A Good Man in Africa (22 page)

“I thought there’d be a band,” she wailed sadly.

“There is sometimes,” Morgan apologised.

“But they’re not even trying,” she protested. “It’s like a party in somebody’s flat.” Morgan had to agree. He put the blame on the unimaginative social secretary, who, as if to confirm this adverse judgement, replaced the jazz with cha-cha and successfully cleared the dance floor.

“It gets better as Christmas approaches,” Morgan said in
compensation. “Honestly. Anyway, let’s have a drink.”

Morgan and Priscilla danced. They held each other close and moved slowly to and fro as somebody sang “Yesterday, love was such an easy game to play.” Morgan rested his cheek on Priscilla’s head. He smelt her straight clean hair, shiny and fine. It seemed to him, a little fancifully he had to admit, to be a symbol of everything his life was shortly to become. He shifted his erection against Priscilla’s belly and dropped his head to kiss her bare shoulder. She locked her wrists around his neck and pulled him closer to her. Her prim façade was rapidly falling away he realised; she was probably missing Chinese Charlie’s attentions by now. She had drunk two large scotches and had been very flirtatious in her own way; he had quite enjoyed himself. He squinted at his watch: it was twenty to ten; they had been here just over an hour.

While standing at the bar shortly after they had arrived, Jones and his wife accosted them. Jones had seemed somewhat put out to find Morgan at the club after refusing his invitation, and the Welshman had accepted his excuses with bad grace. The bloody oaf, Morgan thought to himself as he swayed gently with Priscilla in his arms, it should be pretty obvious to him by now why his offers to dine
chez
Jones were so regularly turned down: the drab unintelligent wife, the squalling brats who always woke up, the inferior food. Poor Jones, he thought, poor bloody Jones. The inept social secretary again demonstrated his sensitive feel for the mood of a party by playing some loud rock and roll and the dance floor soon emptied once more. Morgan and Priscilla stood undecided between the lounge and the bar. Priscilla looked like she had just been woken up.

“Drink?” Morgan suggested.

“Oh, let’s not stay on,” she said suggestively. “Can you wait a minute? I just want to go to the loo.” Morgan said that would be no problem. He watched her go, watched her firm-muscled calves, the shimmying buttocks beneath the blue skirt. He felt his heart begin to beat faster; the house was tidy, there was drink and food if necessary, by chance clean sheets had been placed on the bed only yesterday—all was in order.… Apart from himself, he thought, acknowledging the inopportune nag of his conscience at the memory of his visit to the clinic and the
dreadful affliction Murray had mentioned: non-gonococcal something. But surely not, he thought, persuading himself. Even Murray had been happy to suspend his verdict. Furthermore, there’d been no repetition of the burning pain, not another besmirching drop of discharge either. It must be alright—just a scary coincidence. However, he told himself, to satisfy his own mind finally, and quieten his conscience, he’d make one last check. He slipped off, humming the catchy refrain of the rock and roll number that was still blasting across the empty dance floor, by-passed the crowd around the bar and strolled jauntily down the passageway that led to the lavatory.

He stood in front of the urinals and passed water without so much as a twinge. He smiled to himself: he’d squared up to his responsibilities, he couldn’t be accused in any mental tribunal of evading the issue. He’d done all that could reasonably be asked of a man about to bed his loved one. He zipped up his trousers and washed his hands. He considered his reflection for a moment in the mirror, straightened his tie and cautiously touched his hair with his hands. He wondered cursorily if he ought to grow a moustache—one of those fashionable droopy ones—it would probably suit him. “Narcissist,” he fondly accused his reflection, and turned away.

He stepped out into the dark corridor and bumped into someone. They both backed off apologising. Morgan recognised Murray’s accent before he distinguished his features. But this evening his benevolence could include anyone—even Murray—so he said pleasantly, “Evening, Doctor. Here for the dance?”

Murray didn’t reply straight away. “No …” he said thoughtfully, as if remembering something. “The library.”

“Didn’t think you were a dancing man somehow, Doctor,” he observed facetiously, almost enjoying what he interpreted as the first signs of discomfort he had ever witnessed on Murray’s face. “Well, goodnight to you,” he said gaily, moving off.

“Mr. Leafy,” Murray said, calling him back. “I suppose it’s all right for me to tell you now. We’ve had the results of the tests we ran. I’m afraid I was wrong in my preliminary diagnosis.” He looked over his shoulder to ensure they were alone. “About the non-gonococcal toxemia.”

“Ah-hah,” Morgan said triumphantly. “I thought you probably were. No more symptoms by the way. Everything tip-top, never
felt better. But don’t worry, Doc,” he added boldly, “can’t win ’em all.”

“I was about to say,” Murray went on, “I’m afraid it’s not
non
-gonococcal.”

“I … I don’t quite understand,” Morgan said falteringly, doubt spreading through his mind like a rumour of war. “What are you saying?”

“That it
is
gonococcal. I’m sorry to say this, but you have gonorrhoea, Mr. Leafy. It’s nothing to be alarmed about, but it’s definitely gonorrhoea.”

When Priscilla came down the stairs from the ladies’ powder room she commented on Morgan’s flushed appearance and asked him if he was feeling alright.

“I’m just a bit hot,” Morgan said dazedly. In fact, he felt his head was about to explode, as if primed by the fatal words he had heard. Murray had calmed him down after his initial hysterical reaction, telling him repeatedly that it was nothing to worry about and to come to the clinic the next day as planned. “I wouldn’t drink anything more tonight if I were you, Mr. Leafy,” he had added. “In fact, just let abstinence be your watchword all round for a while.”

Morgan felt like a frustrated Samson chained between the two mighty pillars of his predicament. On the one hand was the frightful sentence of sexual disease, and on the other was the daunting prospect of the next hour or so. As he had stood there immobile, waiting for Priscilla to reappear, all he could say to himself in futile repetition was “What am I going to do? What am I going to do?” Somehow he managed to chat until they reached the car where, once inside, Priscilla flung herself on him, her tongue scouring the inside of his mouth, her teeth clashing painfully on his. He responded as best as he could, agonisingly aware of his total detumescence. My God, he screamed to himself in sudden horror, what if I become impotent? He thought of the swarming regiments of bacilli at this very moment billeting themselves throughout his body, searching out the most comfortable spots. And anyway, he moaned, what happened to you when you had gonorrhoea? Did your nose fall off? Did you go mad? Did your balls swell to bloated pumpkins? He felt like weeping hot bitter tears of rage and disappointment.

“Morgie, you’re not listening,” Priscilla complained petulantly.

“Sorry, um, darling,” he said, with a crazy smile. “What is it?”

“What are we doing now?”

“Shall I drop you off?” he said unreflectingly.

“Morgie!” she cried. “That’s not funny!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he insisted again. “Dreaming, don’t know what I’m thinking about.” He kissed her distractedly; whatever happened she must never know. “Let’s go to my place,” he suggested as he knew she wanted him to. He needed time, he thought, time to calm down, to think of some way out of this filthy dilemma.

They pulled out of the club car-park and quickly drove through the seedy quarters of Nkongsamba, past the glowing fires, the bright youths, the screeching clubs. Car headlights flashed in his eyes, the tooting horns and booming radios assaulted his ears. It was like some African bedlam. He thought of black Bosch-like devils with long pincers and barbed tridents grabbing and prodding at his vitals.

Priscilla wound down the window and leant her head back against the seat. Her hot palm rested casually on his thigh. “Gosh,” she giggled. “I’ve had too much to drink. When I shut my eyes the car feels like a roller-coaster.”

Morgan didn’t reply. As some semblance of order returned to his jumbled brain a single question obsessively edged its way to the forefront of his mind. If he had gonorrhoea, how, pray, how in the name of God had he contracted it in the first place? There was, he knew, only one possible answer which might have been emblazoned along the horizon in mile-high letters of fire it was so obvious. HAZEL!
Hazel.
The slut, the whore, the rancid filthy tart! It was her and her yobbo boyfriends—
she
had given it to him!

While they roared up the main road north Morgan plotted unspeakably crude and violent acts of revenge which he intended personally and lingeringly to visit on her corrupt body, but as they steadily approached his house his more immediate problems began to reoccupy his mind. As he turned into his driveway and parked his car in the garage the options that were available to him presented themselves and were discarded. One: be honest, tell her the truth, or as much of it as was necessary. But no, he
thought almost at once, that was impossible. What if it got back to her mother? And also it would rule out any hope of marriage—people just didn’t get these afflictions in her world. Two: forget it, simply go ahead as if nothing were wrong. He almost passed out as he considered the possible consequences of this course of action. Priscilla would get it, he’d infect his future wife, and then … he stopped thinking about that one. Three: lie. His old friend Mendacity, or its siblings Delay and Prevarication, however unlikely they might seem. He saw now that in reality his only hope lay in keeping himself and Priscilla out of the same bed.… He thought suddenly and maniacally of a self-inflicted wound—perhaps he could slice his hand while making sandwiches, or trip on the way back into the house and crack his head on the doorstep. But he knew he just didn’t have the guts to carry it off. Maybe he could simulate some other more sympathetic disease, like epilepsy, dropsy or sleeping sickness.…

“Come on, slowcoach,” Priscilla’s voice was a little woozy. “I’m not going to wait all night.” Morgan got out of the car and walked back to the house with her, his arm round her shoulders. She hugged herself to him and in this way they awkwardly shuffled to the door.

Fifteen minutes later Morgan fought himself free of Priscilla’s embrace and stumbled over to his drinks trolley where, despite Murray’s warning, he poured himself a huge measure of whisky. He hoped the alcohol would somehow inspire him, lend whatever feeble excuse he managed to dream up authenticity. He contemplated the idea of drinking himself unconscious but he realised with renewed despair that it would only postpone the inevitable crunch. Tomorrow would bring no escape; the problem would still be there as it was clear that, although Priscilla might accept drunken senselessness for one night, she was generally behaving in a way that suggested she saw sexual congress with him as a desirable thing in principle. This was no one-night stand, after all, and there was no telling how long he might have to abstain. “Let abstinence be your watchword,” Murray had said in typical fashion, like some doom-laden sybil or prophetic crone in a morality play. Recalling his words, Murray’s features swam into his mind: the unsmiling blue eyes, the stern accent. Morgan felt positively light-headed with hatred. It was Murray’s fault, he accused with passionate illogicality—Murray’s intervention had
landed him in this wickedly, poignantly ironic situation. He’d been trying to get into Priscilla’s pants ever since she had arrived, and, now that she was actively encouraging this move, he was the one who had to advocate restraint.

“What are you doing, Morgie?” he heard Priscilla ask. He wasn’t sure now that he liked the effect alcohol had on her: it made her winsome, lewdly coy, like some depraved child-prostitute.

“Nothing, darling,” he said, putting down his glass and turning round. She had risen from the couch, her mouth bruised from their kissing, her dress rumpled. She held out her arms towards him. Reluctantly he took her hands in his. She tugged him in the direction of the bedroom.

“Let’s go, Morgie.”

He applied gentle braking pressure. He willed the alcohol to percolate through his system. “Darling,” he said, trying to imbue his voice with subtle gradations of regret, prudence and reluctant moral wisdom. “Let’s not. I think we … Well, we should just stay here.…”

Simultaneously he tried to mould his features into a complementary amalgam of love, respect and sage sincerity. Somewhere along the line his conception of facial expressions and tones of voice and Priscilla’s refused to coincide. A look of delighted, sly adventure came into her eyes. He watched this transmogrification with all the horror of a scientist observing the first stirrings of a monster he’s unwittingly created.

“Here?” she said. “On the floor, Morgie? Oh, Morgie.” In front of his dumbfounded face she turned to the sofa and with a vandal’s relish flung its cushions on the floor, hastily piling them into a makeshift harem-bed. She quickly switched off all the lights but one, running around excitedly, paying no heed to Morgan’s beseeching rejoinders of “Priscilla, wait. No, I didn’t mean … Priscilla, please.” She kicked off her shoes and slid onto the cushion pile, giggling tipsily as she stretched and pouted in cinematic sensual abandon. “Come on, Morgan,” she simpered. “Don’t keep a girl waiting.”

Morgan felt he couldn’t go on much longer. What had happened to her? He had always suspected she was something of a goer—she had hinted as much herself—but it could only be drink that was producing this ghastly parody of a Hollywood
vamp. Of course, he thought, remembering Olokomeji, she had no reason to believe that he wouldn’t be highly stimulated by these sexy cavortings. He groaned softly, looking wildly around his room as if the Medici Gallery prints on its wall held some encoded inspiration. His eyes swivelled reluctantly back to Priscilla and he almost screamed when he saw she was wriggling out of her pants. She slipped them over her ankles and flung them playfully at him. She smiled in his direction, her eyes a little glazed. She reached up and undid the bows of her dress. The front flap dropped forward to reveal a lacy strapless bra that needlessly supported her small breasts. Morgan’s mouth opened wordlessly as she reached behind her to unclasp it, the joints in her shoulders bulging roundly, her bottom lip caught in her teeth in exaggerated concentration. The bra fell away and for a brief moment he saw the pink nipples, before, in mad spontaneity, doing the only thing that came into his mind—he leapt across the room, dropped to his knees beside her and frenziedly replaced the bra over her breasts, like some fervent sexual reformer at a burlesque show.