Old Lovers Don't Die

by Anderson, Paul G

  He walked back down the hallway to the kitchen and quickly glanced into Isabella’s room. Her rucksack he could see tucked under the bed, undisturbed. In the kitchen, Emmanuel and Chantal were in one of their familiar, loving embraces.

  “What is it , Chris?” Chantal said seeing the concern on his face as he walked in.

  “My passport is missing; someone seems to have been through my things.”

  “Are you sure? The back door was locked when I came home and Anna our maid hasn’t yet arrived.”

  “Yes, I double checked. My passport and health documents have all disappeared.”

  “I can’t imagine who would be able to silently break in like that,” Emmanuel said.

  “I think it’s pretty clear who it is,” said Christian, holding up the phone with the message on it.

  Christian could not enjoy the meal; he felt nauseated. He kept thinking about Kim’s threat and how he needed to inform both Isabella’s mother and his mother. He excused himself from the table and went through into the front room. He sat and thought about how difficult life had suddenly become before sending a text message to Isabella. Stay strong, Kariba’s son okay, we will see you soon. He waited for a few minutes hoping that there might be a reply. There was not.

  “You can use our phone to call your mother in Australia if you would like,” Chantal said from the lounge room doorway, interrupting his thoughts.

  Christian smiled and nodded his thanks. He dialled the Australian number and listened while the phone rang, trying to imagine the golden retriever sitting in her favourite position. He wondered whether she knew, in that instinctive way that dogs have of knowing things, that it was Christian phoning. He closed his eyes and imagined her soft ears, which she loved having scratched. He suddenly missed her intensely.

  “Hello.” His mother’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “Hi, mum. It’s Christian.”

  “Yes, sweetheart, I should know your voice after all these years! And it is lovely to hear it again. How are you?”

  “Mum, there is a bit of an issue which I need your help with.”

  Christian then explained about the events of the day. As he spoke, he could sense his mother processing the information; all of her intelligence, which normally analysed pathology, concentrated on what he was telling her. In addition, as he had come to expect when he finished, she took over. Telling him first that Isabella’s mother, Nadine, would be contacted and not to worry about that. She would also send her an email with all the details in the morning. Moreover, Kariba’s son may have drug-resistant TB. He should also consider that HIV might be a cause and start him on retroviral medication. She had a copy of all his documents, as well as passport and health certificates. The Department of Foreign Affairs she would contact in the morning to get special travel documents issued through the embassy in Kenya. When Christian told her about the lack of medications available in Garanyi, she said that Sibokwe was now the Minister of Health in South Africa and she would ask him to send antibiotics by courier the following day for Kariba’s son. Christian put the phone down grateful for his mother’s considerable resources, but still wondering whether he would sleep.

  A mosquito’s incessant buzzing on the mosquito net woke him. Partly opening his eyes, he could see the fingers of the early morning light reaching beneath the curtains into his room. A mosquito silhouetted, as a tiny black spot above his head. He watched, not moving, as it searched determinedly for a way through the net. Then without a second thought, he swatted it viciously. All that remained was a tiny smear of blood marking the spot on the torn net, an odious exclamatory epitaph. The satisfaction that the small smear of blood produced initially shocked him, as well as his angry reaction in killing the mosquito. For a minute or two, there had been intense satisfaction but then the feeling of frustration had returned. It was suppressed anger and frustration at not being able to protect Isabella.

  There were no other sounds in the house - it was too early for Emmanuel and Chantal. He got up quietly and dressed, hoping that Kariba’s son had improved overnight. Checking his phone as he pulled on his shirt, he was disappointed. There were no messages from Isabella. There was one from Cindy saying to call him when he could, and another from his mother saying to stay calm; everything is under control. He took the remaining malarone tablets and put them in his pocket for Prince Kariba, before letting himself out through the back door and snipping the lock. At 6:30 AM in the morning, there were only a few people out. Most were carrying some produce for the town market. A few who now knew him greeted him as he walked, but he was too busy processing the possible scenarios for Kariba’s son to be able to respond cheerfully.

  Walking in through the ward door, he knew the first thing that he would see was the temperature chart at the foot of the bed. As he walked towards it, he could see there had been a steady increase overnight. Kariba’s son, he noted, was restless and a new nurse, whom Christian did not recognize, was trying to calm him down. She called Prince Kariba Matthew, and was dabbing at his perspiration with a small towel. From the foot of the bed he could see perspiration gathering in small pools on the plastic mattress. Christian said good morning to the nurse and felt for Matthew’s pulse. He counted 120 beats per minute; Matthew had a tachycardia and was septic. Sepsis, if it not treated correctly, would result in death. He asked for a pair of scissors and quickly removed the bandages covering the burns. There was no sign of gross sepsis, meaning something else was causing his high temperature. Christian examined his abdomen and chest, and both looked fine but then as he took out his stethoscope, Matthew coughed. Dark green phlegm flecked with blood narrowly missed him and landed on the floor next to the bed. Putting his stethoscope on Matthew’s chest, he heard the coarse crackles and bronchial breathing that is advanced lung disease associated with TB. To be sure of curing him, they would need the specific medicines from South Africa. If they did not get them within forty-eight hours, Matthew and Isabella may die.

  He doubled the dose of the antibiotics, knowing that it would be of little benefit against the tuberculosis bacillus. Nevertheless, it felt like he was doing something, however irrational, to keep Isabella safe and alive. He checked the intravenous line to make sure that it was running correctly and then headed to the pharmacy and the computer. Once inside with the door locked, he scanned the shelves in case there was any isoniazid that he could give to Matthew—there wasn’t.

  The computer only took a few seconds and then the emails flashed up. True to Renata’s word, her email was one of the first telling him that everything was under control. He saw that she had copied it to Nadine, Isabella’s mother. Nadine’s email, when he opened it, reminded him that she had the same efficient gene as his mother. She was concerned for Isabella but it was more about what needed to be done to get her back. Nadine quickly explained that she had been in contact with Sibokwe and that the drugs would be delivered within forty-eight hours. She had also contacted Mike and Galela, who were on their way to Garanyi, and they would bring the medication.

  It was nine years since he had seen Galela, who with Mike had rescued both he and Isabella from the renegade white supremacist group in South Africa. Both, he knew, now belonged to the new National Government Intelligence Agency in South Africa. He knew that Mike had given up full-time anaesthetics and become head of the South African government’s equivalent to the CIA. Galela, he had heard, remained the head of covert operations. Having them both would be great moral support.

  As he closed off the computer, he remembered the text message from Cindy. He quickly sent a message asking if she was free to talk. The message quickly returned. Be careful I am being watched, have new information about Kim and Michelangelo. Phone you later. Thank goodness, Mike and Galela were coming he thought, things were starting to get out completely of his league. He closed down the computer and thought he would pay Matthew one final visit before he headed to the overnight carnage, which would be waiting in Accident and Emergency. Thankfully, Doctor Nikita was
back which meant he would have the afternoon off from surgery. Peering through the open door into the ward, he could see that Matthew was more restless. In the middle of a coughing fit, the new nurse, Saone, had bought in the bottom half of an old Coca-Cola bottle as a spittoon. Christian could see that was already one third full of green phlegm and blood. However, next to his head, a woman was now seated. Christian assumed that Matthew’s mother had arrived. If anything happened to Matthew, there would be no delaying the news to Kariba.

  The morning’s surgery he did on autopilot. Fractures reduced; lacerations sutured, two babies delivered by caesarean section. Teresa, who had been assisting him, had been her normal efficient self. She had sensed his stress, and quietly handed him the instruments and the sutures. Satilde had managed to keep the patients mostly restrained and without too much movement. After suturing the last patient, he tore off his surgical gloves, walked out through the small theatre reception room, and stood outside breathing in the fresh air. Part of him immediately wanted to check on Matthew in the hope that he was improving; the doctor in him knew that there would be no change without the new drugs. One of the reasons that he had opted for surgery is that it mostly eliminated uncertainty. If there was a problem, you could diagnose it, operate on it, and fix it. He had never been good at sitting and waiting. While thinking about how frustrated he felt, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and looked at it. There was a message was from an unknown number, although he recognized the prefix +27 as being from Cape Town. Touching the screen revealed the message: Arriving early hours of the morning, with drugs, staying at the Lakeside hotel. Join us for breakfast. Mike. Christian heaved a small sigh of relief. Mike and Galela would not only arrive early, but they had the drugs to help Matthew survive and ensure Isabella’s safe return. He decided to go and have lunch down by the lake to dissipate some of the stress. He would also treat himself to a cold beer before heading back up to the mosque to check on Michelangelo.

  The Norfolk pines by the edge of the lake were over one hundred feet tall. The first Belgian colonials had planted them in the 1800s, as a reminder of Europe. Now mature and fully grown they stood as magnificent guardians of the lakeshore; acres of shade scattered underneath, a refuge from the hot African sun. Christian could have eaten his hamburger sandwich at the hotel, but the hotel’s luxury and its magnificent swimming pool were so strangely at odds with the poverty around him; eating there would have seemed somewhat surreal. Sitting in the shade under a huge tree did not produce, he had found, the same discordant feeling. As he sat in the shade he could see groups of three or four people around him, some sleeping, others with children playing happily in the water, a reminder that poverty did not always preclude happiness.

  As he ate his sandwich, one of three children playing in the water smiled and waved at him. Christian waved back, touching the cold primus beer bottle, enjoying the condensation on the glass and how refreshing it would be to drink. He took his first drink and closed his eyes to enhance the enjoyment of the scene, and temporarily close out the world. He then slowly opened his eyes to take in the vista that was the lake when he saw standing in front of him one of the young children who had been playing in the lake. Five or six years of age, the young boy was looking intently at Christian. Large eyes were framed by angelic face, curious perhaps to see someone so white in an area, which was normally African.

  “Bonjour,” said Christian.

  There was no response other than a huge smile. It was then that Christian noted the red tinge to the boy’s hair and his potbelly, all signs of malnutrition. The boy’s gaze quickly shifted to Christian’s hamburger. In the distance, he could sense the boy’s parents watching. He wondered briefly whether they too had not eaten and for how long. He motioned to the boy to sit down next to him. Then he waved his arms at the other two children at the water’s edge, indicating they should come and join their brother. When they were all sitting next to him, he divided the hamburger in three parts, giving one to each. They ate slowly, never taking their eyes off Christian, as if uncertain as to whether this was really happening to them. When they finished, they turned and looked at their parents, who smiled at Christian and waved their thank you. Then the three children got up and stood looking at Christian, hunger temporarily satiated, a gratitude lingered briefly in their eyes before they gave loud squeals and raced back to their parents. For several minutes, they all sat looking at each other smiling.

  The beer tasted even better, as he watched the children splash about at the water’s edge. He had not thought about the dramas at the hospital for at least twenty minutes, a small act of kindness reminding him of one of the reasons that he was in Africa. That contrasted with much of what he had learnt in the last few weeks. The Congo was one of the most beautiful and populous regions of the world, exploited mercilessly, by those interested only in power and money. The richness of resources, buried amongst poverty, with a great potential to alleviate, was obstructed by some strange Faustian agreement, by those whose souls’ satanically worshiped money. Foreign governments, driven by a desire to drive their economies irrespective of the human cost, ignored the abuses of women and children, abuses which should have demanded their intervention not exploitation. The local militias were viciously protecting their interests while arguing flagitiously that without them, many would die of starvation. It was a devil’s cauldron continuously fed by greed and the need for power, uncontrolled, unsanctioned, viewed by a world apathetic to its barbarism. He looked at his watch and saw that it was 3:30 PM, time to head back up to the town and the mosque. He stood up waved at the family who smiled and then headed back up the hill.

  To get to the mosque he had to walk past the hospital. Despite it being his afternoon off, he needed to know about Matthew. Walking into the ward again, he knew that he should not have called in. Matthew had a large oxygen cylinder next to the head of his bed. He clearly was struggling to breathe, eyes wide open with anxiety that oxygen deprivation brings. His mother was sat holding his hand, dabbing repeatedly at his increasing perspiration. Matthew and, therefore, Isabella were going to need a miracle. Leaving the ward, he realised that he had hardly had a chance to think about Michelangelo. He walked out through the front gate and headed up the dirt road to the town. Despite the stream of people in both directions, making it difficult to isolate one person, he had the feeling he was being watched. He glanced around as casually as he could, but could see no one that he recognised. As he reached the main street, the wind blew and the curtains drifted back on the upstairs balcony of the shop selling spices. A small flash of yellow was momentarily exposed. He recognised it as the distinctive bright yellow jacket that Kim Yao had worn. From where she was watching, she would be able to see him enter the mosque. He stopped, uncertain as to whether to continue or to turn back. As he stood trying to make up his mind, he saw the young boy who had passed him the note approaching. As he passed Christian, he stumbled, bumping into him, grasping Christian’s arm to rebalance. As he helped the young boy up, he pressed another sheet of paper into his hand. Not looking down at what he had been given, Christian searched for small side street that would be away from the prying eyes of those who watched him. Ten metres ahead he found a small alleyway, and without looking around, he casually turned into it and quickly looked at the piece of paper. Go to the market, not the mosque.

  The market was at the far end of town. It took him ten minutes further walking to get there. The entrance was protected by two large oval gates. Walking through, he stopped and looked around. Dozens of stalls with clothing and handbags were intermingled with those selling live chickens, fruit, and vegetables. It was the fourth stall down on the right that caught his eye. The little boy who had passed the note to him in the street stood half hidden behind the handbags, beckoning him with his hand. By the time he got to the stall, the boy had gone but he could see at the far end sackcloth through which he must have disappeared. Christian parted the sackcloth and on the other side he could see the boy with two
other men, dressed in Muslim robes. They both motioned to Christian to keep quiet. One of the men then walked back past him, opened the sackcloth, and peered out into the market. Satisfied that Christian had not been followed, he then handed him a flowing Black Muslim burqa to put on with full-face covering. Black gloves eliminated any trace of his white skin. The man who had handed him the clothes explained that Christian needed to follow them at a distance of several meters. He must not look at anyone just concentrate on the heels in front of him.

  They left the market through the main gate. Christian concentrating on the heels in front of him, taking small steps so as his shoes did not show out under the front of the robe. They all reached the mosque as the call was going out on the loudspeakers summoning everyone to prayer. Inside the mosque, he removed his shoes as he saw everyone else doing. Then he noticed that the women were being directed to a separate room upstairs. Mohammed then appeared from a side door and stopped in front of him.

  “Go into that small room over there,” he said and walked on.

  The wooden door had ‘Praise Allah’ written across it in large gold letters. Underneath was a picture of the prophet Mohammed. Christian opened the door into the room, which had a single chair in one corner with white flowing robes folded neatly on top of the chair. A small white prayer cap and turban rested neatly on top of the robes. Christian quickly exchanged the black robes and the burqa. He put on the prayer cap and wrapped the turban around the cap and his face so that only his eyes were visible. The long flowing robes would cover his hands as long as he kept them clasped. The turban securely tucked in, he heard a knock at the door. He opened it to see Mohammed again standing there. He looked Christian up and down, then smiled approvingly before saying,