William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

While standing at the bar shortly after they had arrived, Jones and his wife accosted them. Jones had seemed somewhat put out to find Morgan at the club after refusing his invitation, and the Welshman had accepted his excuses with bad grace. The bloody oaf, Morgan thought to himself as he swayed gently with Priscilla in his arms, it should be pretty obvious to him by now why his offers to dine chez Jones were so regularly turned down: the drab unintelligent wife, the squalling brats who always woke up, the inferior food. Poor Jones, he thought, poor bloody Jones. The inept social secretary again demonstrated his sensitive feel for the mood of a party by playing some loud rock and roll and the dance floor soon emptied once more. Morgan and Priscilla stood undecided between the lounge and the bar. Priscilla looked like she had just been woken up.

‘Drink?’ Morgan suggested.

‘Oh let’s not stay on,’ she said suggestively. ‘Can you wait a minute? I just want to go to the loo.’ Morgan said that would be no problem. He watched her go, watched her firm-muscled calves, the shimmying buttocks beneath the blue skirt. He felt his heart begin to beat faster: the house was tidy, there was drink and food if necessary, by chance clean sheets had been placed on the bed only yesterday — all was in order…Apart from himself, he thought, acknowledging the inopportune nag of his conscience at the memory of his visit to the clinic and the dreadful affliction Murray had mentioned: non-gonococcal something. But surely not, he thought, persuading himself. Even Murray had been happy to suspend his verdict. Furthermore there’d been no repetition of the burning pain, not another besmirching drop of discharge either. It must be all right — just a scary coincidence. However, he told himself, to satisfy his own mind finally, and quieten his conscience, he’d make one last check. He slipped off, humming the catchy refrain of the rock and roll number that was still blasting across the empty dance floor, by-passed the crowd around the bar and strolled jauntily down the passageway that led to the lavatory.

He stood in front of the urinals and passed water without so much as a twinge. He smiled to himself: he’d squared up to his responsibilities, he couldn’t be accused in any mental tribunal of evading the issue. He’d done all that could reasonably be asked of a man about to bed his loved one. He zipped up his trousers and washed his hands. He considered his reflection for a moment in the mirror, straightened his tie and cautiously touched his hair with his hands. He wondered cursorily if he ought to grow a moustache — one of those fashionable droopy ones: it would probably suit him. ‘Narcissist,’ he fondly accused his reflection, and turned away.

He stepped out into the dark corridor and bumped into someone. They both backed off apologizing. Morgan recognized Murray’s accent before he distinguished his features. But this evening his benevolence could include anyone — even Murray — so he said pleasantly, ‘Evening, Doctor. Here for the dance?’

Murray didn’t reply straight away. ‘No…’he said thoughtfully, as if remembering something. ‘The library.’

‘Didn’t think you were a dancing man somehow, Doctor,’ he observed facetiously, almost enjoying what he interpreted as the first signs of discomfort he had ever witnessed on Murray’s face. ‘Well, good night to you,’ he said gaily, moving off.

‘Mr Leafy,’ Murray said, calling him back. ‘I suppose it’s all right for me to tell you now. We’ve had the results of the tests we ran. I’m afraid I was wrong in my preliminary diagnosis.’ He looked over his shoulder to ensure they were alone. ‘About the non-gonococcal toxemia.’

‘Ah-hah,’ Morgan said triumphantly. ‘I thought you probably were. No more symptoms by the way. Everything tip-top, never felt better. But don’t worry, Doc,’ he added boldly, ‘can’t win ‘em all.’

‘I was about to say,’ Murray went on. ‘I’m afraid it’s not non-gonococcal.’

‘I…I don’t quite understand,’ Morgan said falteringly, doubt spreading through his mind like a rumour of war. ‘What are you saying?’

‘That it is gonococcal. I’m sorry to say this, but you have gonorrhoea, Mr Leafy. It’s nothing to be alarmed about, but it’s definitely gonorrhoea.’

♦

When Priscilla came down the stairs from the ladies’ powder room she commented on Morgan’s flushed appearance and asked him if he was feeling all right.

‘I’m just a bit hot,’ Morgan said dazedly. In fact he felt his head was about to explode, as if primed by the fatal words he had heard. Murray had calmed him down after his initial hysterical reaction, telling him repeatedly that it was nothing to worry about and to conic to the clinic the next day as planned. ‘I wouldn’t drink anything more tonight if I were you, Mr Leafy,’ he had added. ‘In fact just let abstinence be your watchword all round for a while.’

Morgan felt like a frustrated Samson chained between the two mighty pillars of his predicament. On the one hand was the frightful sentence of sexual disease, and on the other was the daunting prospect of the next hour or so. As he had stood there immobile, waiting for Priscilla to reappear all he could say to himself in futile repetition was ‘What am I going to do? What am I going to do?’ Somehow he managed to chat until they reached the car where, once inside, Priscilla flung herself on him, her tongue scouring the inside of his mouth, her teeth clashing painfully on his. He responded as best as he could, agonizingly aware of his total detumescence. My God, he screamed to himself in sudden horror, what if I become impotent? He thought of the swarming regiments of bacilli at this very moment billeting themselves throughout his body, searching out the most comfortable spots. And anyway, he moaned, what happened to you when you had gonorrhoea? Did your nose fall off? Did you go mad? Did your balls swell to bloated pumpkins? He felt like weeping hot bitter tears of rage and disappointment.

‘Morgie, you’re not listening,’ Priscilla complained petulantly.

‘Sorry, um, darling,’ he said, with a crazy smile. ‘What is it?’

‘What are we doing now?’

‘Shall I drop you off?’ he said unreflectingly.

‘Morgie!’ she cried. ‘That’s not funny!’

‘Sorry, sorry,’ he insisted again. ‘Dreaming, don’t know what I’m thinking about.’ He kissed her distractedly; whatever happened she must never know. ‘Let’s go to my place,’ he suggested as he knew she wanted him to. He needed time, he thought, time to calm down, to think of some way out of this filthy dilemma.

They pulled out of the club car park and quickly drove through the seedy quarters of Nkongsamba, past the glowing fires, the bright youths, the screeching clubs. Car headlights flashed in his eyes, the tooting horns and booming radios assaulted his ears. It was like some African bedlam. He thought ofblack Bosch-like devils with long pincers and barbed tridents grabbing and prodding at his vitals.

Priscilla wound down the window and leant her head back against the seat. Her hot palm rested casually on his thigh.

‘Gosh,’ she giggled. ‘I’ve had too much to drink. When I shut my eyes the car feels like a roller-coaster.’

Morgan didn’t reply. As some semblance of order returned to his jumbled brain a single question obsessively edged its way to the forefront of his mind. If he had gonorrhoea, how, pray, how in the name of God had he contracted it in the first place? There was, he knew, only one possible answer which might have been emblazoned along the horizon in mile-high letters of fire it was so obvious. HAZEL! Hazel . The slut, the whore, the rancid filthy tart! It was her and her yobbo boyfriends — she had given it to him!