Johan Steyn is a medical doctor who works and travels extensively in Africa, preferring to live and practice in the continent’s most remote corners.

Father Michael’s Lottery

A Novel of Africa

By Johan Steyn, Andrea Nattrass

Schaffner Press

Copyright © 2007 Johan Steyn
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-9710598-7-0
CHAPTER 1

On the whereabouts of a dead cat

TO: The Veterinary Department
FROM: Dr John Morgan

I am enquiring about the whereabouts of a dead cat that I dispatched to your office on Monday a week ago. The cat had bitten a man and his two dogs and there is a suspicion that it might have been rabid. Unfortunately the owner of the dogs killed the cat. I sealed the body of the cat in a cool-box, in formalin, and sent it to the veterinary surgeon after discussing the matter with him.

I have not heard anything from your office and I have been unable to trace the veterinary surgeon.

I am sending this message to you with the owner of the two dogs.

Please send me the laboratory report as soon as possible.

TO: Dr John Morgan
FROM: The Veterinary Department

We acknowledge the receipt of your note regarding the dead cat. Unfortunately we have been unable to trace it.

We advise you, for safety’s sake, to vaccinate the owner.

The veterinary surgeon is away in the district and will only be back in six weeks’ time.

TO: The Veterinary Department
FROM: Dr John Morgan

I have already started vaccinating the owner. Didn’t he tell you?

It is difficult to understand how the specimen could have been lost, since it was accompanied by a covering letter and was delivered to the veterinary surgeon’s house by the Constable himself.

Please try to locate it, since it could pose a serious health risk if it landed in the wrong hands.

TO: Dr John Morgan
FROM: The Veterinary Department

We have discovered a blue cool-box containing two six-packs of beer.

What color was yours?

TO: The Veterinary Department
FROM: Dr John Morgan

My cool-box was blue. So where is the cat?

CHAPTER 2

2Another arrival

Morgan clearly remembered the day Mary was brought in. As always, the pick-up truck was spotted even before it started to reverse towards the entrance. The doors with the frosted glass panes were opened, orders were shouted and Rebecca went outside to inspect the cargo before the makeshift ambulance came to a halt. ‘Casualty’was chaotic as usual, but Morgan paused and watched.

On the back, wedged between two spare wheels, a drum of fuel, and a toolbox was a bright, multicolored blanket. The head of a girl rested on two white, dust-covered pillows. The truck reversed carefully until it was in the shade just outside the entrance. Rebecca waited, together with two nurses and a trolley. When the pick-up came to a halt, she commandeered two fit-looking bystanders to lift the girl off the back. She had obviously underestimated their enthusiasm and before she could stop them, both men had jumped over the tailgate. One of them scooped the girl into his arms and stood up, holding her like a baby, with her head resting against his chest.

Rebecca straightened her back. She put her hands on her hips.

Due to the noise in the room Morgan couldn’t hear what she was saying. Both men froze. The man holding the girl stood like a statue and his comrade carefully climbed down again. Then, with an air of exaggerated gentleness, they passed the girl from one to he other. The blanket slipped away. As it fell to the ground, Morgan saw the thin figure of the girl.

Rebecca moved forward and supported her head. They lowered the girl onto the trolley and Morgan saw a thin arm reaching out as if she were trying to assist in the proceedings. One of the men picked up the blanket and vigorously shook off the dust. It was a patched quilt of red, green, orange and blue. The girl lay flat on the trolley and underneath her flimsy dress her pelvic bones stuck out like wings.

The driver of the truck walked up to Rebecca. He was carrying a brown envelope that he handed to her with both hands. She took it, pointed at the truck and shouted a command. One of the pillows was removed, dusted and placed under the girl’s head.

Finally, she was covered with the blanket and the procession moved into Casualty.

‘Everyone is coming here today,’ Rebecca said as they filed past.

She handed Morgan the discharge summary from yet another overcrowded hospital and took the girl to the resuscitation room.

He removed the file from the envelope, paged through the notes and read about yet another tragedy. The language was cold and impersonal, as always: a young teacher who had had an exploration for an abdominal mass. Diagnosis: Lymphoma. HIV-positive, written in red ink. Patient refused chemotherapy. Discharged on relatives’ request.

The girl had traveled two hundred kilometers.

Why the hell bring her here? No one was going to save this girl, thought Morgan.

‘Just help her.’ He heard a man’s voice above the noise in the room. Morgan looked up and recognized the driver of the truck; a big man with thick forearms, square, calloused hands, and a broad, weather-beaten face.

You fool, thought Morgan. You bring the girl here, on the back of a truck, in this heat, and for what? Do you expect a miracle?

The man seemed oblivious to the noise around him. His calm demeanor reminded Morgan of a rock standing firm amongst swirling waves.

The eyes were innocent, like those of a child.

Morgan stifled his anger.

‘Are you the father?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.

‘No,’ said the man. ‘I am her uncle.’

Morgan sighed and shook his head. ‘There’s not a lot we can do for her,’ he said. ‘You must realize that.’

‘Just do your best.’ The man moved forward and grabbed his hand. ‘I trust you.’

‘You know what’s wrong with her?’ Morgan asked, holding up the file like irrefutable evidence.

The man nodded. ‘I have been told,’ he replied.

Morgan shrugged his shoulders. ‘We will keep her here,’ he said and thought: like all the others, and she will die, like all the others.

The man grabbed Morgan’s right hand in both of his and said, ‘I know you will try.’

IN THE RESUSCITATION room Rebecca was putting up a drip by the light of an angle-poise lamp.

Morgan moved to the bedside. The girl shifted her gaze towards him and he noticed her calm, undefeated eyes.

She was dehydrated, underfed and exhausted after the journey.

‘There you are, my girl,’ Rebecca secured the drip and gently patted the thin arm. She was speaking in a soft voice, not her usual harsh-edged Casualty Matron’s tone. Morgan looked at the girl’s beautiful face and understood Rebecca’s sudden tenderness. He smiled and took a history in spite of knowing the story already.

All her words were carefully chosen and spoken in a melodious voice. Without a hint of self-pity, Mary related a tale of woe that had left her body in ruins but had not dented her spirit. ‘And that is all,’ she concluded simply.

Morgan admitted her into his ward and from that day onwards Violet and her girls nursed her with endless patience.

‘Mary must have some pain,’ Violet told him more than once, ‘but she never complains.’

One day he found her sitting in a wheelchair on the veranda, looking out over the garden that was filled with the cries of weavers darting to and fro amongst the trees.

Mary was adamantly against chemotherapy. ‘It just makes me sick,’ she told Morgan, ‘and I have to enjoy as much as I can.’ She smiled faintly, taking stock of her body with the impartial air of a judge and said, ‘What use can it be anyway?’

Morgan understood perfectly. Life is there to be lived, not to be prolonged at all costs.

‘I know I am going to die,’ Mary said, ‘but I want to enjoy the good days I still have left.’ This was the end of the road for her. Her mother was too ill to look after her, her daughter too young and, apart from her uncle, she had no other relatives to turn to.

She observed the world with the fresh vision of a child, accepting life as a gift in spite of her bedridden state. Morgan tried to forget that their liaison was very temporary.

CHAPTER 3

A forty-four gallon drum

Morgan had exactly one hour of sleep on the worn couch in his living room. He had arrived home at ten minutes to five, set the alarm for six o’clock, stripped off his clothes and almost instantly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep from which he woke at two minutes to six. He pressed the button on the alarm clock and sat up feeling surprisingly refreshed. For a moment he stared at the slowly rotating fan below the ceiling and wondered for how much longer the rains were going to stay away. On the wooden table amongst books, a portable radio and a chessboard, lay a ginger cat. Sphinx-like, it stared at him with unflinching green eyes. Morgan stared back and then smiled.

Morgan was tall and lean with an angular face, perfectly level blue eyes above a thin nose and premature lines around his mouth that made him look stern and remote. He did not smile often, but when he did, it came as a complete surprise and transformed his face into that of a mischievous schoolboy.

‘So,’ Morgan said to the cat, ‘I hope you had a more enjoyable night than me.’ He bent his legs and rolled off the couch. ‘I’m afraid I can’t show anything for my efforts.’ The cat jumped onto the floor and followed him into the kitchen.

He took a piece of meat out of the fridge and cut it into squares.

‘In my next life, Oscar,’ he announced, ‘I’m going to be a cat like you. I am going to enjoy myself and not give a damn.’ He fed the meat to the cat and made himself an omelet, which he ate at the table while contemplating the moves of a half-finished chess game.

In spite of having fought a futile battle for most of the night, he didn’t feel tired. But there was a picture he couldn’t get out of his mind; a husband gripping the hand of his dying wife as if he wanted to hold her back from the beyond. Morgan felt the anger stirring inside him. He shook his head to rid himself of the memory.

No use getting angry so early in the morning, he told himself; besides, who is going to listen to you?

He washed down his breakfast with a cup of strong black coffee and lit a cigarette. His hand reached out for the radio but he checked himself and prolonged the early morning quiet with exactly the time it took to smoke the cigarette.

At half past six he ran a bath and slid into the lukewarm water.

A shadow fell across the frosted glass window above his head at the very moment his chin touched the water. There was the sound of hurried footsteps and then loud knocking at the door. Morgan swore vehemently. He ripped a towel from the rail against the wall, tied it around his waist without bothering to dry himself, and strode down the passage, leaving a trail of wet footprints. Through the mosquito mesh he saw the bearded figure of Maxwell, the hospital driver. Morgan pushed open the door with his shoulder and stepped outside.

From within Maxwell’s beard appeared a row of uneven teeth with wide gaps between them. He came respectfully to attention and the thin leather belt that suspended his protruding belly seemed ready to snap. A deep, sonorous voice rose out of the depths of his barrel chest and expressed its deep regret at having to disturb a gentleman during his early morning bath.

‘Your telephone line is still buggered sir,’ he added solemnly.

Morgan gave him a faint smile and said, ‘Morning Maxwell. Don’t call me sir.’

Maxwell returned his greeting, brought his feet together, fumbled in the pocket of his baggy trousers and produced a handwritten message. Morgan opened the note with one hand, holding onto the towel with the other.

‘Come and see a patient,’ he recognized Rebecca’s handwriting. ‘He fell off a trailer and was followed by a forty-four gallon drum.’

Morgan calculated the weight of a full forty-four gallon drum and the result alarmed him, even without taking into account the effect of gravity and the distance traveled. ‘One day,’ he said to Maxwell, ‘you must try to give me good news.’

The screen door slammed behind him. ‘Tell her I am coming!’ he shouted over his shoulder.

He drew a comb through his hair and ignored his unshaven face. In the living room he pulled on his trousers, searched under the table for his shoes, and ran out the front door, still buttoning his shirt.

He drove down a dusty backstreet, dodging chickens and calves, and swore as he slammed on the brakes, edging past a donkey that wasn’t intimidated by the horn. Next to the river, the tin shacks peered through a veil of smoke, dogs ran next to the truck and barked, skinny children played on the bank, women carried loads of washing on their heads, and men in blue overalls recognized his battered truck and waved. Suddenly he felt as if he had lived in the town forever.

At the bottom of the hill he changed into second gear and ignored the whine of the engine as he negotiated the ever-increasing incline, until suddenly the road branched and an exasperated colonial building leaning on tired veranda pillarscame into view. The road leveled out and the truck gratefully gathered momentum.

Morgan aimed its nose at an entrance guarded by a dusty bougainvillea and two sad, off-white pillars crying out for a coat of paint. He swerved to avoid the pothole beyond them, cranked the steering wheel sharply to the left, slammed on the brakes and stopped under a tree.

Only when he ran through the entrance to Casualty did he remember that he hadn’t drained his bath.

Behind the frosted glass windows of the emergency room darted white-clad figures like fish in an aquarium. In the passage next to the door stood Maxwell, who had already reported back to Rebecca.

He waited until Morgan was within reach, then opened the door, letting the sound flood out into the hallway. In the center of the room, with her regal back towards him, stood Rebecca like the conductor of a chaotic orchestra. Next to her lay a man who was alive only because she had been able to insert a large bore cannula into a constricted vein. His clothes had been slit open like a cocoon — cut away from him with a huge pair of scissors. Around the frayed edges lay a fringe of dust.

Above the noise, Morgan realized with surprise that he could hear the whirring of the ineffectual electric fans that struggled bravely against the heat.

The impact of the drum exceeded Morgan’s worst expectations. He noted the fractured femur and the wide bruise running from the man’s shoulder, across his chest, and down to his pelvis. He was aware of Rebecca’s voice, telling him that the man had spent most of the night traveling on a trailer drawn by a tractor. The tractor was a different version of the same theme. Usually they came on the back of a truck. And they took the river road.

‘Just imagine,’ she said, ‘on that terrible road, and not evena blanket to cover him!’ There were two choices: a longer, smooth road or a shorter, bumpy road. It was a matter of priorities, a tradeoff. More time and less pain, or more pain for a shorter time.

There was no time for reflection. The man was bleeding into his belly. His friends had made the right decision.

For more than an hour Morgan had the distinct impression that he was in the middle of a thunderstorm as he and Rebecca revived the patient. Around them nurses ran like frightened rabbits as orders sliced through the stifling morning heat like bolts of lightning.

‘The laboratory wants to know if they must crossmatch more blood?’ Rebecca shouted at the very moment he shoved a drain into the man’s chest and was rewarded by a large amount of dark blood that escaped down the tube like an evil spirit.

‘Six units at least!’ Morgan answered, and was both impressed and dismayed by the amount of blood.

Then, unexpectedly, there was a lull in the storm.

The man responded to their energetic transfusions.

Voices returned to their normal pitch and harsh words were forgiven. Rebecca regained her sense of humor and a sleepy radiographer with pillow marks still on her cheek handed Morgan an envelope containing X-rays.

Stuck onto the viewing box, they revealed a path of destruction.

A fractured clavicle, fractured ribs, a shattered pelvis and a fractured femur.

That should be enough to keep me busy for most of the morning, he thought. This is a tough guy, he decided; a lesser man would have died hours ago, river road or not.

MORGAN TURNED AWAY from the screen and explained to the man that he would have to operate on him. The man’s mouth remained firmly sealed as if he wanted to contain any expression of pain. He consented with a mere nod of his head.

Above him hung drips with clear fluid and blood. Drops fell into drip chambers at a rate determined by Rebecca’s watch, which she lifted up from where it was suspended over her left breast.

She glanced down at it through glasses that had shifted down to the tip of her nose.

‘Another bad day,’ she said. ‘Listen to that lot outside.’

Under the shelters outside was the usual early morning bustle.

For the first time Morgan became aware of the outside world. A child was singing ‘Beautiful Sunday … Beeeaaauuutiiifuuull Suuundaaaaayyyyy!’

(Continues…)Excerpted from Father Michael’s Lottery by Johan Steyn, Andrea Nattrass. Copyright © 2007 Johan Steyn. Excerpted by permission of Schaffner Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.