The Ghosts of Eden

by Andrew JH Sharp

  They had almost reached the door when a woman rushed towards them and knelt down in front of Stanley, holding out her baby, begging him to reach out and touch it. Stanley sidestepped around her to reach the door.

  ‘They venerate you,’ Michael said.

  Stanley grunted. ‘It’s an embarrassment to me.’

  Inside the clinic Stanley went to wash his hands in an annexe. As Michael hovered behind him Stanley suddenly turned and said, ‘I think it would be polite to warn you, if Zachye comes back I may not be able to go to the National Park – but you could go with Felice.’

  ‘Just with Felice?’ A sweat broke out. Lead Us Not Into Temptation.

  ‘Perhaps we could persuade the Magaras,’ Stanley said, and Michael thought that he almost smiled again.

  Michael said, ‘I do understand the situation – about Zachye.’

  It must have sounded as if he did not, because Stanley said, ‘You see, I don’t know Zachye’s state of mind.’

  ‘His state of mind?’

  Stanley appeared to struggle with how much more to say. ‘By that I mean that Zachye is unpredictable.’

  ‘In what sort of way?’ Michael found himself intrigued by Stanley’s errant brother.

  Stanley took off his glasses and studied them. His wet hands dripped onto the frames. Now that his eyes were not warped and diminished behind thick lenses, Michael thought that he looked warm and personable, although weary.

  ‘When I married Felice, Zachye wanted me dead.’ Stanley turned away quickly as if the remembrance alarmed him, and went to dry his hands.

  Michael re-examined what he had thought about the prodigal Zachye. After listening to the conversation at the Magaras he had assumed Stanley and Felice were anxious to bring Zachye back into the family circle; that Zachye needed to eat humble pie (although he doubted that this was exactly how the Katuras would have put it). It had not occurred to him that Zachye might represent a threat, that Stanley’s brother might be criminally insane. The statistic about most murders occurring within the family came to mind. He said, ‘Do you think you’re in danger?’

  ‘I don’t worry for myself,’ Stanley said. He looked towards the full waiting room. ‘From what I’ve said you may believe that Zachye’s not a good man, but when he was young he looked after me, protected me. He’s my brother.’ He put his hand to the stethoscope that hung from his neck and squeezed the tubing. ‘Michael, please forget this, it’s just a . . . difficulty for me, to think that I might see him again – of course, I want to, I need to, but . . . how he will react . . . his intentions.’ He replaced his glasses and looked like a brainy scientist again. ‘Enough. Let’s see a few patients.’

  Michael stood in the corner of the clinic as a nurse brought each patient in turn to Stanley – speaking in English to present the complaint to Stanley, who then questioned each patient in their native tongue. This man cannot see well . . . this woman has head pains . . . this baby has diarrhoea . . . this man has a cough . . . this boy has a swelling. The common language of symptoms gave little away, for when Stanley exposed the offending parts Michael was reminded of the grosser pictures in old medical textbooks – ulcers the size of side plates, swellings to fill a bowl, spleens like a rising moon, elephantine growths on the limbs.

  Stanley doggedly worked through, writing prescriptions for the dispensary, instructing some patients to be taken to a ward, sending others to the health education nurse. At midday he insisted Michael go and get lunch. He would be finished in outpatients at two and then had a tooth to pull, an abscess to drain and a fracture to set, but he refused Michael’s offer of help, saying Michael must have his holiday.

  When Michael returned to the house he found to his delight that Felice was alone. She welcomed him with a courteous inclination of her head and informed him that there was a bowl of water in his room to wash his hands. She would be pleased if he would join her for lunch. She had an air of formality about her: a correctness of speech and deportment, a playing of the genteel host to an honoured guest, as if the bonhomie of the previous day – the easy laughter, the light teasing – had been unseemly; as if yesterday she had forgotten herself, or had got a bit drunk, and now she wanted to show that to be an aberration. Perhaps Stanley had admonished her and told her not to be so familiar. She was quiet as she folded a linen napkin, placed it with care next to his plate, and then stepped back through the door to the kitchen, the smooth curve of her calf catching his eye.

  Michael took his seat, and said, ‘Your husband’s devoted to his work. He’s got a huge workload.’

  She replied from the kitchen. ‘It’s always been his ambition to do as he does now, although he might have become a diviner if he’d been born in a previous generation. When we visit his home village we go and pay respect to the old diviner. Stanley gives him some financial support: return of a favour given to him as a child.’

  She brought through a pan of sweet-smelling chicken stew and placed it on a grass tablemat. Hot droplets of oil bubbled up, coalescing on the surface. Michael’s salivary glands contracted painfully.

  ‘Africa’s a better place because of people like my husband. But there are few like him; most of his colleagues from medical school are working in Britain or America, or have a private practice in the capital.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be too harsh on his colleagues. You have to be extraordinary to do what Stanley does,’ Michael said, raising his voice to reach Felice as she returned to the kitchen.

  She came back with warm bread from the oven on a wooden board.

  ‘We all go where our heart leads,’ she said, and then added, with what he thought was not a question directed at him, but the voicing of a riddle that had puzzled her for a long time, ‘but what determines our heart?’ She sat down but then got up again immediately saying, ‘Oh, how forgetful of me! I’ve not brought cutlery.’

  ‘You were going to eat African style?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, but when the Romans come to the peasant village it’s the peasants that must adapt,’ she said.

  ‘Please, that makes me sound like a colonial governor. Relax with me, Felice. Let’s do as you normally do; after all, my hospital canteen doesn’t get out chopsticks if we’ve a visit by Far Eastern medics. I want to fit in with what you do.’

  He reached up to guide her back onto her chair. Felice smiled back, sat down less stiffly than before and exhaled a soft sigh of release. She gave him a wily look and said, ‘If you wish to fit in, then you must know that in my house we pray before we eat.’

  ‘Be yourself. Do whatever you normally do. I insist.’

  Felice bowed her head. Michael waited, but as the silence extended he glanced at her. Her eyes were closed, her face serene, completely unselfconscious. She spoke at last, ‘My Father, thank you for this food, for your gifts and for my guest, Michael. Amen.’

  Brief and simple, but in the short silence that followed he felt that something disagreeable had happened. Felice had not prayed as if observing a ritual, but as if God himself was there at the table, an unseen guest whom she could turn to at any time and address intimately. He had heard it all before. It disturbed him, the intelligent Felice believing it. He remembered the goddamned child, the trusting child, but then saw an image in silhouette of his mother, head bowed like Felice, the same turning to something beyond the troubles of the day, receiving sustenance beyond the physical. It was either ludicrous or the most necessary and profound achievement of the human heart. A choking feeling welled. But Felice was inviting him to eat. Her voice made him put aside his objection and his disquieting vision: it bubbled with happiness to the point of childlike excitement. It came to him that her spirituality, naïve as it might be, was a vital ingredient of her charm – made her independent of, not beholden to, whims of want and need.

  She took the fly-net off the water jug and filled his cup. ‘Water from the Fountains of the Nile.’

  ‘Gosh,’ he said, swilling the water as if tasting wine.

  ‘Yes – from th
e melting snows of the mountain.’

  Felice broke the bread and gave him half. They dipped pieces in the stew, Michael enjoying the sensuousness of eating with his fingers from the same bowl as Felice. Their arms crossed back and forth. Only a week before he had been in the clattering canteen of his big-city hospital, and now he was here in a fairy tale: a tiny house in a banana grove, beneath the Mountains of the Moon, in the Lands of Zinj, drinking the crystal-clear water of legendary fountains, sitting opposite a princess. He smiled to himself as he remembered his companion of the previous week: an ill-humoured, hirsute registrar who wanted to be an orthopaedic surgeon but was having to learn haemorrhoidectomies and other unclean bowel operations in order to pass his Surgical Fellowship exams.

  ‘The food is good?’ she asked, stopping her hand in mid-motion and smiling eagerly.

  ‘Excellent, and such delightful company as well.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re very polite.’

  He looked at her. ‘You don’t know me well, Felice. I’m not given to false sentiment.’

  She raised her eyes to him and, with a shy smile he had not seen before, whispered, ‘Thank you. It’s really nice to be appreciated.’

  Her eyes drew him in; he felt a little flustered. He said, ‘Well, I’m sure Stanley appreciates you.’

  She looked away. ‘Stanley? Oh, yes, I’m sure he does.’ She took a sip of water. ‘But he has to work so hard. I don’t think I help him as much as I should.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got your own work to do in the dispensary.’

  She did not seem to hear him, saying, ‘He hopes to serve here for the rest of his life. It’s his calling.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  She swallowed and took some bread. ‘Have some more, Michael.’

  ‘Er, thanks.’

  ‘I can’t complain,’ she said, with what Michael thought a brave smile. ‘Please don’t think I’m ungrateful; we have a good community here.’

  ‘It is a bit isolated.’

  She nodded slowly. ‘OK, I’ll admit it; it’s not what I expected. You see, there are not that many people who I can really relax with here: there’s Beatrice – she works in the dispensary with me – that’s about it. And Stanley’s always working. I love having lots of friends, going out, maybe even the opportunity to see a bit of the world. What’s Britain like? Is everyone happy there?’

  Michael chuckled. ‘Delirious!’ Then, more seriously, ‘No . . . if anything, I suppose people carry their own happiness with them.’

  She stiffened her back a little and spoke with finality. ‘It’s not to be. I made my decision when I married Stanley.’

  Michael felt uncomfortable. ‘Any news of Stanley’s brother?’

  ‘Oh, I asked everyone I saw in the dispensary this morning if they’d seen a man looking for Dr Katura.’

  ‘Any luck?’

  She shrugged. ‘They wondered why I asked: everyone’s always looking for Dr Katura.’

  ‘This Zachye, he and Stanley were close?’

  ‘Once, yes, very.’ She said no more.

  ‘I’m sorry – if you’d rather not discuss him.’

  She pursed her lips for a moment. ‘Maybe it’s OK. Stanley doesn’t like to talk about him, but he’s not here, so I don’t think he’ll mind.’

  ‘It sounds like the two brothers could hardly be more different.’

  Felice laughed, a little caustically. ‘I’m not so sure. They’re both headstrong. Both ambitious – it’s just Zachye wasn’t academic, so with the good jobs going to those with the certificates he joined the army.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘And then Idi Amin came to power. Zachye stayed in the army.’ She cast him a look, as if he would know what that meant.

  ‘He’s had no contact with the family all these years?’

  She shook her head. ‘After Amin was overthrown some soldiers deserted and resorted to banditry. Maybe Zachye also. There wasn’t much else for them. Stanley says that a herder saw him about five years ago watching the cattle from a long way off. That’s as close as he ever came back.’

  She wiggled her fingers in the washing bowl, dried them with a napkin and touched the side of her glass with the tips of her fingers. Michael found himself feeling their light stroke.

  ‘I really can’t understand him. Family is everything to us, Michael. Everything. To have cut himself off like this, cut himself off from his family, from the roots of his life.’

  Her words jolted him. ‘Cut himself off?’

  She looked at him.

  He said quickly, ‘Very tragic.’

  Felice lifted her glass and sipped, and then dabbed her lips with her napkin. He put aside the previous disturbing moment – the cutting off comment. She leant back in her chair and took a deep breath. He wished she wouldn’t make movements that drew his attention to her figure.

  She said, ‘It’s so hard for Stanley, because he loved him – his older brother. I think Stanley would forgive him anything. He’s always hoped to meet him again; to bring him back to us.’ She bent forward again and slipped her fingers down her glass.

  The door opened a little and a young woman peeped through the crack. ‘Praise be! You’re in.’

  ‘Come in,’ Felice said, springing up. ‘How’s it going?’

  The women embraced. ‘Too well – I’m having my afternoon off. Ha, you’ve company.’

  ‘Sit down. Eat with us,’ Felice said, ‘Michael, this is Beatrice.’

  Beatrice looked delighted to meet him, and said, ‘The famous surgeon from England! Nothing as big as this has happened to us since a certain explorer, Henry Morton Stanley, came around the corner of the mountain about a hundred years ago.’ She had a direct, sunny face and wore a well-cut bright-yellow blouse. Michael could see why Felice got on well with her.

  A few seconds later another figure appeared in the doorway. Mrs Magara came through with a folding chair in her hand.

  ‘Good! I’m in time for some food,’ she said, ‘I’ve brought a camp chair and my own cushion with me. These are the necessities until Stanley moves into Harley Street. Fine, very fine.’

  They all laughed.

  The women tried to include Michael in their conversation, Felice in particular, but he soon felt as he had on previous occasions when he had been the only man in a female group: an impediment to the desired directions of the conversation; a stone in their shoes. He excused himself, saying he would take a walk up the hill, and collected his binoculars and bird book. Felice sent him on his way with a couple of bananas as a snack. He felt a little mothered.

  He climbed a well-trodden path through banana groves to a small ridge above the hospital. A group of children watched him pass.

  ‘Muzungu!’ they called, giggling, hiding behind each other.

  He smelt drying millet and woodsmoke, and raised the lid on his memories a crack: a grassy knoll, diamond seeking, Mr Patel’s duka. He smiled at his guileless hopes. Nights in the dorm, voices of children, voices of the aunties, songs sung with the gusto of angels, the smell of approaching rain, the taste of fire-roasted maize cobs. Happy days before ejection from an Eden; before being condemned, like all men, to want to go back but finding the way barred by the terrible truth: its impossibility, its absurdity, in the face of hard facts. He saw a tree on the ridge ahead and it struck him forcefully that if only circumstances were different, if he and Felice were together, he would be in his own Eden. Another impossibility.

  When he got to the tree he inspected its trunk for ants (some instincts from his childhood days remained), and then leant against it, scanning the view with his binoculars. Perhaps I should try and locate Stanley’s lost brother, he thought, smiling to himself. He’s out there somewhere. A rogue, hiding in paradise. A description would have been useful although he imagined that Zachye looked like an army oaf. He picked out figures walking on a road: bright-red skirts and headscarves against the dark-green vegetation, straight necked against the loads they carried on their head
s. Tracking over the iron roofs of the hospital he thought of Stanley toiling away. Raising the lenses he followed the forest canopy – shadowy, deep – up the slopes of the foothills until it vanished in the cloud wrapping the mountains. He had yet to see the snow-capped peaks. Stanley had said that Rwenzori meant Cloud King. It was little wonder that the first European explorers passed close by and failed to find them, or their coy fountains.

  He let his binoculars down and gazed at the great bulk of cloud; the land rising into that silence – blotted out. Lwesala felt like a place on an edge. He had experienced the same sensation in otherwise prosaic seaside towns in Britain: an abyssal wilderness just a short walk away, a pervading sense of the close presence of something untamed – a frontier. He felt a little vertiginous, as if he was in danger of being spirited across.

  Back at the house Mrs Magara and Beatrice were gone but Felice was saying goodbye to a family with several small children. He waited as she kissed the children. For a moment she reminded him of his mother seeing off the girls from her Sunday school class. It brought a sudden sense of intense longing. When the children had left he expressed his surprise at all the visitors.

  ‘Oh, but this is our life,’ she said, ‘we like to be together. The more we are the happier we are. But is it true that in Britain you must have an invitation before coming to a meal – that a time is specified?’

  ‘Well, yes, I think it would be.’

  Felice looked astonished. ‘To us that would be impolite; as if the guests were unwelcome at other times.’

  He shrugged. ‘We have schedules; the price we pay for an industrialised society. The price we pay to have shiny goods, electric lights, food mixers.’

  She considered what he had said. ‘I think I would like to have both. Perhaps it’s not possible.’

  One of the children ran back and gave Felice a newly laid egg she had found near the path. Felice thanked her, waved her goodbye and then started clearing the table.

  ‘You must be looking forward to having your own children,’ Michael said, crossing to his room to put away his binoculars.