The Ghosts of Eden

by Andrew JH Sharp

  The bus stopped every few miles; passengers shuffled in and out. Michael dozed, opening his eyes from time to time to see small birds on the telephone wires, bunched in tight groups like beads on an abacus. He tried to count them, to take his mind off the operation; thinking about where he might have gone wrong. Analysing adverse events was a habitual and dispassionate part of his surgical practice, but on this occasion it made his stomach tighten. Stanley had died suddenly, having been haemodynamically stable for several hours after the operation. It was quite possible that he had had a secondary haemorrhage that might have been prevented by different decisions, but there was the disconnected venous pressure line. Had he failed to secure it properly? Could Zachye have done it? The telephone wires rose and fell, rose and fell. Michael saw a large eagle perched on a pole, silhouetted against the reddening sky, and was thankful it was not a bronze-feathered cockerel.

  The next time he opened his eyes it was dark. The bus had stopped and the old man next to him was trying to get past. Michael pulled his knees up further and to the side to let him out, and found himself covered with a blanket. It reeked of stale milk, and his thumb was poking through one of a number of holes. For a moment he could not think how he had come to be covered but then he remembered the bundle in the old man’s lap. He gathered the blanket up, lifting it gingerly between thumb and index finger and, thanking him, gave it back to the man, who took it with a brief nod of his head before making his way slowly off the bus, the other passengers taking trouble to make way for him – his age revered. Michael moved to the vacated window seat and noticed a sign on the road junction that pointed to a town near his childhood home. The old man was walking down the road towards the town, soon disappearing into the night. Michael regretted that he had not attempted to speak to him – to ask what ghosts in his past gave him such dignity and kindness. There was something of his grandfather about him; he wondered if he might have known him.

  An hour later the bus stopped again. This time the driver killed the engine, and with it its sleep-inducing monotony.

  ‘Half an hour,’ he shouted, and repeated it in Swahili.

  Michael could see lights outside and heard excited voices and radios vying for attention. They had joined a major route. Matatus, the ubiquitous minibus taxis of Africa, trucks and buses were parked untidily along the verge. A group of young men leant against the wall of the Dance Bazaar, their heads bobbing to the sound of a Congolese beat. One of them saw Michael and began a dance, crouching down and gyrating his hips whilst he held his bottles of beer high above his head. Michael gave a thumbs up sign – he meant it ironically – and then hoped that the gesture was not a crudity in the native culture. The man bent his knees even more and gyrated violently, pumping his arms back and forward.

  In the ill-lit doorway of a small building set back from the road a woman leant against the frame, motionless, ignoring the men. She was looking at Michael. When he met her eye she smiled pleasingly, sliding down the frame a little with a slight dropping of her hip. She reminded him of Felice – at least in figure. A man in a hooded tracksuit top, whom Michael thought had got on the bus at an earlier stop, came up to her and tried to engage her in conversation, but still she watched Michael. An overwhelming desire to be comforted gripped him. He had not been able to take Felice in his arms, to console her, but whilst he longed for that he also ached to be held himself – and not only on account of recent events. He regretted seeing the signpost to his childhood home at the road junction at the previous stop. He regretted the old man’s kindness. He regretted his own rigid heart; but he could not think of any key to unlock it.

  Michael got off the bus, now almost empty, and found himself lingering near the woman. He half-hoped she would come and talk to him, to pass the time, but when their eyes met she invited him to follow with a discreet movement of her hand, and melted into the room. It was simple to follow her in, telling himself that perhaps she just wanted to talk inside, away from the road. The room was dark, although there was enough light to show sacks of millet stacked against a corner, a heap of flattened cardboard boxes against a wall, a pile of stripped maize cobs on the floor. The room appeared to be used for whatever purpose would generate a little cash. For a moment he could not see where she had gone, and then he saw her in the entrance to another room at the back. She smiled at him with an understanding tenderness, as if she knew his troubles and wanted to help. The noise of the street deadened as the door behind him swung silently closed.

  The woman came unhurriedly towards him and leant gently against him, melting into him, her arms lightly embracing him, her breasts warm and soft as down on his chest through her thin cotton dress. It was all so easy. So comforting. So dreamlike. She put her head on his chest and raised her hand to unbutton her dress. The wallet in his jacket pocket pushed against his ribs. Poking him. He pulled back, jolted out of his trance. Condemning words came to him: two hundred dollars down payment for Felice; how much for the prostitute?

  The woman noticed his retreat. She reached out to take his hand but he pulled it back. ‘Do you wish a protective?’

  Michael recoiled again. He remembered the man in the ward, dying of Slim. How could he have forgotten? ‘Sorry, this is a mistake,’ he said, and made for the door.

  ‘No mistake! I have protectives,’ he heard the woman say plaintively as he fled to the street.

  Walking briskly away, he wondered why he felt shame and self-loathing instead of mere annoyance at an error of judgement. For years he had regarded such emotions as vestiges of a primitive nature that had rightly been eradicated by modern thought. It was since his arrival in Africa, but particularly since meeting Felice, that these feelings had been induced. Consenting liaisons (with protectives of course), with whom he pleased, should not be of any concern. Felice was not his wife.

  He needed something to drink. The acrid but fruity smell of waragi enveloped him as he hurried down the road away from the brothel. He shook his head at the vendors who thrust packets of charcoal-roasted meats, peanuts and other less identifiable foods at him. As he passed a bar a girl shouted, ‘Hey mister, buy me a drink.’ He ignored her. Lorry drivers leant against their vehicles, smoking and yawning, their trucks laden with goods from as far as Mombasa, seven hundred miles away on the Kenyan coast, bound for Rwanda and Burundi, another three hundred miles beyond. Cheap hotels, small bars and kiosks were strung out in a strip along the road to service the international trade; including trade in whatever caused Slim, he thought.

  An adolescent boy tagged on to him, holding out the haunch of some small animal. ‘Bush meat, sir. Very good. Make you strong. Make you good with women.’

  Michael waved him away and bought a Coke from a stall. He decided to drink it in the bus, along with the bread that the maid had put into his hand as he had left Lwesala.

  As he approached the bus he saw the hooded man come out of the brothel. Their eyes engaged for a moment, and then reengaged in surprise. At first he thought, with disbelief, that it was Kabutiiti but, although his face was similarly shaped, the man wore a tension in his expression absent from Kabutiiti’s. His eyes had been hunting about furtively, lips puckered as if about to blow a whistle, or perhaps breathless and sucking in the lively air. Michael had no wish to meet Zachye; it would be another situation replete with risk. He headed straight for the steps of the bus, but Zachye caught up with him and, putting a firm hand on his shoulder, said, ‘Ambassador!’

  Michael turned, irritated and a little frightened. Zachye stank of waragi.

  ‘Yes? What is it?’

  ‘It’s your friend, Zachye.’

  ‘Take your hand off me.’

  Zachye pulled him closer. ‘I’m Dr Katura’s brother. God is bringing us together.’

  Michael shifted his shoulder, attempting to pull himself away.

  ‘I need help.’

  ‘Not from me,’ Michael said.

  ‘I’ve killed my brother,’ Zachye said, spitting the words into Michael’s face.
<
br />   ‘It’s none of my business. Let go.’

  ‘The police will find me.’

  ‘You should turn yourself in.’

  ‘They will hang me.’

  ‘You deserve it.’

  Zachye’s arm fell off Michael like a dead weight. He dropped his pleading look. His expression became neutral, verging on cold; as if he had changed to a new strategy on the failure of the first. ‘I’ll tell you something. We’re alike, you and me.’

  So preposterous was Zachye’s statement that Michael sneered back, ‘What the hell do you mean?’

  ‘We’re both trying to get things that we cannot have.’ Michael stared blankly at Zachye. ‘Yes, I watched you and Felice; through the window of the house; talking together. She’s a fine woman. But proud – and she is self righteous.’

  ‘You’re completely wrong. You’ve a chip on your shoulder; a bloody great plank in your eye.’

  ‘Do you want her, Doctor? You think you have a chance now?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Let me tell you, Doctor, I loved her before you did.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Money. That’s what I need.’

  ‘Just be thankful you’re still free – go and hide somewhere.’

  ‘You’re to give me money,’ Zachye said, maintaining an even tone. Michael turned to go but Zachye held onto his jacket and said in his ear, ‘I’m suggesting that a man like you, who has a respectable position, who also wishes to impress a moral woman, wouldn’t want anyone to know that he has gone with a prostitute.’

  ‘I did not go with a prostitute.’

  ‘There are plenty of witnesses. A white man is like a glow worm; his path is clear for everyone to see. The woman said that you were good, and paid well – green dollars.’

  ‘You’re mistaken.’ But Michael’s throat tightened. A dispassionate receiver of such a rumour might have some suspicions. It was better to shut Zachye up. ‘You represent everything that’s wrong with this country.’ He reached inside his jacket. ‘You can have what’s in my wallet. Just leave me enough money for my taxi when I get off the bus.’

  ‘No, Doctor! You misunderstand me. I want you to send me money. Four hundred pounds sterling each year. I’m being merciful to you – I could ask more.’

  Michael grasped Zachye’s arm, trying to tear it away, and said, ‘If you don’t let go I’ll shout that I’m being assaulted. You wouldn’t want me to draw attention to you, would you?’

  Zachye said calmly, ‘Do you not know that Felice will marry Kabutiiti?’ Michael’s grip on Zachye’s arm gave way involuntarily. He met Zachye’s eyes to hunt out the truth. ‘Kabutiiti is a widower – his wife died of malaria two years ago. He has children who need a mother.’ Michael felt the wind knocked out of him. Zachye leant into him so that their faces were inches apart. ‘Unless Kabutiiti meets an accident.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Then you could have your way with her.’ Zachye made a crude gesture with his tongue.

  Michael turned his head away, disgusted, but stood rooted to the spot. He saw the open window in Stanley’s room again. ‘You mean, like Stanley met an accident? Did you come back and kill him? Failed to get a good shot the first time?’

  Now it was Zachye who pulled back. His jaw muscles trembled, the set of his expression wavered. ‘No, no! I did not.’ Michael said nothing. Zachye looked down. ‘I was not always like this, Dr Lacey . . . when I was a boy . . . my brother . . .’ He raised his voice, a hint of desperation in it. ‘I cannot grieve…’ He trailed off and looked through Michael as if focusing on some other world. Michael felt a brief and strange sympathy. They stood there for a few seconds, Michael fighting his own remembrances.

  ‘Let’s make a deal,’ Zachye said, face impassive again, releasing Michael and holding out his hand. ‘We’re brothers now.’

  Michael thought of Felice in Kabutiiti’s arms. Gone forever. Life would be intolerably bleak. To have found, by the lottery of life, someone like Felice (to feel she could somehow redeem him; but much more than that, to know that he would hide nothing from her, that she would be the first to understand him), and then to have it all snatched away. But Zachye’s suggested solution was grotesque, unspeakable. He was on the point of making a break for the bus when it struck him that Zachye might hold a key. Just might. Perhaps some knowledge of their traditions that would help him to woo Felice.

  He declined Zachye’s hand but said, ‘We need to talk; how we can help each other.’ He had kept his voice even and icy, but a flicker of satisfaction crossed Zachye’s face. Michael instantly regretted what he had said – love was making him blind – and was about to make a retraction, but Zachye was looking over his shoulder, suddenly alarmed. Then Zachye turned and darted between a parked bus and a lorry. Michael looked around and saw two policemen strolling in his direction. They passed by. He bolted for the bus.

  Eleven

  At the McCrees’, Michael found that the news of Stanley’s death had gone ahead of him. Audrey had withdrawn to her room and had not come out to welcome him when he arrived, late evening. He suspected that she blamed him for what had happened.

  ‘Bit of a state, poor thing. She doesn’t want to know the details,’ James said, pouring a whisky for Michael and himself.

  Michael recounted the events of the last two days, omitting any reference to Zachye. In the home of a fellow Briton (drinking from cut glass, one hand on the back of a high-back, green-leather chair, a violin concerto playing softly in the background), his meeting with Zachye now seemed absurdly theatrical, and Stanley’s death an event he had read about, rather than experienced first hand. Nevertheless, he was not fooled: each passing hour presented new opportunities for the malign. He would not risk giving the curse that clung to him in Africa like a static-charged feather the opportunity to cause himself, or others, further grief. He could not stay for the funeral; he would have to hope Felice understood.

  ‘I’d like to get the earliest flight out. I’ll ring the airline first thing in the morning if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Why don’t you rest here a couple of days?’

  ‘That’s kind, but I need to get back to my routine as soon as possible.’

  ‘Quite understand, dear fellow. It’ll be therapeutic.’

  They talked quietly, so as not to disturb Audrey. As Michael went over the medical details of Stanley’s treatment James reassured him that he could not have done more.

  Michael made a casual enquiry. ‘I saw Stanley’s cousin, Kabutiiti, accompanying Stanley’s mother to visit him in hospital. Do you know him?’

  ‘I’ve met him. He came back from exile a couple of years ago. His father was outspoken against the Amin regime and was a good friend of Archbishop Luwum; Luwum was Uganda’s Desmond Tutu. Amin had him murdered.’ Asking more about Kabutiiti now seemed inappropriate, but James continued, ‘I think he has a post in government – not sure what. I understand his father has a publishing business. They’ve got money, I believe – plenty: could buy Edinburgh Castle.’ James offered Michael another drink, which he accepted. ‘Kabutiiti needs to be careful if he’s following a political career. But he’ll not be naïve. He fled in the mid-seventies after he was forced to watch two of his friends being executed in Rusoro stadium. I’m told they made him applaud.’

  Audrey did not appear until the following day, when she came out of her room to see Michael off. Her hair was contained in a tight bun again; she wore a dress of muted colours; her dark eyes were grave and moist.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, Michael,’ she said, as she reached towards him to brush a beetle off his sleeve.

  ‘That’s kind, but how do you know?’ he asked. ‘I haven’t told you about it.’

  ‘It would’ve been the ancestral ghosts,’ Audrey said firmly. ‘They cause more than we know.’

  ‘Yes, well . . .’

  ‘Could have been theirs – or yours.’

  ‘Mine?’

  The taxi was waiting. Mic
hael shook James’s hand, but Audrey still had one more thing to say. ‘Don’t think you can come back for Felice, will you?’

  James said, ‘Please, Audrey, the man’s got his own life.’

  Michael smiled, pretending Audrey was just trying to be amusing. She kissed him lightly on the cheek as he said goodbye.

  He wrote to Felice as soon as he got home; or rather, he posted his letter when he got home, for he had written it on the aeroplane. Its careful composition had kept his claustrophobia in check and he wanted to reach out to her immediately, to build their relationship before Kabutiiti got any ideas. He expressed his heartfelt condolences and praised Stanley and his work: ‘a unique person . . . a true saint . . . my admiration’. As he wrote, it seemed that his previous assessment of Stanley as a dour husband holding back a vivacious woman was grossly simplistic. This was a man for whom flags fell to half-mast and for whom a whole region mourned. Michael had no allusions; he could not compare himself to Stanley. He hoped that Felice would eventually see that his love for her was different; it was total. He would love her above all else: his work, his responsibilities, his ambitions. Stanley had divided his loyalties, at best. And yet, he concluded, Felice had certainly loved him.

  The days would drag before he heard anything back from her, so he determined to keep busy. He was not expected back in the hospital for another week (because of the cancelled skiing holiday) but as soon as he arrived home he rang his secretary to say he would be back in two days, tidied his post, almost entirely medical journals, slept a dream-free night – as if his double-glazed, brick-walled Ealing home was impervious to ghosts – and then drove to Leicester to attend a conference of the Society of Gastroenterological Surgeons.

  Sitting in the audience, with the lights dimmed, Michael found it impossible to concentrate, his mind wandering to Felice; but every time he saw her he also saw Kabutiiti standing beside her: strong, supportive and rich. With children for her to love. He had heard the presentation on colostomy-sparing pouch operations before so he left the lecture theatre and made his way out to stretch his legs. Walking through the city centre, mildly irritated at having to dodge the shoppers with their little chores, he soon found himself in a road lined with Asian shops. It was a drizzly winter evening but the street had a silvery patina and the shop windows burst with colour and dazzle: Zarah’s Sarees, Asiatic Jewellers, Zanzibar Curry House, Bombay Fashions. He had passed Cash and Carry Mart and Bank of India when he came across Juicy Jalabis. A mouth-watering display of sweets caught his attention and, as it had started to rain again, he entered the shop.