William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

He reached out and caught the edge of the desk to steady himself. He felt his genitals contracting in the cool air of the consulting room. He was sure his penis had shrunk to about one inch long. Murray probably couldn’t even see it: he’d need a magnifying glass or a microscope.

‘What do you think?’ he croaked.

‘Looks alright,’ Murray said noncommittally. He reached into a drawer for something. Morgan squinted down: it was a wooden spatula, like an ice-lolly stick… Murray used it to raise Morgan’s penis. His head reeled.

‘Any chancres?’ Murray asked.

‘What?’ Morgan squeaked in horror.

‘Sores, crabs, lice, rashes?’

‘Good God no!’

‘Fine. You can put your pants on now.’

Morgan shakily pulled up and pinned his pants round his waist. He could feel huge sobs of frustration and despair building up in his chest, crushing his lungs against his rib cage, making it increasingly hard to breathe. He zipped up his trousers with numb and unresponsive fingers, like a man in sub-zero temperatures.

‘What is it?’ he gasped weakly.

Murray was washing his hands at a small sink. ‘No way of telling at the moment,’ he said calmly. ‘It could be nothing. People often get discharges for no significant reason at all, a natural defence mechanism. On the other hand it could be a non-gonococcal toxemia.’

‘Jesus Christ!’

‘They’re very common out here. But don’t worry. You seem well, but I think we’d still better check. Go down to, the sister at the end of the corridor. See if you can get some discharge on a slide. And we’ll do a urinalysis as well.’

‘Right,’ Morgan gulped, trying to stop his throat from closing — his Adam’s apple seemed three times its normal size.

Murray walked down the corridor with him. ‘What do you think it is?’ Morgan asked again, ‘Is it serious? Am I…?’

‘I doubt it very much,’ Murray said reassuringly. ‘But it wouldn’t be very clever of me to try and guess before we’ve got the tests back. Don’t you agree?’ They stopped at a door with ‘Surgery’ written on it. ‘Come back tomorrow, Mr Leafy,’ Murray said. ‘But try and make it at the right time.’

Five minutes later a plump kindly sister in a gleaming and rigidly starched uniform happily accepted the smeared glass slide and the squat brimming bottle from a wordless Morgan, whose face still glowed pinkly and who felt that if he dared to open his mouth only an insane gibbering chatter would emerge. He swayed unreflectingly out to his car and sat hunched over the wheel for a full ten minutes trying to exert some minimal control over the cartwheeling and tumbling emotions that were furiously rioting within him.

When he had calmed himself sufficiently he drove slowly down the road to the Commission where he sat quietly at his desk and methodically worked his way through his in-tray, his mind concentrated on the work in front of him, trying not to think, attempting to erase the morning from his memory.

Fanshawe, however, interrupted him and called him into his office for a report on his meeting with Adekunle, and seemed disappointed in the lack of immediate progress. Morgan told him that, as requested, he had put the proposition to Adekunle and that he had said he would think about it. It seemed safer to describe the disastrous events of last night in as unsensational a way as possible.

‘Think about a free trip to London and a buckshee stay at Claridges?’ Fanshawe demanded rhetorically. ‘What is there to think about, for God’s sake?’

Morgan tried to implant a tone of reasonableness and lied spontaneously: ‘It seems he’s got to refer this to his central office or the Emir or something. He can’t just up and off without telling anybody.’

‘Well I don’t know,’ Fanshawe said, obviously flabbergasted that anyone should have even to consider such a gilt-edged opportunity.

‘It’s not just a question of buying their good intentions,’ Morgan cautioned, trying to initiate the complex process of bringing Fanshawe round to face reality. ‘They’re sophisticated politicians.’

‘Think so?’ Fanshawe said dubiously, sounding surprised at the novelty of this idea. ‘To be quite frank they seem more like a bunch of cowboys to me.’

‘With respect, Arthur,’ Morgan said. ‘I think you’re underestimating them. Especially Adekunle.’

Fanshawe snorted his disbelief. ‘Well, keep at it Morgan. Follow it up in a day or so. We’re doing well, but we don’t want any hitches in Project Kingpin at this stage.’

Morgan stood up, his heart heavy in the knowledge that to all intents and purposes Project Kingpin had passed away in the night. Later he would have to feed Fanshawe some doctored story about American or French counter-pressure, but for the moment it would be best to let him carry on believing it was still underway.

He left Fanshawe’s office and walked moodily back to his own. On the way he bumped into Jones.

‘Hello there, Morgan,’ said the little Welshman cheerily. ‘Don’t worry, man. Worse things happen at sea.’

‘What?’ Morgan said, irritation giving an edge to his voice.

‘Cheer up. You look dreadful.’

‘Do I?’ he said, suddenly alarmed. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s your chin,’Jones quipped. Morgan touched his jaw. Had one of Murray’s chancres suddenly bloomed there like a septic flower?

‘My chin?’ he said, mystified, feeling its contours.

‘Yer, it’s dangling round your ankles. You’ll trip over it any second.’ Morgan did not find this funny.

Jones went on unperturbed. ‘What’s happened? Arthur chew you up for something?’

Morgan wished Jones would go away. ‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘Things on my mind.’

‘You want to relax a bit, my boy. Working too hard. Why don’t you come to the dance tonight with me and Geraldine?’

‘What dance?’

‘The club dance. The usual monthly one. Come and have a meal first and we’ll all go down later.’

Morgan was surprised at Jones’s thoughtfulness. ‘No thanks, Denzil. But it’s good of you to ask. I’ve got other things on.’ Dinner with Jones and his wife was the last thing he required. Why was Jones being so nice though?

‘Well, don’t work too hard,’Jones advised. ‘Leave some of it for the new man. He’ll be here next week.’

♦

Morgan sat at his desk and stared out at the familiar view of Nkongsamba. The afternoon sun was filtered through a dust haze and the distant hills on the horizon were softened like an aquatint. He had visited the lavatory twice that day with no ill-effects or recurrence of his symptoms and some of his fears were beginning to recede. Perhaps Murray’s supposition was correct: it was probably some horrible coincidence, the climate, his sex-life, a temporary malfunction of his metabolism. Christ only knew, it was easy enough to happen in this place. He decided he’d just have to look after himself a little better. He made up his mind to have a quiet evening at home tonight: a couple of paperbacks, get Moses to cook him one of his specialities. As he was feeling a little improved he allowed himself a wry smile at the thought of his fierce embarrassment in Murray’s consulting room. The man was unbelievable, he thought, he couldn’t detect a trace of compassion in him, he ran that clinic as if it were a meat-processing factory or an army barracks.

The phone on his desk rang. He picked it up. ‘Leafy,’ he said.

‘Morgie,’ came a familiar voice. It was Priscilla, naturally. ‘I’m back,’ she informed him.

‘Marvellous. When did you arrive?’ He felt a surge of momentary elation. This was what he needed after his shocks of the morning.

‘Late last night. We had a lovely time.’