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Authors: Damon Galgut
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started again. I don’t remember who first suggested it, him or me, but he’d got hold
of a large map from somewhere of the surrounding countryside. Most of the time he kept it stuck to the wall above his bed, but once a week at least he took it down and planned routes for us to try
on our days off. We packed sandwiches and beer and set off on various trails through the bush. I took him on some of the old walks, too, that I remembered, some of them with spectacular views.
These outings were mostly happy and relaxed, though he was never quite at home out there, in the wild.
We also went down, more and more often, to Mama Mthembu’s place in the evenings. This wasn’t new to me, of course; I had been there many times before. But it had been my habit to drop by in the
late afternoon occasionally; I didn’t enjoy the crowded and smoky atmosphere that took over at night. All the off-duty staff from the hospital were usually there, and the enforced intimacy over
glasses of alcohol could be oppressive. But now, with Laurence in tow, it felt somehow more inviting.
At Mama’s place, after-hours, none of the divisions and hierarchy of the work situation applied. Themba and Julius, the two kitchen workers, were on a level with Jorge and Claudia. Sometimes Dr
Ngema even joined these gatherings as an uneasy equal. And though I never relaxed completely, some of Laurence’s equanimity in these situations transferred itself to me, so that I became less
distant and aloof.
One morning, after one of these late-night sessions, I found myself alone with Jorge at the breakfast table. He sucked benignly on his moustache and said, ‘The young man. Your friend. He is a
good young man.’
‘Who? Laurence? He isn’t my friend.’
‘No? But you are everywhere together.’
‘Dr Ngema put us in the same room. But I don’t know him well.’
‘He is a good young man.’
‘I’m sure he is. But he’s not my friend yet.’
It was strange, but I felt uncomfortable at being linked with Laurence in this way. The word ‘friend’ had associations for me. Mike had been my friend, until he ran off with my wife. Since then
I hadn’t made any friends. I didn’t want anyone getting too close to me.
But the word kept coming up. Your friend did this. Your friend was there. How is your friend? And every time I heard it, the term became a little more worn with use, so that it didn’t have that
sharp edge any more.
‘Did you have your talk with our new friend?’ Dr Ngema asked me one day, as we walked back to the residential block together.
‘What talk?’
It was an indication, perhaps, of how much had changed that I had no idea what she meant.
‘You know. You were going to show him around... discuss the possibility of transferring him somewhere else.’
‘Oh, yes. Yes, I did. But he’s happy here. He doesn’t want to
go-’
‘Well, that’s a first,’ she said. Our feet crunched companion-ably through the gravel together. ‘Maybe,’ she said after a while, ‘you could pressure him a bit.’
‘Actually, I don’t mind having him around.’
‘Yes? So can I take it that you’re happy to share your room?’
This was a different question, separate to what had gone before.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Ruth, if anything comes up... The Santanders’ room, any other room, I’d appreciate it.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ she told me.
But I knew from that moment that nothing was going to change: Laurence would stay in my room.
‘They’re not going,’ he announced one day, while we sat on duty together.
‘Who?’
‘The Santanders. You told me they were leaving and I was moving to their room. But I was talking to them yesterday and they said they’re staying here.’
As it happened, I had overheard part of the same conversation, so I knew that he didn’t have the whole picture. I was sitting at the table when he was in the recreation room with them, locked in
earnest debate, and I hung back to listen.
‘But
of a large map from somewhere of the surrounding countryside. Most of the time he kept it stuck to the wall above his bed, but once a week at least he took it down and planned routes for us to try
on our days off. We packed sandwiches and beer and set off on various trails through the bush. I took him on some of the old walks, too, that I remembered, some of them with spectacular views.
These outings were mostly happy and relaxed, though he was never quite at home out there, in the wild.
We also went down, more and more often, to Mama Mthembu’s place in the evenings. This wasn’t new to me, of course; I had been there many times before. But it had been my habit to drop by in the
late afternoon occasionally; I didn’t enjoy the crowded and smoky atmosphere that took over at night. All the off-duty staff from the hospital were usually there, and the enforced intimacy over
glasses of alcohol could be oppressive. But now, with Laurence in tow, it felt somehow more inviting.
At Mama’s place, after-hours, none of the divisions and hierarchy of the work situation applied. Themba and Julius, the two kitchen workers, were on a level with Jorge and Claudia. Sometimes Dr
Ngema even joined these gatherings as an uneasy equal. And though I never relaxed completely, some of Laurence’s equanimity in these situations transferred itself to me, so that I became less
distant and aloof.
One morning, after one of these late-night sessions, I found myself alone with Jorge at the breakfast table. He sucked benignly on his moustache and said, ‘The young man. Your friend. He is a
good young man.’
‘Who? Laurence? He isn’t my friend.’
‘No? But you are everywhere together.’
‘Dr Ngema put us in the same room. But I don’t know him well.’
‘He is a good young man.’
‘I’m sure he is. But he’s not my friend yet.’
It was strange, but I felt uncomfortable at being linked with Laurence in this way. The word ‘friend’ had associations for me. Mike had been my friend, until he ran off with my wife. Since then
I hadn’t made any friends. I didn’t want anyone getting too close to me.
But the word kept coming up. Your friend did this. Your friend was there. How is your friend? And every time I heard it, the term became a little more worn with use, so that it didn’t have that
sharp edge any more.
‘Did you have your talk with our new friend?’ Dr Ngema asked me one day, as we walked back to the residential block together.
‘What talk?’
It was an indication, perhaps, of how much had changed that I had no idea what she meant.
‘You know. You were going to show him around... discuss the possibility of transferring him somewhere else.’
‘Oh, yes. Yes, I did. But he’s happy here. He doesn’t want to
go-’
‘Well, that’s a first,’ she said. Our feet crunched companion-ably through the gravel together. ‘Maybe,’ she said after a while, ‘you could pressure him a bit.’
‘Actually, I don’t mind having him around.’
‘Yes? So can I take it that you’re happy to share your room?’
This was a different question, separate to what had gone before.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Ruth, if anything comes up... The Santanders’ room, any other room, I’d appreciate it.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ she told me.
But I knew from that moment that nothing was going to change: Laurence would stay in my room.
‘They’re not going,’ he announced one day, while we sat on duty together.
‘Who?’
‘The Santanders. You told me they were leaving and I was moving to their room. But I was talking to them yesterday and they said they’re staying here.’
As it happened, I had overheard part of the same conversation, so I knew that he didn’t have the whole picture. I was sitting at the table when he was in the recreation room with them, locked in
earnest debate, and I hung back to listen.
‘But
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