Morgan had eaten at the club restaurant: a rather stringy roast chicken and half a bottle of wine which, on top of the gins, had combined to give him a slight nagging headache.

He passed the new and splendid university bookshop. A workman was painting out a graffito which read O TE KNP. Ah yes, Morgan smiled to himself, the elections: they should be good for a laugh. Beyond the bookshop lay the university administrative offices, the central assembly hall, the arts theatre, the senate building and a wide piazza dominated by a high clocktower. Between this complex and the main gate a mile off, was a broad straight swathe of tree-lined dual carriageway. It was an impressive piece of landscaping and was known to the expatriate university staff as the Champs-Elysees. Morgan turned off it and drove down a narrow road to Murray’s clinic. It was composed of two senior staff bungalows linked into one. Behind it stood a square two-storey sick-bay containing two wards with a dozen beds in total. Serious cases had to be despatched to the capital where there was a large American-financed teaching hospital.

The car park was busy with cars. Squatting in the shade of the verandah were three African mothers with sick children. Morgan walked uneasily past these tiny wracked faces and went into the main waiting room. On the wall was a prominent notice detailing hours for students (7-10), junior staff (10–12), and senior staff (12-2). Morgan checked his watch — five to two — he had just made it but he couldn’t afford to hang around: the Fanshawes were due to arrive at a quarter to three. The rows of black plastic chairs were occupied by various senior staff and Morgan smiled at a couple of faces he recognized. The building was clean and functional and the familiar brain-pickling smell of hospital disinfectant pervaded the atmosphere. In the far wall was a hatchway with the sign ‘reception’ written above it. Behind a glass window sat a dapper little clerk. Morgan approached the guichet . It was like a bank or a railway station.

‘Good afternoon, sah,’ the clerk greeted him.

Morgan leant on the narrow counter. ‘I’d like to see Dr Murray please,’ he said. ‘As soon as possible.’ He glanced at his watch to indicate pressing time.

‘Dr Obayemi and Dr Rathmanatathan are on surgery today. Please take a seat, your name will be called.’

Morgan wasn’t used to this non-preferential treatment, but he’d met this bureaucratic self-importance many times before and he knew how to handle it. ‘Is Dr Murray actually here?’ he asked inoffensively.

‘Yes, sah,’ said the clerk. ‘But he is not taking surgery.’

Morgan smiled icily. ‘Will you tell him that Mr Leafy from the Commission is here. Mr Leafy. The Commission. Yes. Go on. You can tell him.’ Morgan thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. These little men, he said to himself, you just have to know how to treat them.

The clerk came back in two minutes. ‘Dr Murray will be here soon,’ he said peevishly. ‘Please take a seat.’

Morgan allowed triumph briefly to light up his face, then sat down. Various doors and a passageway led off the waiting room, the floor was terrazzo tiling, there were no paintings or posters on the walls, just a clock, and no magazines to read. The afternoon heat outside made the room warm and muggy.

Five minutes later Murray appeared down the passageway. Morgan rose to his feet expectantly but Murray didn’t beckon him forward. Instead he came on in to the room. Morgan vaguely recognized him: he appeared to be around fifty, was tall and slim wearing grey tropical-weight flannels, a white shirt and blue tie. He had short wavy grey-brown hair and a weather-beaten freckled look to his face. He held out his hand. Morgan shook it. It was cool and felt dry and clean. Morgan was conscious of his own sweaty palm and the fact that his fingernails needed cutting.

Murray introduced himself. ‘I’m Alex Murray,’ he said. His gaze was direct and evaluating. ‘I don’t think we’ve met before.’

‘Morgan Leafy,’ Morgan said. ‘I’m First Secretary at the Commission.’

‘What can I do for you, Mr Leafy?’ Murray had a noticeable Scottish accent, plain and unlocatable. Morgan took half a step closer to him.

‘Actually I’d like to see you about something,’ he said, a little discomfited at having to explain in mid-waiting room. He sensed people’s attentions turning towards him.

‘Oh,’ Murray said. ‘A health matter. I thought this was Commission business — the way you had my clerk introduce you.’

‘No,’ Morgan admitted. ‘It’s a personal matter.’ Murray eyed the clock which had ticked on past two. Morgan interpreted his glance and added, ‘I was here before two.’