William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

‘Congratulations,’ he said, as Dalmire eagerly shook his outstretched hand. ‘Mar-marvellous news.’ He turned to his filing cabinet. ‘What about a drink?’ He held up the gin bottle he kept in the top drawer. Dalmire mimed enthusiastic assent. Morgan poured out two gins and added the remains of a tonic bottle. He handed the glass to Dalmire.

‘Good man,’ Dalmire said, gratefully accepting the gin. ‘Oh, good man.’

Fanshawe and Morgan looked down at Innocence’s body. Morgan replaced the cloth. He felt tired, dirty, hungry and suddenly very sad. He couldn’t understand why Fanshawe had asked him to remove the cloth and looked scathingly at him as he stood there, his hands clasped behind his back, thoughtfully chewing his lower lip.

‘Mmm. Uh-uh,’ he said after a while. ‘So she’s still there.’ Morgan gazed up at the clear morning sky in wonder at the man’s astonishing grasp of the facts. ‘Nasty business,’ Fanshawe went on. ‘Very nasty business.’ He turned away, making little whistling noises between his teeth. The small crowd of onlookers was reduced to mainly women and children; nearby a mammy was setting up her stall in blithe unconcern. On the ground by the body were little juju tokens: a pile of stones, two feathers and a leaf, an upended tin with a stone on top.

Morgan moved away and joined Fanshawe.

‘What do you suggest we do?’ Fanshawe asked.

‘Me?’ Morgan said, astonished to be still singled out.

‘Yes, Morgan, you,’ Fanshawe said firmly. ‘I’m putting you in charge of sorting out this whole unfortunate affair. I’m completely tied up with the Duchess’s visit and besides,’ he waved his hand disdainfully at the body, the onlookers, the tokens, ‘All this is a mystery to me. Never could have happened out East,’ he said shaking his head in sorrow at the folly of African ways.

Morgan swayed on his feet from tiredness. He glared at a naked child who had been staring at him and Fanshawe as they conversed. The child backed off but didn’t go away, obviously intensely curious to see what these two white men would get up to next. Morgan looked about him. People strolled to and fro: labourers bought food from the traders’ stalls, mammies weaved by with brimming water buckets on their heads, children gambolled about on the verandah. It was quieter than usual, as if out of respect for Innocence, but, Morgan saw, that was the only concession they were making. In fact the mood was more one of indifference, resigned imperturbability, in strong contrast to the brain-racking that he and Fanshawe were going through.

‘Damn it,’ Fanshawe said abruptly. ‘I’ve just thought. It can’t be here when the Duchess arrives.’

‘Don’t worry, she’s not going to see it anyway,’ Morgan said. He noticed the gender change. ‘See her,’ he added defiantly.

‘No,’ Fanshawe agreed. ‘But that’s beside the point. It just won’t be right, if you see what I mean, knowing that there’s a dead body somewhere in the grounds. Not good enough I’m afraid. You’ll just have to get rid of it. That’s all, Morgan. I’m relying on you.’

Morgan felt the retort form in his mouth but clenched his teeth to keep it back. He looked at Fanshawe’s thin face with its preposterous moustache, and if he could have arranged for a second thunderbolt would have directed it at him there and then.

‘The problem is,’ Morgan said reasonably, ‘that no one will remove the body until certain rites have been performed. Lightning strikes are very expensive, apparently, because it’s a rare sign of Shango’s displeasure. It costs, so I’m told, about sixty pounds but then there’s the special funeral after that — which is extra.’

‘I see,’ said Fanshawe. ‘What about her family?’

‘There’s only Maria.’

‘Hasn’t she got the money?’

Morgan was amazed at the thick-headedness of the man. ‘She has fifteen pounds,’ he said flatly.

‘Oh,’ Fanshawe said, as if it were the result of a deliberate policy of spendthriftness on Maria’s part.

Morgan rubbed his forehead. ‘I asked Murray to help last might. But he wouldn’t lift a finger.’ He looked to Fanshawe for support. ‘Very bad show I thought.’

‘You can’t blame Murray,’ Fanshawe said at once.

‘Why on earth not?’ Morgan asked belligerently.

‘He’s not allowed to set foot outside the university gates, that’s why. Kicks up no end of trouble apparently with the Nkongsamban health authorities. Seems there’s a lot of friction between the municipal workers and those at the health service. I believe it’s some sort of jealousy over their pay and conditions.’

‘He never told me this,’ Morgan protested.

‘It’s common knowledge, old chap. Probably thought you knew all about it.’

Morgan sighed: that bit of information didn’t exactly help. ‘Well,’ he went on doggedly, ‘the Ademola clinic say they’ll take her body if only we can get it down to them.’

Fanshawe looked at his watch, and then glanced finally at Innocence. ‘I’ll leave it all in your capable hands, Morgan. I must dash off now. Great shame,’ he said, ‘great shame.’ Morgan wondered if he was referring to Innocence’s horrible death or the way it was inconveniencing him.

‘By the way, did the poet chappie ever turn up?’ Fanshawe asked.

‘What!?!’

‘Priscilla said something about a poet gone missing.’

Morgan reminded himself of his spontaneous excuse of the previous night. He cursed silently, remembering that it wasn’t entirely fiction. There was a poet and he had invited him to stay at the Commission. He wondered when precisely he was due — he couldn’t recall the exact dates. The last thing he needed now was a poet turning up out of the blue looking for a bed. He’d check later; meanwhile he played for time.

‘Oh yes. British Council man. Don’t worry Arthur, everything’s under control.’

‘Good,’ Fanshawe said, taking a final look at Innocence.

‘Let me know how you get on.’ He turned away and walked briskly back to the house.

That evening Morgan came back to stare at Innocence’s shrouded body. He shooed away a sniffing dog and tried to imagine the lump as a large cheery woman, but his tired brain saw only its lumpiness. It was half past nine. He had driven up to the Commission on an impulse, with a mad hope that something might have occurred in his absence to spirit Innocence away, but her stolid materiality rebuked him as he stood there, effectively dispersing his wild fancies. During the afternoon he had telephoned two other firms of undertakers who had readily agreed to remove the body, but both had evidently been repulsed, or more likely had been persuaded of the extreme consequences of getting on the wrong side of Shango.

He had sat on by the phone for a further half hour deliberating whether to ring Adekunle and inform him of the disastrous turn his ‘friendship’ with Murray had taken. In the end, he had decided it would be safer for him to play a waiting game. Events were so totally beyond his control now that there was no telling what might happen next.

Today was Tuesday. He had intended playing golf with Murray on Thursday and Adekunle had requested a meeting before then. Morgan shuddered at the maze of complexities ahead of him and again cursed his irresoluteness, his shillyshallying, the protracted moral dithering he indulged in. He made Hamlet look rash and hot-headed. He turned away from Innocence and walked dejectedly back across the laterite square towards the Commission, followed as ever by a small squad of curious children. Around about him hens pecked and goats chewed in the darkness, pungent cooking smells filled his nostrils from the charcoal braziers that glowed on the verandahs on either side. The night was hot and sultry, the constellations clear in the black sky above his head.