by Wole Soyinka
“Beautiful birds” the doctor murmured. “Such delicate head-feathers. Like coloured silk-cotton tassels.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Ofeyi sank into more distant abstractions.
“Do you think the country will hold together?”
“After this? Who knows?”
“Well, let me ask instead—should it?”
Ofeyi turned to him. “Well, what do you think? What is your outsider’s point of view?”
“A selfish one. Most of my medical work has been done here, so I know only the problems of the Cross-river people. They need the rest of the country, maybe down there you feel you don’t need them. But they need you.”
Ofeyi nodded in agreement. “Yes. And that is sufficient reason for us not to give up what we tried to do. But what do you think? Can these people ever understand the enormity of their crime?”
“They may not for another decade, but…” He stood beside him at the window. “Take that stretch of land, do you know it really is our unofficial hospital burial ground. Or was, until recently.”
Zaccheus whistled and leapt up. “How come doc? I don’t see no tombstones.”
“There aren’t any. The—er—well—the Cross-river Head of the Cartel—I am sure you know who I am talking about—yes, that character is really priceless.” He pointed to the generous tract of land unbroken by tombstone or mound. “Whenever he went on his Islamic pilgrimages he brought back some minion to fill the high posts in the region. That included our own medical departments unfortunately. And the railways. You may recall the Kapagi disaster? Well, that train was driven by a senior railway engineer whom he had brought back from Pakistan as Senior Engineer. The man was only a station sweeper in his country.”
“There was never an official report was there?”
“Naturally not. But the medical section paid dearest—well, the patients to be more accurate. A mere hospital orderly arrived here as a senior medical officer. He was in charge of this very hospital, so what was more natural than that he should begin to try his hand at surgery?”
Zaccheus swallowed his drink at a gulp and begged, “Doc, don’t say it. Just don’t tell me you had someone here slicing into patients and didn’t know liver from kidney.”
“Beyond the fact that he had been present in the operating room once or twice, wheeling patients in and out in Karachi, he had never been remotely near an operating table. It all came out at the enquiry. Oh yes, finally the fatalities grew too much. I mean, they were a matter of course.” He waved his hand outside the window. “Scratch a few feet of those grounds and you’ll find quicksands. In the rainy season you don’t even need to dig. After an inch or two of rain has softened up the mud crust any deadweight on those flats simply gets sucked in. That’s where that Pakistani surgeon buried his victims. Scores of them.”
“How long did he last?”
“Some four years I think. Don’t forget the Zaki’s word is law here. Any talk which suggested something wrong and—the foolhardy mouth disappeared forever. Strange thing is, whenever Amuri himself took ill he did not use this place. He always sent for his private physicians from your university hospitals.”
Zaccheus demanded, “But was he never put on trial, this butcher?”
The doctor shook his head. “There are no bodies to show. And no witnesses. The relations of the victims could be made to shut up.” He raised the bottle. “Another drink? Matter of fact I too owe my job here to him. But I am qualified I assure you.”
“You knew him?”
“Not him. Just a few of his ministers. They whispered in his ear. You see my father is quite a wealthy businessman. He and your politicians…well, let’s just say they got on well.”
Ofeyi looked the man fully in the face, studying him. The doctor met his gaze with some mild amusement. “What are you thinking, Mr. Ofeyi?”
Ofeyi admitted frankly, “Just wondering about you. Why have you remained—after all that happened? Many others simply packed and left.”
“Oh I don’t know. Guilt? A need to make some compensation. I can’t help feeling that there is a chain-reaction in all this. My father is first and foremost a businessman. One of the richest men in Calcutta. He doesn’t much care what sort of associates he makes. Profits Mr. Ofeyi. Profits. That is my old man’s one philosophy. He had no scruples. He got on very well with your political leaders.”
Zaccheus remained absorbed in the affair of the surgeon. “But look here doc, what happened to this butcher-man? Did they just send him packing off home and nothing more? I mean, what happened to the bastard?”
“I see you are not quite familiar with the realities of Cross-river. He was transferred to another hospital, retained his rank and—what do they call it now—emoluments. But he was forbidden all further surgery, that was all. In fact I ought to tell you, the only reason the affair got as near the public as it ever did was that one victim of his turned out to be a relation of one of Amuri’s henchmen. It was all rather complicated. The henchman’s cousin had been taken to this hospital on the recommendation of another Amuri follower. Naturally the bereaved man—well, it seemed there had been certain personal rivalries and so on—this henchman thought his rival had got his cousin killed deliberately. But for that internal cesspit of rivalries my colleague from Pakistan may have gone on doing his butchery forever and ever.”
And now something, he could not remotely guess what, stirred in Ofeyi’s memory. Abruptly he asked, “Where did you do your training?”
“Britain and Germany. But I do assure you…” he spread out his hands, “I’ll show you my diplomas if you like.”
“No no” Ofeyi reassured him. “I was not doubting you. It’s just that…well you suddenly reminded me of someone I knew. An Asian…maybe someone I had met with in my student days.”
“Never mind. We Asians all look alike.”
They found relief in laughter. “Seriously, you don’t look one bit alike. In fact, to quote yet another phrase you must be familiar with—you are not a typical Asian.”
“So you know about that too. I practised in England for two years and I came in for quite a bit of those insular idioms. Did it used to annoy you as much as it did me?”
Ofeyi waved it aside impatiently. “Who remembers much of those reactions now? I realize they were luxuries—the emotional responses I mean. Who cares ultimately how those stupid master races reacted to you and me. The problem now is how to answer what is happening here.”
There was a long silence. Their eyes and minds returned to the quicksand graves beyond the hospital walls. The crown birds had diminished but now flocks of egrets swept across the barren expanse, ghostly couriers in the twilight of a criminal silence buried in the mudflats. Their shadows danced over the graves.
“Well? What do you do now?”
“Continue searching.” He laid down his glass and held out his hand. “You have been very generous with your time, thank you very much.” The doctor opened a drawer and brought out a cyclostyled map. “This is where I live. If you feel like dropping in any time—in fact, why not tonight? Come over for dinner. I am certain you won’t be looking all the time. What about to-night?”
Ofeyi hesitated.
“It is no trouble I assure you. My mother and sister are visiting, they came just before the troubles started. They’ll do the cooking and we can talk.” His voice sounded earnest. “Do come. They have never met anyone since they arrived so you would be doing me a favour. They arrived in the middle of a siege atmosphere, you can imagine it—locked and barred doors, screams in the neighbourhood and all that. You would be most welcome I promise you.”
Zaccheus broke in. “Sure doc, why not. C’mon Ofe we ain’t got much else to do.”
Ofeyi nodded. “Thank you. I think we could do with a bit of sanity.”
“Good. The map will get you there. Government reservation. If you g
et lost just ask anyone there for the medical quarters.”
“We’ll find it.” He held out his hand again. “You really have been very helpful.”
Outside, Zaccheus said, “What next maestro? It’s getting dark.”
Ofeyi pointed to the petrol gauge. “First we fill up, then we pay another call on that Police Inspector.”
They were preparing to drive out of the station when Zaccheus pointed at a passing car and said, “That’s the doc heading home. Man must be worked to death.”
Ofeyi’s headlights slewed round across the main road as the doctor drove past. Beside him was seated a young woman, also with unmistakable Asian features. Involuntarily Ofeyi slammed on the brakes.
“What’s the matter?”
“That girl Zaccheus. Did you see that girl?”
“Yah. Wasn’t one bit like Celestial if that’s what you mean.”
Ofeyi sat behind the wheel, not moving. Then he shook his head and re-started the vehicle. “No, it’s not possible. I am beginning to see things.”
* * *
—
They found the house easily from the map. The doctor himself opened the door and they stepped into a carpeted lounge. A figure of Kali stood on a podium improvised from an elephant’s foot. There was a smell of incense in the air. The skin of a wild cat, probably a leopard, hung from the wall and then in rapid succession Ofeyi’s eyes followed one hunting trophy after another, followed the heavy trail of incense braiding fur and even clusters of ostrich feathers. He looked disbelievingly at the unlikely person of his host, and asked him if he hunted.
The doctor shook his head. “Our neighbour does. Or did. Some are gifts we had from him ages ago. The rest we are merely keeping for him while he’s…away.”
Ofeyi said, “I didn’t think you looked like the hunting type.”
The doctor gave an indulgent smile. “Are there really hunting types, or any definable human types?” Then he looked apologetic. “Excuse me, come into the sitting-room. Mother would never forgive me if she knew I had engaged you in argument the moment you walked in. But you are quite right. I hate all violent sports. Sports!”
Zaccheus grinned. “You’re the opposite of maestro here. Give him a ghost of a chance and he’ll blaze away at the cooingest pair of doves if they looked plump enough.”
The doctor took the pipe from his mouth and looked surprised. “Now I have to confess I had not only typed but mis-typed you. I didn’t think you looked the hunting type. Good gracious, how utterly wrong I was. Do you really enjoy hunting?”
Ofeyi hummed and hawed. “Well, a little you know. I don’t often get the chance.”
Zaccheus guffawed. “You should see him on those early tours of ours before things got so tough you didn’t dare get caught with a bow and arrow. A little you know…ho ho! Some little!”
“You would have got on well with my neighbour. A real big game maniac. That elephant foot belonged to one of his victims. Mounting Kali on top of it is my sister’s idea. She doesn’t enjoy the blood sports either but she wallows in hunters’ tales. You should see her sitting open-mouthed when Semi-dozen regales us with his adventures. Talk of Othello and Desdemona. You wait until she finds out you also hunt….” He put his head round the passage door and called out, “Mother! Taiila! The guests are here what are you still doing back there?”
Ofeyi stood rock-still. The doctor turned to encounter his thunderstruck face.
Ofeyi turned in the direction of the passage down which the doctor had shouted, half-dreading an impossible confirmation. He did not know when his host came close up to him, looking anxiously into his eyes. “I say, are you all right?”
Ofeyi turned slowly to encounter his gaze. “I…did you say Taiila?”
“Yes, that’s my sister. I told you she was staying with me.”
“She was with you in the car this afternoon? I mean when you left the hospital?”
“Of course. In fact she had been waiting in the reception while we went in the mortuary….”
Ofeyi shook his head violently. “No. It would be too much.”
“Chalil.”
All three turned at the voice. Ofeyi tried to shake himself awake. The same enormous goblets of eyes, lithe, gazelle limbs impossibly long…only the hair was different, drastically so. She had cut it close to the skull, black and glossy in a light hug down the nape of her Modigliani neck. He recalled too who had said that, the total stranger who had come across to them in the restaurant, unable to contain himself, and how offended she had been! So the copy is now the idiom for Nature, she complained, unmollified by the old-worldly homage of the smooth, Mephistophelian face. You must have a drink on me he had said. I wish to toast the most beautiful couple I have encountered in this wretched, grimy city. His accent sounded Italian. Couple? Ofeyi confessed himself charmed by the man’s tact, and the offer of wine was more than gracious.
The brother occupied himself with glancing from one to the other, his pipe hanging slackly down his mouth. Finally his face proclaimed the light breaking through. He struck himself on the forehead and shouted:
“Don’t tell me! Just don’t tell me that this is your African!”
He leapt across to the passage and shouted, “Ma, ma! Come here. Come here and see what’s happened. I think Taiila has found her African.”
Taiila came forward, offering her hands. A frail sprightly woman followed, wiping her hands hurriedly on a dishcloth. Ramath hurried her from the doorway into the room. “Look! Ask her yourself. This must be the man!” He was hopping about like a tree-sprite, puffing in spasmodic excitement. “What do you think of that eh? What do you think of that? How come you never saw that in your dreams, just try and explain that.”
Mrs. Ramath held out a very dignified hand to her guests. “You mustn’t mind my son’s foolishness. He thinks he can explain everything by cutting up people.”
Ofeyi felt a warm hand thrust into his. She came barely up to his chest, a little swallow trying to peer above tall grasses. Neither the grey hair smoothed straight back into a neat bun at the base of her head nor the wrinkles above her uplifted gaze could diminish the child-inquisitive sensitivity of the face. A fragile neatness that did not belong to the world of kitchens, shouts, children wetting granny knees and irate hungry husbands. Her kindliness seemed far more generous and roomy. Instinctively Ofeyi felt that she could accommodate all the world on her knees and yet remain unruffled. Hands, brow and eyes of radiating calm and paradoxical alertness…Ofeyi caught himself, stopped trying to see the child Taiila in her.
“What about your aura now Ma?”
Taiila answered for her. “Ignore him. I had weird vibrations waiting for him in the reception room but I could not interpret them. I mean, it is such a vast country. How could I even dream…”
The doctor snorted. Taiila rounded on him. “Well didn’t I tell you about them on the way back. Answer that, did I or didn’t I?”
“The engine was misfiring at the time, I explained to you. The car always vibrates in protest.”
It was all so remote. Time out. Time and place way way out. Could this family really be engaged in good-natured teasing over their psychic affectations and cynicisms. Again he felt the intruder, I, Ofeyi, the eternal intruder, what do I know of these family scenes, these insulated oases of peace, peace. These microcosms of Aiyéró. A wild improbable idea rose from within and suffused him—why don’t I marry this being and forget the outer chaos. Now, this instant, accept the most tempting interpretation of improbabilities—her presence here, the manipulative sequence of the encounter, accept, accept…no, impose my own need for peace that passeth all misunderstanding….
Ofeyi recollected the winter days, proclaimed foolishly, “You have retained your superstitions I see.”
“How long ago Ofe?” she asked.
“Time has suddenly stood still. I am b
lank.”
“I shall get the food” the mother said.
“And maybe I should look to the records.” Chalil said. He turned to Zaccheus who merely stood and blinked from one to the other. “You want to come with me? Music is your field I gather.”
“Sure doc, sure.”
Alone in the lounge Taiila took his arm. “Let’s go on the verandah.”
They leant against the balustrade. Taiila chuckled suddenly. “Imagine that. So it was you he had with him in the mortuary all that time. I knew that was where he was, that’s why I waited in the reception. To give him time to get rid of the stench of death. But I never felt for a moment it was you in there with him. In spite of the weird vibrations. Once, they came so thick I felt I might faint.”
“Zaccheus did.”
“Who? Oh, you mean your friend. In the mortuary?”
“Yes.”
“Chalil is a ghoul. So you didn’t faint?”
“No. But I had very strange sensations afterwards. I had seen enough of dead people in my time, motor accidents, and then, recently…But it was the first time I had seen them in filing cabinets. Or like meat on a butcher’s slab.”
“What did you feel Ofe? Tell me.”
Ofeyi shook his head. “Now I see it’s a family trait. Your brother kept asking me that question.”
She waved him aside as if he was a different proposition entirely. “He is just a morbid joker Chalil; don’t pay him any attention. Did he tell you it was his only hobby?”
Ofeyi, after some reflection conceded that the doctor had said something to that effect. Taiila nodded sagely. “It is too. I keep telling him it isn’t healthy. And he is superstitious, though he always denies it. He really loves to take people through the morgue and watch their reactions. He claims it tells him much about humanity—does that make sense to you?”
The deductive possibilities struck him for the first time, but Taiila gave him no time for reply, plunging straight backwards in time to her initial, adolescent yet strangely wise encounter. “Are you surprised to find I am not in a nun’s habit?”