The Good Doctor Read Online Free PDF Page A

nothing.’
    ‘That’s about it. They’d like to close us down.’
    ‘But. But.’ The frown on his forehead was deep and vexed. ‘That’s all politics again, isn’t it.’
    ‘Everything is politics, Laurence. The moment you put two people in a room together, politics enters in. That’s how it is.’
    This thought seemed to quieten him; he didn’t talk again until we were leaving. Then he suddenly announced that he wanted to drive.
    ‘What?’
    ‘I feel like it. Come on, Frank, let me have a turn. I want to see how it feels.’
    I threw the keys to him. Before we were out of the parking lot I could feel what a careful driver he was, slow and controlled, quite contrary to the feverish way he talked and behaved. But this
was just one of the contradictions in Laurence, the little flaws and gaps that didn’t add up.
    It was the middle of the afternoon by now. The bottom of the escarpment was dark with shadow; when we broke out into sun again the shadows of objects were stretched long and narrow on the
ground. The road went straight as a dart towards the horizon and the border. After twenty minutes of driving I said to him, ‘Pull over.’
    The impulse seemed to come from nowhere, but I realized now that it had been rising in me all day, from early that morning. Even maybe from before.
    ‘Hey?’
    ‘Here, by the trees.’
    There was a small clump of bluegums at the edge of the road, with a tiny wooden shack set a little way back. Behind that again, over the top of a small rise, the roofs of a village were just
visible.
    ‘But what for?’
    ‘Let’s just take a look.’
    Then he saw the sign and read it aloud. ‘“Souvenirs and handicrafts“.’
    ‘Let’s see what they’ve got.’
    There was another car parked outside the door. An American couple, loud and studiously friendly, was leaving, carrying two carved wooden giraffes. Behind them the woman who ran this little
informal shop was standing at the door, smiling. When she saw me the smile vanished, then came tightly back again.
    To the Americans she called, ‘Have a good holiday.’
    She was in her early thirties. Small-boned but strong, with a wide, open face. Barefoot, in a ragged red dress.
    We went past her into the dim inside of the shack. There were rough shelves carrying handicrafts – animal figures carved out of wood, beadwork, woven mats and baskets, toys made out of wire.
Potted Africa, endlessly replicated and served up for the tourists. A hand-painted sign full of misspellings told us that this work was made by people from all the villages in the district. We
wandered around, looking over the shelves. It was very hot in there.
    Laurence said, ‘It’s so...’
    ‘So what?’
    ‘So poor.’
    The car drove off outside and she came back in, rubbing her arms. ‘Hello, how are you?’ she said, speaking to nobody in particular.
    ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘And you?’
    ‘You want to buy something?’
    ‘We’re just having a look.’
    Laurence was staring around with a pained expression. ‘Is this your shop?’ he said.
    ‘No. I’m just working here.’
    ‘Who does it belong to?’
    She waved a hand at the door. Someone out there.
    ‘Very nice.’
    She smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, yes,’ she said. ‘Welcome.’
    ‘I’m going to get something for you, Frank,’ he said. He held up a crude wooden carving of a fish.
    ‘Twenty-five rand,’ she told him.
    ‘To thank you for taking me around today. I’ve had a very good time.’
    ‘That’s all right. You don’t have to do that. It’s all right.’
    ‘I want to.’
    ‘Twenty,’ she said.
    ‘I’m giving you twenty-five.’ He counted the money into her hand. ‘Thank you. You have a very nice shop. What is your name?’
    ‘Maria.’
    ‘You have a nice shop, Maria.’
    ‘I think so too,’ I said.
    She looked directly at me then, for the first time since I’d come in, and said, ‘You have been too much busy.’
    It wasn’t a question, but I answered as if it was. ‘Um,