‘This is a very kind reception,’ he said.
As soon as he said it he remembered that it was unlikely anyone at Lwesala could have known about his arrival. He felt foolish and self-important. The welcome could only have been for the returning Stanley and Felice. No one here knew him from Adam. Stanley and Felice must think him conceited.
Stanley got out and stood by the vehicle door as the staff continued their song of welcome.
Felice said cheerily, ‘They’re just pleased we’ve arrived safely,’ and then soberly, ‘When Stanley’s away some patients die, so now he’s back some will be saved.’
‘Is that so?’ Michael said. ‘He’s that critical here?’
‘Of course. There’s no other doctor.’
‘How can he ever go away then?’
It seemed the weight of all humanity’s ills came to Felice as she shook her head slowly and said, ‘It worries us a lot.’ Then she shook the burden off as if it was an impediment to doing something about it and opened her door. ‘But everyone knows he can’t be here all the time. They accept it. For a year there was no doctor here at all but we’ve good assistants and nurses. They do the best they can.’
Michael was about to commiserate when they were interrupted. A nurse was approaching, at speed, from the hospital. She stood to attention in front of Stanley.
‘Doctor, there’s a female patient who’s in obstructed labour. The baby is dead and the mother is sick.’
Stanley made off down the path to the hospital with the nurse trying to keep up.
‘I see what you mean,’ Michael said.
Felice sighed. ‘He may be gone some time or he might come back straight away. Sometimes when it’s reported that the patient’s sick, he finds that they’ve already passed away.’
Felice made her own greetings to the welcoming party. They each genuflected to her in turn. Michael saw love in their eyes. At least he thought it was love: it might be subservience or jealousy. Reading the shifting nuances of muscular tension around the eyes and the mouth in a far-removed culture was an inexact science. Felice introduced him, in the local language, and they shook his hand formally, looking down in respect to the stranger.
‘Come! I’ll show you where you’re sleeping,’ Felice said.
He followed her along a path that plunged into a banana grove and then emerged in front of a small square bungalow with roughly pointed brick walls and a rusting corrugated-iron roof. There was no veranda but the earth outside was hard-packed and swept clean. The front door led straight into a sparsely furnished room: three square-framed wooden chairs, a small bench and a four-legged table; they might have been cast-offs from a school. A beaded blue and white bowl, brimming with miniature bright-yellow bananas, had been placed in the centre of a white cotton tablecloth. Above the grass mat on the concrete floor a wire hook for a paraffin lamp hung from a roof truss. All was spotlessly clean. Through the door at the back of the room Michael could see a wood stove in a tiny kitchen. Felice opened the door to the left and led him into another simply furnished room: a bed with a turned down sheet over a plain brown blanket; an upturned packing case for a bedside table with a hand-embroidered cloth draped over it; a soot-free paraffin lamp on a wooden stool in the corner; a neatly tied mosquito net hanging ready for use over the bed.
‘This is your room. It’s always ready for visitors,’ Felice said. She ran her hand over the blanket to smooth a small crease.
‘It’s a cosy guest house,’ he said, and was about to ask how far it was to the main house when Felice giggled and said, ‘Guest house? This is our home.’
Its simplicity reminded him of his childhood home, and afterwards he realised it was that unwelcome intrusion of remembrance that made him say, ‘You live in this tiny house? Have they not built you something bigger?’
‘Bigger?’ she asked, with a look of puzzlement.
He had said the wrong thing, but found himself trying to extract himself by flattery. ‘Yes, of course, educated and important people like you and Stanley: the medical superintendent of a hospital. You deserve some proper comforts and . . . er . . . some visible sign of status . . . in case . . .’ He stopped before he made a further fool of himself.
Felice took a snatched breath, dropped her smile and looked momentarily confused. Then he saw a fire in her eyes as she said sharply, ‘Who are the they that you refer to? Everything is done by our own effort: this house, the hospital. We can’t build what the community can’t afford. But in any case we only build what we need. Our friendships and community are our wealth – they’re our big house.’ She faced him square as she talked, chin projecting, arms akimbo. ‘We have strong ambition, Mr Lacey, but the size of our house is not linked to that ambition.’
He was taken aback. Stung by her reaction, he tried to justify his comment to himself: he wanted his hosts to have success. Here were Stanley and Felice, stuck in a dank banana grove in a house hardly bigger than a garden shed, in the deepest backwater of a third world country with a major law and order problem. Intelligent people should maximise their opportunity for advancement. And Stanley should be providing better for Felice. If she had been his own wife he would have lived to give her his best. Why, even in her anger she was achingly lovely.
But he had upset her. He was no longer Michael, but Mr Lacey, the unappreciative and patronising guest.
‘I apologise. I’m not used to the sort of life you have here.’ That wasn’t strictly true, he remembered: only true for his adult self. ‘I was just concerned for you – and Stanley. Also, all the dangers here. But you’re right; I’m sorry.’
Felice relaxed, although she glanced around the room as if seeing for the first time its spartan and cramped nature. ‘Your concern’s appreciated,’ she said, without sarcasm, ‘and your apology’s accepted, but maybe you’re looking at me as if I’m a coconut.’
‘A coconut?’
‘Brown on the outside, white on the inside – European inside.’ Michael thought a coconut, with its coarse, hairy shell, an inappropriate association with Felice, whose skin was lustrous and smooth. ‘I’m sorry: I’ve put my foot in it again.’
A hint of a smile tightened the corners of her eyes. ‘You’re out of your element. That’s all.’
‘That’s it.’
She gave him a forgiving look and said, ‘You’re just a bit lost in Africa, Mr Lacey.’ She turned to lead him back to the living room.
‘Please call me Michael, or I shall start calling you Madam Katura.’
She turned back to him, her spirited disposition restored. ‘I think we shall be good friends, Michael.’ Their eyes met for a moment and he was transported back to the tree in the garden at the McCrees, he thought she had flown there with him too, the last few minutes of gaucherie excused as merely an awkward but necessary prelude to . . . what? She was a married woman, a pillar of the mission, and he, although he had spent two decades trying to bury it, was a missionary’s child. Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbour’s Wife.
They went on into the kitchen, heading for the back door. ‘Let me show you our bathroom facilities. They would be en suite if you were sleeping in the banana grove. Perhaps I should make you do that.’ She was laughing again. He followed her out, across another swept-earth yard, and she waited for him to catch up. When he drew alongside she said in a low voice, as if confiding a secret, ‘Stanley’s very dedicated.’
He was not sure how to respond – it seemed that she expressed a regret – but he had little time to think, for she was pointing out the two outhouses.
‘This is the shower and that’s the long-drop. You don’t have to flush – that’s high technology, don’t you think? Stanley will show you how to work the shower. The water’s heated twice a day from the wood boiler.’
The day was closing rapidly. A maid had appeared and was lighting the hurricane lamps in the kitchen, pumping them vigorously, an urgency against the fading light. Soon the gauze element brightened, making the door frame glow welcomingly.
> ‘Sorry there’s no electricity – the hospital generator’s faulty again,’ Felice said as they returned to the kitchen.
She introduced the maid, who bowed theatrically, and then left him to unpack.
Michael heard Stanley’s footfalls on the path well before he arrived at the house. No doubt the earth was well compacted from his going to and fro at all hours of the day and night.
When Stanley came in, he nodded at Michael, and sat down wearily at the table. ‘Contrary to the first report the mother has passed away but the baby survived. If we’d arrived earlier I might have saved the mother.’
Felice handed Stanley a mug of tea, putting in four or five spoonfuls of sugar as if it would make a cup of kindness that would salve his troubles, and said, ‘There are always many what-ifs. You shouldn’t blame yourself – think of those you’ve saved.’
Stanley said, ‘If only there were enough doctors. If only the patients were able to reach the hospital earlier.’
‘I’ve been showing Michael our facilities,’ Felice said. ‘Could you show him how the shower works?’
Stanley didn’t seem to hear. He took off his glasses and sipped his tea.
‘If there’s anything I can do to help while I’m here, I’m more than willing,’ Michael said.
Stanley took some time to answer. ‘Thank you, but we’ll not make you work on your holiday. Tomorrow I’ll work and then we’ll go to see the animals. Tonight we’ll be eating at our friends’ house.’
‘Do you go out a lot?’ asked Michael, uncertainly; wary of saying something that could be misinterpreted by the sensitive Felice.
Felice answered, ‘We’re as we’ve been since Ham: no television, no cinema, not enough light to read.’
‘So our evening entertainment is each other – eating,’ Stanley said, looking revived.
Felice burst into laughter. ‘Don’t give the Muzungu an opportunity to reinforce his darkest fears about us.’
Michael smiled at Felice.
‘Why’s that?’ Stanley asked.
Felice said flatly, ‘What you’ve just said. He’ll think we eat each other.’
‘Ah, yes. That’s funny,’ Stanley said soberly.
Michael felt a prick of anger towards Stanley – that he did not appreciate Felice’s vivacity. She’d laughed more with him than with Stanley over the last two days. Stanley had the demeanour of someone who carried a heavy burden – his medical responsibilities too onerous, perhaps. But it seemed to Michael that there was more: he had the melancholy air of a man pre-occupied with some persistent sorrow. He wondered if it related to his marriage, although there was no compelling evidence of a serious ruction.
They had walked in the deep night for twenty minutes, Michael following closely behind Stanley who held a dim-beamed torch. Felice followed behind Michael; her presence like a sylph. He was drawn by the magnet of her attraction, but what destruction would ensue if he did not resist that pull, if he nurtured the scenarios and situations where he would feel her breath on his cheek?
Stanley spoke suddenly, breaking the silence. ‘There are snakes but I’ll let you know.’
‘Thanks, please do,’ Michael replied. He wondered how they would get back if the torch gave out.
They walked on in silence. He peered to his left and to his right to see what sort of countryside they were walking through. Ambiguous forms metamorphosed in his mind’s eye into luxuriant vegetation hung with succulent fruits sleeping plumply until dawn.
A well-lit building came into view and a generator droned.
‘The house of the district chief,’ Stanley said.
On the edge of the compound, light spilling from the windows traced the form, in chrome trim, of a Mercedes. White-painted stones marked the edge of the driveway.
‘Mr Magara likes his comforts,’ Felice said.
A large man wearing a black jacket over a loud yellow and green, swirly-patterned shirt came to the door. His eyes were lost in the slits of his puffy face, his nostrils as widely spaced as a buffalo’s. He expressed his pleasure at seeing Stanley and Felice and then pressed Michael’s hand. Michael was introduced to Mrs Magara who sumptuously filled the billows of her floral, cotton dress. She clasped Michael’s hand softly in both of hers and curtsied graciously.
‘You’re from London. That is fine, fine,’ Mr Magara boomed. ‘Do you know John Kabera? He’s a famous doctor in Harley Street. Do you practise in Harley Street?’
‘Not yet,’ Michael said, but Mr Magara had turned to his wife and was signalling instructions. She disappeared into the back of the house.
‘Good, very good,’ Mr Magara said. ‘The best doctors are there. Our Dr Katura here would make a superior Harley Street doctor but he has dedicated his life to us poor people here and has sacrificed a fine career.’
‘We don’t see it like that,’ Stanley said. ‘It’s a privilege . . .’
Mr Magara cut in, looking at Michael again, ‘Perhaps you could arrange for Dr Katura to work at your Harley Street clinic, Dr Lacey. I can assist with paperwork this end: character reference, letter of commendation, proof of competencies, reportings of patients cured, testimonials. My secretariat will make the arrangements.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Michael said, and saw Felice grin.
‘Fine, very fine. Now, Dr Katura, come in and let me give you news of our community while you’ve been away.’
The sofas in the Magaras’ sitting room were draped with colourful knitted throws. Fading, out of date calendars lined the walls: Transafrica Trucking, 1979; Mufugu Beef Products, 1974; East African Breweries, 1980; and, ribbed and curled but catching Michael’s eye, Agents for Kenwood – Electrical East Africa Ltd, Takes the hard work out of housework!, from 1963. Michael wondered how many kitchen appliances the Magaras owned; whether Mr Adams had ever won his battle against sticks for pounding, against great wooden spoons.
Mrs Magara came in with a tray of Cokes, Fantas and Schweppes. Mr Magara talked on while Mrs Magara put a straw, with delicate precision, into each bottle and offered them around. There were problems as always, said Mr Magara, over the border in Zaire; fuel was short again; he was pushing the government to restore the electricity lines but certain other districts were getting priority; a bus had wedged itself across the road in the valley; bandits had held up a lorry and robbed it of beer.
A maid brought the food through in three large steel pans and a smaller woven grass basket. Plates followed but no knives and forks. The maid placed a blanket on the floor. Michael followed the others in washing his hands in a pink plastic bowl, the maid offering her arm as a makeshift towel rail. Mr Magara waved Michael expansively to the table.
Stanley said to Michael, ‘Mr and Mrs Magara are generous with food. This is mutton stew, this is matooke – steamed plantains, this is groundnut stew, and in the basket is millet. You take a scoop of millet or matooke with your hand and dip it in the stews.’
Michael made way for Felice and Mrs Magara.
Mr Magara said, ‘No, no, Dr Lacey. It’s the custom for the men to take first.’
Michael did as he was told and then hovered, unsure where to sit; there were only three chairs at the table.
‘Please sit down, Dr Lacey,’ Mr Magara said.
Michael sat down and Stanley and Mr Magara joined him. Felice and Mrs Magara sat on the blanket on the floor, Mrs Magara lowering herself with all four limbs while Felice slipped down gracefully, tucking her legs to the side. The women talked happily to each other, ignoring the men.
The hole in Michael’s stomach felt large enough for the meal ahead, and he took to the earthy juiciness of the stews and contrasting textures of the smooth matooke and gritty millet. It reminded him of eating with Tomasi in the dim interior of his family’s hut. He finished his plateful to the evident delight of Mr Magara.
‘You like my food?’
‘Yes, it’s very satisfying, thank you.’
‘I find it so. My wife and I are hoping that we can feed up Felice to
make her beautiful. She would be the second most beautiful woman in Uganda if she would gain fullness. Fullness is pleasing in a woman. Do you not think so?’
‘What is it in a man?’ Mrs Magara asked from the floor, and then covered her mouth as if shocked at her own audacity.
‘In a man it shows success. The problem for Felice is that Stanley is not earning enough to feed her. That’s the problem.’
Felice protested mildly.
‘It’s the fashion,’ Stanley said, rather quickly.
‘European fashion! European fashion!’ Mr Magara wailed. ‘What’s the good of following European fashion here? Here, where we have pygmy people in our mountains that have never seen an advertisement for Coca-Cola. Think of that, Dr Lacey.’
He scooped more mutton stew onto Michael’s plate, including body parts that Michael had seen in the operating theatre but had never seen served up.
‘I’ve had enough, thank you,’ he said, too late.
Stanley gave a rare smirk. ‘If you’re full you should leave some food on your plate. If you clean your plate then it’s assumed you’ve not had enough. That’s another custom.’
Mr Magara piled on more food. ‘No, no, he needs to put on weight. You’ll gain respect from your Harley Street patients, Dr Lacey, if you go back a big man.’ He stood up and belched, paused to recover his digestive system’s equilibrium and went to the sideboard to turn on the radio. ‘Let’s have music. This is the shortwave from Zaire.’ After some white noise and octave-tracing whistling, the tuner picked up an optimistic jangle.
‘How do you like our Western Rift Valley, Dr Lacey? It’s not the Happy Valley of Kenya, I think. There are no white settlers here, you see. Personally I would welcome them but I fear we don’t have the creature comforts.’ By now Michael had understood that conversation would be one way, so he didn’t reply. Sure enough, Mr Magara was off again. ‘A man came looking for you, Dr Katura, when you were away.’
‘I see.’
‘He gave his name as Zachye.’
Stanley’s hand stopped on its way to his mouth. Felice looked up abruptly from the floor.
The Ghosts of Eden Page 23