A Good Man in Africa

by William Boyd

  He had driven straight to Hazel’s hotel. To his astonishment she was in. He upbraided her for the filthy state of her room and had sent down to the bar for a bottle of whisky, half of which was still left. Silently, he swung himself off the bed. He stood up and stretched. The room was warm and fetid. With his hands as paddles he fanned air around his genitals. His penis felt hot and sore from the two brutal couplings he had experienced with Hazel. His attempts to take out his bruised pride on her had rebounded as unsatisfactorily as ever; she had responded to his harsh gusto in kind, uncomplaining and unresentfully, with patience and as far as he could see no bad feeling whatsoever, falling into a deep and apparently untroubled sleep as soon as he switched the light out.

  He pulled on his trousers and shirt. There was a bathroom of sorts along the corridor where he planned on heading. He pulled open the door a crack and peered out. There was no one in sight. He padded along the passageway and into the bathroom. Gagging from the stench, he flicked on the light. Two geckos levered themselves back into their crevices in the ceiling and a large moth went into a stall, careered into the cistern and fell fluttering to the floor.

  He lifted the top off the cistern and, as expected, he found it empty. With finger and thumb he jiggled the ballcock but no water flowed. Cursing, he unzipped his fly and aimed in the general direction of the brackish toilet bowl. It was quite disgusting, this, he thought to himself. Why should he have to put up with these privations and disreputable surroundings? He had to get Hazel into a flat. Something had to change in his life, something revolutionary and drastic; it couldn’t go on this way, it just couldn’t. He thought fondly of Priscilla in this connection, emblem of a bright tomorrow, rather as a martyr would invoke an image of the Virgin as the flames licked round his knees. There, he told himself, there his hope lay, and he relaxed his sphincter’s faltering hold on his straining bladder.

  The burning sulphurous pain brought a shrill yelp to his lips and he did a high-stepping jig of surprise and agony, his urine stream carelessly playing across the lavatory seat and immediate environs. The initial sting died down fairly quickly and as soon as he was able to he leant weakly against the wall. Careful examination revealed nothing other than post-sex inflammation and heightened colouring—for a minute he had thought it might have been a vengeful bite from a lavatorial insect he had disturbed—and as he zipped himself up he put it down to the combined effects of latex rubber, heat and prolonged friction on what was—let’s face it—a fairly sensitive organ.

  Chapter 8

  Morgan had forgotten about his diagnosis the next morning as he sat on his verandah in the grip of an averagely acute hangover. Something in Hazel’s room had indeed bitten him later, and savagely too, along his right thigh, which area he now scratched steadily as he stared blearily at the Daily Graphic, one of Kinjanja’s more literate papers, whose headline read: “UPKP corruption probe demanded.” It wasn’t clear at this range whether the UPKP were demanding the probe or being investigated themselves but his headache wouldn’t allow him to bring the small print into focus.

  He finished his boiled egg and shouted for Friday to bring him some more orange juice. He tightened the belt on his dressing gown. He wasn’t looking forward to going into work. Friday had told him that Fanshawe had phoned three times between nine and half-past ten last night; he would be waiting on the steps of the Commission for Morgan’s report. He finished his juice, said “shit” at the light fixture above the verandah table, got up and went to his bedroom. Friday had laid out a clean, pressed shirt, socks and trousers on the bed. Morgan saw he’d forgotten to put out fresh underpants. He looked in the drawer he kept them in but could only find ones he’d abandoned because the rubber in the elastic waistband had perished, making them suitable exclusively for unfortunate creatures with four-foot girths. He frowned, unable at this stage of the day to comprehend this mystery. As far as he could remember he had three functioning pairs of underpants. Friday washed them every day. He had changed twice yesterday but that still should have left one clean pair at least for him to wear this morning.

  In the corner of his room was a wicker basket into which he threw all his clothes that needed washing. He lifted the lid. Three soiled white underpants nestled in the bottom like some flayed rodent brood savaged by a ferret.

  “Friday!” Morgan bellowed down the verandah.

  Friday came panting up impelled by the violence in Morgan’s shout.

  “Underpants!” Morgan accused his cowering diminutive servant. “No bloody underpants. Why you nevah wash ’im?”

  Friday hung his head. “Je ne peux pas le faire,” he said meekly. “I don’t like wash dis one.”

  Morgan picked a pair out and held it dangling from his hand. Friday reared back, a grin of alarm on his face.

  “It’s not bloody funny!” Morgan growled furiously. “Just because you’re so bloody fastidious I’ve got to go to work in dirty knickers. Big joke, eh? You’ve been washing them for two years; why stop now?”

  Friday gestured at them. “C’est dégueulasse. I don’t like dis ting for inside. Nevah fit wash ’im like dis.”

  Morgan was puzzled. What was he talking about? Skidmarks? Sweat stains? He took the offending pair and spread the waistband wide with the fingers of both hands. What was the silly bugger objecting to now, he wondered as he peered in?

  Morgan sat in the car-park at the university clinic telling himself to keep calm. His heart seemed on the point of retreating to its warm niche in his chest. He breathed out slowly; it had been a dreadful shock—that vile stuff—he had let the pants fall from his trembling fingers, reeling back, his eyes bulging with horror. He now wore one of his pairs with an expanded waistband secured with a safety pin. He held his hands out in front of him; they were still shaking slightly but they would do. He got out of the car and walked nervously towards the clinic. He noticed with surprise a long queue of students winding out of the waiting room. Inside there wasn’t a seat to spare. He went up to the reception window. The same little clerk sat behind it. Morgan leant against the wall.

  “Dr. Murray here?” he asked tiredly, like a man who hadn’t slept all night. He remembered his sworn promise to himself that he would never visit Murray again. That sort of brash statement was all very well when you were healthy, he told himself, but it was a different matter when horrible oozings were coming out of your body.

  “Yes, sah,” the clerk said. “Excuse me, sah, but are you senior staff?”

  “What? … Yes, I suppose I am. Just tell Dr. Murray that it’s Mr. Leafy here. And that I need to see him urgently.”

  “I’m sorry, sah. Senior staff clinic is at twelve o’clock. If you can return then.…”

  “Good God,” Morgan said in angry despair. “What’s going on in this place? I’m not a car or something; I just can’t be sick to some timetable you’ve dreamt up. Look, look,” he shooed his hands at the clerk, “go and tell Dr. Murray it’s an emergency. I’m Mr. Leafy, from the Commission. Got that? Now go on.”

  The clerk protested, “Doctor will tell you to come back.”

  “Never you mind,” Morgan hissed. “Let me worry about that. Just tell him.” The clerk grudgingly left his position. Morgan paced distractedly up and down, his hands in his pockets, trying to ignore the rude stares and hostile mutters of the students who objected to his blatantly jumping the queue in this way. Presently the clerk came back and in whispers told him to go round to the dispensary and wait. Morgan went outside and round the corner of the building to a small bottle-lined annex where a genial chemist directed him to a row of wooden chairs against the wall of the verandah. Two African women sat there already, one nursing a child, and he reluctantly sat down beside her, modestly averting his eyes. What in God’s name was Murray playing at? he wondered, feeling hot and uncomfortable. Who did he think he was to park him out here like some welfare case? A little boy wearing only a shirt came round from behind the other woman and stood in front of him gazing at the large white man in frank
curiosity. He had a streaming cold and grey phlegm covered his upper lip like a shiny moustache. Below the hem of his shirt a bulging domed navel protruded a good two inches. Morgan looked away, uncomfortable. The nursing baby slurped noisily at its mother’s breast. The little boy’s thin dark penis pointed at Morgan’s shiny shoes. Realities hounded you unmercifully in Africa, Morgan thought; just when he needed a bit of unreflecting peace, here they were, crowding round him.

  Twenty sweaty minutes later Murray came out. He looked capable and cool in his normal outfit, supplemented this time by a stethoscope round his neck. Morgan stood up and went along the verandah to meet him halfway.

  “Ah Dr. Murray,” he said. “I’m so glad …”

  “My senior staff clinic’s not for another hour, Mr. Leafy.” Murray was firm and unsmiling.

  “I know that,” Morgan said impatiently, “but this was important.” He paused and decided it would be wise to make his tone more amenable. “I thought it was an emergency.”

  “I’ll give you five minutes,” Murray said. “There are sixty students out there who’ve been waiting longer than you.” Morgan followed him into his consulting room. The man was impossible, Morgan thought, almost deranged. It was as though he was doing you some astonishing favour in deigning to treat his patients. Still, he decided to keep his feelings to himself; this whole business was far too serious and delicate to allow his personal dislike of Murray to get in the way. He remembered the frosty exchanges of his last visit with vague regret and resolved not to let the mood deteriorate like that today.

  “What’s the trouble?” Murray asked, taking up his seat behind his desk. Morgan paused, trying to find appropriate words to convey the intimate nature of his problem.

  “Well, this morning …,” he began. “That is to say I’ve been noticing some pain—actually more like discomfort really, a sort of tingling, really.” He swallowed, his tongue suddenly dry as pumice. Murray looked on steadily, giving nothing away. Morgan wondered what he was thinking.

  “What in fact is wrong?” Murray asked bluntly.

  “Discharge,” Morgan blurted out the word as if it were some dreadful obscenity. “This morning I noticed, well, what you might call, ah, discharge, on my underpants, that is.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Pardon? Oh no, as I was saying there’s been some discomfort on, when I go … when I urinate.” Morgan felt exhausted, as if he’d been running for miles. He wiped moisture from his upper lip. “Not always,” he said feebly. “Just sometimes.”

  “How long has this been going on?” Murray asked. The man was incredible, Morgan thought, not a trace of sympathy, no preliminary chat to put the patient at his ease.

  “Couple of days, I suppose,” Morgan confessed. Murray pulled his chair round to the side of his desk.

  “Right,” he said briskly, “let’s have a look.”

  “You mean?” Morgan cleared his throat. “Off?”

  “Aye. Breeks down, the lot.”

  Morgan thought there was a good chance he might faint. With trembling fingers he undid his trousers and let them drop to his ankles. Too late he remembered his baggy, perished underpants. He felt his face blaze with miserable embarrassment as he unfastened the safety pin holding up his useless Y-fronts.

  “I think I should say these are not my normal …” he began in a rush. “My steward refused to wash.… So I had to.… I do have some perfectly good ones.…” This was appalling, he screamed to himself. Murray looked on unmoved. Morgan could hardly breathe from the effort he was making to stay calm; the powerful urge to explain overwhelmed him. With intense care he placed the safety pin on the edge of Murray’s desk. It was useless; he let his underpants fall and looked anguishedly at the ceiling. He felt giddy and weak. The average human body, such as the one he possessed, couldn’t tolerate, he felt sure, the extremes of shame and humiliation that his had been subjected to recently. Perhaps this ghastly discharge was a sign that it was finally cracking up, falling apart at the seams.

  He reached out and caught the edge of the desk to steady himself. He felt his genitals contracting in the cool air of the consulting room. He was sure his penis had shrunk to about one inch long. Murray probably couldn’t even see it; he’d need a magnifying glass or a microscope.

  “What do you think?” he croaked.

  “Looks alright,” Murray said noncommittally. He reached into a drawer for something. Morgan squinted down: it was a wooden spatula, like an ice-lolly stick. Murray used it to raise Morgan’s penis. His head reeled.

  “Any chancres?” Murray asked.

  “What?” Morgan squeaked in horror.

  “Sores, crabs, lice, rashes?”

  “Good God, no!”

  “Fine. You can put your pants on now.”

  Morgan shakily pulled up and pinned his pants round his waist. He could feel huge sobs of frustration and despair building up in his chest, crushing his lungs against his rib cage, making it increasingly hard to breathe. He zipped up his trousers with numb and unresponsive fingers, like a man in sub-zero temperatures.

  “What is it?” he gasped weakly.

  Murray was washing his hands at a small sink. “No way of telling at the moment,” he said calmly. “It could be nothing. People often get discharges for no significant reason at all, a natural defence mechanism. On the other hand it could be a non-gonococcal toxemia.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “They’re very common out here. But don’t worry. You seem well, but I think we’d still better check. Go down to the sister at the end of the corridor. See if you can get some discharge on a slide. And we’ll do a urinalysis as well.”

  “Right,” Morgan gulped, trying to stop his throat from closing—his Adam’s apple seemed three times its normal size.

  Murray walked down the corridor with him. “What do you think it is?” Morgan asked again. “Is it serious? Am I …?”

  “I doubt it very much,” Murray said reassuringly. “But it wouldn’t be very clever of me to try and guess before we’ve got the tests back. Don’t you agree?” They stopped at a door with “Surgery” written on it. “Come back tomorrow, Mr. Leafy,” Murray said. “But try and make it at the right time.”

  Five minutes later a plump kindly sister in a gleaming and rigidly starched uniform happily accepted the smeared glass slide and the squat brimming bottle from a wordless Morgan, whose face still glowed pinkly and who felt that if he dared to open his mouth only an insane gibbering chatter would emerge. He swayed unreflectingly out to his car and sat hunched over the wheel for a full ten minutes trying to exert some minimal control over the cartwheeling and tumbling emotions that were furiously rioting within him.

  When he had calmed himself sufficiently he drove slowly down the road to the Commission where he sat quietly at his desk and methodically worked his way through his in-tray, his mind concentrated on the work in front of him, trying not to think, attempting to erase the morning from his memory.

  Fanshawe, however, interrupted him and called him into his office for a report on his meeting with Adekunle, and seemed disappointed in the lack of immediate progress. Morgan told him that, as requested, he had put the proposition to Adekunle and that he had said he would think about it. It seemed safer to describe the disastrous events of last night in as unsensational a way as possible.

  “Think about a free trip to London and a buckshee stay at Claridge’s?” Fanshawe demanded rhetorically. “What is there to think about, for God’s sake?”

  Morgan tried to implant a tone of reasonableness and lied spontaneously: “It seems he’s got to refer this to his central office or the Emir or something. He can’t just up and off without telling anybody.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Fanshawe said, obviously flabbergasted that anyone should have even to consider such a gilt-edged opportunity.

  “It’s not just a question of buying their good intentions,” Morgan cautioned, trying to initiate the complex process of bringing Fanshawe round to face r
eality. “They’re sophisticated politicians.”

  “Think so?” Fanshawe said dubiously, sounding surprised at the novelty of this idea. “To be quite frank, they seem more like a bunch of cowboys to me.”

  “With respect, Arthur,” Morgan said. “I think you’re underestimating them. Especially Adekunle.”

  Fanshawe snorted his disbelief. “Well, keep at it, Morgan. Follow it up in a day or so. We’re doing well, but we don’t want any hitches in Project Kingpin at this stage.”

  Morgan stood up, his heart heavy in the knowledge that to all intents and purposes Project Kingpin had passed away in the night. Later he would have to feed Fanshawe some doctored story about American or French counter-pressure, but for the moment it would be best to let him carry on believing it was still under way.