Sketches from Life: Stories

By Gillian Skeen-McKee

In Sketches from Life, author Gillian Skeen-McKee has presented an eclectic group of stories, both short and long, set almost entirely in southern Africa or North America. Sometimes bittersweet in nature, they veer toward the literary, often focusing on the struggles of women while painting vivid portraits of far-off lands. Imitating life, whether strange, perilous, tragic, or amusing, they tell of love and infidelity, courage and cowardice, disappointment and joy.

“Under the Baobab Tree” offers a child’s view of life in a remote mining town. In “The Art Dealer,” a disconcerted mother watches the deterioration of her daughter’s marriage. “The Ship” describes a young surgeon’s dilemma when faced with a misdiagnosis by another doctor. “Good Intentions” depicts a campus scene of South African students trying to strike a blow against apartheid while “Immorality” grapples with the tensions and difficulties of interracial romance. Accompanied by relevant images, there is meaning to be found in every word for everyone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796024036

Gillian Skeen-McKee

Gillian Skeen-McKee grew up in South Africa and attended the University of Cape Town. While she also lived in France and England, she has spent most of her adult life in the United States, in or around New York. After a successful career in interior architecture and design, she turned to writing. She now lives in Princeton, New Jersey, with her husband and a spunky tuxedo cat.

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Copyright © 2019 by Gillian Skeen-McKee.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Except for two memoir stories, Pushkin and Good Intentions, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 08/13/2019

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Contents

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Africa

The Ship

Claudine

Under the Baobab Tree

Wild Animals, Domestic Pets

Wheels of Fortune

The Road to Hell

Good Intentions

America

Immorality

Marie’s Story

The Art Dealer

In the Hamptons

On a Clear Day

The House

Pushkin

Acknowledgements

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To Tom,

With gratitude and thanks for

your encouragement and support.

‘Love, even if it ends in defeat, gives you a kind of honor.’

Rian Malan

Africa

The Ship

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H e realized he’d had one of those dreams again and finally he opened his eyes, as consciousness slowly seeped through his hazy mind. He had been lying motionless while still in that strange limbo world, neither awake nor asleep and unable to distinguish illusion from reality. He’d dreamed about her before and wondered where she was now. What would she look like today? What had her life been like? Did she ever dream about him? He would never know.

Judith was already dressed, so he’d better get going. Heading for the bathroom, he paused to look out the window. From his house on the Kloof Ridge, he could see over the entire Durban area, all the way to the distant ocean. He was due downtown in a little over an hour for consultation with a very sick patient, so he could not linger. There was another party tonight, given by one of the administrators at the hospital. The night-before-last, they’d gone to one celebrating this year’s 2010 Soccer World Cup, some of the games being played in his city’s striking new stadium down near the shore.

* * *

It had been twenty-five years ago now, on a Wednesday morning in 1985, in this same Indian Ocean city of Durban, when he’d received the call.

Dr. Baxter, Ian McLean here from Addington admin, said the voice on the phone.

Paul silently groaned. It was the hospital calling. Yes, this is Paul Baxter.

I’m sorry about this, Dr. Baxter. I know it’s Dr. Lucas who’s supposed to be on today, but apparently his wife had a slight accident in her car this morning, so he’s been tied up.

Gosh, what happened? Is she OK?

Yes, nothing serious, it’s just delayed him, that’s all. But we have a real situation on our hands. A ship—out at sea—has had an emergency. It seems like a case of appendicitis. Can I count on you?

Of course. Where’s the patient now?

The ship’s on its way in, I’m told. But it’s more complicated than that. You see, it’s a Russian ship, or rather a Soviet ship, and we’ve been doing summersaults with the government all morning, just to get things this far.

Why? What’s going on?

Well, there’s a ban on any Soviet Union ship coming anywhere near a South African port. You know what it is—they’re terrified of Communist infiltration. Quite daft if you ask me. Still, because of this, we’ve had to get permission from the highest authorities—no easy feat, I can tell you. They’ve stipulated, before anyone comes ashore, you as a South African doctor, must go on board to verify this is indeed an emergency and not a hoax.

I hope they don’t expect me to operate on board a foreign ship.

No, they’ll allow the patient, plus a couple of personnel to come onto land, but there are going to be strict controls and protocols in place. How quickly can you make it down here to the hospital?

I’ll leave right away.

Since his divorce, Paul had been living in an apartment in the seaside village of Umhlanga Rocks, ten miles up the coast from the century-old Indian Ocean seaport, Durban. With its colonial architecture, colorful waterfront, cultural diversity and tropical setting, Paul sometimes wondered if it might have appealed to Joseph Conrad, one of his favorite authors. This city, where it appeared Africa, Asia and Europe met, provided a multi-ethnic blend of people. Zulus, Indians and English or Dutch descendants, all added to its essence and spontaneity. Most of his friends simply liked the expansive beaches and relaxed lifestyle of weekend golf, sailing on the bay and convenient access to wilder places farther north.

Paul especially enjoyed the Indian Quarter with its markets and mosques, its shops of heady spices, colorful saris, exotic jewelry, Indian furniture, artifacts and curios, not to mention the abundance of excellent restaurants. He’d heard the greater Durban area supported the largest settlement of Indians, both Hindu and Muslim, outside India. He knew it had once been home to Mahatma Gandhi, who had practiced law here. And it was in this city the human rights activist had formulated his non-violent, civil disobedience prescription for change and written his most provocative articles, before his return to India, where he’d ultimately put his philosophy into practice.

Driving out of Umhlanga, and heading south, with green hills on his right and the sparkling Indian Ocean to his left, Paul marveled at the perfect May day, with the temperature mild and the humidity relatively low. Closer to the city, he noticed as usual, numerous ships anchored out at sea. There were always too many of them to berth in the harbor, so they had to wait their turn before the port granted them access. Passing the procession of tall beach hotels on the curve of Durban’s waterfront, the traffic thickened, forcing him to slow down. He looked out to sea again and caught a glimpse of a large vessel heading towards the harbor mouth. Could that be it? He felt a strange flurry of anticipation about this assignment. It was not every day one was invited onto a Soviet ship. Yet, as much as this intrigued him, he wished he had someone special with whom he could share it, admitting to himself he was a lonely man.

At thirty-five, Paul’s career as a general surgeon was shaping up well. Through diligence, dedication and skill, he’d built a respected reputation in medical circles, but being divorced from his wife of just two years, he was disappointed in his personal life. He’d wanted to work at the marriage longer, but Andrea had said she’d had it with his long hours. I don’t think you’re married to me. You’re married to that damned hospital.

No amounts of discussion or reasoning could dissuade her, no matter how patient he was. So they’d gone through the divorce process, simplified by the fact that there were no children, and following the normal South African antenuptial contract—what you bring into the marriage, you take out. But Paul had been left with a harrowing sense of personal failure and an emptiness in his life. With little wish to explore the social scene again, he now concentrated on his profession, in an effort to work through his loneliness.

As soon as he arrived at Addington Hospital at the south end of the beach area, he made for Ian McLean’s office where he found the administrator talking to a subordinate, Vijay Banerjee, a good-looking young Indian. A uniformed immigration officer, Johan van Niekerk, joined them almost immediately and in a dismissive way, questioned why Vijay was included in this project.

He is my personal assistant in training, said Ian, vexed and bristling with indignation that this petty government employee should try to interfere with his office. We have to get on board immediately, so we can’t argue about things like that. Turning to his surgeon, he said, I’ve already alerted the OR, so they’re setting up.

How do you know it’s appendicitis? asked Paul.

It was diagnosed by the ship’s doctor.

The four went out the back door where an ambulance was waiting, but Ian said he’d take his car. The docks were only minutes away and it was not long before they found the right pier, the berthing place of two enormous merchant ships.

Here it is, said Paul glancing up at the vast bow looming above them. It had Cyrillic lettering on the side of the hull, and high above the ship, he noticed a red flag fluttering in the breeze against the clear blue sky. There was a gold hammer and sickle in its corner.

They found the gang entrance, Mr. van Niekerk going ahead to be met by two heavy-set men at the top. One of them led the small party into the body of the ship, walking down a series of long corridors to finally reach a hospital-like room, with a couple of beds and other equipment. In the corner, a group of people standing beside a screened off area, looked up expectantly when they entered. Introductions followed but initially, only the Captain appeared to speak English, the rest just grunting acknowledgements.

Then the only woman among them stepped forward. Dressed in a white hospital coat over slacks, she had shoulder-length, wavy red hair, a delicately boned face and deep green eyes—or were they blue? Paul wasn’t sure. She smiled shyly at the visitors, mumbling her name, Svetlana Veronova, doctor.

Catching a drift of an unusually heady and penetrating perfume, Paul thought she looked not yet thirty and put out his hand to grasp hers. With the other, he passed her his card, which she slipped into her pocket without looking at it. Dr. Paul Baxter, he said. Let’s see your patient.

Behind the screen, the patient lay in a narrow bed. He appeared to be about Paul’s age, had a pleasant face, lank dark hair, soft brown eyes, and a muscular build. Paul indicated to the entourage he wanted privacy, so they all left but for the woman and the older stern-looking, silver-haired man who’d been introduced as Captain Volkov.

Carefully pulling back the cover to examine the patient, Paul began to gently but firmly press on different areas of the abdomen. He tried to ask a few questions, but the Russian did not appear to understand him. While both the captain and the doctor knew some English and attempted to translate, Paul wasn’t sure how much was getting through. It occurred to him this must be what veterinarians dealt with all the time—not being able to communicate with their patients.

Persisting with the examination, he was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the diagnosis. Perhaps it was the language barrier, but there seemed to be something else amiss. The patient was not wincing when he pressed critical areas, though verbally he was apparently telling the ship’s doctor he was in pain—just not at the right moments. Thinking he should probe further and disconcerting everyone, Paul decided to do a rectal examination, but even that did not turn up much more. Finally, he straightened up, noticing the Russian doctor looking at him intently, clearly concerned.

I don’t think … he started saying, but the young woman, with a frantic, high-pitched noise, immediately cut him off. Standing on the other side of the bed, across the patient from him, she now leaned forward, her bewitching, blue-green eyes looking fixedly and directly into his and seeming to plead for his concurrence with her diagnosis. He paused, noticing for the first time, what lovely skin she had, and the bronze and copper highlights in her hair, again aware of that sultry, musky perfume, unlike any he had known before.

The captain stood at the foot of the bed and clearly stressed, he barked something in Russian at his doctor, who visibly flinched and replied with a string of rapid but soft words. She looked back at Paul, her face still imploring him to acquiesce. He was perplexed, still mindful of his duty. Her visible anxiety, her beseeching expression, her unusual beauty and those extraordinary eyes, together with the mesmerizing aura of her perfume and the captain’s dogmatic manner and apparent anger, confused him. So, for a moment, he could not think clearly.

We waste time! bellowed Captain Volkov, glaring at Paul, his steel blue eyes now as direct and piercing as those of a hawk. I tell her before … it is nothing!

The patient groaned, as if to remind them he was still there and in need of attention. The captain, now highly agitated, seemed to berate the doctor in their native tongue. Paul looked back at her and saw those eyes openly begging him again. What I was saying, he said, was, I think, to be certain, we really need to get him to the hospital to do some tests.

What tests? barked the captain. There is no … thing wrong with this man! We must go back to sea … my admiralty orders! He glared at the doctor, his lips curling into a snarl, and started shouting at the young woman in Russian again.

Whoa, wait, said Paul, finally assessing the situation and trying to imagine what ghastly punishment the captain might bestow on the girl if she had brought them into port for no good reason. I didn’t say there was nothing wrong. I think this man probably has appendicitis, which is an emergency. It’s a life-threatening condition! We can’t waste time arguing. We have to get him to the hospital. There’s an ambulance waiting right here on the dock.

Immediately, he saw a wave of relief pass over Svetlana Veronova as her tense face softened and her shoulders dropped. We … must … go … to the hospital, she said.

The captain shouted something and people came running from all directions. Within minutes they had Igor Markovic, the patient, who clutched only a rucksack in the way of personal belongings, ready to be transported off the ship. Paul felt relieved, as for the moment, he seemed to have saved Svetlana’s skin. But as they were leaving, Captain Volkov put out his hand to halt her, again shouting something in Russian and pointing to one of his henchmen.

No! Paul said, now also raising his voice. She must come with me! I need her for translation, for diagnosis and procedure.

For a moment the Captain stood still, his pale blue eyes glowering at the South African doctor. You—tell—me—what—my—men—can—do?

Please, I need her, said Paul.

The captain glared at him, with a side glance toward the female doctor. She may go—but only for the operation, if there is one. This ship must leave!

In the hospital, Paul arranged for blood and urine tests, and while waiting for the lab to return the results, he did an ultrasound on the patient in an examination room. He wondered about Dr. Veronova. Certainly, she was intriguing and attractive, but was she really a doctor? Somehow, he doubted her expertise. He’d heard stories of how Soviet doctors did not receive the same level of training as their Western counterparts and her diagnosis certainly seemed to have been way off the mark. Still, there was something about her that gave him ‘butterflies’ in his stomach—a teenage-like nervousness that had him intent on impressing her in a personal and positive way, if only he knew how.

He looked at the ultrasound screen. All it did was confirm his earlier suspicion—this was not appendicitis. He wondered how real the sailor’s pain had been. Perhaps he’d had some sort of intestinal inflammation, in which case a course of antibiotics should clear it up. He had mentioned this possibility to Svetlana, but she’d said, I had a big fight with Captain Volkov about coming into port. He was most angry at my recommendation. Paul turned the machine off and called for an assistant to have Igor Markovic prepared for surgery.

Captain Volkov had sent Boris Dubrovsky to keep an eye on things. Paul had labeled him ‘the hatchet-man’, strongly suspecting he was the party heavy—KGB—and therefore dubious of them all. The captain would have sent a full entourage, but Johan van Niekerk had objected, saying the patient, the doctor and one other were all he would allow ashore and under no circumstances could they leave the hospital. Paul saw it all as just the machinations of bureaucracies—USSR vs. RSA—both governments leaving much to be desired.

When Svetlana returned to his office, her auburn hair was falling softly around her face, her eyes were bright and her complexion a little flushed, accentuating her high cheekbones. Her open white coat revealed a slim but shapely figure. Paul felt an almost overwhelming desire to protect her, as well as a wave of excitement. He found himself wanting to touch her, even hold her and take her away from those around her, whom he saw as a bunch of bullies. He stood up, trying to look professional. I’m ordering antibiotics for the patient, he said. Then let’s get started on this thing as soon as possible. He headed out towards the nurses’ station to check on the lab results and the whereabouts of the anesthetist.

Never having regretted his decision to specialize in surgery, Paul loved what he did and took pride in each procedure, always meticulous in their execution. An appendectomy had been the first real operation he had ever done, and he remembered how much he had enjoyed it and the thrilling feeling of accomplishment when complete. Perhaps because of this, although he now performed far more complicated surgeries, most often, it seemed on cancers, the relatively simple appendectomy remained one of his favorites, so he was looking forward to working on the sailor. Having made the decision, despite the flimsy symptoms and test results, he pushed the ethics of it to the back of his mind—he was helping the girl after all—and nobody needed an appendix. As he saw it, she was an inexperienced medic, alone on the ship and probably out of her depth. She had made a mistake, erring on the side of caution. But horrors, she had caused the ship to lose a few days in their schedule by coming into port, thus infuriating her captain.

Looking about for her now, he saw she was talking to Boris, but did not seem happy. She was looking down at the floor while the Russian security man carried on about something, a nasty sneer on his face. Paul decided it was time to rescue her. Dr. Veronova, he said approaching them, I think it’s time for us to change into scrubs.

Once started, the surgery was almost routine and went smoothly. Only when picking up the scalpel to make the first cut did Paul seem to hear that inner voice commanding, First, do no harm, giving him a fleeting moment of misgivings and guilt at what he was about to do. But looking down at Svetlana’s earnest green eyes peering at him between her mask and cap, he was mindful of the risk she had taken in forcing the ship into port. Wouldn’t it also be some sort of breach of ethics not to go ahead with her diagnosis now? So he proceeded, applying his normal dedication, dexterity and precision in performing his favorite operation. He wondered if the theatre nurses had noticed the appendix was not unduly discolored or swollen as he took it out.

When done, he turned to the quiet young woman at his side and said, We’ll check on him later, but we must give him a while to come out of the anesthesia. In the meantime, why don’t you and I go and have a cup of coffee?

In the staff cafeteria, they settled with their coffee at the only empty table. He wanted to ask her all about herself, but in this hospital setting, he felt curiously shy, restrained, and compelled to stick to shoptalk. He did ask her about Igor Markovic. Did she know him? What was he like? She said, When the ship stopped in India, there was some problem, I think.

Why, what happened?

I don’t know exactly, but I heard Captain Volkov say when we get back to Russia, he will be disciplined—by the police.

Just then, Ian McLean stopped at their table. How did it all go?

So far, so good, said Paul. We’re just about to go back to check on him.

The captain sent word he wants him back on the ship tomorrow morning, so get him ready to leave.

I’m not sure that’s possible after less than a full day. Usually appendectomies stay two to four, even five days. It shouldn’t be the captain making this call.

"Well maybe the ship’s doctor can make it," said McLean with a wink and putting his hand on Svetlana’s shoulder.

Paul felt irked at him touching her and indignant on her behalf. The sailor’s my patient and my responsibility. I have a cholecystectomy—a gallbladder removal—first thing tomorrow morning, but I’ll see him right after that and decide whether he’s ready to leave. By the way, do you have a room for Dr. Veronova to stay in tonight?

She can use one of the rooms the on-call residents use, but I’m sending Dubrovsky back to the ship. We have no space for him here.

Well, said Paul, pushing his chair back and smiling at Svetlana, I think it’s time we check on our patient.

Svetlana said she’d like to speak to Boris, so Paul retreated to his office, feeling isolated and alone. He still did not know what to make of this beguiling, yet extraordinary young woman. He also wondered how he looked to her. Had she been at all impressed by his intellect and skills? With sandy-colored hair and hazel eyes, he considered himself average looking, but there had been women who’d referred to him as ‘handsome’. He swiped his hands over his head and looking up, saw her reappear in his doorway and said, Let’s have a look at Igor, and then get out of here.

They found the ward where the nurses were still fussing around the patient, propping him up in his bed, and despite the obvious language hurdle, there seemed to be a friendly atmosphere in the room. Igor had the bed next to the window, while the one near the door had yet to be filled. Paul and Svetlana questioned him, folding back the cover to look at his wound and speaking briefly to the young Zulu nurse regarding his care and medication. In the morning, he can get up and move about—like go to the bathroom.

Yes, Doctor.

As they left the room, Paul leaned over towards Svetlana. I want you to come and have dinner with me.

But it is forbidden, she said, looking fearful.

Mr. van Niekerk left and as you know, Mr. Dubrovsky has been taken back to the ship, I checked. Please come with me. We can go out the side door that only the doctors use.

Paul had no fixed idea where they were going but drove out along the beachfront while he thought about it. It was late in the afternoon, the sun sinking in the sky over the low hills behind the city. Being winter, it would set sometime after five and be almost dark by six. Along the palm-lined beachfront, they passed Zulu women sitting on the sidewalk, their wares of basketwork, beadwork and trinkets set out before them. He wondered what the young Russian made of it all.

Then he spotted a rank of rickshaws and simultaneously, noticing a car pulling out of a parking place, decided to stop. As soon as the rickshaws saw them, they eagerly began whistling and waving their arms to attract attention. With their gigantic horned headgears and multicolored outfits of beads, beards and ornamentation and equally decorated, little two-person carriages, they were unique, even the wheels reminding Paul of kaleidoscopes. He turned to Svetlana, proposing, Let’s take a ride, although he had not done this since he was a kid. They approached the first in line and he spoke to the colorfully garbed man in Zulu, before helping his Russian acquaintance into the cab.

With a slow loping gait, the rickshaw set out along the waterfront. As the breeze wafted through her hair, Svetlana threw back her head and laughed. This is lovely, she said. Just then, with a valiant cry, the rickshaw