William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

‘What are your objections to my colleagues?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I take it you have some objections to seeing the two doctors who are on surgery today. I’m not,’ he concluded pointedly.

This was going a bit far, Morgan thought, he was becoming tired with this grilling. Who did Murray think he was talking to? Some lead-swinging undergraduate? It was time to throw a little weight about.

‘I’ve been at the Commission a couple of years now,’ he said with a confident smile. ‘As we haven’t had the pleasure of meeting and as this is my first visit to the clinic I thought I might mix business…with business. If you see what I mean?’ He paused to allow his genial authoritative tones to sink in. ‘I’ve absolutely no objection to Dr Obayemi or Dr Rathna…math…what’s-his-name…’

‘Dr Rathmanatathan. What’s-her-name.’

‘Yes, quite. But they aren’t British — I assume — and you are. And as I haven’t seen you up at any of our Commission do’s or get-togethers I thought it might be, you know, nice.’ That should do the trick, he thought, though he resented having to invent a reason in public. Murray made no apologies.

‘Come this way,’ was all he said and led Morgan down the passage to his consulting room. It was large, uncluttered and bare of decoration, containing a desk, two chairs, a high examining couch and a folding screen. The bottom half of the windows were painted white. Through the top half Morgan could see a bough of a tree and a corner of the sick-bay. An air-conditioner was set into the wall; the cool was delicious. They both sat down.

‘Marvellous machines,’ said Morgan amicably, ‘saved Africa for the European, mnah-ha,’ he gave a brief chuckle. After the guarded, slightly frosty nature of their exchange outside, and remembering what he was in fact there for, he was concerned to establish a more amenable atmosphere.

Murray, however, seemed not prepared to indulge in any preliminaries. He went straight to the point. ‘What exactly is the problem?’ he asked.

Morgan was surprised at this. ‘Well,’ he said, somewhat flustered. ‘It was Lee Wan who suggested I come and see you. About my little difficulty.’ He smiled in the way that lets the listener know he’s about to hear an intimacy of sorts — a trifle silly, but only too understandable between men of the world.

‘Yes,’ Murray said curdy. ‘Go on.’

‘Oh. Right. I’ve, ah, got this girlfriend, you see.’

‘Is she pregnant?’

This was all wrong, Morgan thought, it shouldn’t be going this way. Murray had screwed up his eyes slightly as if a bright beam of light were shining in them.

‘Lord no,’ Morgan tried laughter again, but to his ears it sounded uneasy, almost perverse. ‘No no. That’s what I’m interested in preventing. You see I was hoping you could prescribe the pill for her, the contraceptive…Lee Wan suggested that you…that it might be possible.’ To his dismay Morgan felt his ears beginning-to warm with the onset of a blush.

Murray leant forward. His eyes were cold. ‘Let’s get a couple of things clear before we go any further, Mr Leafy,’ he said evenly. ‘First Mr Lee Wan doesn’t run this clinic so his knowledge of the services we offer is not to be relied on.’

‘Gracious,’ Morgan protested. ‘I wasn’t trying to suggest…’

‘Second,’ Murray went on regardless, ‘if this ‘girlfriend’ of yours is a member of the university send her along at the relevant time and we’ll see what we can do. If she’s not, then I’m sorry. She’ll have to go elsewhere.’

‘Well, she isn’t actually,’ Morgan said apologetically. ‘She’s a young, ah, girl I met — from the town…I just thought…’ He felt a complete fool.

Murray sat back in his chair and pointed a biro at Morgan. ‘Mr Leafy,’ he said in a more reasonable voice. ‘You can’t honestly expect me to provide oral contraceptives for all the girlfriends of my patients.’ He smiled. ‘Every tart in Nkong-samba would be queueing up outside the door.’ He got to his feet, the meeting was over. Morgan pushed back his chair as Murray came round his desk. ‘Take her to a doctor in town. Shouldn’t cost you too much.’ He put his hand on the doorknob. ‘Can I give you a word of advice, Mr Leafy?’ Murray said. ‘I’ve been in Africa over twenty years now and I’ve seen a lot of young men in here, very like you, enjoying certain freedoms that the life out here offers.’ He paused, as though debating whether to go on. Til, be frank. If you’re having sex regularly with a girl…from town, it’s a good idea to use the sheath. It’s a barrier of sorts against infection. It can save a lot of trouble and embarrassment.’

Morgan felt outraged; it was like being lectured to by your headmaster on the perils of masturbation. He tried to make his voice as icy as possible. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary. This girl doesn’t live in a brothel you know, she’s perfectly respectable.’

‘Good,’ said Murray. He seemed quite unconcerned. ‘It’s just something I point out, as a matter of course. A piece of advice, that’s all.’

♦

Fine, Morgan thought blackly, well you can stick your advice up your tight Scottish arse. He couldn’t believe it, British people just didn’t speak to the Commission stafflike that, they were respectful, deferential. He’d never been so humiliated, so disgracefully spoken down to, so…

He crunched the gears and drove off with gravel spattering from his rear wheels. It was incredible, he told himself as he roared out of the university gates, Murray just assumed he was screwing some tart, took it for granted she was black, it went without saying she’d be diseased. The fact that he was right on two counts at least didn’t matter a damn. He smiled cynically to himself: Lee Wan was an appalling judge of character.

He was still fulminating as he pulled into Nkongsamba’s small airport. He saw Peter, the Commission’s driver, standing beside the official gleaming black Austin Princess. Morgan parked his car and walked over to join him. The heat was intense and Morgan felt the sun burn through his thin hair, roasting his scalp. The haze rising off the apron in front of the low airport building made the tarmac look as though it was on fire, about to burst into flames. His eyes were dazzled by flaring spangles of light exploding off the chrome fenders and glasswork of the parked cars. The Kinjanjan flag hung limply down the flagpole beside the squat control tower. Morgan took his sunglasses out of his breast pocket and put them on. Everything calmed down; the colours looked less bleached, the windscreens were striped and speckled like mackerel.

‘Plane on time, Peter?’ he asked the driver.

Peter saluted. ‘Ten minutes delay, sah,’ he said, grinning, exposing the prodigious gaps between his teeth.

‘Oh bloody hell,’ Morgan said angrily. He inspected the car, the polished sides reflecting his body back, crushing him like a concertina, making him look like a walking box. He ran a finger round his sweaty collar and straightened his tie.

He strolled across the car park to the airport building, a modern prefabricated structure. Inside it was only marginally cooler. An African family sat at a table in front of a small refreshment bar. A military policeman dozed by the arrivals door. Outside on the tarmac stood an ancient Dakota in the Kinjanjan Airways livery, one engine nacelle draped with a tarpaulin. In the shade cast by the fuselage two mechanics slept on straw mats.

Morgan hoped everyone was awake in the control tower. He went over to the refreshment bar. Beside it stood a revolving rack of well-thumbed magazines. He selected a two-month old Life and flicked through it. Muddy terrified GIs in Vietnam; mind-boggling shots of the Earth, seen from a space-probe; a centre-spread feature on a movie-star’s Bel Air château. Life.