Chapter 7

At the foot of the bed, the cheap bed with the no-good mattress, lay yesterday's shirt. Charles Graves put it on and carded a hand through his hair and went to find his shoes. He eyed the bathroom at the end of the hallway.

Should I shave now or wait after breakfast? Charles Graves thought. I ought to shave. All right, you said so, so go in and shave then. For what, he thought. No. Go in and do it. It's been weeks and you have to go to check on Adamu before breakfast. Mary's still here, she'll think I shaved for her. No— she won't, she likes the beard. Exactly, Charles Graves thought. She'll think I shaved for her. And I don't shave for anyone anymore.

Charles finished the laces on his left boot that went up to half-way his calf and knelt to do the other. He couldn't hear anything from the other room, so he reasoned Mary was still asleep.

Let's keep it up, Charles thought. I was doing well before yesterday. Let's not think about shaving nor who I should do it for, or anything connected with it. Let's not even make a list of what I shouldn't think about. Let's not think of anything at all. Let's just leave it and leave it at that. And all the other things, he thought. All the things I've neglected to think about for too long. I won't think about them either.

Charles Graves finished the right boot and went outside and passed the yard, the dust kicking up round his legs. The ward was but a single floor with two private rooms they used for private exams and surgeries respectively, and one large main ward.

Charles Graves opened and closed the single door quickly. He wanted to keep the wind out.

Two patients stirred. Others lay motionless on their cots, their rising chests the only indication that they were still alive. Occupying the cot furthest from the door was Niagh, a sixteen-year-old girl from Kalacha. The girl's face had undergone change, to a certain extent. The gloom had disappeared from it. A smile appeared more easily, and it banished sickness from her countenance even when she was still under heavy medication. Niagh smiled at him now, and Charles softly conversed with her while he sat himself down at her hip where she lay propped up and checked her temperature. Steady, he told her. And we'll have you walking by the end of the week.

Tutaona, she answered. We'll see.

Then Charles went to the cod opposite Niagh to do the same. Adamu lay on his side. The old man's face was ashen. His greeting dazed.

"Did you sleep?" Charles asked, untangling his linen from where it lay twisted round his legs.

"All I do sleep." The old man said.

"Do you want to go out?"

"Nenda kajitombe." He spoke. Go fuck yourself.

Charles barked a laugh. The old man was alright. Charles Graves went and emptied his bedpan and when he came back the old man had, contrary to his earlier sentiment, stretched himself upright on his own. Charles cursed under his breath.

"Lala tena. Lie down again."

The old man fixed him a stare and scrunched up his face. "Lala tena." He corrected Charles.

Charles couldn't hear a difference for the life of him, but he nodded anyway. "Go on, now. Go on. Lie down."

After he had helped Adamu back onto his cot, Charles Graves went out onto the patio and into the sun. Daudi stood at the main water tank next to the house. The kid was smiling broadly and carrying a roll of clean, bound linen under one arm.

"Did you see Adamu?" Daudi asked.

"Yes."

"He has suffered very much tonight. More than ever. But he won't say it himself."

"And the others?"

"Only Radhi and his brother slept through the night." He spoke. "Niagh was a little nervous. But it was nothing."

"Na wewe?"

"Me?" He smiled shyly and very pleased. "Same as always."

"And the family?"

"Well. Mama is working again."

"I'm glad."

"She is, too. But the baby keeps up her at night. Did none of the others sleep here?" The boy looked at the porch of the grey storage building across the yard and Charles knew he meant Mary's team.

"They did."

"I counted three in town, yesterday. They must be sleeping still."

"Sure."

Daudi looked at him again, a hand over his eyes against the reflection of the sun in the window behind Charles. "There were calls from Mombasa, last night. Dhakiya told me to write them all down. I hope you can recognize them. I can do nothing with Spanish."

"Write it as it sounds."

"But it does not sound the same to me as to you or Dhakiya."

"Did Hadebe call?"

"No."

Charles regarded him, frowning. "No word from Gatab?" He asked again.

"None."

"Alright— go home. Go home. See you tonight."

As the boy ran off, bale of linen shaking under his armpit as he went, Charles went back into the main house. Now you take a bath, he said to himself. Or a shower. And then you change into something clean.

Charles brought his breakfast out to the porch and sat in the quiet of the morning for a few more minutes before stretching and returning to the clinic. Dhakiya was to stay in town today.

After an hour of work, some boy he vaguely recognised, but did not know by name, came to call on him with a message, and Charles send him back into town for Daudi. They left for Olturot some thirty minutes later.

Charles Graves had yet to see his wife at that point.

It wasn't that he had expected them to spend that much time together, but it always amazed him how easy it had become to take such distance from each other even when living in the same house. It wasn't as if he retreated to his apartment that much when they were both in London, but Charles reasoned it was easier to stay out of each other's hair at the big estate. The clinic was far more limited in that regard.

Mary will have left for Mombasa by the time I'll be back, Charles thought. And that'll be it till next time.

He thought to make a point of it to be there when she left but he hadn't been there when she arrived and she hadn't made a point of calling ahead to tell him she was coming, so he didn't feel too bad about it. Charles knew Mary probably wouldn't care for him to say goodbye anymore.

The heavy feeling under his sternum was back again.

❧

The sun hung high in the sky. The dirt of the road travelled clung to his face and neck, and Charles Graves wished to wash up as soon as possible. The tout-terrain BeRliet clattered up the hill. He had to cradle the bag in his lap to prevent it from falling onto the flooring and a tonsillar pressed sharply into his lap through the worn leather.

He was tired.

Charles-Louis Graves was not a pessimistic man. On the contrary. He was, however, an empathetic man, and the events of the early morning had exhausted him. He felt wretched. Charles passed a hand over his brow. The air had warmed, but still carried the colder quality of the forenoon. Daudi, beside him, remained silent.

They passed the dryer beddings on the right and the houses of the fishermen and then they came upon the clinic. To Charles's surprise, the Minerva was still parked under the acacia tree. The house and the clinic looked peaceful. There had been no incidents in his absence.

Daudi pulled up beside the Minerva. Charles fixed his eyes upon the truck, and then to the house. He breathed. He could see the young, blond kid that'd come with Mary's team pass the yard and disappear behind the main house. Then Charles opened the door and groaned as he landed on his feet and patted off his trousers. "We must get a weaver to come up and mend the big mat in the living room where it's worn."

"Alright."

"Do you know one?"

Daudi nodded. "I'll send her."

Charles rolled up the sleeve of his shirt with one hand as he crossed the yard, clutching his bag in the other and leaning slightly sideways to balance out the weight. The cool of the house welcomed him back.

Charles found his wife in the back, on the terrace behind the kitchen. Mary Graves had turned her chair towards the lake, her long legs stretched out before her to good advantage. Mary did not ask what came to pass in Olturot, and somewhere deep under his ribs Charles felt silent gratitude sink in. He sank down into the other chair, let his bag drop with a dull thud beside him, and accepted Mary's silent offer when she refilled and passed a glass of water. The table sat between them.

"We're leaving for Meru at noon." Mary answered Charles's silent question as he lowered the glass again. She toyed with the ear of her teacup and tilted her head back. "I've met Dhakiya and Daudi. The other new here as well?"

"Kaweria." Charles reminded her. "One of Hadebe's friends. She lost her child last month. She'd expected Hadebe to be here. They walk up to the church each week to pray together."

Mary made a noncommittal noise. They sat, then, in silence, their legs parallel. And looked out over the field and the lake and the mountain.

"It won't help her," Mary then said.

Charles coughed, set the glass on the table, and pushed aside the remnant of her breakfast and he lifted his bag onto the table, not meeting her eye. He did not care for Mary's attitude. He didn't know why she insisted on saying what she said.

Charles kept his eyes on the content of his bag. His mind was racing. Distantly he perceived he'd been right: a tonsillar hadn't been stored properly. And then Charles Graves didn't look up when he argued: "This woman lost her kid; you're really going to rationalise away the beliefs that might comfort her?"

"I'm treating her as an adult. Which means I respect her enough not to offer her false consolation. Her disillusions—"

"—will not help her bring back her child." Charles finished for her. His breath played out into a laugh that resonated with no real mirth. "Maybe it'll make her as happy as you are."

She now turned her head to look at him. "Oh, for—"

"Being inconsiderate doesn't make you better than anyone else, Mary. It just makes you inconsiderate," Charles still didn't meet her gaze, focusing on the table and the bag and the tonsillar. Then Charles did look up, forearms falling to the table in defeat. "Why do you care what she believes? —you know what, this is good. Either you, for once, are doubting yourself, which is healthy. Or, you—"

"—don't believe in divine absolution?"

"—start caring for what other people think. Which means you just might care about other people."

"I'd love to hear more about your theory, but I don't care." Mary rose and passed him and made for the back door. "Next time you're in a bad mood, take a walk. It was your decision to go to Olturot."

"It was my 'responsibility' to go to Olturot."

"You love making things your responsibility."

"Christ— you just can't resist it, can you?" He now turned round in his chair to look at her. Charles was pissed. At first he had just been annoyed. Then he'd moved to irritated. And now he could feel the ragged edge of full-blown anger clawing at his brain.

"They make it easy."

"You're so goddamn self-righteous, you know? You're so—"

"Surely you must've known when you started your own little emotional tantrum after Trujillo you were due for a little self-righteousness, just a smidgen of indignation on my part after you spend all your time so 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥 of your own ethical superiority." Mary's voice rose. She shook her head and scoffed. "Oh, I know that makes your dick hard—"

"Mary—"

"—and the high horse you rode in on—"

"Mary!"

"You just get off on it, don't you?"

Charles showed his teeth. "What you did was immoral at best and plain psychopathic at—"

"Is this your revenge, then, when you finally unload all the hurt you think I bestowed upon the worl—"

"Will you cut it out!"

Charles didn't know when he had risen from his chair but he was on his feet now. He was breathing heavily. The chair clattered backwards. The terrace door slammed back into its frame. He was alone.

❧

The next day after lunch Charles finished early and took the time to stroll down to the lake. The draught wrinkled the otherwise mirror-like surface of the lake and the rising sun caught in the gentle awning of the waves that rippled against its banks. He caught sight of the fishermen passing by in their dhows with the plastic empty tubs on their decks and the nets dripping over the sides and trailing in the water. The sky was as bright as brass, interrupted by the smoke of the cooking fires rising from the village behind him.

He didn't like the smell of it. And was all too happy to leave the smoke behind him.

Charles Graves had acquired the mechanical habit of counting the waterfowls he spotted overhead whenever he walked the short distance down the cassava field behind the clinic and past the church and the sandowner pub and the little harbour that was nothing but a collection of ten boats of which four were pulled into the sand and was located at a gradual, natural bend in the bank. A man and a very young girl were seated side by side on upturned boxes, at the most solitary end of the little harbour. Charles greeted them, and thereafter paid no attention to them. They, on their side, did not appear to have realised Charles's passing. They conversed together with a peaceful and indifferent air; the girl chattering while the old man talked but little, and, at times, fixed his old eyes on her, overflowing with affectionate paternity.

When Charles Graves returned to the clinic and the first hour of the midday had passed, Daudi came down the yard and said to him: "Dr Hadebe has asked for you two or three times. Will you go?"

Charles blinked. "When did she return?"

"I don't know. It could be half an hour. It could be an hour. I don't know."

"Where is she, now?"

Charles Graves went to the kitchen. Hadebe sat at the table; Dhakiya, reclining halfway against the table, was carding through patient files. Hadebe had taught Dhakiya herself; and proffered to pay for her studies were Dhakiya to desire leaving for Mombasa. Dhakiya hadn't let on of such a desire, and had seemed content to stay with Hadebe. Now, with the sun streaming through from the parlour and a late lunch on the stove, Charles thought it to resemble a domestic scene, and he the intruder.

Dhakiya glanced up before returning to her files. Hadebe turned towards Charles. Dr Shani Hadebe was a slight woman of little aspiration but big consequence. She was born with a certain natural dignity. She had broad shoulders, and arms, and strong eyes that stayed on you for as long as you held her attention.

They went outside, and Daudi came and went and brought her a drink. Hadebe let herself drop into a chair. Charles took the one on her left and the woman exalted a content groan.

"I don't take pills, nor chew anything." She sighed. "But by God, I get my pleasure out of what they distil in this country."

"It's ruining your hands." Charles said.

"My hands are steady."

"Now, yeah. Now they are steady. But in a few years you'll feel the drinks and you'll feel the drinks affecting your hands."

"By that time," she said, gesturing round with the glass, "everyone here'll be dead already. They won't need me to patch them up, then."

"Will you quit that?"

"I'll talk that way if I want to. And I'll talk to you that way if I want to."

"You should go to bed."

"I'm not tired. And then I won't be able to sleep tonight."

"Is nobody ever goddamned tired anymore?"

"Hey— hey. You know how I get, Charles, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I'll keep quiet about that for now, alright?"

"Alright."

"Did she leave?"

"How did you know she was here?" Charles regarded her profile.

Hadebe scoffed. "You're doing bad. You're always doing bad when she leaves."

"I'm doing bad when she's here as well."

"Now, don't you start either."

"I know. How about we both keep our mouths shut? That'll do us good. Talking's overrated anyway— sorry. Sorry. Alright. I'll stop."

Hadebe was silent for a while. And they drank their drinks and watched the lake and Charles felt it was different from yesterday when he'd sat there with Mary. Not bad, necessarily. Just different.

"How's Adamu?" She asked.

"Family picked him up this morning. They buried him at ten."

Hadebe looked at him. "You should've told me. I would've liked to go. Why didn't you go?"

"Would you?"

"I would have liked to be back sooner so I'd have the choice."

Charles knew she wouldn't have gone. Just like she hadn't gone to the last she'd lost. Hadebe liked to tell herself she'd go. But then she just ended up here with a drink like they did now, but she'd feel that much worse about herself and Charles knew he wouldn't like that. She is one of the good ones, Charles thought. One of the ones who still actually cares. And that's also why she's drinking, Charles told himself. It would be better if she cared less, then she would drink less.

Her penchant for it had disgusted him over time enough for him to quit drinking overall. But that didn't mean he got used to watching Hadebe destroy herself.

A soft empty clink resounded when she put down her glass. "Why did you marry her, Charles?"

"Because it was convenient."

"That isn't a very good reason."

"Why do you insist I need one?"

"You know why."

"Damn you," he said.

"You've damned me enough," she said.

"Let's not talk about it."

"If you want to."

"Nobody ever said it was a good reason. Especially not me. But I don't have to make mistakes and then discuss them, do I?"

"There's no obligation. But it might help." She eyed him. "To talk."

"She's a damn good woman, Hadebe. Even though you might not agree with me."

"She's a woman you keep making excuses for."

"She's thoughtful," Charles said, softly. Almost a whisper. "But she's not open about anything." A pause. "She's passionate, but she's hard. She's a good, decent, funny, wonderful woman, and I care for her" —a scoff, and he shook his head "—but she's an uncaring pain in the ass."