The Sweetest Dream (47 page)

The two women went together into the office, whose
waiting-room already had a dozen people in it, and sat together at the
end of a bench. Sylvia was the only white person there, but with
her burned skin, and in her headscarf, for the dust, she and Rebecca
were like each other, two small thin women, both with worried
faces, in the timeless scene, petitioners waiting, lulled by boredom.
From inside, beyond a door that had on it,
Mr M. Mandizi
, faded
white paint on brown, came a loud hectoring voice. Sylvia
grimaced at Rebecca who grimaced back. Time passed. The door
suddenly opened and there appeared a young black girl, in tears.

‘Shame,' said an old black man, who was well down in the
queue. He clicked his tongue and shook his head, and said,
‘Shame' loudly, as a large and imposing black man, in the
obligatory three-piece suit, stood there and impressed them all. He
said, ‘Next', and stood back, shutting the door, so that the next
petitioner had to knock, and hear, ‘Come in'.

Time passed. This one came out successful: at least, he was
not crying. And he clapped his hands together gently, not looking
at anyone, so that the salutation or applause was for himself.

The loud voice from inside: ‘Next.'

Sylvia sent Rebecca with some money to buy the children
some lunch and a drink, and to make sure they were there. They
were, asleep. Rebecca brought a Fanta back, which the two
women shared.

A couple of hours passed.

Then, it was their turn, and the official, seeing that this was
a white woman, was about to summon the man next on the bench
when the old man said, ‘Shame. The white woman is waiting
like the rest of us.'

‘It is for me to say who comes next,' said Mr Mandizi.

‘Okay,' said the old man, ‘but it is not right, what you are
doing. We don't like what you are doing.'

Mr Mandizi hesitated, but then pointed at Sylvia and went
back in.

Sylvia smiled thanks at the old man, and Rebecca spoke softly
to him in their language. Laughter all around. What was the joke?
Again, Sylvia was thinking she would never know. But Rebecca
whispered to her as they went in to the office, ‘I told him he was
like an old bull who knows how to keep the young ones in order.'

They arrived in front of Mr Mandizi still smiling. He glanced
up from papers, frowned, saw Rebecca was there, and was about
to speak sharply to her when she began on the ritual greeting.

‘Good morning–no, I see it is already afternoon. So, good
afternoon.'

‘Good afternoon,' he replied

‘I hope you are well.'

‘I am well if you are well . . .' and so on, and even truncated
it was an impressive reminder of good manners.

Then, to Sylvia: ‘What do you want?'

‘Mr Mandizi, I am from St Luke's Mission, and I have come
to ask why the supply of condoms has not been sent. It was due
from you last month.'

Mr Mandizi seemed to swell, and he half rose from his desk,
and his startled look became offended. He subsided and said, ‘And
why am I expected to talk to a woman about condoms? It is not
what I expect to hear?'

‘I am the doctor at the Mission hospital. The government last
year said that condoms were being made available for all bush
hospitals.'

Clearly Mr Mandizi had not heard of this ukase, but now he
gave himself time by dabbing at his forehead, bright with sweat,
with a very large white handkerchief. His was the kind of face
that has to labour for authority. It was by nature amiable, and
wanting to please: the frown he imposed on it didn't suit him.
‘And what may I ask are you going to do with all these condoms?'

‘Mr Mandizi, you must have heard that there is a bad disease
. . . it is a new very bad disease and it is transmitted by sexual
intercourse.'

His face was that of a man being forced to swallow
unpleasantness.

‘Yes, yes,' he said, ‘but we know that this disease is an
invention of the whites. It is to make us wear condoms, so that we do
not have children and our people become weakened.'

‘Forgive me, Mr Mandizi, but you are out of date. It is true
that your government was saying that AIDS does not exist but
now they say that perhaps it may exist, and so men should wear
condoms.'

Ghosts of derision chased themselves across his large, black
pleasant face, displacing the frown. And now Rebecca spoke, direct
to him, in their language, and it seemed well, for Mr Mandizi
was listening, his face turned towards her, towards this woman to
whom in his culture, he would not have to listen on such subjects,
at least not in public.

He addressed Sylvia: ‘You think this sickness is here, in this
district, with us? Slim is here?'

‘Yes, I know it is. I know it is, Mr Mandizi. People are dying
from it. You see, the problem is diagnosis. People may be dying
of pneumonia or TB or diarrhoea or skin lesions–sores–but
the real reason is AIDS. It is Slim. And there are a lot of sick
people. Many more than when I first came to the hospital.'

Now Rebecca spoke again, and Mr Mandizi was listening, not
looking at her, but nodding.

‘And so you want me to telephone the head office and tell
them to send me the condoms?'

‘And we have not had the malaria tablets. We haven't had
any medicines.'

‘Doctor Sylvia has been buying medicines for us with her own
money,' said Rebecca.

Mr Mandizi nodded, sat thinking. Then, a different man, a
petitioner in his turn, he leaned forward and asked, ‘Can you tell
by looking if someone has Slim?'

‘No. There are tests for it.'

‘My wife is not well. She coughs all the time.'

‘That needn't be AIDS. Has she lost weight?'

‘She is thin. She is too too thin.'

‘You should take her to the big hospital.'

‘I did. They gave her
muti
but she is still sick.'

‘Sometimes I send samples to Senga–if someone isn't too sick.'

‘You are saying that if someone is very ill you don't send
samples?'

‘Some people come in to me when they are so ill I know
they are going to die. And there is no point in wasting money
on tests.'

‘In our culture,' said Mr Mandizi, regaining his authority
because of this so often used formula, ‘in our culture, we have
good medicine, but I know you whites despise it.'

‘I don't despise it. I am friends with our local
n'ganga
.
Sometimes I ask him for help. But he says himself he cannot do anything
for AIDS.'

‘Perhaps that is why his medicine didn't help her?'

But hearing what he had said, his whole body seemed to freeze
up in panic and he sat rigid, staring, then jumped up and said,
‘You must come with me now–yes, now-now–she is here, in
my house, it is five minutes.'

He swept the two women before him out of the office and
through the silent petitioners, saying, ‘I will be back in my office
in ten minutes. Wait.'

Sylvia and Rebecca were directed through the hot dusty glare
to one of the new houses, ten of them in a row, like boxes sitting
in the dust, but identical to the big new houses going up in Senga,
scaled down to the importance of Kwadere Growth Point. Over
them scarlet, purple and magenta bougainvillaeas marked them
for distinction: here lived all the local officials.

‘Come in, come in,' Mr Mandizi urged, and they were in a
small room stuffed with a three-piece suite, a sideboard,
refrigerator, pouffe, and then in a bedroom filled with a big bed where
lay someone ill, and beside her a pretty plump black woman
fanning the sleeper with a bunch of eucalyptus leaves, whose smell
was trying to overcome the sickroom odours. But was the invalid
asleep? Sylvia stood over her, saw with shock that this woman
was ill, very ill–she was dying. She should have been a glossy
healthy black, but she was grey, sores covered her face, and she
was thin, the head on the pillow showed the skull. There was
hardly any pulse. Her breath barely moved. Her eyes were half
open. Touching her left Sylvia's fingers cold. Sylvia turned her
face to the desperate husband, unable to speak, and Rebecca beside
her began to wail softly. The plump young woman stared straight
ahead, and went on with her fanning.

Sylvia stumbled out to the other room and leaned against the
wall.

‘Mr Mandizi,' she said, ‘Mr Mandizi.' He came up to her,
took her hand, leaned to stare into her face, and whispered, ‘Is
she very ill? My wife . . .' ‘Mr Mandizi . . .' He let his body fall
forward so that his face lay on his arm on the wall. He was so
close to Sylvia she put her arm around his shoulders and held him
as he sobbed.

‘I'm afraid she will die,' he whispered.

‘Yes. I am sorry, I think she is dying.'

‘What shall I do? What shall I do?'

‘Mr Mandizi, do you have children?'

‘We had a little girl but she died.'

Tears were splashing on to the cement floor.

‘Mr Mandizi,' she whispered–she was thinking of that plump
healthy woman next door, ‘you must listen to me, you must,
please do not have sex without a condom.'

It was such a terrible thing to say at that moment, it was
ridiculous, but the dreadful urgency of his situation compelled
her. ‘Please, I know how this must sound, and don't be angry
with me.' She was still whispering.

‘Yes, yes, yes, I heard what you said. I am not angry.'

‘If you want me to come back later, when you are . . . I can
come back and explain it to you.'

‘No, I understand. But you don't understand something.' He
pulled himself off the support of the wall and stood upright. He
spoke normally now. ‘My wife is dying. My child is dead. And
I know who is responsible. I shall consult our good
n'ganga
again.'

‘Mr Mandizi, you simply can't be saying . . .'

‘Yes, I am saying it. That is what I am saying. Some enemy
has put a curse on me. This is the work of a witch.'

‘Oh, Mr Mandizi, and you are an educated man . . .'

‘I know what you are thinking. I know how you people
think.'

He stood there before her, his face contorted with anger and
with suspicion. ‘I will get to the bottom of this.' Then he
commanded. ‘Tell them at the office I will be returning in half an
hour.'

Sylvia and Rebecca began to walk away towards the lorry.

They heard, ‘And that so-called hospital at the Mission. We
know about it. It is a good thing that our new hospital will soon
be built and we shall have some real medicine in our district.'

Sylvia said, ‘Rebecca, please don't tell me that you agree with
what he is saying. It is ridiculous.'

Rebecca was first silent and then said, ‘Sylvia, you see, in our
culture it is not ridiculous.'

‘But it is a disease. Every day we understand more about it.
It is a terrible disease.'

‘But why do some people get it but other people don't get
it? Can you explain that? And that is the point, do you understand
what I am saying? Perhaps there is some person who wanted to
harm Mr Mandizi, or who wanted to get rid of his wife? Did you
see that young woman in the bedroom with Mrs Mandizi? Perhaps
she would like to be Mrs Mandizi herself?'

‘Well, Rebecca, we are not going to agree.'

‘No, Sylvia, we are not going to agree.'

At the lorry people were already waiting to clamber in but
Sylvia said, ‘I am not driving home yet. And I will let six people
come, only six. We are going to the new hospital and it is bad
road.' She could see the beginnings of it, a rough track through
the bush.

Rebecca issued urgent commands. Six women got in the
back.

‘I'll pick you up in half an hour,' Sylvia said, and the lorry
lumbered and lurched over roots, stones, potholes, for another
mile or so, and they arrived where the outlines of a building had
been laid down in a clearing among trees. These were big old
trees; this was old bush, a bit dusty, but full and green.

The two women and the children got out of the cabin of the
lorry, and the six women followed them. The women stood
staring at what was described as the new hospital.

Swedes? Danes? Americans? Germans?–some country's
government, devoted to the sorrows of Africa, had caused a lot
of money to be directed here, to this clearing, and in front of
them were the results. As with an architect's plan, these observers
had to use their minds to work out the shape of things to come
from these foundations, and walls begun and not finished, for the
trouble was, it had been a good while arriving, the next instalment
of aid money, and the rooms, wards, corridors, operating theatres
and dispensaries were filling with pale dust. Some walls stood
waist high, some were at knee level, blocks of concrete had holes
in them filled with water. The women from the village, seeing
the hope of something useful, went forward and retrieved a couple
of bottles, and half a dozen tin cans, which they shook, getting
rid of dust, and then put them carefully into big hold-alls. Someone
had had a picnic here or a wanderer had built a fire for the night
to keep off animals. The faces of these visitors had on them the
expressions seen so often in our time: we are not going to
comment, but someone has blundered. And who had? And why?
Rumour said that the money earmarked for this hospital had been
stolen on the way; some said that the government in question had
simply run out of funds.

On the other side of the clearing, under the trees, large
wooden cases lay about. The six women went over to look and
Sylvia and Rebecca followed. A case had split open. Inside was
dental equipment: a dentist's chair.