William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

‘All right, all right,’ 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 who 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 was 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 apologized, 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 Kinjan-jan 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 deja 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, finalizing 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.