ALSOBYABRAHAMVERGHESE

TheTennisPartner

MyOwnCountry

ForGeorgeandMariamVerghese

Scriberejussitamor

AndbecauseIlovethislifeIknowIshalllovedeathaswell.ThechildcriesoutwhenFromtherightbreastthemotherTakesitaway,intheverynextmomentTofindintheleftoneItsconsolation.

—RabindranathTagore,fromGitanjali

PROLOGUE

TheComing

AFTEREIGHTMONTHSspentintheobscurityofourmother'swomb,mybrother,Shiva,andIcameintotheworldinthelateafternoonofthetwentiethofSeptemberintheyearofgrace1954.WetookourfirstbreathsatanelevationofeightthousandfeetinthethinairofAddisAbaba,capitalcityofEthiopia.

ThemiracleofourbirthtookplaceinMissingHospital'sOperatingTheater3,theveryroomwhereourmother, SisterMary Joseph Praise, spentmost of herworking hours, and inwhich she hadbeenmostfulfilled.

Whenourmother,anunoftheDiocesanCarmeliteOrderofMadras,unexpectedlywentintolaborthatSeptembermorning,thebigraininEthiopiahadended,itsrattleonthecorrugatedtinroofsofMissingceasingabruptly likea chatterboxcutoff inmidsentence.Overnight, in thathushedsilence,themeskelflowersbloomed,turningthehillsidesofAddisAbabaintogold.InthemeadowsaroundMissingthesedgewonitsbattleovermud,andabrilliantcarpetnowsweptrightuptothepaved threshold of the hospital, holding forth the promise of something more substantial thancricket,croquet,orshuttlecock.

Missing satonaverdant rise, the irregularclusterofwhitewashedone-and two-storybuildingslookingasiftheywerepushedupfromthegroundinthesamegeologicrumblethatcreatedtheEntotoMountains.Troughlikeflowerbeds,fedbytherunofffromtheroofgutters,surroundedthesquatbuildingslikeamoat.MatronHirst'srosesovertookthewalls,thecrimsonbloomsframingevery window and reaching to the roof. So fertile was that loamy soil that Matron—MissingHospital'swiseandsensibleleader—cautionedusagainststeppingintoitbarefootlestwesproutnewtoes.

Fivetrailsflankedbyshoulder-highbushesranawayfromthemainhospitalbuildingslikespokesof a wheel, leading to five thatched-roof bungalows that were all but hidden by copse, byhedgerows, by wild eucalyptus and pine. It was Matron's intent that Missing resemble anarboretum,oracornerofKensingtonGardens(where,beforeshecametoAfrica,sheusedtowalkasayoungnun),orEdenbeforetheFall.

MissingwasreallyMissionHospital,awordthatontheEthiopiantonguecameoutwithahisssoitsoundedlike“Missing.“AclerkintheMinistryofHealthwhowasafreshhigh-schoolgraduatehadtyped out THE MISSING HOSPITAL on the license, a phonetically correct spelling as far as he wasconcerned.AreporterfortheEthiopianHeraldperpetuated thismisspelling.WhenMatronHirsthadapproachedtheclerkintheministrytocorrectthis,hepulledouthisoriginaltypescript.“Seeforyourself,madam.QuoderatdemonstrandumitisMissing,”hesaid,asifhedprovedPythagorasstheorem,thesun'scentralpositioninthesolarsystem,theroundnessoftheearth,andMissing'spreciselocationatitsimaginedcorner.AndsoMissingitwas.

NOTACRYoragroanescapedfromSisterMaryJosephPraisewhileinthethroesofhercataclysmiclabor.ButjustbeyondtheswingingdoorintheroomadjoiningOperatingTheater3, theoversizeautoclave(donatedbytheLutheranchurchinZurich)bellowedandweptformymotherwhileitsscaldingsteamsterilizedthesurgicalinstrumentsandtowelsthatwouldbeusedonher.Afterall,itwas in the corner of the autoclave room, right next to that stainless-steel behemoth, thatmymotherkeptasanctuaryforherselfduringthesevenyearsshespentatMissingbeforeourrudearrival. Her one-piece desk-and-chair, rescued from a defunct mission school, and bearing thegougedfrustrationofmanyapupil,facedthewall.Herwhitecardigan,whichIamtoldsheoftenslippedoverhershoulderswhenshewasbetweenoperations,layoverthebackofthechair.

On the plaster above the desk my mother had tacked up a calendar print of Bernini's famoussculptureofSt.TeresaofAvila.ThefigureofSt.Teresalieslimp,asifinafaint,herlipspartedinecstasy,hereyesunfocused,lidshalfclosed.Oneithersideofher,avoyeuristicchoruspeersdownfromtheprie-dieux.Withafaintsmileandabodymoremuscularthanbefitshisyouthfulface,aboyangelstandsoverthesaintly,voluptuoussister.Thefingertipsofhislefthandlifttheedgeoftheclothcoveringherbosom.Inhisrighthandheholdsanarrowasdelicatelyasaviolinistholdsabow.

Whythispicture?WhySt.Teresa,Mother?

Asa littleboyof four, I tookmyself away to thiswindowless room to study the image.Couragealone couldnotgetmepast thatheavydoor, butmy sense that shewas there,myobsession toknowthenunwhowasmymother,gavemestrength. Isatnext to theautoclavewhichrumbledandhissedlikeawakingdragon,asifthehammeringofmyhearthadrousedthebeast.Gradually,asIsatatmymother'sdesk,apeacewouldcomeoverme,asenseofcommunionwithher.

Ilearnedlaterthatnoonehaddaredremovehercardiganfromwhereitsatdrapedonthechair.Itwas a sacred object. But for a four-year-old, everything is sacred and ordinary. I pulled thatCuticura-scented garment around my shoulders. I rimmed the dried-out inkpot with my nail,tracingapathherfingershadtaken.Gazingupatthecalendarprintjustasshemusthavewhilesittingthereinthatwindowlessroom,Iwastransfixedbythatimage.Yearslater,IlearnedthatSt.Teresa's recurrentvisionof theangelwascalled the transverberation,which thedictionary saidwasthesoul“inflamed”bytheloveofGod,andtheheart“pierced”bydivinelove;themetaphors

ofher faithwerealso themetaphors ofmedicine.At four years of age, I didn't needwords like“transverberation”tofeelreverenceforthatimage.Withoutphotographsofhertogoby,Icouldn'thelp but imagine that the woman in the picture was my mother, threatened and about to beravishedbythespear-wieldingboy-angel.“Whenareyoucoming,Mama?”Iwouldask,mysmallvoiceechoingoffthecoldtile.Whenareyoucoming?

Iwouldwhispermyanswer:“ByGod!”ThatwasallIhadtogoby:Dr.Ghosh'sdeclarationthetimeI'dfirstwanderedinthereandhe'dcomelookingformeandhadstaredatthepictureofSt.Teresaovermyshoulders;heliftedmeinhisstrongarmsandsaidinthatvoiceofhisthatwaseverybitamatchfortheautoclave:“SheisCUM-MING,byGod!”

FORTY-SIX AND FOUR YEARS havepassed sincemybirth, andmiraculously I have the opportunity toreturn to that room. I find I am too large for that chair now, and the cardigan sits atop myshoulders like the lace amice of a priest. But chair, cardigan, and calendar print oftransverberationare still there. I,MarionStone,havechanged,but littleelsehas.Being in thatunalteredroompropelsathumbingbackthroughtimeandmemory.TheunfadingprintofBernini'sstatueofSt.Teresa(nowframedandunderglasstopreservewhatmymothertackedup)seemstodemandthis.Iamforcedtorendersomeordertotheeventsofmylife,tosayitbeganhere,andthenbecauseofthis,thathappened,andthisishowtheendconnectstothebeginning,andsohereIam.

WECOMEUNBIDDEN intothis life,andifweare luckywefindapurposebeyondstarvation,misery,andearlydeathwhich,lestweforget,isthecommonlot.IgrewupandIfoundmypurposeanditwas to becomea physician.My intentwasn't to save theworld asmuch as to healmyself. Fewdoctorswilladmitthis,certainlynotyoungones,butsubconsciously,inenteringtheprofession,wemust believe that ministering to others will heal our woundedness. And it can. But it can alsodeepenthewound.

IchosethespecialtyofsurgerybecauseofMatron,thatsteadypresenceduringmyboyhoodandadolescence. “What is the hardest thing you can possibly do?” she saidwhen Iwent to her foradviceonthedarkestdayofthefirsthalfofmylife.

Isquirmed.HoweasilyMatronprobedthegapbetweenambitionandexpediency.“WhymustIdowhatishardest?”

“Because,Marion,youareaninstrumentofGod.Don'tleavetheinstrumentsittinginitscase,myson.Play!Leavenopartof your instrumentunexplored.Whysettle for ‘ThreeBlindMice’whenyoucanplaythe‘Gloria’?”

HowunfairofMatrontoevokethatsoaringchoralewhichalwaysmademefeelthatIstoodwitheverymortal creature lookingup to theheavens indumbwonder.Sheunderstoodmyunformedcharacter.

“But,Matron, I can't dream of playingBach, the ‘Gloria’…,” I said undermy breath. I'd neverplayedastringorwindinstrument.Icouldn'treadmusic.

“No,Marion,” she said, hergaze soft, reaching forme,hergnarledhands roughonmycheeks.“No, not Bach's ‘Gloria.’ Yours! Your ‘Gloria’ liveswithin you. The greatest sin is not finding it,ignoringwhatGodmadepossibleinyou.”

Iwas temperamentally better suited to a cognitive discipline, to an introspective field—internalmedicine,orperhapspsychiatry.Thesightof theoperating theatermademesweat.The ideaofholding a scalpel caused coils to form inmybelly. (It still does.) Surgerywas themost difficultthingIcouldimagine.

AndsoIbecameasurgeon.

Thirtyyearslater,Iamnotknownforspeed,ordaring,ortechnicalgenius.Callmesteady,callmeplodding;sayIadoptthestyleandtechniquethatsuitsthepatientandtheparticularsituationandI'llconsiderthathighpraise. I takeheart frommyfellowphysicianswhocometomewhentheythemselves must suffer the knife. They know that Marion Stone will be as involved after thesurgeryasbeforeandduring.TheyknowIhavenouseforsurgicalaphorismssuchas“Whenindoubt,cutitout”or“Whywaitwhenyoucanoperate”otherthanforhowreliablytheyrevealtheshallowest intellects in our field. My father, for whose skills as a surgeon I have the deepestrespect, says, “The operationwith the best outcome is the one you decide not to do.” Knowingwhennottooperate,knowingwhenIaminovermyhead,knowingwhentocallfortheassistanceofasurgeonofmyfather'scaliber—thatkindoftalent,thatkindof“brilliance,”goesunheralded.

Ononeoccasionwithapatientingraveperil,Ibeggedmyfathertooperate.Hestoodsilentatthebedside,hisfingerslingeringonthepatient'spulselongafterhehadregisteredtheheartrate,asifheneededthetouchofskin,thethreadysignalintheradialarterytocatalyzehisdecision.InhistautexpressionIsawcompleteconcentration.IimaginedIcouldseethecogsturninginhishead;IimaginedIsawtheshimmeroftearsinhiseyes.Withutmostcareheweighedoneoptionagainstanother.Atlast,heshookhishead,andturnedaway.

Ifollowed.“Dr.Stone,”Isaid,usinghistitlethoughIlongedtocryout,Father!“Anoperationishisonlychance,”Isaid.InmyheartIknewthechancewasinfinitesimallysmall,andthefirstwhiffofanesthesiamightenditall.Myfatherputhishandonmyshoulder.Hespoketomegently,asiftoajunior colleague rather thanhis son. “Marion, remember theEleventhCommandment,” he said.“Thoushallnotoperateonthedayofapatient'sdeath.”

Irememberhiswordsonfull-moonnightsinAddisAbabawhenknivesareflashingandrocksandbulletsareflying,andwhenIfeelasifIamstandinginanabattoirandnotinOperatingTheater3,

myskinfleckedwiththegristandbloodofstrangers.Iremember.Butyoudon'talwaysknowtheanswersbeforeyouoperate.Oneoperatesinthenow.Later,theretrospectoscope,thathandytoolof the wags and pundits, the conveners of the farce we call M&M—morbidity and mortalityconference—willpronounceyourdecisionrightorwrong.Life,too,islikethat.Youliveitforward,butunderstanditbackward.Itisonlywhenyoustopandlooktotherearthatyouseethecorpsecaughtunderyourwheel.

Now,inmyfiftiethyear,Iveneratethesightoftheabdomenorchestlaidopen.I'mashamedofourhumancapacitytohurtandmaimoneanother,todesecratethebody.Yetitallowsmetoseethecabalistic harmony of heart peeking out behind lung, of liver and spleen consulting each otherunderthedomeofthediaphragm—thesethingsleavemespeechless.Myfingers“runthebowel”lookingforholesthatabladeorbulletmighthavecreated,coilafterglisteningcoil,twenty-threefeetofitcompactedintosuchasmallspace.ThegutthathasslitheredpastmyfingerslikethisintheAfricannightwouldbynowreachtheCapeofGoodHope,andIhaveyettoseetheserpent'shead.But Ido see theordinarymiraclesunder skinand ribandmuscle, visionsconcealed fromtheirowner.Isthereagreaterprivilegeonearth?

Atsuchmoments I remember to thankmy twinbrother,Shiva—Dr.ShivaPraiseStone—toseekhimout,tofindhisreflectionintheglasspanelthatseparatesthetwooperatingtheaters,andtonodmythanksbecauseheallowsmetobewhatIamtoday.Asurgeon.

According toShiva, life is in theendabout fixingholes.Shivadidn't speak inmetaphors.Fixingholes ispreciselywhathedid.Still, it'sanaptmetaphor forourprofession.But there'sanotherkind of hole, and that is the wound that divides family. Sometimes this wound occurs at themomentofbirth,sometimes ithappens later.Weareall fixingwhat isbroken. It is thetaskofalifetime.We'llleavemuchunfinishedforthenextgeneration.

BorninAfrica,livinginexileinAmerica,thenreturningatlasttoAfrica,Iamproofthatgeographyisdestiny.Destinyhasbroughtmebacktotheprecisecoordinatesofmybirth, totheverysameoperatingtheaterwhereIwasborn.MyglovedhandssharethespaceabovethetableinOperatingTheater3thatmymotherandfather'shandsonceoccupied.

Some nights the crickets cry zaa-zee, zaa-zee, thousands of them drowning out the coughs andgruntsofthehyenasinthehillsides.Suddenly,natureturnsquiet.Itisasifrollcallisoveranditistimenowinthedarknesstofindyourmateandretreat.Intheensuingvacuumofsilence,Ihearthehigh-pitchedhummingofthestarsandIfeelexultant,thankfulformyinsignificantplaceinthegalaxy.ItisatsuchtimesthatIfeelmyindebtednesstoShiva.

Twin brothers,we slept in the samebed till our teens, our heads touching, our legs and torsosangledaway.Weoutgrewthatintimacy,butIstilllongforit,fortheproximityofhisskull.WhenIwaketothegiftofyetanothersunrise,myfirstthoughtistorousehimandsay,Ioweyouthesightofmorning.

WhatIoweShivamostisthis:totellthestory.Itisonemymother,SisterMaryJosephPraise,didnotrevealandmyfearlessfather,ThomasStone,ranfrom,andwhichIhadtopiecetogether.Onlythetellingcanhealtheriftthatseparatesmybrotherandme.Yes,Ihaveinfinitefaithinthecraftofsurgery,butnosurgeoncanhealthekindofwoundthatdividestwobrothers.Wheresilkandsteelfail,storymustsucceed.Tobeginatthebeginning…

PARTONE

…forthesecretofthecareofthepatientisincaringforthepatient.

FrancisW.Peabody,October21,1925

CHAPTER1TheTyphoidStateRevisited

SISTERMARYJOSEPHPRAISEhadcometoMissingHospitalfromIndia,sevenyearsbeforeourbirth.SheandSisterAnjaliwerethefirstnovitiatesoftheCarmeliteOrderofMadrastoalsogothroughthearduousnursingdiplomacourseat theGovernmentGeneralHospital,Madras.OngraduationdaymymotherandAnjalireceivedtheirnursingpinsandthateveningtooktheirfinalvowsofpovertycelibacy,andobedience.Insteadofansweringto“Probationer”(inthehospital)and“Novitiate”(intheconvent),theycouldnowbeaddressedinbothplacesas“Sister.”Theiragedandsaintlyabbess,Shessy Geevarughese, affectionately called Saintly Amma, hadwasted no time in giving the twoyoungnurse-nunsherblessing,andhersurprisingassignment:Africa.

Onthedaytheyweretosail,allthenovitiatesrodefromtheconventinacaravanofcycle-rickshawstotheharbortosendofftheirtwosisters.Inmymind'seyeIcanseethenovitiatesliningthequay,chatteringand tremblingwithexcitementandemotion, theirwhitehabits flapping in thebreeze,theseagullshoppingaroundtheirsandaledfeet.

Ihavesooftenwonderedwhatwentthroughmymother'smindassheandSisterAnjali,bothjustnineteenyearsold,tooktheirlaststepsonIndiansoilandboardedtheCalangute.Shewouldhaveheardstifledsobsand“Godbewithyou”followherupthegangway.Wasshefearful?Didshehavesecond thoughts? Once before, when she entered the convent, she'd torn herself away from herbiologicalfamilyinCochinforeverandmovedtoMadras,whichwasadayandanight'strainridefrom her home. As far as her parents were concerned, it might just as well have been halfwayacrosstheworld,fortheywouldneverseeheragain.Andnow,afterthreeyearsinMadras,shewastearingherselfawayfromthefamilyofherfaith,thistimetocrossanocean.Onceagain,therewasnogoingback.

Afewyearsbeforesittingdowntowritethis,ItraveledtoMadrasinsearchofmymother'sstory.InthearchivedpapersoftheCarmelites,Ifoundnothingofhers,butIdidfindSaintlyAmma'sdiariesinwhich the abbess recorded thepassingdays.When theCalangute slipped itsmooring,SaintlyAmmaraisedherhandlikeatrafficpolicemanand,“usingmysermonvoicewhichIamtoldbeliesmyage,”intonedthewords,“Leaveyourlandformysake,”becauseGenesiswasherfavoritebook.SaintlyAmmahadgiventhismissiongreatthought:True,Indiahadunfathomableneeds.Butthatwouldneverchangeandwasnoexcuse;thetwoyoungnuns—herbrightestandfairest—weretobethetorch-bearers:IndianscarryingChrist'slovetodarkestAfrica—thatwashergrandambition.Inherpapers,sherevealsherthinking:JustastheEnglishmissionariesdiscoveredwhentheycametoIndia,therewasnobetterwaytocarryChrist's lovethanthroughstupesandpoultices, linimentsanddressings,cleansingandcomfort.Whatbetterministrythantheministryofhealing?Hertwoyoung nuns would cross the ocean, and then the Madras Discalced Carmelite Mission to Africawouldbegin.

Asthegoodabbesswatchedthetwowavingfiguresontheship'srailrecedetowhitedots,shefeltatwinge of apprehension.What if by their blind obedience to her grand scheme they were beingcondemnedtoahorriblefate?“TheEnglishmissionarieshavethealmightyEmpirebehindthem…butwhatofmygirls?”Shewrotethattheseagulls’shrillquarrelingandthesplatterofbirdexcretahadmarredthegrandsend-offshehadenvisioned.Shewasdistractedbytheoverpoweringscentofrotten fish,and rottedwood,andby thebare-chestedstevedoreswhosebetel-nut-stainedmouthsdrooledbloodylecheryatthesightofherbroodofvirgins.

“Father, we consign our sisters to You for safekeeping,” Saintly Amma said, putting it on Hisshoulders.Shestoppedwaving,andherhands foundshelter inher sleeves. “WebeseechYou formercyandforYourprotectioninthisoutreachoftheDiscalcedCarmelites…”

It was 1947, and the British were finally leaving India; the Quit India Movement had made theimpossiblecomeabout.SaintlyAmmaslowlylettheairoutofher lungs.Itwasanewworld,andboldactionwascalledfor,orsoshebelieved.

THE BLACK-AND-RED FLOATING PACKET of misery that called itself a ship steamed across the Indian Oceantowarditsdestination,Aden.InitsholdtheCalangutecarriedcrateuponcrateofspuncotton,rice,silk,Godrejlockers,Tatafilingcabinets,aswellasthirty-oneRoyalEnfieldBulletmotorcycles,theengineswrappedinoilcloth.Theshipwasn'tmeanttocarrypassengers,buttheGreekcaptaindid

justthatbyhousing“payingguests.”Thereweremanywhowouldtravelonacargoshiptosaveonpassage,andhewas there toobligeby skimpingoncrew.Soon this triphecarried twoMadrasnuns,threeCochinJews,aGujaratifamily,threesuspicious-lookingMalays,andafewEuropeans,includingtwoFrenchsailorsrejoiningtheirshipinAden.

TheCalangutehadavastexpanseofdeck—morelandthanoneeverexpectedatsea.Atoneend,likeagnatonanelephant'sbackside,satthethree-storysuperstructurewhichhousedthecrewandpassengers,thetopfloorofwhichwasthebridge.

Mymother,SisterMaryJosephPraise,wasaMalayalifromCochin,inthestateofKerala.MalayaliChristians traced their faith back to St. Thomas's arrival in India from Damascus in A.D. 52.

“Doubting”ThomasbuilthisfirstchurchesinKeralawellbeforeSt.PetergottoRome.MymotherwasGod-fearing and churchgoing; in high school she came under the influence of a charismaticCarmelitenunwhoworkedwith thepoor.Mymother'shometown isacityof five islandsset likejewels on a ring, facing the Arabian Sea. Spice traders have sailed to Cochin for centuries forcardamom and cloves, including a certain Vasco de Gama in 1498. The Portuguese clawed out acolonial seat in Goa, torturing the Hindu population into Catholic converts. Catholic priests andnuns eventually reached Kerala, as if they didn't know that St. Thomas had brought Christ'suncorrupted vision to Kerala a thousand years before them. To her parents’ chagrin,mymotherbecame a Carmelite nun, abandoning the ancient Syrian Christian tradition of St. Thomas toembrace(inherparents’view)this Johnny-come-latelypope-worshippingsect.Theycouldn'thavebeenmore disappointed had she become aMuslim or aHindu. It was a good thing her parentsdidn'tknowthatshewasalsoanurse,whichtothemwouldmeanthatshesoiledherhandslikeanuntouchable.

Mymothergrewupat theocean'sedge, insightof theancientChinese fishingnetscantileveredfromlongbamboopolesanddanglingoverthewaterlikegiantcobwebs.Theseawastheproverbial“breadbasket”ofherpeople,providerofprawnsand fish.Butnowon thedeckof theCalangute,withouttheCochinshoretoframeherview,shedidnotrecognizethebreadbasket.Shewonderedifat itscentertheoceanhadalwaysbeenthisway:smoking,malevolent,andrestless.IttormentedtheCalangute,makingitpitchandyawandcreak,wantingnothingmorethantoswallowitwhole.

She and Sister Anjali secluded themselves in their cabin, bolting the door againstmen and sea.Anjali's ejaculatoryprayers startledmymother.The ritualized readingof theGospelofLukewasSisterAnjali'sidea;shesaiditwouldgivewingstothesoulanddisciplinetothebody.Thetwonunssubjected each letter, each word, line, and phrase to dilata-tio, elevatio, and excessus—contemplation, elevation, and ecstasy. Richard of St. Victor's ancient monastic practice proveduseful foran interminableoceancrossing.By thesecondnight,after tenhoursofsuchcloseandmeditativereading,SisterMaryJosephPraisesuddenlyfeltprintandpagedissolve;theboundariesbetweenGodandselfdisintegrated.Readinghadbroughtthis:ajoyoussurrenderofherbodytothesacred,theeternal,andtheinfinite.

At vespers on the sixthnight (for theyweredetermined to carry the routineof the conventwiththemnomatterwhat)theyfinishedahymn,twopsalms,andtheirantiphons,thenthedoxology,andwere singing the Magnificat when a piercing, splintering sound brought them to earth. Theygrabbedlifejacketsandrushedout.Theyweremetbythesightofasegmentofthedeckthathadbuckled andpushedup into apyramid, almost, it seemed toSisterMary JosephPraise, as if theCalangute were made of corrugated cardboard. The captain kept his pipe lit and his smirksuggestedhispassengershadoverreacted.

On the ninth night, four of the sixteen passengers and one of the crew came downwith a feverwhose flesh signs were rose spots that appeared on the second febrile day and that arrangedthemselves likeaChinesepuzzleonthechestandabdomen.SisterAnjalisufferedgrievously,herskinburningtothetouch.Bytheseconddayofillnessshewasraginginfeverishdelirium.

Among the Calangutes passengers was a young surgeon—a hawk -eyed Englishman who wasleaving the Indian Medical Service for better pastures. He was tall and strong, and his ruggedfeaturesmadehimlookhungry,yetheavoidedthediningroom.SisterMaryJosephPraisehadrunintohim,literally,ontheseconddayofthevoyagewhenshelostherfootingonthewetmetalstairsleadingupfromtheirquarterstothecommonroom.TheEnglishmancomingupbehindherseizedherwherehecould,intheregionofhercoccyxandherleftribcage.Herightedherasifshewerealittlechild.Whenshestutteredherthanks,heturnedbeetred;hewasmoreflusteredthanshebythisunexpectedintimacy.Shefeltabruisingcomingonwherehishandshadclutchedher,buttherewas a quality to this discomfort that she did not mind. For days thereafter, she didn't see theEnglishman.

Now,seekingmedicalhelp,SisterMaryJosephPraisegatheredhercouragetoknockonhiscabin.A

faint voice bid her to enter.A bilious, acetone odor greetedher. “It isme,” she called out. “It isSisterMaryJosephPraise.”Thedoctorlayonhissideinhisbunk,hisskinthesameshadeashiskhakishorts,hiseyesscrewedshut.“Doctor,”shesaid,hesitating,“areyoualsowithfever?”

When he tried to look at her, his eyeballs rolled like marbles on a tilting plate. He turned andretchedoverafire-bucket,missedit,whichdidn'tmatter,asthebucketwasfulltothebrim.SisterMaryJosephPraiserushedforwardandfelthisbrow.Itwascoldandclammy,notatallfeverish.Hischeekswere hollowed, andhis body looked as if it had shrunk to fit the tiny cabin.None of thepassengershadbeensparedseasickness,buttheEnglishman'safflictionwassevere.

“Doctor,Iamwantingtoreportafeverthathasaffectedfivepatients.Itcomeswithrash,chills,andsweats,aslowpulseandlossofappetite.AllarestableexceptforSisterAnjali.Doctor,IammostworriedaboutAnjali…”

Shefeltbetteronceitwasoffherchest,eventhoughotherthanlettingoutamoantheEnglishmanmadeno response.Hereyes fell ona catgut ligature thatwas loopedaroundabed rail nearhishandsandthatdisplayedknotthrownontopofknot,ten-scoreofthem.Theknotsweresoplentifulthat the thread stoodup like agnarled flagpole. Thiswashowhehad logged thehours, or kepttrackofhisboutsofemesis.

Sherinsedoutthebucketandputitbackwithinhisreach.Shemoppedthemessonthefloorwithatowel, then she rinsed the towel out and hung it up to dry. She brought water to his side. Shewithdrew,wonderinghowmanydaysithadbeensincehe'deatenanything.

Byeveninghewasworse.SisterMaryJosephPraisebroughtsheets, towels,andbroth.Kneeling,shetriedtofeedhim,butthesmelloffoodtriggereddryheaves.Hiseyeballshadsunkintotheirorbits.Hisshriveledtonguelookedlikethatofaparrot.Sherecognizedtheroom'sfruityodorasthescentofstarvation.Whenshepinchedupaskinfoldatthebackofhisarmandletgo,itstayeduplikeatent,likethebuckleddeck.Thebucketwashalffullofclearfluid.Hebabbledaboutgreenfields andwas unaware of her presence. Could seasickness be fatal, shewondered.Or could hehaveaformefrusteof the fever thatafflictedSisterAnjali?Therewassomuchshedidnotknowabout medicine. In the middle of that ocean surrounded by the sick, she felt the weight of herignorance.

Butsheknewhowtonurse.Andsheknewhowtopray.So,praying,sheeasedoffhisshirtwhichwasstiffwithbileandspit,andshesliddownhisshorts.Asshegavehimabedbath,shewasself-conscious, for shed never ministered to a white man, or to a doctor for that matter. His skindisplayedawaveofgoosebumpsatthetouchofhercloth.Buttheskinwasfreeoftherashshedseen on the four passengers and the one cabin boywho had come downwith fever. The sinewymusclesofhisarmsbunchedtogetherfiercelyathisshoulder.Onlynowdidshenoticethathisleftchestwassmallerthanhisright;thehollowabovehiscollarboneontheleftcouldhaveheldahalfcupofwater,while that on the right only a teaspoon.And justbeyondandbelowhis left nipple,extending into the armpit, she saw a deep depression. The skin over this crater was shiny andpuckered.Shetouchedthereandgaspedasherfingersfellin,notmeetingbonyresistance.Indeed,itappearedasiftwoorperhapsthreeadjacentribsweremissing.Withinthatdepressionhishearttapped firmlyagainsther fingerswithonlya thin layerofhide intervening.Whenshepulledherfingersaway,shecouldseethethrustofhisventricleagainsthisskin.

Thefine,translucentcoatofhaironhischestandabdomenlookedasifithaddriftedupfromthemother lode of hair at his pubis. She dispassionately cleaned his uncircumcised member, thenfloppedittoonesideandattendedtothewrinkledandhelpless-lookingsacbeneath.Shewashedhis feetandcriedwhile shedid, thinking inevitablyofherSweetLordandHis last earthlynightwithHisdisciples.

Inhissteamertrunksshefoundbooksdealingwithsurgery.Hehadpennednamesanddatesinthemargins,andonlylaterdiditoccurtoherthatthesewerepatients’names,bothIndianandBritish,mementostoadiseasehedfirstseeninaPeabody,oraKrishnan.Acrossnexttothenameshetookas a sign the patient had succumbed. She found eleven notebooks filled with an economicalhandwriting with slashing down-strokes, the text dancing just above the lines and obeying nomargin save for the edge of the page. For an outwardly silent man, his writing reflected anunexpectedvolubility.

Eventuallyshefoundacleanundershirtandshorts.Whatdiditsaywhenamanhadfewerclothesthanbooks?Turninghimfirstthiswayandthenthat,shechangedthesheetsbeneathhimandthendressedhim.

SheknewhisnamewasThomasStonebecause itwas inscribed inside the surgical textbookhedplaced at his bedside. In the book she found little about fever with rash, and nothing about

seasickness.

That night Sister Mary Joseph Praise negotiated the heaving passageways, hurrying from onesickbedtothenext.Themoundwherethedeckhadbuckledresembledashroudedfigureandsheavertedhereyes.Onceshesawablackmountainofawave,severalstorieshigh,andtheCalangutelookedpoisedtofall intoahole.Sheetsofwatersmashedoverthebow,thenoisemoreterrifyingthanthesight.

Inthemiddleofthetempestuousocean,groggyfromlackofsleep,facingaterriblemedicalcrisis,herworldhadbecomesimplified.Itwasdividedintothosewithfever,thosewithseasickness,andthosewithout.Anditwaspossiblethatnoneofthesedistinctionsmattered,forverysoontheymightalldrown.

SheawokefromwhereshemusthavedriftedoffnexttoAnjali.Inwhatseemedlikethenextinstantsheawokeagain,butthistimeintheEnglishman'scabinwhereshe'dfallenasleepkneelingbyhisbed, her head lolling on his chest, his arm resting on her shoulder. In the time it took her torecognizethis,shewasasleepagain,wakingatdaybreakfindingherselfonthebunk,butonitsveryedge,pressedagainstThomasStone.ShehurriedbacktoAnjalitofindherworse,herrespirationsnowsighingandrapid.TherewerelargeconfluentpurplepatchesshowingonAnjali'sskin.

Theanxiousfacesofthesleeplesscrewandthefactthatonefellowhadkneltbeforeherandsaid“Sister,forgivemysins!”toldherthattheshipwasstillindanger.Thecrewignoredherpleasforhelp.

Frantic and frustrated, Sister Mary Joseph Praise retrieved a hammock from the common roombecauseofavisionshehadinthatfuguestatebetweenwakefulnessandsleep.Shestrungitinhiscabinbetweenportholeandbedpost.

Dr.StonewasadeadweightandonlytheintercessionofSt.Catherineallowedhertodraghimfrombunktofloor,thenfeedhim,onebodypartatatime,ontothehammock.Answeringmoretogravitythan to the roll of the ship, the hammock found the true horizontal. She knelt beside him andprayed,pouringherheartouttoJesus,completingtheMagnificatwhichhadbeeninterruptedthenightthedeckhadbuckled.

ColorreturnedfirsttoStone'sneck,thenhischeeks.Shefedhimteaspoonsofwater.Inanhourheheld down broth. His eyes were open now, the light coming back into them, and the eyeballstrackinghereverymovement.Then,whenshebroughtthespoonup,sturdyfingersencircledherwristtoguidethefoodtohismouth.Sherememberedthelineshedsungmomentsbefore:“Hehathfilledthehungrywithgoodthings,andtherichHehathsentemptyaway.”

Godhadheardherprayers.

ApaleandunsteadyThomasStonecamewithSisterMaryJosephPraisetowhereSisterAnjalilay.Hegaspedatthesightofthewide-eyedanddeliriousnun,herfacepinchedandanxious,hernosesharpasapen,thenostrilsflaringwitheachbreath,seeminglyawakeandyetcompletelyoblivioustohervisitors.

He knelt over her, but Anjali's glassy gaze passed right through him. SisterMary Joseph PraisewatchedthepracticedwayhepulleddownAnjali'slidstoexamineherconjunctivae,andthewayheswung the flashlight in front of her pupils. Hismovementswere smooth and flowing as he bentAnjali'shead towardherchest tocheck forneckstiffness,ashe felt for lymphnodes,movedherlimbs,andashetappedherpatel-lartendonusinghiscockedfingerinlieuofareflexhammer.TheawkwardnessSisterMaryJosephPraisehadsensedinhimwhenshehadseenhimasapassengerandthenasapatientwasgone.

He stripped off Anjali's clothes, unaware of Sister Mary Joseph Praise's assistance as hedispassionately studied the patient's back, thighs, and buttocks. The long sculpted fingers thatprobedAnjali'sbelly for thespleenand liverseemedtohavebeencreated for thispurpose—shecouldn'timaginethemdoinganythingelse.Nothavinghisstethoscope,heappliedhiseartoSisterAnjali'sheart,thenherbelly.Thenheturnedhertoonesideandpressedhisearagainstherribstolisten to the lungs.He took stock, thenmuttered, “Breath sounds arediminished on the right…parotidsenlarged…shehasneckglands—why?…Pulseisfeebleandrapid—”

“Itwasaslowpulsewhenthefeverstarted,”SisterMaryJosephPraiseoffered.

“Soyoumentioned,”hesaidsharply.“Howslow?”Hedidn'tlookup.

“Forty-fivetofifty,Doctor.”

Shefelthehadforgottenhisillness,forgotteneventhathewasonaship.HehadbecomeonewithSisterAnjali'sbody,itwashistext,andhesoundeditfortheenemywithin.ShefeltsuchconfidenceinhisbeingthatherfearforAnjalivanished.Kneelingbyhisside,shewaseuphoric,asifshehadonlyatthatmomentcomeofageasanursebecausethiswasthefirsttimeshehadencounteredaphysicianlikehim.Shebithertonguebecauseshewantedsomuchtosayallthisandmoretohim.

“Comavigil,”hesaid,andSisterMaryJosephPraiseassumedhewasinstructingher.“Seehowhereyeskeeprovingasifshe'swaitingforsomething?Agravesign.Andlookatthewayshepicksatthebedclothes—that'scalledcarphologyand those littlemuscle twitchesaresubsultus tendinum.Thisisthe‘typhoidstate.’You'llseeitinthelatestagesofmanykindsofbloodpoisoning,notjusttyphoid…Butmindyou”—andhelookedupatherwithalittlesmilethatbeliedwhathesaidnext—”Iamasurgeon,notamedicalman.WhatdoIknowofmedicalmatters?Excepttoknowthatthisisnotasurgicalillness.”

HispresencehaddonemorethanreassureSisterMaryJosephPraise;itcalmedtheseas.Thesun,whichhadbeenhiding,wassuddenlyattheirback.Thecrew'sdrunkencelebrationindicatedhowgravethesituationhadbeenjusthoursbefore.

ButthoughSisterMaryJosephPraisedidnotwanttobelievethis,therewaslittleStonecoulddofor Sister Anjali, and in any case, nothing to do it with. The first-aid box in the galley held adesiccated cockroach— its contents had been pawned by one of the crew at the last port. ThemedicinechestwhichthecaptainusedasaseatinhiscabinseemedtohavebeenleftoverfromtheDarkAges.Apairofscissors,aboneknife,andcrude forcepswere theonly thingsofusewithinthat ornate box. What was a surgeon like Stone to do with poultices, or tiny containers ofwormwood,thyme,andsage?Stonelaughedatthelabelofsomethingcalledoleumphilosophorum(andthiswasthefirsttimeSisterMaryJosephPraiseheardthathappysoundevenif in itsdyingechotherewassomethinghard-edged).“Listentothis,”hesaid,reading:“‘containingoldtilestonesandbrickebats forchroniccostiveness’!”Thatdone,heheaved theboxoverboard.He'd removedonly thedull instrumentsandanamberbottleof laudanumopiatumparacelsi.A spoonfulof thatancientremedyseemedtoeaseSisterAnjali'sterribleairhunger,to“disconnectherlungsfromherbrain,”asThomasStoneexplainedtoSisterMaryJosephPraise.

Thecaptaincameby,sleepless,apoplectic,sprayingsalivaandbrandyashespoke:“Howdareyoudisposeofshipboardproperty?”

Stoneleapedtohisfeet,andatthatmomentheremindedSisterMaryJosephPraiseofaschoolboyspoilingforafight.Stonefixedthecaptainwithaglarethatmadethemanswallowandtakeastepback.“Tossingthatboxwasbetterformankindandworseforthefish.OnemorewordoutofyouandI'llreportyoufortakingonpassengerswithoutanymedicalsupplies.”

“Yougotabargain.”

“Andyouwillmakeakilling,”Stonesaid,pointingtoAnjali.

Thecaptain'sfacelostitsarmature,theeyebrows,eyelids,nose,andlipsallrunningtogetherlikeawaterfall.

ThomasStonetookchargenow,settingupcampatAnjali'sbedside,butventuringouttoexamineeverypersononboard,whethertheyconsentedtosuchprobingornot.Hesegregatedthosewithfeverfromthosewithout.Hetookcopiousnotes;hedrewamapoftheCalangutésquarters,puttinganXwhereeveryfevercasehadoccurred.Heinsistedonsmokefumigationofallthecabins.Theway he ordered the healthy crew and passengers around infuriated the sulking captain, but ifThomas Stone was aware of this he paid no attention. For the next twenty-four hours he didn'tsleep,reexaminingSisterAnjaliatintervals,checkingontheothers:keepingvigil.Anoldercouplewasalsoquiteill.SisterMaryJosephPraiseneverlefthisside.

Twoweeksafter they leftCochin, theCalangute limped into theportofAden.TheGreekcaptainhad theMadagascar seamanhoist the Portuguese flag underwhich the shipwas registered, butbecause of the shipboard fever theCalangute was promptly quarantined, Portuguese flag or noPortugueseflag.Shewasanchoredatadistance,where,likeabanishedleper,shecouldonlygazeatthecity.StonebulliedtheScottishharbormasterwhohadpulledupalongside,tellinghimthatifhedidn'tbringadoctor'skit,bottlesoflactatedRinger'ssolutionforintravenousadministration,aswellassulfa,thenhe,ThomasStone,wouldholdhimresponsibleforthedeathofallCommonwealthcitizens on board. Sister Mary Joseph Praise marveled at his outspokenness, and yet he wasspeakingforher.ItwasasifStonehadreplacedAnjaliasheronlyallyandfriendonthisill-fatedvoyage.

Whenthesuppliescame,StonewentfirsttoSisterAnjali.Makingdowiththecrudestofantisepsis,

with one scalpel stroke he exposed the greater saphenous vein where it ran just inside SisterAnjali'sankle.Hethreadedaneedleintothecollapsedvesselthatshouldhavebeenthewidthofapencil.Hesecuredtheneedleinplacewithligatures,hishandsablurashepushedoneknotdownover another.Despite the intravenousdrip ofRinger's lactate and the sulfa,Anjali didn'tmake adrop of urine or show any signs of reviving. Later that evening, she died in a final dreadfulparoxysm,asdidtwoothers,anoldmanandoldwoman,allwithinafewhoursofoneanother.ForSisterMary JosephPraise thedeathswerestunning,andunforeseen.Theeuphoriashe feltwhenThomasStonehadrisenandcometoseeAnjalihadblindedher.Sheshivereduncontrollably.

Attwilight,SisterMaryJosephPraiseandThomasStoneslippedtheshroudedbodiesovertherail,withnohelpfromthesuperstitiouscrewwhowouldn'tevenlooktheirway.

SisterMaryJosephPraisewasinconsolable,thebravefrontshe'dputupshatteringasherfriend'sbody splashed into thewater. Stone stood beside her, unsure of himself.His facewas darkwithangerandshamebecausehehadnotbeenabletosaveSisterAnjali.

“HowIenvyher,”SisterMaryJosephPraisesaidatlastthroughtears,herfatigueandsleeplessnesscombiningtoreleasecustodyofhertongue.“She'swithourLord.Surelythatisabetterplacethanthis.”

Stonebitoffalaugh.Tohimsuchasentimentwasasymptomofimpendingdelirium.Hetookherbythearmandledherbacktohisroom,layherdownonhisbunk,andtoldhershewastorest,doctor'sorders.Hesaton thehammockandwatchedas life'sonlysureblessing—sleep—cametoher,andthenhehurriedofftoreexaminethecrewandallpassengers.Dr.ThomasStone,surgeon,didnotneedsleep.

TWODAYSLATER,withnomorenewcasesoffever,theywerefinallyallowedofftheCalangute.ThomasStone sought out Sister Mary Joseph Praise before disembarking. He found her red-eyed in thecabinshe'dsharedwithSisterAnjali.Herfaceandtherosarysheclutchedwerewet.Withastartheregisteredwhathehadfailedtobefore:thatshewasextraordinarilybeautiful,hereyesbigandsoulful and more expressive than eyes had a right to be. His face grew warm and his tonguewouldn'tunstickitselffromthefloorofhismouth.Heshiftedhisgazetothefloor,tohertravelbag.Whenhefinallyspokeitwastosay,“Typhus.”He'dlookedinhisbooksandgiventhematteragreatdealofthought.Seeingherpuzzlement,hesaid,“Indubitablytyphus.”Hehadexpectedtheword,thediagnosis,wouldmakeher feelbetter,but instead it seemed to fillhereyeswith fresh tears.“Mostlikelytyphus—ofcourseaserumtestcouldhaveconfirmedit,”hestammered.

Heshuffledhisfeet,crossedanduncrossedhishands.“Idon'tknowwhereyou'regoing,Sister,butI'mheadingtoAddisAbaba…it's inEthiopia,”hesaid,mumbling intohischin.“Toahospital…thatwouldvalueyourservicesifyouweretocome.”Helookedatherandblushedagain,becausethe fact was he knew nothing about the hospital he was going to or whether it could use herservices,andbecausehefeltthosemoistdarkeyescouldreadhiseverythought.

ButitwasherownthoughtsthatkeptSisterMaryJosephPraisesilent.SherememberedhowshedprayedforhimandforAnjali,andhowGodhadansweredjustoneofherprayers.Stone,risenlikeLazarus, then brought his entire being into understanding the fever.Hed barged into the crew'squarters, runroughshodover thecaptain,andbulliedand threatened.Doing thewrong thing,asSisterMary JosephPraisesaw it,but inpursuitof theright thing.His fiercepassionhadbeenarevelationtoher.AtthemedicalcollegehospitalinMadraswhereshetrainedasanurse,thecivilsurgeons(whoatthetimeweremostlyEnglishmen)hadfloatedaroundsereneandremovedfromthepatients,withtheassistantcivilsurgeonsandjuniorandseniorhousesurgeons(whowereallIndian) trailingbehind likeducklings.At times it seemed toher theywere so focusedondiseasethatpatientsandsufferingwereincidentaltotheirwork.ThomasStonewasdifferent.

She felt his invitation to join him in Ethiopia hadn't been rehearsed. Thewords had slipped outbeforehe'dbeenabletostopthem.Whatwasshetodo?SaintlyAmmahadidentifiedaBelgiannunwho had broken away from her order, andwho hadmade amost tenuous foothold in Yemen, inAden,afootholdthatwasinjeopardybecauseofthenun'sillhealth.SaintlyAmma'splanwasforSisterAnjaliandSisterMaryJosephPraisetostartthere,perchedabovetheAfricancontinent,andtolearneverythingtheycouldfromtheBelgiannunaboutoperatinginhostileclimates.Fromthere,aftercorrespondencewithAmma,thesister-sisterswouldheadsouth,nottotheCongo(whichtheFrenchandBelgianshadcovered),nottoKenya,Tanganyika,Uganda,orNigeria(theAnglicanshadtheir fingers all over those souls and disliked competition), but perhaps to Ghana or Cameroon.SisterMaryJosephPraisewonderedwhatSaintlyAmmamightsaytoEthiopia.

SaintlyAmma'svisionnowfeltlikeapipedream,avicariousevangelismsoillinformedthatSisterMaryJosephPraisewasembarrassedtomentionittoThomasStone.Insteadshesaidinabreaking,

hopelessvoice,“IhaveorderstoAden,Doctor.ButIthankyou.ThankyouforallyoudidforSisterAnjali.”Heprotestedthathe'ddonenothing.

“Youdidmorethananyhumanbeingcoulddo,”shesaidandtookhishandinbothofhersandheldit.Shelookedintohiseyes.“Godbewithyouandblessyou.”

Hecouldfeeltherosarystillentwinedinherfingers,andthesoftnessofherskinandthewetnessfromher tears.He recalled her hands on him,washing his body, dressing him, even holding hisheadwhenheretched.Hehadamemoryofherfaceturnedtotheheavens,singing,prayingforhisrecovery. His neck grewwarm and he knew his colorwas betraying him a third time.Her eyesshowed pain, and a cry escaped her lips, and only then did he know that hewas squeezing herhands,grindingtherosaryagainstherknuckles.Heletgoatonce.Hislipsparted,buthedidn'tsayanything.Heabruptlywalkedaway.

SisterMaryJosephPraisecouldn'tmove.Shesawthatherhandswereredandbeginningtothrob.Thepainfeltlikeagift,ablessingsopalpablethatitroseupherforearmsandintoherchest.Whatshecouldn'tbearwasthefeelingthatsomethingvitalhadbeenpluckedoutanduprootedfromherchestwhenhewalkedaway.She'dwantedtoclingtohim,tocryouttohimnottoleave.ShehadthoughtherlifeintheserviceoftheLordwascomplete.Therewas,shesawnow,avoidinherlifethatshe'dneverknownexisted.

THEMOMENTshesteppedofftheCalanguteontothesoilofYemen,SisterMaryJosephPraisewishedshe'dneverdisembarked.Howabsurd ithadbeenforhertohavepinedtocomeashoreall thosedaysthey'dbeenquarantined.Aden,Aden,Aden—she'dknownnothingaboutitbeforethisvoyage,and even now it was nomore than an exotic name. But from the sailors on theCalangute, shegathered that one could hardly go anywhere in the world without stopping in Aden. The port'sstrategiclocationhadservedtheBritishmilitary.Nowitsduty-freestatusmadeittheplacetobothshopandfindone'snextship.AdenwasgatewaytoAfrica;fromAfricaitwasgatewaytoEurope.ToSisterMaryJosephPraiseitlookedlikethegatewaytohell.

The citywas at once dead and yet in continuousmotion, like a blanket ofmaggots animating arottingcorpse.Shefledthemainstreetandthestultifyingheatfortheshadeofnarrowalleyways.Thebuildingslookedhewnfromvolcanicrock.Pushcartsloadedimpossiblyhighwithbananas,withbricks, withmelons, and even one carrying two lepers weaved through the pedestrian traffic. Aveiled,stoopedoldwomanwalkedbywithasmolderingcharcoalstoveonherhead.Nooneglancedatthisstrangesight,savingtheirstaresinsteadforthebrown-skinnednunwalkingintheirmidst.Heruncoveredfacemadeherfeelstarknaked.

Afteranhourduringwhichshefeltherskinpuffinguplikedoughinanoven,afterbeingdirectedthis way and that, Sister Mary Joseph Praise arrived before a tiny door at the end of a slitlikepassage.Ontherockwallwasapaleoutlineofasignboardrecentlyremoved.Sheofferedasilentprayer, tookadeepbreath,andknocked.Amanyelled inahoarsevoice,andSisterMaryJosephPraiseinterpretedthesoundasinvitationtoenter.

Seated on the floor next to a shiny balancing scale, she saw a shirtless Arab. All around him,reachingtotheceiling,weregreatbalesofbundledleaves.

Thehothousescentstifledherbreathing.Itwasanewscentforher,thisscentofkhat:partlycutgrass,yetwithsomethingspicierbehindit.

TheArab'sbeardwas so redwithhennashe thoughthedbled into it.Hiseyeswere lined likeawoman's,remindingherofdepictionsofSalahuddin,who'dkepttheCrusadersfromtakingtheHolyLand.Hisgazetookintheyoungfaceimprisonedinthewhitewimple,andthenthosehoodedeyesfell totheGladstonebag inherhand.Aheaveofhisbodyproducedavulgar laughthroughgold-trimmed teeth, a laughwhichhecutoffwhenhe saw thenunwasabout to collapse.He satherdown, sent for water and tea. Later, in a mixture of sign language and bastardized English, hecommunicatedtoherthattheBelgiannunwho'dlivedtherehaddiedsuddenly.Whenhesaidthat,SisterMary JosephPraisebegan shiveringagain, and she felt a deep foreboding, as if she couldheardeath'sfootstepsrustlingtheleavesinthathothouse.ShecarriedapictureofSisterBeatriceinherBible,andshecouldseethatfaceinhermind'seye,nowmetamorphosingintoadeathmask,andthentoAnjali'sface.Sheforcedherselftomeettheman'sgaze,tochallengewhathesaid.Ofwhat?Who asks “of what” in Aden? One day you are well, your debts are paid, your wives arehappy,praiseAllah,and thenextday the fevergetsyou,and if itopensyourskinup to theheatwhichyour skinhas fought off all these years, youdie.Ofwhat?Ofwhatdoesn'tmatter.Ofbadskin!Ofpestilence!Ofbadluck,ifyoulike.Ofgoodluck,even.

Thebuildingwashis.Greenkhatstalks flashed inhismouthashespoke.Theoldnun'sGodhadbeenunabletosaveher,hesaid,lookinguptotheceilingandpointing,asifHewerestillcrouching

there.SisterMary JosephPraise'seyes involuntarily followedhisgaze,beforeshecaughtherself.Meanwhile,hismuddyeyesdroppedfromtheceilingtoherface,toherlips,andtoherbosom.

IF IKNOWTHISMUCHaboutmymother'svoyage,it'sbecauseitcamefromherlipstotheearsofothersandthentomine.ButhertalestoppedinAden.Itcametoanabrupthaltinthathothouse.

WhatisclearisthatsheembarkedonherjourneywithfaiththatGodapprovedofhermissionandwould provide for and protect her. But in Aden, something happened to her.No one knewwhatexactly.ButitwastherethatsheunderstoodthatherGodwasalsoavengefulandharshGodandcouldbe soeven toHis faithful.TheDevil had shownhimself inSisterAnjali's purple, contorteddeathmask,butGodhadallowedthat.SheconsideredAdenanevilcity,whereGodusedSatantoshowher how fragile and fragmented theworldwas, howdelicate the balancebetween evil andgood,andhownaïveshewasinherfaith.Herfatherusedtosay,“IfyouwanttomakeGodlaugh,tellhimyourplans.”ShefeltpityforSaintlyAmma,whosedreamofenlightenmentforAfricawasvanitythatcostAnjali'slife.

For the longest time all I knewwas this: after an unknown period of time that could have beenmonthsorevenayear,mymother,agednineteen,somehowescapedYemen,thencrossedtheGulfof Aden, then went overland perhaps to the walled and ancient city of Harrar in Ethiopia, orperhaps toDjibouti, then from thereby train sheenteredEthiopiaviaDireDawaand thenon toAddisAbaba.

IknowthestoryonceshearrivedatMissingHospital.TherewerethreespacedknocksonthedoortoMatron's office. “Come in,”Matron said, and with those two wordsMissing was on a coursedifferentthananyonecouldhaveimagined.Itwasatthestartoftheshortrains,whenAddiswasstunnedintowetsubmission,andwhenafterhoursanddaysofthesoundandsightofwater,onebegan hearing and seeing things. Matron wondered if that explained this vision of a beautiful,brown-skinnednun,standing,butjustbarely,inthedoorway.

Theyoungwoman's recessed,unblinkingbrowneyes felt likewarmhandsonMatron's face.Thepupilsweredilated,asthough,Matronwouldthinklater,thehorrorofthejourneywasstillfresh.Herlowerlipwasripe,asifitmightburstatthetouch.Herwimple,cinchedatthechin,imprisonedherfeaturesinitsoval,butnoclothcouldrestrainthefervorinthatface,orconcealthehurtandconfusion.Hergray-brownhabitmusthaveoncebeenwhite.But,asMatron'seyestraveleddownthefigure,shesawafreshbloodstainwherethelegscametogether.

Theapparitionwaspainfullythin,swaying,butresolute,anditseemedamiraclethatitwascapableof speech,when it said in a voiceheavywith fatigueand sadness: “I desire tobegin the timeofdiscernment,thetimeoflisteningtoGodasHespeaksinandthroughtheCommunity.IaskforyourprayersthatImayspendtherestofmylifeinHisEucharisticPresenceandpreparemysoulforthegreatdayofunionbetweenbrideandBridegroom.”

Matron recognized the litanyof apostulant entering theorder,words sheherself haduttered somanyyearsago.Matronrepliedautomatically, justasherMotherSuperiorhaddone, “Enter intothejoyoftheLord.”

Itwasonlywhenthestrangerslumpedagainst thedoorpost thatMatroncameoutofher trance,runningaroundherdesktograbher.Hunger?Exhaustion?Menstrualblood loss?Whatwasthis?Sister Mary Joseph Praise weighed nothing in Matron's arms. They took the stranger to a bed.Undertheveil,thewimple,andhabittheyfoundadelicatewicker-basketchestandascoopedoutbelly.Agirl!Notawoman.Yes,agirlwhodonlyjustbidgood-byetochildhood.Agirlwithhairthatwasnot cut short like thatofmostnunsbut longand thick.Agirlwith (andhowcould theynotnotice?)aprecociousbosom.

EverymaternalinstinctinMatroncamealive,andshekeptvigil.Shewastherewhentheyoungnunwokeupinthenight,terrified,delirious,clingingtoMatrononcesheknewshewasinasafeplace.“Child,child,whathappenedtoyou?It isall right.Youaresafenow.”Withsuchsoothingwords,Matroncomfortedher,butitwasaweekbeforetheyoungnunsleptaloneandanotherweekbeforethecolorreturnedtoherface.

Whentheshortrainsended,andwhenthesunturneditsfacetothecityasiftokissandmakeupandsayitwasafterallitsfavoritecityforwhichithadreserveditsmostblessed,cloud-freelight,MatronledSisterMaryJosephPraiseoutdoors.ShewastointroducehertotheMissingPeople.ThetwoofthementeredOperatingTheater3 forthefirsttime,andanastonishedMatronwatchedas

thesternandseriousexpressionofhernewsurgeon,ThomasStone,crumbledintosomethingakintohappinessatthesightofSisterMaryJosephPraise.Hewasblushing,takingherhandinhisandcrushingittilltearscametotheyoungnun'seyes.

My mother must have known then that she would stay in Addis Ababa forever, stay in MissingHospital and in the presence of this surgeon. Towork for him, for his patients, to be his skilledassistant,wassufficientambition,and itwasanambitionwithouthubris,andGodwilling, itwassomething she could reasonably do. A return journey to India through Aden was too difficult tocontemplate.

IntheensuingsevenyearsthatshelivedandworkedatMissingHospital,SisterMaryJosephPraiserarelyspokeabouthervoyageandneverabouthertimeinAden.“WheneverIbroughtupAden,”Matronsaid,“yourmotherwouldglanceoverhershoulder,as ifAdenorwhatever itwassheleftbehindhadcaughtupwithher.Thedreadandterroronherfacemademeloathtoaskagain.Butitscaredme,I'lltellyou.Allshesaidwas,‘ItwasGod'swillthatIcomehere,Matron.Hisreasonsareunknowabletous.’Therewasnothingdisrespectfulaboutthatanswer,mindyou.ShebelievedthatherjobwastomakeherlifesomethingbeautifulforGod.HehadledhertoMissing.”

Suchacrucialgapinthehistory,especiallythatofashortlife,callsattentiontoitself.Abiographer,orason,mustdigdeep.Perhapssheknewthat thesideeffectofsuchaquestwasthat I'd learnmedicine,orthatIwouldfindThomasStone.

SISTERMARYJOSEPHPRAISEbeganthetaskoftherestofherdayswhensheenteredOperatingTheater3.She scrubbed and gloved and gowned and stood across the table from Dr. Stone as his firstassistant, pulling on the small retractor when he needed exposure, cutting the suture when hepresented the ends to her, and anticipatinghis need for irrigation or suction.A fewweeks later,whenthescrubnursecouldn'tbethere,mymotherfilledinasscrubnurseandfirstassistant.WhoknewbetterthanafirstassistantwhenStonewantedascalpelforsharpdissection,orwhengauzewrappedaroundhisfingerwoulddo.Itwasasifshehadabicameralmind,allowingonehalftobescrub nurse, shuttling instruments from the tray to his fingers, while the other side served asStone'sthirdarm,liftinguptheliver,orholdingasidetheomentum,thefattyapronthatprotectedthebowels,orwithafingertippushingdownedematoustissuejustenoughforStonetoseewherehisneedlewastotakeabite.

Matron would peek in to watch. “Pure ballet, my dear Marion. A heavenly pair. Totally silent,”Matronsaid.“Noaskingforinstrumentsorsaying‘Wipe,’‘Cut,’or‘Suction.’SheandStone…Youneversawanythingquicker.Isuspectthatweslowedthemdownbecausewecouldn'tgetpeopleoffandonthetablequicklyenough.”

ForsevenyearsStoneandSisterMary JosephPraisekept thesameschedule.Whenheoperatedlate into the night and into themorning, shewas across from him,more constant than his ownshadow, dutiful, competent, uncomplaining, and never absent. Until, that is, the day when mybrother and I announced our presence in her womb and our unstoppable desire to trade thenourishmentoftheplacentaforthesuccorofherbreasts.

CHAPTER2TheMissingFinger

THOMAS STONE HAD a reputation at Missing for being outwardly quiet but intense and evenmysterious, though Dr. Ghosh, the hospital's internal medicine specialist and jack-of-all-trades,disputed that l ast label, saying, “When a man is a mystery to himself you can hardly call himmysterious.” His associates had learned not to read too much into Stone's demeanor, which astrangermightthinkwassurlywheninfacthewaspainfullyshy.Lostandclumsyoutsideit,insideOperatingTheater 3 hewas focusedand fluid, as if itwasonly in the theater thatbodyand soulcametogether,andwheretheactivitywithinhisheadmatchedtheterrainoutside.

As a surgeon, Stone was famous for his speed, his courage, his daring, his boldness, hisinventiveness, the economy of hismovements, and his calmness under duress. Thesewere skillsthathe'dhonedonatrustinganduncomplainingpopulation,brieflyinIndia,andtheninEthiopia.ButwhenSisterMaryJosephPraise,hisassistantforsevenyears,wentintolabor,allthesequalitiesvanished.

On the day of our birth, ThomasStonehadbeen standing over a youngboywhosebelly hewasabout to open. He held his hand out, palm up, fingers extended to receive the scalpel in thattimelessgesturethatwouldforeverbethemeasureofhisdaysasasurgeon.Butforthefirsttimeinsevenyears,steelhadnotslappedintohispalmtheinstanthisfingersopened;indeed,thediffidenttaptoldhimsomeoneotherthanSisterMaryJosephPraisestoodacrossfromhim.“Impossible,”hesaid when a contrite voice explained that Sister Mary Joseph Praise was indisposed. In thepreceding sevenyears therehadn'tbeena timewhenhe'd stood therewithouther.Herabsencewas as distracting and maddening as a bead of sweat about to fall into his eye when he wasoperating.

Stonedidn'tlookupashemadehiskeyholeincision.Skin.Fat.Fascia.Splitthemuscle.Then,usingbluntdissection,heexposedtheglisteningperitoneum,whichheincised.Hisfingerslitheredintotheabdominalcavitythroughthisportalandrootedfortheappendix.Still,witheachstep,hehadtowaitforafractionofasecond,orwaveofftheprofferedinstrumentinfavorofanother.HeworriedaboutSisterMaryJosephPraiseevenifhewasunawarethathewasworrying,orunwillingtoadmitit.

Hesummonedtheprobationer,ayoung,nervousEritreangirl.HeaskedhertoseekoutSisterMaryJosephPraiseandremindher thatdoctorsandnursescouldn'taffordthe luxuryofbeing ill.“Askher”—theterrifiedprobationer'slipsweremovingasshetriedtoby-hearthismessage—”kindlyaskher,if…”Hiseyeswerefreetolookattheprobationer,sincehisfingerwasnowsoundingtheboy'sinsidesbetterthananypairofeyes.“…ifsherecallsthatIreturnedtotheoperatingtheatertheverynextdayafterperformingarayamputationonmyownfinger?”

That event took place five years before andwas an importantmilestone in Stone's life.His owncurvedneedleonaholderhadnickedthepulpofhisrightindexfingerwhileheworkedinapus-filledbelly.He'dimmediatelystrippedoffhisglove,andwithahypodermicneedle,hehadinjectedacriflavine,preciselyonemilliliterofasolutiondiluted1:500,downthetinytracktheerrantneedlehad traveled. Then he'd infiltrated the fluid into the surrounding tissue aswell. The orange dyetransformedthedigitintoanoversizelollipop.Butdespitethesemeasures,injusthoursacreepingredwaveextendeddown from the fingertipand into the tendonsheath in thepalm.Despiteoralsulfatriadtabletsand,later,atGhosh'sinsistence,injectionofpreciouspenicillinintohisbuttocks,scarlet streaks (whichwere thehallmarkof streptococcal infection) showedathiswrist, and theepitrochlear lymphnodebehind theelbowbecameasbigasagolfball.The rigorshadmadehisteethchatterandthebedshake.(Thislaterbecameanaphorisminhisfamoustextbook,aStonismasreaderscalledit:“Iftheteethchatteritisachill,butifthebedshakesitisatruerigor.”)Hehadmadeaquickdecision:toamputatehisownfingerbeforetheinfectionspreadfarther,andtodotheoperationhimself.

Theprobationerwaitedfortherestofhismessage,whileStonedrewthewormlikeappendixoutofthe incisionandstraightenedup likea fishermanwho'dreeledhisquarryontothedeck.The fewbleeders Stone snapped off with hemostats, like a marksman firing at pop-up ducks, while alsoclampingoffthebloodvesselstotheappendix.Hetiedtheseoffwithcatgut,hishandsablur,untilallthedanglinghemostatswereremoved.

Stonehelduphisrighthandfortheprobationer'sinspection.Fiveyearsaftertheamputation,thehand lookeddeceptivelynormal, thoughoncloserstudy the index fingerwasmissing.Thekey to

thisaestheticallypleasingresultwasthatthemetacarpalhead—theknuckleofthemissingfinger—hadbeencutaway,too,sothatnostumpwasvisibleintheVbetweenthumbandmiddlefinger.Itwasas if thefingershadsimplymovedoveronenotch.Four-fingeredcustomglovesaddedtotheillusionofnormalcy.Far frombeingadisadvantage,hishandcouldnegotiatecrevicesand tissueplanesthatotherscouldnot,andhismiddlefingerhaddevelopedthedexterityofanindexfinger.That,togetherwiththefactthathismiddlefingerwaslongerthanhisformerindexfinger,meanthecouldteaseanappendixoutfromitshidingplacebehindacecum(thebeginningofthelargebowel)betterthananysurgeonalive.Hecouldsecureaknotinthedeepestrecessoftheliverbedwithjusthis fingers, where other surgeons might resort to a needle holder. In later years, in Boston, hefamouslypunctuatedhisadmonishmenttohisinternsof“Semperperrectum,peranumsalutem,ifyoudon'tputyourfingerinit,you'llputyourfootinit,”byholdinguptheformermiddlefinger,nowelevatedtothestatusofindexfinger.

ThosewhotrainedwithStoneneveroverlookedtherectalexamontheirpatient,notjustbecauseStone had drilled into their heads that most colon cancers are in the rectum or sigmoid, manywithinreachoftheexaminingfinger,butalsobecausetheyknewthey'dbefiredforthisomission.YearslaterinAmerica,astorycirculatedaboutoneofStone'strainees,amannamedBlessing,who,after examining a drunk in the emergency room and taking care of whatever the problem was,returnedtohiscall room.Ashewasabout tosleep,herememberedthathehadn'tdonearectalexam.Guiltandfearthathischiefwouldsomehowdiscoverhislapsemovedhimtogetupandgooutintothenight.Blessingtrackedthepatientdowntoabar,whereforthepriceofabeerthemanagreedtodrophispantsandbedigitallyexamined—be“blessed”astheeventcametobedescribed—andonlythenwastheyoungdoctor'sconscienceeased.

THEPROBATIONER INOperatingTheater3on thedayofSisterMary JosephPraise's laborandourbirthwasapretty—no,abeautiful— youngEritreangirl.Sadly,herhumorless intensity, thededicationsheshowedtohertraining,madepeopleforgetheryouthandherlooks.

Theprobationerhurriedofftofindmymother,notpausingtoquestiontheproprietyofthemessageshecarriedtoSisterMaryJosephPraise.Stone,ofcourse,wouldneverhaveimaginedthemessagemightbehurtful.Asissooftenthecasewithshyyettalentedpeople,StonewasgenerallyforgivenwhatDr.Ghosh called his social retardation. The glaring gaps that in a bowel repair could havebeenfatalwereoverlookedwhentheyoccurredinsuchapersonality;theyweren'tanimpedimenttohim,onlyanirritationtoothers.

At the time of our birth the probationer was not yet eighteen, with a tendency to confusepenmanshipandkeepinganeatmedicalrecord(andtherebypleasingMatron)withtheactualcareofpatients.

BeingseniormostofthefiveprobationersinMissing'snursingschoolhadbeenamatterofprideforher,andmostdaysshemanagedtopushtothebackofhermindthefactthathersenioritywasonlybecause shewas repeating her year, or, asDr.Ghosh put it, because shewas “on the long-termplan.”

Orphaned as a child by smallpox,which had also left a faint lunar landscape on her cheeks, theprobationer had from a young age addressed her self-consciousness by becoming excessivelystudious,atraitencouragedbytheItaliannuns,theSistersoftheNigrizia(Africa),whoraisedherin the orphanage inAsmara. The young probationer displayed her studiousness as if itwere notmerelyavirtuebutaGod-givengift,likeabeautyspotorasupernumerarytoe.Whatpromiseshe'dshown in those early years, sailing through church school in Asmara, skipping grades, speakingfluent official Italian (as opposed to the bar-and-cinema version spoken by many Ethiopians, inwhich prepositions and pronouns were dispensed with altogether), and able to recite even hernineteen-timestable.

Youcouldsaytheprobationer'spresenceatMissingwasanaccidentofhistory.HerhometownofAsmarawasthecapitalcityofEritrea,acountrywhichhadbeenanItaliancolonyfromasfarbackas 1885. The ItaliansunderMussolini invadedEthiopia fromEritrea in 1935,with theworldpowersunwillingtointercede.WhenMussolinithrewhislotinwithHitler,hisfatewassealed,andby1941,ColonelWingate'sGideonForcehaddefeated the Italiansand liberatedEthiopia.TheAlliesgaveEmperorHaileSelassieofEthiopiaamostunusualgift:theytackedontheveryoldItaliancolonyofEritreaasaprotectorateofnewlyliberatedEthiopia.TheEmperorhadlobbiedhardforjustthis,sothathis landlockedcountry couldhave the seaport ofMassawa,not tomention the lovely city ofAsmara.TheBritishperhapswantedtopunishtheEritre-ans for their longcollaborationwiththeItalians;Eritreanaskaris, thousands of them,were part of the Italian army and had fought theirblackneighborsanddiedalongsidetheirwhitemasters.

FortheEritreanstohavetheirlandshandedtoEthiopiawasanunimaginablewound,akintogiving

liberated France to England merely because the people of both countries were white and atecabbage.When, a few years later, theEmperor annexed the land, theEritreans at oncebegan aguerrillawarfortheirliberation.

But there were some advantages to Eritrea being part of Ethiopia: the probationer won ascholarshiptothecountry'sonlynursingschoolinAddisAbaba,atMissingHospital,thefirstyoungpersonfromEritreatobesorewarded.Thetrajectoryofherscholasticprogresstothatpointwasspectacularandunprecedented,amodelforallyouth;itwasalsoaninvitationtofatetostickafootoutandtripher.

Yetitwasn'tfatethatstymiedtheprobationerwhenshecametoherclinicalyears,anditwasn'therclumsinesswith theAmharic language,orwithEnglish, sinceshesoonovercame theseobstaclesandbecamefluent.Shediscoveredthatmemorization(“by-hearting,”asMatroncalledit)wasofnohelptoheratthebedside,whereshestruggledtodistinguishthetrivialfromthelifethreatening.Oh yes, she could and did recite the names of the cranial nerves as amantra to calm her ownnerves.Shecouldrattleoffthecompositionofmisturacarminativa(onegmofsodabicarb,twomleachofspiritofammoniaandtincturecardamom,pointsixmloftinctureofginger,onemlofspiritofchloroform,toppedoffwithpeppermintwatertothirtyml)fordyspepsia.Butwhatshecouldn'tdo,anditannoyedhertoseehoweffortlesslyherfellowprobationerscould,wasdeveloptheoneskillMatronsaidshelacked:SoundNursingSense.Theonlyreferencetothisinhertextbookwasastatementsocryptic,moresoaftershememorizedit,thatshe'dbeguntothinkitwasputtheretoantagonizeher:

Sound Nursing Sense is more important than knowledge, though knowledge only enhances it.Sound Nursing Sense is a quality that cannot be defined, yet is invaluable when present andnoticeable when absent. To paraphrase Osler, a nurse with book knowledge but without SoundNursingSenseislikeasailoratseainaseaworthyvesselbutwithoutmap,sextant,orcompass.(Ofcourse,thenursewithoutbookknowledgehasnotgonetoseaatall!)

Theprobationerhadatleastgonetosea—shewassureofthat.Shewasdeterminedtoprovethatshedidhavemapandcompass,andsoshewouldregardeveryassignmentasatestofherskills,anopportunitytodisplaySoundNursingSense(ortohidethelackofit).

SHERANASIFjinnwerechasingher,throughtheshelteredwalkwaybetweenthetheaterandtherestofthehospital. Patients and relativesof thosebeingoperatedon thatdaywere squattingor sittingcross-leggedoneithersideofherpath.Abarefootman,hiswife,andtwosmallchildrensharedameal,dippingfingersintoabowllinedwithinjeraonwhichalentilcurryhadbeenpoured,whileaninfant,allbuthiddenbythemother'sshama,suckledatthebreast.Thefamilyturnedinalarmassheranby,anditmadeherfeelimportant.Acrosstheyardshecouldseewomeninwhiteshamasandbrightredandorangeheadscarvescrowdingtheoutpatientbenches,lookingatthatdistancelikehensinachickencoop.

Inthenurses’quarterssheranupthestairstomymother'sroom.Whensheknockedtherewasnoanswer,butthedoorwasunlocked.InthedarkenedroomshesawSisterMaryJosephPraiseunderthe covers, her face turned toward the wall. “Sister?” she called softly, and when my mothermoaned,theprobationertookthattomeanshewasawake.“Dr.Stonesentmetotellyou…”Shefeltrelievedtohaverememberedallthepartsofthemessage.Shewaitedforaresponse,andwhenmymotherdidn'tvolunteerone,theprobationerimaginedthatmymothermightbeannoyedwithher.“IonlycamebecauseDr.Stonesentme.I'msorrytodisturbyou.Ihopeyoufeelbetter.Doyouneedanything?”Shewaiteddutifully,andafterawhile,sheeasedoutoftheroom.SincetherewasnoreturnmessageforDr.Stone,andsinceherpediatricnursingclasswasabouttostart,shedidnotreturntoTheater3.

IT WAS EARLY AFTERNOON by the time Stone went to the nurses’ quarters. He had finished theappendectomy,thentwogastro-jejunostomiesforpepticulcer,threeherniarepairs,onehydrocele,asubtotal thyroid resection, and a skingraft, but byhis standards it hadbeen tortuously slow.Anordeal.Withknittedbrowheascended the stairs.Heunderstood thathis swiftness as a surgeondepended to a large degree—more than hed ever imagined—on the skills of Sister Mary JosephPraise…Whydidhehave to thinkabout these things?Wherewasshe?Thatwas thepoint.Andwhenwouldshebeback?

There was no answer when he knocked. It was the corner room on the second floor. Thecompounder'swifecamecharginguptoprotestthistrespassbyamale.ThoughMatronandSisterMaryJosephPraiseweretheonlynunsatMissing,thecompounder'swifeactedasifshehadbeendeniedhertruecalling.Withasashlowoverherbrowandacrucifixasbigasarevolver,shelookedlikeanun.Sheconsideredherselfaquasiwardenofthenurses’hostel,thekeeperoftheMissingvirgins.Shehadaspider'ssenseforamalefootstep,anincursionintoherterritory.Butnow,seeingwhoitwas,shebackedaway.

StonehadneverbeeninsideSisterMaryJosephPraise'sroom.Whenshetypedorworkedontheillustrationsforhismanuscripts,shecametohisquartersortohisofficeadjoiningtheclinic.

Heturnedthehandle,callingout,“Sister?Sister!”Hewasmetbyamiasmaatoncefamiliarandalarming,buthecouldn'tplaceit.

Hegropedfortheswitchandsworewheniteludedhim.Hestumbledtothewindow,bumpingintoachestofdrawers.Heswung theglass-panedportionof thewindow in,and thenpushedback thewoodenshutters.Daylightfloodedthenarrowroom.

On topof thechestofdrawerswasaheavymason jar thatdrew thesun's rays.Theamber fluidwithinreachedallthewaytothechunkylidwhichwassealedwithwax.Atfirsthethoughtthejarmightholdarelic,anicon.Acarpetofgoosefleshsweptdownhisarms,asifrecognitioncametohisbodybeforeitcametohisbrain.There,suspendedinthefluid,thenaildelicatelypivotingontheglassbottomlikeaballerinaontiptoe,washisfinger.Theskinbelowthenailwasthetextureofoldparchment,whiletheunderbellydisplayedthepurplediscolorationof infection.Hefelta longing,anemptiness,andanitchinhisrightpalmwhichonlythatmissingfingercouldrelieve.

“Ididn'tknow—”hesaidturningtoherbed,butwhathesawmadehimforgetwhathewasgoingtosay.

SisterMaryJosephPraiselayinagonyonhernarrowcot.Herlipswereblue.Herlusterlesseyeswerefocusedbeyondhisface.Shewasdeathlypale.Hereachedforherpulse,whichwasrapidandfeeble.AnuninvitedmemoryfromtheCalangutevoyageofsevenyearsbeforecamefloodingoverhim:herecalledthefeverishandcomatoseSisterAnjali.Acoldsensationspreadfromhisbellytohischest.Hewasovercomebyanemotionthatasasurgeonhehadrarelyexperienced:fear.

Hislegscouldnolongersupporthim.

Hefelltohiskneesbyherbed.“Mary?”hesaid.Hecoulddonothingbutrepeathername.Fromhislips,SisterMaryJosephPraise'snamesounded likean interrogation, thenanendearment, thenaconfessionoflovespunoutofoneword.Mary?Mary,Mary!Shedidnot,couldnot,answer.

Anoldman'spalsyovertookhishandsastheyreachedforherface.Hekissedherforehead.Inthatextraordinaryandunstoppableactherealized,notwithoutatwingeofpride,thathelovedher,andthathe,ThomasStone,wasnotonlycapableoflove,butthathehadlovedherforsevenyears.Ifhe'dbeenblindtohislove,perhapsitwasbecauseithadhappenedassoonashemetheronthoseslipperystairs, ithadhappenedwhenshehadnursedhim,bathedhim,triedtorevivehimontheCalangute. Ithadhappenedwhenshe'dheldhiminherarmsandwrestledanddraggedhisdeadweighttoahammockandthenspoon-fedlifebackintohim.IthadhappenedastheycrouchedoverSister Anjali's body. But love reached its apogee when Sister Mary Joseph Praise came to workalongsidehiminEthiopia,andthenithadneverwavered.Lovesostrong,withoutebbandfloworcrestsandtroughs,indeedlackinganysortofmotionsothatithadbecomeinvisibletohimthesesevenyears,partoftheorderofthingsoutsidehisheadwhichhehadtakenforgranted.

DidMary lovehim?Yes.Of thishe feltcertain.Shehad lovedhim,but followinghiscue—alwaysfollowinghis cue—she'd saidnothing.Andwhat hadhedone all these years?Only takenher forgranted.Mary,Mary,Mary.Eventhesoundofhernamewasarevelation tohimsincehe'dnevercalledheranythingbutSister.Hewassobbing,terrifiedoflosingher,butthat,too,hesawwashisselfishness,hisneedforhermanifestingitselfagain.Wouldhehavethechancetomakeamends?Howstupidcouldamanbe?

SisterMaryJosephPraisebarelyregisteredhistouch.Hercheekwashotagainsthis.Heliftedthesheet.Agenerousswellingofherbellymethiseyes.

It was an axiom of his that any swelling in a woman's abdomen was a pregnancy until provenotherwise.But hismind overrode that thought, refusing to consider it—thiswas a nun, after all.Insteadhecametoasnapdiagnosisofbowelobstruction…orfreefluidintheperitonealcavity…orhemorrhagicpancreatitis…somesortofabdominalcatastrophe…

Maneuvering through thedoor frame, then tryingnot to bumpher feet on thebanister, his sobschangingtogruntsofeffort,hecarriedheroutfromherquarters,andthendownthepathtotheoperatingtheater.ShefeltheaviertoStonethanshehadarighttobe.

TherewasaquestionthechiefexaminerhadposedtohimwhenheappearedfortheRoyalCollegeof Surgeons viva voce after passing his written examinations in Edinburgh: “What first-aidtreatmentinshockisadministeredbyear?”Hisanswer“Wordsofcomfort!”hadwontheday.Butnow, in place of reassuring and soothing words that would have been humane and therapeutic,

Stoneyelledforhelpatthetopofhisvoice.

His shouts, taken up by the keeper of the virgins, brought everyone including Gebrew thewatchman,whocamerunningfromthefrontgate,alongwithKoochoolooandtwootherunnameddogsatherheels.

Thesightoftheblubbering,helplessStoneshockedMatronjustasmuchasthesightofSisterMaryJosephPraise'sterriblestate.

Lord,he'sdoneitagain,wasMatron'sfirstthought.

Itwasawell-keptsecretthatStonehadonthreeorfouroccasionssincehisarrivalatMissinggoneonadrunkenbinge.Foramanwhorarelydrank,wholovedhiswork,whofoundsleepadistraction,who had to be reminded to go to bed, these episodes were mystifying. They came with thesuddennessofinfluenzaandtheterrorofpossession.Thefirstpatientonthemorninglistwouldbeonthetable,readytobeputunder,butthere'dbenosignofStone.Whentheywentlookingforhimthe first time they found a babbling, disheveledwhiteman, pacing in his quarters.During theseepisodeshedidnotsleeporeat,slippingoutinthedeadofnighttoreplenishhissuppliesofrum.Onthe lastoccasionthiscreaturehadclimbedthetreeoutside itswindowandperchedthere forhours,mutteringlikeacrosshen.Afallfromthatheightwouldhavecrackeditsskull.Matron,whenshehadseenthosebloodshot,mongooseeyesstaringdownather,fled,leavingSisterMaryJosephPraiseandGhoshtokeepvigilandtotrytotalkhimdown,gethimtoeat,tostopdrinking.

Asabruptlyasitstarted,intwodays,nomorethanthree,thespellwouldbeover,andafteraverylongsleepStonewouldbebackatworkasifnothinghadhappened,nevermakinganyreferencetohowhe'd inconveniencedthehospital, thememoryof iterased.Nooneeverbrought ituptohimbecause the other Stone, the onewho rarely drank,would have been hurt and insulted by suchinquiryoraccusation.TheotherStonewasasproductiveasthreefull-timesurgeons,andsotheseepisodeswereasmallpricetopay

Matron came closer. Stone's eyes were not bloodshot and he didn't reek of spirits. No, he wasunhingedbySisterMaryJosephPraise'scondition,andrightlyso.AsMatronturnedherattentionfromStone toSisterMary JosephPraise, shenevertheless felt aghost of satisfaction: at last themanhadbaredhissoul,displayedhisfeelingsforhisassistant.

MatronignoredStone'sramblingsaboutvolvulusorileusorpancreatitisortuberculousperitonitis.“Let'sgotothetheater,”shesaid,andwhentheywerethere,shesaid,“Layherontheoperatingtable.”

HesetherdownandMatronsawasightshehadseensevenyearsbefore:bloodsoakedSisterMaryJosephPraise'sdress in theregionofherpubis.Matron'smindracedback toSisterMary JosephPraise's first arrival from Aden, and how blood on her habit then had caused similar concern.Matron had never asked the nineteen-year-old, point-blank, what caused the bleeding. Theirregularity of the stain on that occasion had invited the observer to readmeaning in its shape.Matron's imagination had constructed somany scenarios to explain thatmystery. In the ensuingyears,memoryhadchangedtheeventfrommysterioustomystical.

WhichwaswhyMatronnowglancedatSisterMaryJosephPraise'spalmsandbreastasStonelaidherdown,asifshehalfexpectedtoseebleedingstigmata,asifthatfirstmysteryhadgrownintothis secondmystery.Butno, theonlybloodwasat thevulva.Lotsofblood.Withdarkclots.Andbrightredrivuletsthatrandownthethighs.Matronhadnodoubt,asblooddrippedtothefloor:thistimeitwassecularbleeding.

Matron seated herself between Sister Mary Joseph Praise's legs, willfully ignoring the stomachswellingthatloomedinfrontofher.Thelabiawereengorgedandblue,andwhenMatronslidherglovedfingerin,shefoundthecervixfullydilated.

Of blood therewasmuch toomuch. She swabbed and dabbed and pulled down on the posteriorvaginalwallforabetterview.Whenapiteoussighemergedfromherpatient'slungs,Matronalmostdroppedthespeculum.Matron'schestwaspounding,herhandsshaking.Sheleanedforward,tiltedherheadagaintopeerin.There,likearockatthebottomofamudpit,astoneoftheheart,wasababy'shead.

“Lord, she's,” Matron said, when she could finally speak, gasping at the sacrilegious word thatthreatenedtochokeherandwhichhermouthcouldnolongercontain,“pregnant.”

EveryobserverIlatertalkedtoremembersthismomentinTheater3,whentheairstoodstill,whentheloudclockacrossfromthetablefrozeandalong,silentpausefollowed.

“Impossible!”saidStone,forthesecondtimethatday,andeventhoughitwasincorrectandhardlythethingtosay,itallowedthemalltobreatheagain.

ButMatronknewshewasright.

Shewouldhavetodeliverthisbaby.Dr.K.Hemlatha—Hematoallofthem—wasoutofstation.

Matronhaddeliveredhundredsofbabies.Sheremindedherselfofthisnowtotryandkeepherselffrompanic.

Buthowwasshetopushawaynotjustherqualmsbutherconfusion?Oneofherown,abrideofChrist—pregnant! Itwas unthinkable.Hermind refused to digest this. And yet the evidence—aninfant'sskull—wasthere,rightbeforehereyes.

Thesamethoughtdistractedthescrubnurse,thebarefootorderly,andSisterAsqual,whowasthenurseanesthetist.Itcausedthemtotripoveroneanotherandknockdownanintravenousdripastheyscurriedaroundthetable,readyingthepatient.Onlytheprobationer,whowasmortifiedthatshe had failed thatmorning to recognize this crisis when she visited SisterMary Joseph Praise,didn'tstoptowonderhowSisterMaryJosephPraisegotpregnant.

Matron'sheartfeltasifitmightgalloprightoutofherchest.“Lord,whatworsecircumstancecanyouconstruct foradelivery?Apregnancy that'samortalsin.Amother-to-bewho is likemyowndaughter.Massivebleeding,ghostlypallor…”AndallthiswhenHema,Missing'sonlygynecologist,notonlythebestinthecountry,butthebestMatronhadeverseen,wasaway.

Bachelli up in the Piazzawasmarginally competent in obstetrics but unreliable after two in theafternoon, and his Eritreanmistresswas deeply suspicious of him leaving on “house calls.” JeanTran,thehalf-French,half-VietnamesefellowinCasaPopolare,didabitofeverythingandsmiledalot.Butassumingtheycouldbereached,itwouldstillbeawhilebeforeeithermanwouldcome.

No,Matronhadtodothisherself.Shehadtoforgettheimplicationsofthepregnancy.Shehadtobreathe,concentrate.Shehadtoconductanormaldelivery.

Butthatafternoonandevening,normalwouldeludethem.

STONE STOOD BY, hismouth open, looking toMatron for direction,whileMatron sat facing the vulva,waiting for the baby to descend. Stone alternately crossed his hands in front of him and thendroppedthembyhissides.HecouldseeSisterMaryJosephPraise'spallor increasing.AndwhenNurse Asqual in a panicked voice called out the blood pressure— “systolic of eighty palpable”—Stonewobbledasifhemightfaint.

Despite uterine contractions which Matron could feel through the belly and see in Sister MaryJoseph Praise's contorted face, and despite the fact that the cervix was wide open, nothinghappened.Ababy'sheadhighupinthebirthcanalwiththecervixflattenedlikeagasketarounditalways reminded Matron of the shaved scalp of a bishop. But this bishop was staying put. Andmeanwhile,suchbleeding!Adarkandmessypoolhadformedonthetableandtidaleddiesofbloodcameoutofthevagina.Bloodwastodeliveryroomsandoperatingtheaterswhatfecesweretotripefactories,butevensoitseemedtoMatronthatthiswasalotofbloodcomingout.

“Dr.Stone,”Matronsaid,herlipsquivering.AbewilderedStonewonderedwhyshewascallingonhim.

“Dr.Stone,”shesaidagain.ForMatron,SoundNursingSensemeantanurseknowingher limits.ForGod'ssake,sheneedsaCesareansection.Butshedidn'tsaythosewordsbecausewithStoneitcouldhavetheoppositeeffect.Instead,hervoicelow,herheaddrooping,MatronpusheddownonherthighstobringherselftoherfeetandtovacateherspotbetweenSisterMaryJosephPraise'slegs.

“Dr.Stone.Yourpatient,”shesaidtothemanwhoeveryonebelievedtobemyfather,puttinginhishandsnotonlythelifeofawomanthathechosetolove,butourtwolives—mineandmybrother's—whichhechosetohate.

CHAPTER3TheGateofTears

WHENSISTERMARY JOSEPHPRAISE felttheheraldcrampsof labor,Dr.KalpanaHemlatha,thewomanIwouldcometocallmymother,wasfivehundredmilesawayandtenthousandfeetintheair.Offthestarboardwingof theplaneHemahadabeautiful viewofBabal-Mandab—theGateofTears—sonamed because of the innumerable ships that had wrecked in that narrow strait that separatedYemen a nd the rest of Arabia from Africa. At this latitude, Africa was just the Horn: Ethiopia,Djibouti,andSomalia.HematracedtheGateofTearsasitwidenedfromahairlinecracktobecometheRedSea,spoolingnorthtothehorizon.

AsaschoolgirlstudyinggeographyinMadras,India,Hemahadtomarkwherecoalandwoolwereproduced on a map of the British Isles. Africa figured in the curriculum as a playground forPortugal,Britain, andFrance, and a place for Livingstone to find the spectacular falls he namedafterQueenVictoria,andforStanleytofindLivingstone.Infutureyears,asmybrother,Shiva,andImadethejourneywithHema,shewouldteachusthepracticalgeographyshehadtaughtherself.She'dpointdowntotheRedSeaandsay,“Imaginethatribbonofwaterrunninguplikeaslitinaskirt,separatingSaudiArabiafromSudan,thenfartherupkeepingJordanawayfromEgypt.IthinkGodmeanttosnaptheArabianPeninsulafreeofAfrica.Andwhynot?Whatdothepeopleonthissidehaveincommonwiththepeopleontheotherside?”

Attheverytopoftheslitanarrowisthmus,theSinai,thwartedGod'sintentionandkeptEgyptandIsraelconnected.Theman-madeSuezCanal finishedthecutandallowedtheRedSeatoconnectwiththeMediterranean,savingshipsthelongjourneyaroundtheCape.HemawouldalwaystellusthatitwasovertheGateofTearsthatshehadtheawakeningthatwouldchangeherlife.“IheardacallwhenIwasinthatplane.WhenIthinkback,Iknowitwasyou.”Thatrattling,airbornetincanalwaysseemedanimprobableplaceforherepiphany.

HEMASATONTHEWOODENBENCHSEATSthatranlengthwiseonbothsidesoftheribbedfuselageoftheDC-3.ShewasunawareofhowbadlyherserviceswereneededjustthenatMissing,thehospitalwhereshehadworkedforthelasteightyears.Thedroneofthetwinengineswassoloudandunrelentingthat half anhour into the flight she felt as if the sound inhabitedher body. Thehardbench andchoppyridewereraisingblistersonherbehind.Wheneversheclosedhereyes,she feltas if shewerebeinghauledacrossaruttedlandscapeinthebackofabullockcart.

Her fellow travelers on this flight from Aden to Addis Ababa were Gujaratis,Malayalis, French,Armenians,Greeks, Yemenis, and a few otherswhose dress and speech did not as clearly revealtheirorigins.Asforher,sheworeawhitecottonsari,asleevelessoff-whiteblouse,andadiamondin her left nostril. Her hair was parted in themiddle and gatheredwith a clip at the back, andlooselybraidedbelow.

She sat sideways looking out. She saw a gray dart below—the shadow cast by the plane on theocean.Agiantfishsheimaginedwasswimmingjustbelowthesurfaceofthesea,keepingpacewithher.Thewaterlookedcoolandinviting,unliketheinterioroftheDC-3,whichhadgrownlesssteamybutwasstillthickwiththemingledscentsofthehumanfreight.TheArabshadthedry,mustysmellofagraincellar;theAsianscontributedthegingerandgarlic;andfromthewhitescametheodorofamilk-soakedbib.

Throughthehalf-opencurtaintothecockpitshecouldseethepilot'sprofile.Wheneverheturnedtoglanceathiscargo,hisbottle-greensunglassesseemedtoswallowhis face,onlyhisnosepokingthrough.Theglasseshadbeenpercheduponhisforeheadwhensheboarded,andHemahadnotedthenthathiseyeswereredlikearodent's.Theodorof juniperberryonhisbreathadvertisedhisfondnessforgin.She'ddevelopedanaversiontohimevenbeforeheopenedhismouthtoherdhispassengers onto the plane, snapping at them—“Allez!”—as if they were subhuman. She bit hertonguethen,becausethiswasthemanabouttotakethemaloft.

Hisfaceandjugearsresembledafigureachildmightdrawwithcrayononbutcherpaper.Butthedetailswerebeyondachild: the finearborofbloodvesselsonhischeeks;muttonchopsideburnsdyedbootpolishblack;thewhiteringofarcussenilisaroundhispupils;grayeyebrowsthatbetrayedhispretenseat youthfulness.Shewonderedhowamancould look in themirror andnot see theabsurdityofhisownappearance.

Shestudiedherownreflectionintheporthole.Herswasaroundface,too,theeyeswidelyspacedwithadoll'spertnose.The redpottu in the center of her forehead stood out.Her cheekshad a

Martiantintcastonthembythecobalt-bluewaterbelow,andthehintofgreeninhereyes—unusualforanIndian—wasaccentuated.“Yourgazeencompassesallmen,makesyourmostordinaryglanceseemintimate,carnal,”Dr.Ghoshhadtoldher,“asthoughyouareravishingmewithyoureyes!”Ghoshwas a tease and forgotwhat he said as soon as thewords rolled off his tongue. But thisstatementofhislingeredwithher.ShethoughtofGhosh'sfur-coveredlimbsandshuddered.Bodyhairwasoneofherpetdislikes,orsoshe'dbelieved.SheknewitwasafatalprejudiceforanIndianwoman.Hiswaslikeagorillacoat,thechesttendrilspokingoutthroughhisvestandpeekingupabove his shirt collar. “Ravishing? Youwish, you lecher,” she said now, smiling as ifGhoshweresittingacrossfromher.

She had to give him thismuch: if she stared fractionally too long at aman, she attractedmoreattentionthansheintended.Itwaspartlywhysheusedspectacleswithlargewireframes,becauseshethoughttheymadehereyesseemclosertogether.ShelikedtheexaggeratedCupid'sbowofherupperlip,butnothercheeks,whichshefeltweretoochubby.Whattodo?Shewasabigwoman.Notfat,butbig…Well,maybeabitfat,andshe'dcertainlyputonakiloortwoorthreeinIndia,buthowcouldshehelpthatinthefaceofamother'sastonishingcooking?Becauseofmyheight,Igetawaywithit,shetoldherself.Wearingasarihelps,ofcourse.

She grunted, remembering howDr.Ghosh had invented a special term for her:magnified. Yearslater,whenHindimovieswiththeirsonganddancebecamealltherageinAfrica,thewardboysinAddisAbabawouldcallherMotherIndia,notinmockery,butinreverenceforthetearjerkerofthesamenamestarringNargis.MotherIndiahadrunforthreestraightmonthsattheEmpireTheaterand thenmoved to theCinemaAdowa; that, too,without the benefit of subtitles. Thewardboyscouldbeheardsinging“DuniyaMeinHumAayeHain”—”We'veArrivedinThisWorld”—thoughtheydidn'tunderstandawordofHindustani.

“And if I'mmagnified, what term shall we apply to you?” she said, carrying on the imaginaryconversation,surveyingheroldfriendfromheadtofoot.Hewasnotaconventionallygood-lookingman. “How about ‘alien’? I mean it as a compliment. I say ‘alien,’ Ghosh, because you are sounawareofyourself,ofyourlooks.There'saseductioninthatforothers.Alienbecomesbeauty.I'msaying this toyoubecauseyou'renothere.Tobearoundsomeonewhoseself-confidence ismorethanwhatourfirstglanceledustoexpectisseductive.”

Mysteriously, during her holidays, Ghosh's name kept popping up in her conversations with hermother.DespiteHema's lack of interest inmarriage, hermotherwas terrified that her daughterwouldendupwithanon-Brahmin,someonelikeGhosh.AndyetasHemanearedthirtyhermotherhadbeguntofeelthatanyhusbandwasbetterthannohusbandatall.

“Yousayhe'snothandsome?Doeshehavegoodcolor?”

“Ma,he'sfair…fairerthanme,andhehasbrowneyes.Bengali,Parsi,andGodknowswhatotherinfluencesinthoseeyes.”

“Whatishe?”

“Hecallshimselfhigh-casteMadrasmongrel,”shesaid,giggling.Hermother'sfrownthreatenedtoswallowhernose,andsoHemahadchangedthesubject.

Besides, itwas impossibletoconstructaGhoshforsomeonewho'dnevermethim.Shecouldsaythat his hair was combed flat and parted in the middle, looking sleek and smart for about tenminutesinthemorning,butafterthat,thehairsbrokelooselikeriotingchildren.Shecouldsayhowatanytimeoftheday,evenafterhehadjustshaved,blackstubbleshowedunderhisjaw.Shecouldsaythathisneckwasnonexistent,squasheddownbyaheadshapedlikeajackfruit.Shecouldsayhejustlookedshortbecauseofaslightbellywhosesizewasexaggeratedinthewayheleanedbackandswayedfromsidetosideashewalked,whichdrewtheeyeawayfromthevertical.Thentherewashisvoice,unmodulatedandstartling,as if thevolumeknobhadfrozenonitshighestsetting.Howcouldsheconveytohermotherthatthesumtotalofallthismadehimnotugly,butstrangelybeautiful.

Despitetherashonthebacksofhishands—aburn,really—hisfingersweresensual.TheancientX-raymachine,aKelley-Koett,hadcaused therash. Just thinkingof the“Koot”madeHema'sbloodboil. In 1909, Emperor Menelik had imported an electric chair, having heard the invention wouldefficientlygetridofhisenemies.Whenhediscovered itneededelectricity,hesimplyused itasathrone.Similarly,thebigKelley-Koetthadcomeinthe1930swithaneagerAmericanmissiongroupthatsoonrealizedthat,eventhoughelectricityhadarrivedinAddisAbaba,itwasintermittentandthe voltage insufficient for such a temperamental beast. When the mission folded, the preciousunpackedmachine had been simply left behind.Missing lacked anX-raymachine, and soGhoshreassembledtheunitandmatchedittoatransformer.

NoonebutGhoshdared touch theKoot.Cables ran from itsgiant rectifier to theCoolidge tube,whichsatonarailandcouldbemovedthiswayandthat.Heworkedthedialsandvoltageleversuntil a spark leapedacross the twobrass conductors, producinga thunderclap.The fierydisplayhadcausedoneparalyzedpatienttoleapoffthestretcherandrunforhislife;GhoshcalledthattheSturmundDrangcure.HewastheKoot'skeeper,repairingit,babyingitsothatthreedecadesafterthecompanywentunder,theKootwasstilloperational.Usingthefluo-roscopyscreen,hestudiedthedancingheart,orelsehedefinedexactlywhereacavityinthelungresided.Bypushingonthebellyhecouldestablishwhethera tumorwas fixed to thebowelorabuttedon thespleen. In theearlyyearshehadn'tbotheredwiththelead-linedgloves,oraleadapronforthatmatter.Theskinofhisprobing,intelligenthandspaidavisibleprice.

HEMATRIEDTOIMAGINEGhoshtellinghisfamilyabouther.She'stwenty-nine.Yes,wewereclassmatesatMadrasMedicalSchool,butshe'safewyearsyounger.Idon'tknowwhyshenevermarried.Ididn'tgettoknowherwelltillwewereinternsinthesepticward.She'sanobstetrician.ABrahmin.Yes,fromMadras.Anexpatriate,livingandworkinginEthiopiatheseeightyears.ThosewerethelabelsthatdefinedHema,andyettheyrevealedlittle,explainednothing.Thepastrecedesfromatraveler,shethought.

Sittingintheplane,Hemaclosedhereyesandpicturedherschoolgirlselfwiththetwinponytails,thelongwhiteskirt,andwhiteblouseunderthepurplehalfsari.AllMrs.HoodSecondarySchoolgirls inMylaporehad towear thathalf sari, reallynothingmore thana rectangleofcloth tocoilaround the skirt onceandpin on the shoulder.Shedhated it, becauseonewasneither childnoradultbuthalfwoman.Her teacherswore full sariswhile thevenerableheadmistress,Mrs.Hood,woreaskirt.Hema'sproteststriggeredalecturebyherfather:DoyounotknowhowfortunateyouaretobeinaschoolwithaBritishheadmistress?Doyounotknowhowmanyhundredshavetriedtogetinthere,offeredtentimesthemoney,butwereturneddownbyMiz-Iz-Ood.Shegoesbymeritonly. Would you prefer the Madras corporation school? And so, each day she put on the hateduniform,feelinghalfdressed,andfeelingasifsheweresellingapieceofhersoul.

Velu, theneighbor'ssonwhodoncebeenherbest friend,butwhohadturned insufferableat ten,likedtoperchonthedividingwallandteaseher:

ThegirlswhocomefromMiz-Iz-Ood,parlez-vous?ThegirlswhocomefromMiz-Iz-Ood,parlez-vous?ThegirlswhocomefromMiz-Iz-Ood,Haven'tgrowntheirwomanhood,InkyPinkyparlez-vous!

Sheignoredhim.Velu,whowasasdark-skinnedasshewaslight,said,“Soproudyouareofbeingfair.Monkeyswillnibbleyoursweetfleshthinkingitisjackfruitonajackfruittree,mindyoume!”There she was, eleven years old, setting off for school, dwarfed by her Raleigh bicycle, tradingbarbs with Velu. Her books were in a tasseled sanji slung over her shoulder, the strap runningbetweenherbreasts.Alreadyinherpostureandinhersteadypedalstrokesthereweresignsofacertainimmutability.

Thebicycle,once so tall andperilous, soonshrunkbeneathher.Herbreasts thrustoutoneithersideofthatsanjistrap,andhairsproutedbetweenherlegs.(IfthatwaswhatVeluhadmeantaboutnotgrowingherwomanhood,shehadprovedhimwrong.)Shewasagoodstudent,acaptaininnetball, a senior prefect, and showing promise in Bharat-natyam, finding in herself a talent forrecapitulatingamostintricatedancesequenceafterbeingshownitjustonce.

Shefeltneitheranobligationtojointheherdnoranyurgetotrytostandoutfromit.Whenaclosefriendtoldhershealwayslookedcross,shewassurprisedandalittlethrilledthatshecouldpulloffsuchmisdirection.Inmedicalschool(infullsariandnowridingthebus)thisqualitygrewstronger—notcrossness,butindependenceandmisdirection.Someclassmatesconsideredherarrogant.Shedrewotherstoherlikeacolytesonlyforthemtodiscovershewasn'trecruiting.Themenneededpliancyintheirwomenfriends,andshecouldn'tbringherselftoactcoyorsillyfortheirsakes.Thecoupleswhohuddledinthelibrarybehindoversizeanatomyatlasesandwhisperedthemselvesintothenotionsofloveamusedher.

Ihadnotimeforsuchsilliness.Butshedidhavetimefortrashynovelssetincastlesandcountryhouseswith heroines namedBernadette. She fantasized about the dashingmen of ChillingforestandLockingwoodandKnottypine.Thatwashertroublethen—shedreamedofagreaterkindoflovethan the kind displayed in the libraryBut shewas also filledwith a nameless ambition that hadnothing to do with love. What exactly did she want? It was an ambition that wouldn't let hercompetefororseekthesamethingsotherssought.

When,asastudentatMadrasMedicalCollege,Hemahadfoundherselfadmiringherprofessorof

therapeutics(theloneIndianinaschoolwhere,evenasindependenceapproached,mostofthefullprofessorswereBritish),whenshefoundherselfmovedbyhishumanityhismasteryofhissubject(Faceit,Hema;itwasacrush),whenshefoundherselfwishingtobehisunderstudyandfoundhimencouraging,shedeliberatelychoseanotherpath.Shewasloathtogiveanyonethatkindofpower.Shechoseobstetricsandgynecologyinsteadofhisfield, internalmedicine.Iftheprofessor'sfieldwas limitless, requiring a breadth of knowledge that extended fromheart failure to poliomyelitisandmyriadconditions inbetween, shechosea field thathadsomeboundariesandamechanicalcomponent—operations. Of these there was a limited repertoire: C-sections, hysterectomies,prolapserepair.

She'd discovered in herself a talent formanipulative obstetrics, becoming expert at divining justhowthebabywashungup in thepelvis.Whatotherobstetriciansperhapsdreaded,sherelished.Blindfolded,shecoulddistinguishtheleftfromtherightforcepsandapplyeachinhersleep.Shecould see in her mind's eye the geometry of each patient's pelvic curve and match that to thecurvatureofthebaby'sskullassheslidtheforcepsin,articulatingthetwohandlesandconfidentlyextractingthebaby.

Shewentoverseasonawhim.ButitbrokeherhearttoleaveMadras.Shestillcriedsomeevenings,picturing her parents taking their chairs outdoors towait for the sea breezewhich, even on thehottest and stillest of days, blew in at dusk. She left because gynecology, at least in Madras,remainedaman'sdomain,and,evenontheeveofindependence,aBritishdomain,andshehadnochanceatallforacivilserviceappointmenttothegovernmentteachinghospital.Itwasstrangeandyetitpleasedhertothinkthatshe,Ghosh,Stone,andSisterMaryJosephPraisehadallatonetimeor another trained or worked at the Government General Hospital in Madras. A thousand fivehundredbedsandtwicethatnumberunderthebeds,betweenthebeds—itwasacitybyitself.InitSister Mary Joseph Praise had been a budding novitiate and probationer; perhaps theyd evenwalked past each other. And incredibly, Thomas Stone, too, had a brief tenure at GovernmentGeneralHospital,thoughsincethematernitysectionwasquiteseparate,theredbeennoreasonforhispathtocrosswithHema's.

Shed left behindMadras, left behind labels of caste, gone so far away that theword “Brahmin”meantnothing.WorkinginEthiopia,shetriedtomakeavisithomeeverythirdorfourthyear.Shewasreturningafterhersecondsuchvisit.Seatedinthenoisyairplane,shefoundherselfrethinkingher choices. In the last few years shed come close to defining the nameless ambition that hadpushedherthisfar:toavoidthesheeplifeatallcosts.

Missinghadfeltfamiliarwhenshefirstarrivedthere,notunliketheGovernmentGeneralHospitalinIndia,butonamuchsmallerscale:peoplewaitinginline,thefamiliescampingoutundertrees,waitingwiththeinfinitepatienceofthosewhohavelittlechoicebuttowait.Shedbeenkeptbusyfromherfirstday.Ifthetruthbeknown,shesecretlyrelishedtheemergencies,thesituationswhereherheartwasinhermouth,wherethesecondstickedoff,whereamother'slifehunginthebalance,orababyinthewomb,deprivedofoxygen,neededaheroicrescue.Inthosemomentsshedidnothaveexistentialdoubts.Lifebecamesharplyfocused,meaningfuljustwhenshewasn'tthinkingofmeaning.Amother,awife,adaughter,wassuddenlynoneofthesethings,boileddowntoahumanbeingingreatdanger.Hemaherselfwasreducedtotheinstrumentrequiredtotreatthem.

Butof lateshe felt thehugeremovebetweenherpractice inAfricaandthe frontiersofscientificmedicineepitomizedbyEnglandandAmerica.C.WaltonLilleheiinMinneapolishadjustthatyearbegun an era of heart surgery by finding a way to pump blood while the heart was stopped. Avaccine forpoliohadbeendeveloped, though ithadyet tomake itsway toAfrica.AtHarvard inMassachusetts, aDr. JosephMurray had performed the first successful human kidney transplantfrom one sibling to another. The picture of him in Time showed an ordinary-looking chap,unpretentious. The portrait had surprised Hema, made her imagine that such discoveries werewithineverydoctor'sreach,withinherreach.

She'd always loved the story of Pasteur's discovery of microbes, or Lister's experiments withantisepsis. Every Indian schoolchild dreamed of being like Sir C. V. Raman, whose simpleexperimentswith light ledtoaNobelPrize.Butnowshelivedinacountrythatfewpeoplecouldfindonthemap.(“TheHornofAfrica,ontheupperhalf,ontheeasterncoast—thepartthatlookslike a rhino's head and points at India,” she'd explain.) And fewer still knew of Emperor HaileSelassie,oriftheyrememberedhimforbeingTimemagazine'sManoftheYearin1935,theydidn'trememberthecountrywhosecausehepleadedattheLeagueofNations.

Ifasked,Hemawouldhavesaid,Yes,I'mdoingwhatIintendedtodo;I'msatisfied.Butwhatelsecouldonesay?WhenshereadherSurgery,Gynecology&Obstetrics(eachmonth'svolumearrivingby seamailweeks after publication, bruised and stained in its brownwrapping), the innovationsreadlikefiction.Itwasexcitingyetdeflating,becauseitwasalreadyoldnews.Shetoldherselfthat

herwork,heryeomancontributioninAfrica,wassomehowconnectedtotheadvancesdescribedinSG&O.Butinherheartsheknewthatitwasn't.

ANEWSOUNDREGISTERED.Itwasthescrapeandrattleofwoodonmetal.Thetailoftheplanewaspackedwith two giant wooden crates and stacks of smaller square tea chests, banded with tin stripsstampedLONGLEITHESTATES,S.INDIA.Nettinghookedtoskeletalstrutsrestrainedthecargofromfallingonthepassengers,butnotfromslidingaround.Herfeetandthoseofherfellowpassengersrestedonbulging jute sacks. Fadingmilitary logos were stenciled on the floor and on the silver fuselage.AmericantroopsinNorthAfricaoncesathereandcontemplatedtheirfate.Pattonhimselfperhapssatonthisplane.OrperhapsthiswasarelicfromtheFrenchcoloniesinSomaliaandDjibouti.Thecarryingofpassengers felt likeanafterthought for thisnewairlinewith itshand-me-downplanesandancientpilots.Shecouldsee thepilotarguing into themicrophone,gesticulating,pausing tolistentothereply,thenbarkingagain.Thepassengerswhowereclosetothecockpitfrowned.

OnceagainHemacranedhernecktosee ifhercratewiththeGrundigwasvisible,but itwasn't.Every time she thought about her extravagant purchase she felt a pang of guilt. But buying theradio-cum–recordplayerhadmadethenightshespentinAdenalmosttolerable.Acitybuiltontopofadormantvolcaniccrater,hellonearth,thatwasAden,butatleastitwasduty-free.Ohyes,andRimbaudhadoncelivedthere—andneverwroteanotherlineofpoetry.

Shedpickedout the spot for theGrundig inher living room.Mostdefinitely itwouldhave tobeundertheframedblack-and-whiteprintofGandhispinningcotton.ShedhavetohuntforaquieterlocationfortheMahatma.

SheimaginedGhoshnursinghisbrandy,andMatron,ThomasStone,andSisterMaryJosephPraisedrinkingsherryorcoffee.ShepicturedGhoshleapingtohisfeetasthedazzlingopeningchordsof“Takethe‘A’Train”pouredfromtheGrundig.Thencamethecheekymelody—thelasttuneintheworldthatyoudhavepredictedtofollow.Thoseopeningchords,though…howtheystayedwithher.Andhowsheresistedthem!SheresentedthechauvinismofIndianswhocouldonlyadmirethingsforeign. And yet, she heard those chords in her sleep, found herself humming them during herablutions. She heard them now in the plane. Strange dissonant notes thrown together, wantingresolution,andsomehowtheycapturedAmericaandScienceandallthatwasboldandbrashanddaringandexcitingaboutAmerica(oratleastthewaysheimaginedAmericatobe).NotespouringoutoftheskullofablackmanwhosenamewasBillyStrayhorn.Stray…horn!

Ghoshhadintroducedhertojazzandto“Takethe‘A’Train.”“Wait…watch!See?”hesaid,thefirsttimesheheardthemelodyafterthechords.“Youhavetosmile.Youcan'thelpit!”Andhewasright,the tunewas so catchy andupbeat—how fortunate shewas that her first introduction to seriousWesternmusicshouldbethattune.Still,shedcometothinkofitashersong,herinvention,anditannoyedherthathedbeentheonetobringhertoit.ShelaughedatthestrangenessoflikingGhoshsomuch,whenshewantedsomuchtodislikehim.

BUTJUSTATTHEMOMENTshewasthinkingthesethoughts,anticipatingherarrivalinAddisAbaba…shefoundherselfsuddenly invokingLordShiva'sname: theplane, theDC-3, the trustworthycamelofthefrontiersky,wasshudderingasifmortallywounded.

Shelookedout.Thepropelleronhersideflutteredtoastop,andapuffofsmokecameoutofthebeefyenginecowling.

Theplanepitchedtostarboardandshefoundherselfplasteredagainstthewindow.Allaroundherpassengers screamed, anda thermos flaskbouncedon the cabinwall, spilling tea as it clatteredaway.Sheclutchedaroundforahandhold,butthentheplanerighteditselfandseemedtostopinmidair,beforebeginningasteepdescent.No,notadescent,herstomachcorrectedher—thiswasafall.Gravity reached its tentaclesoutandgrabbed thesilvercylinderwith itscantileveredwings.Gravitypromisedawaterlanding.Or,sincetheplanehadwheels,notfloats,awatersmashing.Thepilotwasshouting,notinpanic,butinanger,andshehadnotimetothinkhowstrangethiswas.

When,yearslater,shedlookbackatthismomentofchange,lookatitclinically(“Milkthehistory!Exactlywhenandexactlyhowdiditstart?Onsetiseverything!Intheanamnesisisthediagnosis!”asherprofessorwouldsay),shewouldseethathertransformationactuallytookplaceovermanymonths.However, itwas only as shewas falling out of the sky over theBab al-Mandab that sheunderstoodthatchangehadcome.

ALITTLEINDIANBOYfellonherbosom.HewasthesonoftheonlyMalayalicoupleonboard—teachersinEthiopia,nodoubt;shecouldtellthatinasingleglance.Thisknock-kneedfellow,five,maybesix,yearsoldinoversizeshorts,hadclutchedawoodenplaneinhishandfromthemomenthecameonboard,protectingitasifitweremadeofgold.Hisfoothadbecomewedgedbetweentwojutesacks,andwhentheplanerighteditself,hefellontoHema.

Sheheldhim.Hispuzzledlookcollapsedintooneoffearandpain.Hemaspottedthecurveinhisshin—likebendingagreenstick,thebonetooyoungtosnapclean.Shetookallthisinevenasherbodyregisteredthattheywereplunging,losingaltitude.

A youngArmenian, blesshis practicality scrambled to free the leg. Incredibly, theArmenianwassmiling.Hetriedtotellhersomething—areassuranceofsorts.Shewasshockedtoseesomeonecalmerthanherselfwhenallaroundthecriesofpassengersmadethesituationworse.

She lifted the little boy to her lap. Her thoughts were both clear and disconnected. The leg isalready straighteningbut there isnodoubt that it is fracturedand theplane isgoingdown.Shestoppedhis stunnedparentswithanoutstretchedpalmandclampedahandon themouthof thewailingmother.Shefeltthefamiliarcalmnessofanemergency,butsheunderstoodthefalsenessofthatfeeling,nowthatitwasherlifeatstake.

“Lethimbewithme,”shesaid,removingherhandfromthewoman'sface.“Trustme,I'madoctor.”

“Yes,weknow,”thefathersaid.

Theysqueezed innext toheron thebench.Theboydidn'tcry;heonlywhimpered.His facewaspale—hewasinshock—andheclungtoher,hischeekagainstherbosom.

Trustme,I'madoctor.Shethoughtitironicthatthesewouldbeherlastwords.

ThroughtheportholeHemlathasawthewhitecrestsgettingcloser,lookinglessandlesslikelaceonabluecloth.Shehadalwaysassumedthatshewouldhaveyearstosortoutthemeaningoflife.Now,itseemedshewouldonlyhaveafewseconds,andinthatrealizationcameherepiphany.

Asshebentoverthechildsherealizedthatthetragedyofdeathhadtodoentirelywithwhatwasleftunfulfilled.Shewasashamedthatsuchasimpleinsightshouldhaveeludedheralltheseyears.Makesomethingbeautifulof your life.Wasn't that theadageSisterMary JosephPraise livedby?Hema'ssecondthoughtwasthatshe,delivererofcountlessbabies,shewho'drejectedthekindofmarriageherparentswantedforher,shewhofeltthereweretoomanychildrenintheworldandfeltnopressuretoaddtothatnumber,understoodforthefirsttimethathavingachildwasaboutcheating death. Childrenwere the footwedged in the closing door, the glimmer of hope that inreincarnationtherewouldbesomehousetogoto,evenifonecamebackasadog,oramouse,orafleathatlivedonthebodiesofmen.If,asMatronandSisterMaryJosephPraisebelieved,therewasaraisingofthedead,thenachildwouldbesuretoseethatitsparentswereawakened.Provided,ofcourse,thechilddidn'tdiewithyouinaplanecrash.

Make somethingbeautiful of your life—thiswhimpering little fellowwithhis shiny eyes and longeyelashes,hisoversizeheadandthepuppy-dogscentofhisunrulyhair…hewasaboutthemostbeautifulthingonecouldmake.

Herfellowpassengerslookedasterrifiedasshefelt.OnlytheArmenianshookhisheadather,andsmiledasiftosay,Thisisn'twhatyouthinkitis.

Whatanidiot,Hemathought.

AnolderArmenian—hisfatherperhaps—wasimpassive,staringstraightahead.Theoldermanhadlookedmorose onboarding andhismoodnowwasnobetter, andnoworse.Hema foundherselfamazedthatsheshouldnoticesuchtrivialdetailsatatimelikethiswhen,insteadofdeconstructingfaces,sheshouldbebracingforthemomentofimpact.

As thesearusheduptomeet theplane,she thoughtofGhosh.Shewasshockedwhena floodoftender feelings forhimovercameher,as ifhewereabout todie inaplanecrash,as ifhisgrandadventureinmedicineandhiscarefreedayswereendingandwith itanychanceofhisachievingthethinghewantedmost:tomarryHema.

CHAPTER4TheFive-FRule

YOUR PATIENT, DR. STONE,”Matronsaidagain, vacating the stoolbetweenSisterMary JosephPraise'slegs.Seeinghisface,shewonderedifhewasabouttothrowsomething.

ThomasStonewasanoccasionalflingerofinstruments,thoughneverinfrontofMatron.Itwasrarethat SisterMary Joseph Praise ever handed him thewrong implement, but from time to time, ahemostatfailedtoreleasewithlightcounterpressure,oraMetzenbaumdidn'tcutatitstip.Hehadgoodaim;onespotonthewallofOperatingTheater 3, justabove the lightswitchandperilouslyclosetotheglassinstrumentcabinet,washisusualtarget.

NoonebutSisterMaryJosephPraisetookitpersonally—shewouldbecrestfallen,eventhoughshetestedeveryinstrumentbeforesheputitintheautoclave.Matroninsistedthethrowingwasagoodthing.“Feedhimaratchetlesshemostatfromtimetotime,”shesaidtoSisterMaryJosephPraise.“Otherwisehe'llkeepitbottleduptill itcomesoozingoutofhisearsandwe'llhavearightmessthen.”

Theplasterabove the lightswitchhadstellatepitsandscratchesas ifa firecrackerhadgoneoffthere. The strike on the wall occurred after the word “COMPLETELY” and before the word“USELESS!”lefthismouth.OnceinagreatwhileheexplodedatNurseAsqual,theanesthetist,ifthe patient were too lightly under or had been given too little curare so that the belly musclesclampeddownlikeaviceonhiswristsashefishedinsidetheabdomen.MorethanoneetherizedpatienthadwokeninholyterrorhearingStonebellow,“I'llneedapickaxifyoucan'tgivememorerelaxationdownhere!”

But at thismoment,withSisterMary JosephPraise's lips ashen, herbreathing shallow, her eyesseeingpasthim,herunrelentingbleeding,andthenwithMatronhavingpassedthebatontohim,Stonewasspeechless.Hewasexperiencingthehelplessnessthatpatients’relativesmustfeel,andhedidn'tlikeitintheleastbit.Hislipstrembledandhefeltshameathowhiswetfacedisplayedhisemotions. But more than that he felt fear, and an astonishing paralysis of thought which onlyshamedhimfurther.

Whenhefinallyspokeitwastosayinaquaveringvoice,“WhereisHemlatha?Whyisn'tsheback?Weneedher,”whichwasanactofuncharacteristichumility.

He swiped at his eyes using the back of his forearm, a childlike gesture. Matron watched indisbelief: insteadoftakingthestoolsheoffered,heretreated.Stonewalkedtothewall thatborethe marks of his anger. He struck his head on the plastered surface, a head butt worthy of amountain goat. His legswobbled. He clung to the glass cabinet.Matron felt obliged tomurmur“Completelyuseless”ontheoffchancethatifhisviolencehadmeaning,Godforbiditshouldfailforlackofitsaccompanyingmantra.

True,StonecouldhavedoneaCesareansection, though, strangely fora tropical surgeon, itwasoneofthefewoperationshehadn'tdone.“SeeOne,DoOne,TeachOne”wasachapterheadinginhis textbook,TheExpedientOperator:AShortPracticeofTropicalSurgery.Butwhathis readersdidn't know, andwhat I learned onlymany years later,was that he had an aversion to anythinggynecological (not to mention anything obstetrical). It stemmed from his final year of medicalschool,whenhedidwhatwasunheardof:heboughthisveryowncadaversothathecouldmastertheanatomyhehadalreadylearnedsowellonasharedcadaverinhisfirstyearofmedicalschool.Themalepoorhousespecimenofhisfirst-yearanatomyclasshadbeenancientandshriveledwithghostlymusclesandtendons,suchbeingthecommontenderofEdinburghanatomytheaters.He'dsharedthatbodywithfiveotherstudents.Butheluckedoutwiththecadaverhepurchasedinhisfinalyear:awell-fed,middle-agedfemale,atypeheassociatedwiththelinoleumfactoriesinFife.Stone'sdissectionofthehandwassoelegant(with justthetendonsheathexposedonthemiddlefinger,whileontheringfingerhecarrieditfurthertolayopenthesheathandshowthetendonsofflexorsublimislikethewiresofasuspensionbridge,theprofundustendoncoursingbetweenthem)that theanatomyprofessorpreserved it toshowthe first-yearstudents.ForweeksThomasStonetoiledoverhiscadaver,spendingmore timewithher thanhehadwithanyother femalesavehismother.Hefeltaneasewithher,afluencythatcamefromintimateknowledge.Ononeside,hehadfilletedhercheektotheear,tyingtheflapbackwithsuturestoexposetheparotidglandandthefacial nerve passing through, its branches splayed out like a goose's foot, hence the name pesanserinus.Ontheothersideofthefacehedremovedallsubcutaneoustissueandfattorevealthemyriadmusclesofexpressionwhoseconcertedmovementsinlifehadconveyedhersorrow,joy,and

everyemotioninbetween.Hedidn'tthinkofherasaperson.Shewassimplyknowledgeembodied,embalmed, and personified. Every evening he folded back the muscles and then the skin flapsdanglingonnarrowhinges,andthenhespreadtheformalin-soakedragsoverhertoensheatheher.Sometimeswhenhefastenedtherubbersheetaroundherandtuckedtheedgesin,itremindedhimofhismother'sritualofputtinghimtobed.Backinhisroom,hissolitudeandlonelinessalwaysfeltmoreacute.

Onthedayheremovedtheboweltoexposetheaortaandkidneys,hesawherwomb.Itwasn'ttheshriveledpurseheexpectedtofind,sunkintothebowlofthepelvis.Instead,itpeekedabovethepelvicbrim.Afewdayslaterheturnedtothepelvis,hisCunningham'sdissectionmanualopentothe new section. He proceeded step by step,marveling at the book's genius as it unpeeled andunroofed and taught as it went.Cunningham's dictated a vertical slice through the front of theuterusandthentheoperatorwastogentlyprytheuterusopen.Hedid,andoutfellafetus,itsheada little bigger than a grape, eyes tightly shut, limbs folded in like an insect. It dangled on theumbilical cord likeanobscene talismanonaheadhunter'sbelt.Hecouldsee themother'scervixdestroyed and black, from infection or gangrene. The catastrophe that befell this woman wasmemorializedinformalin.

Stonebarelymade it to the sinkbeforehisdinner cameup.He feltbetrayed, as if someonehadbeen spying on him. All this time he'd imagined he and she were alone. He couldn't go on. Hecouldn't even look at her, or fold her back up or cover her. The next day he asked the puzzledattendanttodisposeofthecadavereventhoughthedissectionofthepelviswasincompleteandthelowerlimbswereuntouched.ButThomasStonewasdone.

AtMissingHospital,becauseofHema,Stoneneverhadtoventureintotheterritoryofthefemalereproductiveorgans.Thatareaheconceded (and itwasatypical forhim toconcedeanything) toher.

He andHemlathawere civil, collegial, and even friendly outside the operating theater. After all,Missingonlyhadthreephysicians—Hema,Stone,andGhosh—anditwould'vebeenawkwardiftheydidn't get along. But in Operating Theater 3, Hema and Stone managed to provoke each other.Hema's style was precise and careful—a living example, Matron thought, of why more womenshould be surgeons. Matron sometimes believed she saw Hemlatha listening and then thinkingwhenwithapatientintheclinic,ratherthantryingtodoboththingsatonce.Hemawasasurgeonwhowouldthrowfourcaststoherknotswhereothersmightbecontentwiththree.Sheneverlefttheoperatingroomuntilherpatientawokefromanesthesia.Hersurgicalfieldwasasneatandtidyas an anatomical demonstrationwith vulnerable structures carefully identified andmoved out ofharm'swayandwithbleedingmeticulouslycontrolled.ToMatronthefieldlookedstatic,yetalive,likeapaintingbyTitianordaVinci.“Howcanasurgeonknowwhereshe is,”Hemawas fondofsaying,“unlesssheknowswhereshehasbeen?”

For Stone, minimal handling of tissue was what counted the most, and he had no time for theaestheticofthesurgicalfield.“Hema,ifyouwantpretty,dissectcadavers,”heoncetoldher.“Stone,ifyouwantbloody,becomeameatcutter,”shesaid.Sovastwashisexperienceand thepracticethat heput intohis craft that his nine fingers could find theirway in a bloody field inwhichnolandmarkswerevisibletoothers;hismovementswereeconomicalandprecise,andhisresultswereexcellent.

Onthoserareoccasionswhenawomanwiththemudofthefieldstillfreshonherfeetwasbroughtinwithabull-gorewound that extended into thepelvis, orwhenabargirl camewithaknifeorbulletwoundneartheuterus,HemlathaandStonewouldscrubtogetherandentertheabdomenàdeux, fussingateachother,bumpingheads,andat times rappingeachother'sknuckleswith thehandleof thehemostat.Matronsaidshekeptaregisterofwhichsurgeonhadstoodon therightsideatthelastjointexploration,andshemadesuretheytookturns.WhileHemlathameticulouslyresecteduterusorrepairedabladdertear,Stone,whocouldnotcarryatune,neverthelesswhistled“God Save the Queen,” which riled Hema. If Stone went first, Hemlatha would talk about thefamoussurgeonsofyearspast—Cooper,Halsted,Cushing—andwhatashame itwas that tropicalsurgeonsshowednosignofthatgreatsurgicallegacy.

Stonedidn'tbelieveinglorifyingsurgeonsoroperations.“Surgeryissurgeryissurgery,”helikedtosay,andonprinciplehewouldnomore lookup toaneurosurgeon thandownonapodiatrist. “Agoodsurgeonneedscourageforwhichagoodpairofballsisaprerequisite,”hehadevenwritteninthemanuscriptofhistextbook,knowingfullywellthathiseditorinEnglandwouldtakeitout,butenjoyingtheexperienceofputtingthosewordsonpaper.Stonehadfoundavolubilityacombative-nessandforcefulness, inhiswritingthathedidn'tshowinhisspeech.“Courage?What'sthisyouwriteabout‘courage’?”Hemaasked.“Isityourlifeyouarerisking?”

ACesareansectionwastechnicallynotbeyondStone'sabilities.Butonthatfatefulday,thethoughtof taking scalpel to Sister Mary Joseph Praise—his surgical assistant, his closest confidante, histypist,hismuse,andthewomanherealizedheloved—terrifiedhim.Shewasalreadyinappallingshape,paleandclammy,herpulsesothreadythathebelievedanythinghedidwouldsendherovertheprecipice.Onastranger,hemightnothavehesitatedtotryaCesareansection.“Thedoctorwhotreatshimselfhasa fool forapatient”wasanadageheknewwell.Butwhataboutadoctorwhoperformedanunfamiliaroperationonalovedone?Wasthereanadageforthat?

Increasingly,sincethepublicationofhistextbook,Stonehadtakentoquotingfromit,asifhisownwrittenwordhadgreaterlegitimacythanhisunpublished(andheretoforeunspoken)thoughts.He'dwritten,“Thedoctorwhotreatshimselfhasafoolforapatient,buttherearecircumstanceswhenhehasnorecourse…“Hehadgoneontochroniclethetaleofhisownrayamputation,howhe'dperformedanerveblockonhisrightelbow,andthen,withSisterMaryJosephPraise“helping,”hehadmadetheincisionintohisflesh,hislefthanddoingsomeoftheworkwhileSisterMaryJosephPraisestoodinforhisright.Herealizedashewatchedhermakethebonecutsthatshecoulddomuchmore than assist if she chose to. Itwas the anecdote of the amputation, togetherwith hispicture in the frontispiece, his fingers—all nine of them—forming a steeple in front of his chin,which had made the book so successful. There were so many extant surgery texts that it wassurprising how popular The Expedient Operator (or A Short Practice, as it was known in somecountries) had become. For a tropical surgery book, most of its sales took place in nontropicalcountries.Perhapsitwasitsquirkiness,itsbitingtenor,andtheoftensharpandunintendedhumor.Hedrewonlyonhisexperienceorhiscareful interpretationof theexperienceofothers.Readerspicturedhimasarevolutionary,butonewhooperatedonthepoorinsteadofpreachinglandreform.Studentswrotehimadoringletters,andwhenhisdutifulresponses(pennedbySisterMaryJosephPraise)didn'tmatchthegushy,confessionaltoneoftheirletters,theypouted.

Theillustrationsinthetextbook(alldrawnandletteredbySisterMaryJosephPraise)hadasimplequalityasifdoneonanapkin;noattemptwasmadeatgettingproportionorperspectiveright,buttheyweremodelsofclarity.ThebookwastranslatedintoPortuguese,Spanish,andFrench.

DaringoperationsperformedindarkestAfrica—thatwashowthepublisherhaddescribedthebookon the back cover. The reader, knowing nothing about the “dark continent,” filled in the blanks,picturedStoneinatent,akerosenelampheldupbyaHottentotprovidingtheonlylight,elephantsstampedingoutsidewhilethegooddoctorrecitedCiceroandexcisedapartofhimselfasblithelyasifhewerecuttingforstoneonthebodyofanother.WhatneitherthereadernorStonewouldacceptwasthathisself-amputationwasasmuchanactofconceitasitwasanactofheroism.

“YOURPATIENT,Dr.Stone,”Matronsaidforthethirdtime.

StonetookthespotbetweenSisterMaryJosephPraise'slegsthatMatronvacated,though,afterallthat,Matronseemedreluctanttolethimby,asifshedidn'twanthimtositthereanymorethanhewantedtosit.Itwasn'tavantagepointthathewasaccustomedto,atleastnotoftenwithawoman.Withmen,hesattheretorepairawatering-canscrotum,andinbothsexeshemightbeseatedtodrainrectalabscesses,ortoligateandexcisehemorrhoidsorfistula-in-ano.Butotherwise,hewasasurgeonwhowasrarelyseated.

WhenStoneclumsilypartedthelabia,bloodpouredout.Headjustedthegoosenecklampandthenhisownnecktosightupthebirthcanal.

Hetriedtorememberthecitrusrulefromhisstudentdays.Whatwasit?Lime,lemon,orange,andgrapefruitcorrespondedtofour,six,eight,andtencentimetersofdilationofthecervix.Orwasittwo,four,six,andeight?Andwasthereagrapeorpluminvolved?

Whathesawmadehimturnpale:thecervixwaspastgrapefruit,onitswaytomelon.Andthere,asifat thebottomofabloodywell,wasababy'shead, thetissuesaround it flattened.The finewetblackhairontheskullreflectedthetheaterlights.

Atthatmomentitwasasifsomeonewho'dlaindormantwithinStonetookover.

If therewas a connection between him and the poor infant within, it was something that Stonedidn'tsee.Instead,thesightofthatskullagitatedhim.Fearwasdrivenoutbyanger,andangerhaditsownpervertedreasoning:WhatcheekthisinvaderhadtoputMary'slifeinjeopardy!Itwasasifhe'dspotted thecorpseofaburrowingmole thathadattackedMary'sbody,and theonlywayhecouldbringherreliefwastoextractit.ThesightofthatbrightscalpwroughtnotendernessfromThomasStone,onlyrevulsion.Anditgavehimanidea.

“Findtheenemyandwinthefirefight”wasasayingofhis.

Hehadfoundtheenemy.

“Flatus,Fluid,Feces,ForeignBody,andFetusfeelbetteroutthanin,”hesaidaloud,asifhe'djustinvented thephrase. Inhisbookhehadcalled it theFive-Frule.Hedrovehimself tohis terribledecision. Far better, he decided, to drill a hole in the skull of the mole—he'd already stoppedthinkingofitasababy—thantoexperimentonSisterMaryJosephPraisebydoingaCesarean,anoperationthatwasbothunfamiliarandonethathe fearedwouldkillher inher fragilestate.Theenemywasmoreaforeignbody,acancer,thanitwasafetus.Nodoubtthecreaturewasdead.Yes,hewouldtapthatskull,emptyitscontents,crushitjustasifhewerecrushingabladderstone,andthenhe'dpulloutthedeflatedheadwhichwasthepartthatwashungupinthepelvis.Ifneedbe,he'dusescissorsonitscollarbones,scalpelonribs;hewouldgrab,slash,slit,andsmashwhateverfetalpartobstructeddelivery,becauseonlybygetting itoutcouldMarybeoutofhermiseryandthebleedingcease.Yes,yes—betteroutthanin.

Withintheboundariesofhisirrationallogic,thiswasarationaldecision.Doingthewrongthingtodotherightthing,asSisterMaryJosephPraisemighthavesaid.

ToashockedandhorrifiedMatron,themanwhosatbetweenSisterMaryJosephPraise'slegsdidn'tresemble their fierce, shy, and exceedingly competent Thomas Stone. This man had nothing incommonwithThomasStone,FRCS,authorofTheExpedientOperator.Hisplacehadbeentakenbythisdesperate,agitatedfellowwhodidnotlooklikeaFellowoftheRoyalCollegeofSurgeons,butrather someone for whom the letters FRCS could mean (as Dr. Ghosh often claimed they did)“FartingRoundtheCountry-Side.”

Stone,animatednow,consumedbyasenseofmission,proppedMunroKerr'sOperativeObstetricsopen, cookery-book fashion, on the down slope of SisterMary Joseph Praise's protuberant belly.“Damn it,Hemlatha, you picked a hell of a time to be away,” he said aloud, feeling his couragereturn.

Two blasphemies,Matron noted. “Custody of the tongue,” shemurmured under her breath. Shetookherownpulsebecausedespiteher faith in theLordshewasanxiousabout theheart flutterthathadturnedupinthelastyearlikeasurpriseguest.Herheartwasskippingbeatsnowandshefeltfaint.

The strange instruments that Stone had requested and that Matron dug up from an old supplyclosetrefusedtobetamedbyhishands.“Wherethedevil isGhosh?”heshouted,becauseGhoshoftenpitchedintohelpHemawithabortionsandtuballigations,and,asajack-of-all-trades,hehadmore experience with a women's reproductive anatomy than Stone. Matron once again sent arunnerovertoGhosh'sbungalow,moretoplacateStonethanwithanyfaiththatGhoshwasback.PerhapsshewouldhavedonebettertosendthemaidtoinquireattheBlueNileBaroritsvicinityforthebanyadoctor.ButevenaninebriatedGhoshcouldcounselStonethatwhathewasabouttodowasnottheactofanexpedientsurgeonbutanidioticone,andthathisdecisionwaswrong,hislogic illogical.Matronfelt thispregnancy, thisbirth,wassomehowher fault—some inattentiononherparthadresultedinthis.Still,shealsoassumedinthefaceoftorrentialbleedingthatthechildwas longdead.Hadshebelieved foramoment that thechildwasalive (sheknewnothingabouttwins),shewouldhaveintervened.

Stonecockedhisheadfromsidetoside,tryingtomatchMunroKerr'sillustrationsofinstruments—Smellie scissors, Braun's cranioclast, Jar-dine's cephalotribe—with the objects he juggled in hishand.Histoolsweredistantcousinsoftheonesdepictedinthebook,butclearlydesignedforthesamesinisterpurpose.

With two Jacobs clamps, he grabbed the oval of my brother's scalp. “I see you in the depths,burrowingcreature!Damnyou for torturingMary,”hemuttered.Then,usingscissors,hecut theskinbetweenthetwoclampsandgavetheintruderitsfirstintroductiontopain.

Hisnextmovewas to try toput thecephalotribe—theskullcrusher—onthehead.Thisawkwardmedievalinstrumenthadthreeseparatepieces.Themiddlewasaspearmeanttogodeepintothebrain,cuttingabigopeningintheskullasitdidso.Flankingitweretwoforcepslikestructurestoclamp to the outside of the skull.Once all threepieceswere inplace, their stems interlocked toformasinglehandlewithconvenientfingerindentations.Stonewouldbeabletocrushandgriptheskullsoitwouldn'tslideaway.Outwouldcometheintruder.

Itwascoolintheoperatingtheater,butsweatfromhisbrowtrickledintohiseyesandwethismask.

Hetriedtodrivethespearin.

(The child, my brother, Shiva, sheltered for eight months and already hurting from the cut of

scissorsonhisscalp,criedoutinthewomb.Ipulledhimtosafetyasthespearslidovertheskull.)

Stonedecided itwouldbeeasier ifhefirstappliedtheoutertwobladesof thecephalotribe,thendraggedtheheadwithinreach,andtheninsertedthespear.Hishandswereclumsyinthisawkwardspace.MatronshudderedatthedamagehemightbedoingtoSisterMaryJosephPraise'stissuesandtothebabyashejammedeachpiecepastanearuntil,finally,hehadtheskullinhisgrasp,orthoughthedid.

Matronwasclosetodropping.“Itisthedutyofthenursetoassistandanticipatethedoctor'severyneed.”Wasn'tthiswhatsheherselfpreachedtoherprobationers?Butitwasallwrong,allwrong,andshedidn'tknowhowtobegintoturnitaround.Shewassorrysheeverdugouttheinstruments.Ahumaneobstetricianinventedtheseinstrumentsformotherswiththemostdesperateneeds,notfordesperatephysicians.Afoolwithatoolisstillafool.InStone'shandstheinstrumentshadtakenover,andtheyweredoingthethinkingforhim.Matronknewthatnothinggoodcouldevercomeoutofthat.

CHAPTER5LastMoments

ATTHEVERYLASTSECOND,justasshebracedfortheplanetosmashintothewater,Dr.Hemlathasawtheoceangivewaytodryscrubland.

And before she could digest this, the plane flared to a touchdown over shimmering asphalt,squealing its tires,wiggling its tail,and,when itbledoff itsspeed,scamperingdowntherunwaylikeadogunleashed.

The passengers’ relief turned to bewilderment and embarrassment, for themost godless amongthemhadprayedfordivineintervention.

Theplanestopped,but thepilotcontinuedarguingwith the towerwhiledraggingonacigarette,eventhoughhehadmadeabigpointofturningontheNOSMOKINGlightaftertheylanded.

Thelittleboywhimpered,andHemarockedhimwithanadeptnessshedidn'tknowshepossessed.“I'mgoingtoputatiny,tinybandageonyourleg,okay?Thenthehurtwillbeallgone.”TheyoungArmeniansomehowfoundacane,andthetwoofthemfashionedasplint.

Whenthethroboftheengineceased,Hemafeltthesilencewithinthecabinpressonhereardrums.Thepilotlookedaround,asmirkonhisface,asifhewerecurioustoseehowhispassengershadheldup.Almostasanafterthought,hesaid,“Wearestoppingtopickupsomebagg-ajeandsomeVeryImportantPeople.ThisisDjibouti!”Hesmiledandshowedhisbadteeth.“Theydidnotgivemepermissiontolandunlessitisemergency.SoImakeanenginefailure.”Heshruggedasifmodestypreventedhimfromacceptingtheiraccolades.

Hemlathawasstartledtohearherownvoiceshatterthesilence.

“Baggage?Youbloodymercenary.Whatdoyouthinkweare?Goats?YoujustshutdownanengineanddropoutoftheskylikethatandstopinDjibouti?Nowarning?Nothing?”

Perhaps she should have been grateful to him, happy to be alive, but in the hierarchy of heremotions,angerwasalwaystrumps.

“Bloody?”thepilotsaid,turningred.“Bloody?”hesaid,clamberingoutofthecockpit,whitekneesknockingunderhissafarishorts,ashestruggledfree.

Hestoodbeforeher,huffingfromtheeffort.Heseemedtotakefarmoreexceptionto“bloody”than“mercenary.”HiscontemptforthisIndianwomanwasgreaterthanhisanger.Buthehadraisedhishand.“Iwilloffloadyouhere,insolentwoman,ifyoudon'tlikeit.”Laterhewouldclaimthathehadraisedhishandmerelyasagesture,withnointenttostrikeher—Godforbidthathe,agentleman,aFrenchman,wouldstrikeawoman.

But it was too late, becauseHemlatha felt her limbsmove as if by their own volition, fueled byangerand indignation.She feltas if shewereobserving theactionsofastranger,ofaHemlathawhohadnotpreviouslyexisted.ThenewHemlatha,whose licenseon lifehad justbeen renewedanditspurposedefined,cametoherfeet.Shewasastallasthepilot.Shecouldseethetinyfeedervessel inthestarburstonhis leftcheek.Shepushedherglassesuponherforeheadandmethimeyeballtoeyeball.

Themansquirmed.Hesawshewasbeautiful.Hefanciedhimselfalady'sman,andhewonderedifhe'dblowntheopportunitytohavedrinkswithherattheGhionHotelthatevening.Onlynowdidhenoticethepeoplehuddledoverthewhimperingboy.Onlynowdidhenoticethefather'srage,andtheclenchedfistsofsomeoftheotherpassengerswhohadlinedupbehindher.

What a specimen,Hema thought as she studied him. Spider angiomas all over his exposed skin.Eyestingedwith jaundice.Nodoubthisbreastsareenlarged,hisarmpitshairless,andhis testesshriveled to the size of walnuts—all because his liver no longer detoxifies the estrogen a malenormallyproduces.Andthestalejuniper-berrybreath.Ahyes,shethought,comingtoadiagnosisbeyondcirrhosis:agin-soakedcolonial resisting the realityofpostcolonialAfrica. If in India theystillarecowedbyallofyou,itisfromlonghabit.ButtherearenosuchrulesonanEthiopianplane.

Shefeltherrageboilover,anditwasdirectednotjustathimbutatallmen,everymanwhointheGovernmentGeneralHospitalinIndiahadpushedheraround,takenherforgranted,punishedher

forbeingawoman,playedwithherhoursandherschedule,transferredherhereandtherewithoutsomuchasapleaseorby-your-leave.

Herproximitytohim,herencroachmentofsacredbawanaspace,rattledhim,distractedhim.Buthishandwasstillupthere.Andnow,asifhejustnoticedit,hemovedthehand,nottostrikeher,hewouldclaim,butasiftodeterminewhetheritreallywashishandandtoseeifitstillansweredtohiscommands.

Theupraisedhandwasinsultenough,butwhenHemasawitstarttomove,shereactedinamannerthatmadeherblushwhensherecalleditlater.

Hemlatha's fingers shot up thepilot's shorts and locked aroundhis testicles, only his underwearintervening.Therewasaneasetohermovementswhichsurprisedher,andaneasetothewaythegapbetweenherthumbsandindexfingersallowedpassageforthespermaticcordsthatconnectedballstobody.Yearslatershewouldthinkthatwhatshedidwasconditionedbyhersurroundings,bythepropensityinEastAfricaforshiftasandothercriminalstolopofftheirvictims’testicles.WheninRome…

Her eyes burned like a martyr's. Sweat changed the pottu on her forehead from a dot to anexclamationmark.Shehadwornacottonsarifortheheat,andearlier,whenshehadbeenseated,shehadhikedittoherknees—modestybedamned—andnowthatshewasstandingitstayedthatway, outlining her thighs. Sweat glistened on her upper lip as she squeezed to extract the samemeasureofdistressandfeartheFrenchmanhadcausedher.

“Listen, sweetie,” she said (deciding that there was indeed testicular atrophy and also trying torecall tunicaalbugineae,and tunica somethingelse,andvasdeferens,ofcourse,andthatcraggythingyattheback,whatsitcalled…epididymis!).Shesawhisshoulderssagandthecolordrainoutofhisfaceasifshe'dopenedthespigotbelow.Dampnessquitedifferentfromsweatappearedonhisforehead.“Atleastyoursyphilisisn'tfaradvancedbecauseyoucanfeeltesticularpain,huh?”Hisupraised hand came floating down and then hesitantly, almost lovingly rested on her forearm,pleadingwithhernottoincreasethepressure.Acathedralofsilencedescendedontheplane.

“Areyoulisteningnow?”shesaid(thinkingthatshedidn'treallywanttoknowaman'sanatomythisway).“Arewetalkingasequals?…Mylifeinyourhandsandnowyourfamilyjewelsinmine?Youthinkyoucanterrifypeoplelikethat?Thatlittleboybrokehislegbecauseofyourstunt.”

She turnedher head toward the other passengers but, keepingher eye onFrenchie's face, said,“Anybodyhaveasharpknife?OraGillette?”

The rustle she heard might just have been the cremaster muscles of all the males on boardinvoluntarilyreelingtheirdanglingspermfactoriesbackuptoshelter.

“Wewereunauthorized…Ihadto…,”thepilotwheezed.

“Takeyourwalletout rightnowandpay for thischild,”Hemasaid,becauseshedidn'tbelieve inIOUs.

Whenhefumbledwiththenotes,theyoungArmeniangrabbedthewalletandhandedittotheboy'sfather.

One of the Yemenis, finding his voice, let out a stream of profanities, wagging his finger in thepilot'sface.

Hemasaid,“Now,yourefundtheplaneticketsfortheboyandhisparents.Andyougetusbackinthe air very soon,… otherwise, youwill not only be a eunuch, but I will personally petition theEmperortomakesurethatevenajobasacameldriver,letaloneflyingkhat,willbemuchtoogoodforyou.”

Theyheardthecargodooropenandsharpexclamationsfromthecooliesmillingaroundoutside.

TheFrenchman,hiseyeballssinkingintheirsockets,noddedmutely.FrancehadcolonizedDjiboutiandparts of Somalia, and they had even jockeyedwith theEnglish in India before settling for afoothold inPondi cherryBut on this steamyafternoon, onebrown soulwhowouldnever be thesameagain,andwhohadMalayalis,Armenians,Greeks,andYemenisbackingher,showedshewasfree.

“Well,howcanonebesaneinhotweather?”Hemlathasaidtonooneinparticular,lettinggoandmakingfortheoutsidetowashherhands,stiflingherlaughter.

CHAPTER6MyAbyssinia

HEMAFIXEDHEREYESonthegroundbelow,watchingforthetransitionofbrownscrubanddesertintosteepescarpmentannouncingthelush,mountainousplateauofEthiopia.Yes,shethought.This ismyhomenow.MyAbyssinia,whichsoundedtohersomuchmoreromanticthan“Ethiopia.”

The country was in essence a mountain massif that rose from the three deserts of Somaliland,Danakil, and Sudan. Even now Hema felt a bit like a David Livingstone or an Evelyn Waughexploringthisancientcivilization,thisstrongholdofChristianitywhich,untilMussolini'sinvasionin‘35,wastheonlyAfricannationnevertobecolonized.Waugh,inhisdispatchestotheLondonTimesand in his book, referred to His Majesty Haile Selassie the First as “Highly Salacious,” seeingcowardiceintheEmperor'sleavingthecountryinthefaceofMussolini'sadvance.Hema'sreadingof Waugh was that he couldn't accept the notion of African royalty. He couldn't accept that thebloodlinesofEmperorHaileSelassie,extendingbackastheydidtotheQueenofShebaandKingSolomon,made theWindsorsor theRomanovs look like carpetbaggers.Shedidn't thinkmuchofWaughorhisbook.

ThenewpassengerswhoclimbedaboardatDjiboutiwereSomalisorDjiboutians (andreally, shethought,whatdifferencewas therebetween the two,other thana linedrawnonamapby someWesterncartographer).Theychewedkhatandsmoked 555sanddespite theirdoleful,muddyeyestheywerehappy.Crammedintotheplane,whichbynowwasaltogethertoofamiliartoHema,waskhat,greatbalesofitbeinghauledbacktoAddisAbaba.Itwasallverystrange,sincekhatusuallytraveledintheoppositedirection:growninEthiopia,aroundHarrar,andexportedbyrailtoDjiboutiandthenbyairtoAden.ThatlucrativekhattraderoutewasresponsibleforthebirthofEthiopianAirlines. She overheard that some problem with the railway and road transport, as well as theurgent need for large quantities of khat for a wedding, prompted this reverse export and theunscheduledstop.Khathadtobechewedwithinadayorsoofitsharvest,orelseitlostitspotencyHemapicturedtheSomali,Yemeni,andSudanesemerchantsinthetinysouksthatanchoredeverystreetandbyway,andtheownersofthebiggershopsoftheMerkatoinAddisAbaba,eyeingtheirTissot watches, snapping at their shop boys as they waited for this shipment. She pictured theweddingguestswithmouthstooparchedtospit,butspittingandcursingallthesame,tellingoneanotherthatthebridewasuglierthantheyremembered,andthebigmoleonherneckmustmeanshedalsoinheritedthemiserlinessofherfather.

Hemaimaginedtellinghermotheraboutthepilotbusiness.ItmadeHemalaugh,whichmadetheSomalisittingoppositeher,oneofthenewcomers,smile.

Madras had been hot and humid for the three weeks that Hema was there, but it was heavencomparedwithAden.Herparents’ three-roomhouse in theneighborhoodofMylapore, verynearthetemple,hadseemedspacioustoherasagirl,butonthisvisitiffeltclaustrophobic.Thoughsheregularlysentherparentsbankdrafts,shedbeendismayedtofindnoimprovementsinthehousesince her last visit. The interior paint had peeled to form abstract patterns while the kitchen,blackenedwith smoke, resembledadarkroom.Thenarrowstreet outsidewhich rarely sawa carwasnowanoisythoroughfare,andthecompoundwallshowednotraceofwhitewashbut insteadwasthecoloroftheearthonwhichitstood.Onlythegardenhadbenefitedfromthepassageoftimewiththebougainvilleahidingthehousefromthestreet.Thetwomangotreeshadbecomehugeandheavywith fruit.OnewasanAlphonsoandtheotherahybridwith fleshthat feltrubberyat firstbitebutthenmeltedinthemouthlikeicecream.

The sole decoration in the living room was, as it had always been, the Glaxo powdered-milkcalendarhangingonanail.Theoverfedblue-eyedCaucasianbabyhadnevergrownup.Thecaptionread“GlaxoBuildsBonnyBabies.”Itwasenoughtomakeanybreast-feedingmotherfeelguiltythatshe was starving her infant. As a child Hema had barely registered the Glaxo baby. Now thecalendardrewhereyeandher ire.Whatan insidiouspresencethatbrathadbeen inher life.Aninterloperwithafalsemessage.Hematookdownthecalendar,butthepalerectangleonthewallcalledattentiontoitselfinawaythebabyneverhad.NodoubtonceHemaleft,anotherGlaxobabywouldfinditswaybackthere.

Duringherbriefvacation,Hemahadthehousepaintedandceilingfansinstalled.Sathyamurthy,thefatherofheroldchildhoodnemesis,Velu,peeredoverthefenceasworkmencarriedinaWestern-stylecommodetobecementedoverthefootpadsoftheIndiantoilet.Hesniggeredandshookhishead. “It's not for me, you old coot,” Hema said in English. “My mother's hips are bad.” AndSathyamurthy answered in the only English phrase he knew, “Goddamn China, kiss me

Eisenhower!”Hesmiledandwaved,andshewavedback.

THESOMALIACROSSFROMHERworeashinybluepolyestershirtandagoldwatchthatswungonhisstickwrist.Histoes,protrudingfromsandals,glowedlikepolishedebony.He lookedfamiliartoHema.Now,hebowed,grinned, anddisplayedhis fingersas if biddingat anauctionashe said, “Threekids,twoshots,onenight!”

Sheremembered.HisnamewasAdid.“Isay,areyoustilldoingdoubledutythesedays?”

His ivory teeth lit up theplane'sdim interior.He said something tohis friends.They smiledandnoddedsagely.Suchstrongteeththeyhave,Hemlathathought.Sheadmiredhisblackness,acolorsopurethat therewasapurpletingeto it.Theheadmistressatherschool,Mrs.Hood,hadbeenporcelain white, and the schoolgirls believed that if they touched her, their fingers would comeawaywhite;withAdid,she imagined theywouldcomeawayblack.Adid's regalmanner, theslowplay of expressions on his face, each thought matched by a lip-eyebrow combo, gave Hema thebizarreideathatshe'dliketosuckhisindexfinger.

She'dlastseenAdidinaheaddressandflowingrobesinthecasualtyroomatMissing,unflappable,eventhoughhispregnantwifewasconvulsing.WhenHemlathaunwrappedtheshroudsofcottonshefoundayoung,pale,anemicgirl.Herbloodpressurewassky-high.Thiswaseclampsia.WhileHemlatha was in Theater 3 delivering this wife of her firstborn by Cesarean section, Adiddisappearedandreturnedwithanolderwife,alsoinlabor,whoproceededtodeliverinthehorse-drawngharrybesidetheoutpatientsteps.Hemlatharanoutintimetocutthecord.Shepushedonthe wife's belly, but instead of the afterbirth, a twin popped out. Adid's smile when he saw thesecondchild,thethirdtotal,reachedfromeartoear.HemasuggestedhewearabanneracrosshischestthatsaidONENIGHT,TWOSHOTS,THREEKIDS.Adidhadlaughedlikeamanwhodneverheardtheword“worry.”

“Yes, yes,” he said now, raisinghis voice to beheard over thedrone of the engines.Hehad theclipped,French-accenteddictionofaDjibou-tian.“Amanisonlyasrichasthenumberofchildrenhefathers.Afterall,whatelsedoweleavebehindinthisworld,Doctor?”

Hema,who'dbeen thinkingalongsimilar lines justminutesbefore,decidedshewasapauperbythatyardstick.Shesaid,“Amen.Youmustbeamillionairemanytimesoverthen.”

An impish expression stole across his face, andwithwaggling brows and using just his eyes hepointed down the bench to awoman veiled and swathed in red-and-orange cotton robes. A verypale, henna-painted foot showed. Hemlatha guessed her to be a Yemeni. Or else aMuslim fromPakistanorIndia.

“Andsheis…?”Hemasaid,hopingitwouldnotbeimpolitetoaskabouthernationality.

Adidnoddedvigorously.“Threemoremonthsatleast.Andonemoreexpectingathome!”

“I tell youwhat,”Hema said, looking pointedly at Adid's groin, “I'll askDr.Ghosh to give you aspecial rateonavasectomy, two forone. Itwillbecheaper thandoinga tubal ligationonall thebegums.”

TheGujaraticoupleacrossfromherlookedupscowlingatAdid'sthigh-slappinglaughter.

“Why don't you bring the wives to the antenatal clinic?” Hema asked. “A smart man like youshouldn'twaittilltheygetintotrouble.Youdon'twantthemtosuffer.”

“It'snotmychoice.Youknowhowthesewomenare.Theywon'tcomeuntiltheyareunconscious,”hesaidsimply.

Trueenough,Hemlathathought.Yearsbefore,anArabwomanintheMerkatowasinlaborfordays,and thehusband, a richmerchant, broughtDr.Bachelli to seeher.But rather thanallowamaledoctor to seeher, shewedgedherbodybehind thebedroomdoor so thatanyattempt toopen itwouldcrushher.Thewomandiedalone,behindthatdoor,anactmuchadmiredbyherpeers.

BecauseHemawashungry,and toannoy theGujaratis further, sheacceptedsome leavesofkhatfromAdidand tucked them intohercheek. Itwassomethingshe'dneverhavedreamedofdoingbefore,buteventsofthelastfewhourshadchangedthings.

The khat was bitter at first, but then the pulpymass became almost sweet and not unpleasant.“Wonderofwonders,”shesaidaloud,asherfacetookonthechipmunkbulgeandherjawfellintothelazy,slewingrhythmofthethousandsofkhatchewersshehadseeninherlifetime.Likeapro,sheusedherhandbagasanelbowbolsterandshebroughtherfeetuptothebench,onekneeflat,

theotherunderherchin.SheleanedtowardAdid,whowassurprisinglychatty.

“…andwespendmostoftherainyseasonawayfromAddis,inAweyde,whichisnearHarrar.”

“I know all about Aweyde,” Hema said, which wasn't true. Shed driven there years before on aholiday to see the old walled city of Harrar. What she remembered about Aweyde was that theentiretownseemednothingmorethanakhatmarket.Thehouseswerehopelesslyplain,notatraceof whitewash. “I know all about Aweyde,” she said again, and the khat made her feel that sheactuallydid.“ThepeopletherearerichenoughtoeachdriveaMercedes,buttheywon'tspendacenttopainttheirfrontdoor.AmIright?”

“Doctor,howcouldyouknowthesethings?”Adidsaid,astonished.

Hemasmiled,as if tosay,Very littleescapesme,mydearman.Andthenshewasthinkingof theFrenchman's balls, of rugaeform folds, of themedian raphe that separated one bollock from theother,ofthedartosmuscle,thecellsofSertoli.Hermindwasracing,hyperaware.

Thecabinwasnolongerhot,anditfeltgoodtobeheadinghome.ShewantedtosaytoAdid:WhenIwasamedicalstudent,wehadtodothistestonpatientstocheckforvisceralpain.Visceralpainisdifferent fromwhenyoubumpyourknee, forexample.Visceralpaincomes fromthe inside, fromthebody'sorgans.It'sapainthatistoughtocharacterize,poorlylocalized,butpainfulallthesame.Anyway,asstudentswehadtosqueezethetestestocheckforintactvisceralpain,becausediseaseslikesyphiliscancausethelossofvisceralpainsensations.Oneday,atthebedsideofapatientwithsyphilis, the professor picked on me to demonstrate visceral pain. The men in our group weresnickering. I was bold then—I didn't hesitate. I exposed the balls— the testes, excuse me. Thepatienthadadvancedsyphilis.WhenIsqueezed,themanjustsmiledatme.Nothing.Nopain.Noreaction.SoIsqueezedharder—reallyhard.Stillnothing.Butoneofmymaleclassmatesfainted!

Adidgrinned,asifshehadtoldhimthisstory.

THEPLANEDESCENDED,slippingintoandoutofthescatteredcloudsoverAddisAbaba.Thedenseforestsof eucalyptus trees at first concealed the city. Emperor Menelik had imported eucalyptus yearsbefore fromMadagascar, not for its oil, but as firewood, the lackofwhichhadalmostmadehimabandonhiscapitalcity.Eucalyptushadthrived in theEthiopiansoil,and itgrewrapidly—twelvemetersinfiveyears,andtwentymetersintwelveyears.Menelikhadplanteditbythehectare.Itwas indestructible, always returning in strengthwherever itwascutdown,andproving ideal forframinghouses.

Thetreesrevealedclearingswithcircular,thatch-roofedtukulsandathornenclosuretokeeptheanimalspenned in.Then,at theedgeof thecity, shesawcorrugated-tin-roofedhouses,abundantandclosertogether.Achurchwithashortspirecameintoview,andthenthecityproper.TherewasChurchillRoadstartingattherailwaystationandmakingasteeprisetothePiazza,withahandfulofcarsandbusesplying itsslope.Thisglimpseof thecitycenter,which lookedsomodern,madeherthinkofEmperorHaileSelassie.Hedbroughtaboutmorechangeinhisreignthanthecountryhadundergone in threecenturies.Downatstreet level,hisportrait—thehooknose, thethin lips,thehighbrow—wouldbeineveryhouse.Hema'sfatherwastheEmperor'sbiggestfanbecausejustbeforeWorldWarII,asMussolinistoodreadytoinvade,EmperorHaileSelassiewarnedtheworldof the price of standing by and allowing Italy to invade a sovereign country like Ethiopia; suchinaction,hesaid,wouldfueltheterritorialambitionsofnotjustItalybutGermany.“Godandhistorywill remember your judgment,” he said famously before the League of Nations, and they did. Itmadehimthesymbolofthelittleguywhodstooduptothebully(andlost).

“YouseeMissingHospital,madam?”ThisfromAdidwhopeeredoverhershoulder.

“Missingismissing,”shesaid.

Neartheairportanentirehillsidehadturnedtoaflamingorangefromthebloomingofthemeskelflowerwhich told her that the rainy seasonmust have ended.Another hillsidewas coveredwithlean-tosandshacksofcorrugatedtin,thecolorsrustbrownoradarkercorrosivehue.Eachshacksharedawallwithitsneighbor,sothatcollectivelytheylookedlikelongirregularrailwaycarriagesthatsnakedacrossthehill,sendingbudsandoffshootsinalldirections.

THEFRENCHMANBUZZED lowover thestripso that thecustomsagentcouldgetonhisbicycleandshoostraycowsfromtherunwayHecircledandlanded.

Cars and vans in the bile-green colors of the Ethiopian police raced up to the plane, alongwitheveryfunctionaryoftheEthiopianAirlinesstaff.Thecargodoorwasyankedopen,andfrantichandsrushedtounloadthekhat.TheytossedthebundlesintoaVWKombi,thenintoathree-wheelervan,andwhenthosewerefull,theystuffedthepolicecars,andtheyallracedoff,sirenssounding.Onlythenwerethepassengersallowedtodisembark.

Theengineof theblue-and-whiteFiatSeicentowhinedas thesix-hundredmilliliterengine,whichgave it its name, strained to carry Hem-latha and her Grundig. Shed personally supervised theloadingofthebigcrateontotheroofrack.

ItwasaperfectsunnyafternooninAddis,anditmadeherforgetthatshewasmorethantwodaysoverdueatMissing.ThelightatthisaltitudewassodifferentfromMadras,suffusingwhatitgracedrather thanglaringoff every surface.Therewasnohint in thebreezeof rain, though that couldchangeinaninstant.Shecaughtthewoody,medicinalodorofeucalyptus,ascentthatwouldneverdoinaperfumebutwasinvigoratingwhenitwasintheair.Shesmelledfrankincense,whicheveryhouseholdthrewontothecharcoalstove.Shewasgladtobealive,andgladtobebackinAddis,butshedidn'tknowwhattomakeofthewaveofnostalgiathatovercameher,anunfulfilledlongingthatshecouldnotdefine.

Withtheendoftherains,makeshiftstallshadpoppedupsellingredandgreenchilies,lemons,androastedmaize.Amanwithableatingsheepdrapedaroundhisnecklikeacapestruggledtoseetheroad in frontofhim.Awomansoldbundlesofeucalyptus leavesusedascooking fuel formakinginjera—thepancakelikefoodmadefromagrain,tef.FartheronHemasawalittlegirlpourbatteronahugeflatgriddlewhichsatonthreebrickswithafireunderneath.WhentheInjerawasready,itwould be peeled off like a tablecloth, then folded once, twice, and once more, and stored in abasket.

Anoldwomanintheblackclothesofmourningstoppedtoassistamotherslingherbabyontoherbackinapouchmadeoutofhershama—thewhitecottoncloththatmenandwomenalikewrappedaroundtheirshoulders.

Amanwithwitheredlegsthatwerefoldedintohischestswungstiffarmedalongthedirtsidewalk.Hehadblocksofwoodwithahandle ineachhand,whichheplantedontheground,andthenheswunghisbottomforward.Hemovedsurprisinglywell,liketheletterMmarchingdowntheroad.Herbriefabsencemadethesesightsanoveltyagain.

Aherdofmulesoverladenwithfirewoodtrottedalong,theirexpressionsdocileandangelicinthefaceofthewhippingtheyweregettingfromthebarefootownerwhoranwiththem.Thetaxidriverleanedonhishorn.Despitethehighwhineoftheengine,thetaximanagedonlytocrawlalonglikeanotheroverburdenedbeast.

A lorry carrying sheep, the poor animals so crowded together they could hardly blink, overtookthem.Theseweretheluckyanimalsbeingcarriedtoslaughter.BeforeMeskel,thefeastcelebratingthe findingofChrist'scross,hugeherdsofsheepwouldarrive in thecapital, theanimalswobblyfromexhaustion,barelysurvivingthismarchtothefeasttable.Then,inthedaysafterMeskel,oneneitherheardnorsawanysheep.Insteadtheskintraderswalkedthestreetsandalleysshouting,“Yebegkodaalle!”—”Thesheep'shidewhoeverhas!”Ahouseholdwouldhailhim,andaftersomehaggling,he'ddrapeanotherskinovertheonesthathewasalreadyshoulderingandresumehiscry.

SuddenlyHemlathanoticedchildreneverywhereasifthey'dbeeninvisiblealltheseyears.Twoboyswereracingtheircrudemetalhoops,usingasticktoguideandpush,weavingthiswayandthatandmakingmotorcarnoises.Atoddlerwithrailroadtracksofsnotconnectingnosetolipwatchedwithenvy.Itsheadhadbeenshavedtoleaveatraffic-islandtuftinfront;HemawastoldwhenshefirstcametoEthiopiathatthisstrangehaircutwassothatifGodchosetotakethatchild(andHetooksomany),thetuftgaveHimahandlebywhichtoliftittoheaven.

Thechild'smotherstoodoutlinedbythebeadcurtainofabuna-bet—coffeehouse—though itwasreallyabar,offeringthingsmorepotentthancoffee.Atnightthebarwouldglowwithinfromthetubelights,paintedgreen,yellow,andred,andthewoman,transformedbythathour,wouldofferdrinks and her company. An espresso machine on a zinc bar established the class of anestablishment—thiswasa legacyof the Italianoccupation.Thewoman's flateyes fellon thecab,thenonHema,andherexpressionhardenedasifshehadseenacompetitor.Sheliftedhergazetothestrangecontaineronthetaxi'sroof,andthenshelookednonchalantlyawayasiftosay,I'mnotthe leastbit impressed.ShemightbeanAmhara,Hema thought,with thatwalnut skin, thehighcheekbones.She is sopretty.Probablya friendofGhosh.Acombwasstuck inherhairas if she

weretakingabreakfromteasingitintoshape.HerlegsshonefromNivea.Shemightevenswallowadabor twoofNiveanowand then, in thebelief it lightened thecomplexion. “Forall Iknow, itworks,”Hemasaid,thoughsheshudderedatthethought.

Betweenthenewercinder-blockbuildingswerehuts,thewattlewallsunpaintedandrevealingtheirsticks,straw,andmud.Allittookwasapolestuckinthegroundwithanemptycaninvertedoverthetoptosay,This,too,isabuna-bet,andthoughwedon'thaveanespressomachine,andthoughwesellhomebrewedtejandtallainsteadofbottledSt.Georgebeer,weofferthesameservicesastheother.

Theoldestprofessionintheworldraisednoeyebrows,evenwithHema.Shedlearneditwasfutileto object—it would have been like taking exception to oxygen. But the consequences of suchtolerancewereevident toher: tubal andovarianabscesses, infertility fromgonorrhea, stillbirths,andbabieswithcongenitalsyphilis.

OnthemainroadHemasawaworkcrewofgrinning,dark-skinned,big-bonedGuragessupervisedbyalaughingItalianoverseer.TheGur-ageweresouthernerswithawell-deservedreputationforbeinghardworkingandwillingtotakeonwhatthelocalswouldn't.Gebrew,whenheneededextrahandsatMissing,wouldsimplystepoutof the frontgateandyell “Gurage!” thoughof late, thatcouldbeseenasinsulting,soitwassafertoshout“Coolie!”

Thecrewwasbarefootbut for theoverseerandonemanwhohadsqueezed into ill-fittingplasticshoes,havingcutholesinthemforhisbigtoes.ByallrightsHemashouldhavebeenincensedbythissightofblacklaborersandawhiteoverseer,andshewonderedwhyshewasn't;maybeitwasbecause the Italians who stayed behind in Ethiopia after it was liberated were so easygoing, soreadytomockthemselves,thattheywerehardtoresent.LifefortheItalianswaswhatitwas,nomoreandnoless,aninterludebetweenmeals.Ormaybethatwasjustthewayofbeingthattheyfoundworkedbestintheircircumstance.Hemasawthelaborersstandstillassoonastheoverseerturnedaway.Asnail'space,butnevertheless,schools,offices,agrandpostoffice,anationalbank,were coming up to match the grandeur of Trinity Cathedral, the Parliament Building, and theJubileePalace.TheEmperor'svisionofhisEuropean-styleAfricancapitalwastakingshape.

PERHAPSITWASBECAUSEtheEmperorwasstillonhermind,andbecausehertaxiwasattheintersectionwhere,inplaceofthestringofshops,thereoncestoodagallows,butsuddenlyHemawasthinkingaboutascenethathauntedher.

Itwasatthisveryspotin1946thatsheandGhosh,intheirfirstmonthsinAddis,hadcomeuponacrowdblockingtheroad.StandingontherunningboardofGhosh'sVolkswagen,Hemahadseenacrudelyconstructedframeandthethreedanglingnooses.AmodifiedTrentaQuattrowithmilitarymarkingshadpulledup.ThreehandcuffedEthiopianprisonersontheflatbedwerehauledtotheirfeet.Themenwerecoatless,butotherwise,intheirshirts,shoes,andpants,theylookedasiftheydbeeninterruptedwhilehavingdinner.

AnEthiopianofficerinImperialBodyguarduniformreadfromapieceofpaperandtosseditaside.Hemawatched,fascinated,asheputthenooseovereachheadandpositionedtheknottooneside,behindtheear.Thecondemnedseemedresignedtotheirfate,whichwasinitselfaformofextremebravery. The bearing of a tall older man made Hema certain the prisoners were military. Thisgraying but upright prisoner spoke to the Imperial Bodyguard officer who inclined his head tolisten.Henodded,and removed thenoose.Theprisoner then leanedover the truckandheldhishandcuffedwristsouttoaweepingwoman.Sheremovedaringfromhisfingerandkissedhishand.Theprisonersteppedback,lookeddownlikeanactorsearchingforhismarkonstage,thenbowedtothisexecutioner,whoreturnedthegestureandreplacedthenoosewiththedelicacyofahusbandgarlandinghisnewbride.

Hemadidn'tunderstandwhatshewasseeing,notthenanyway.Shehalfbelievedittobeaformoftheater.Theviolenceofwhatfollowed—thetruckroaringaway,thethrashingforms,theawkwardandimpossibleangleofheadonchest,themadrushofonlookerstotearoffthedeadmen'sshoes—was less disturbing than the idea that shewas living in a countrywhere such things could takeplace. Sure, she'd seen brutality cruelty, in Madras, but they took the form of neglect andindifferencetosuffering,ortheytooktheformofcorruption.

TheeventleftHemasickfordays.ShecontemplatedleavingEthiopia.There'dbeennothingaboutit in the Ethiopian Herald, no comment the government wished to make. The men had beenplanningrevolution,sopeoplesaid,andthiswastheEmperor'sresponse.Hewaskeepingafragilecountryoncourse.

Hemahadneverforgottenthereluctantexecutioner,ahandsomeman,histemplesformingasharpanglewithhisbrowsohisheadwasshapedlikeahatchet.Hisnosewasflattenedatitsbaseasif

fromanoldfracture.Sherememberedhisstatelybowtothecondemnedbeforehecarriedouthisorders.Shedfeltpityandevenrespectforhim.Theconflictbetweenhisdutyandhiscompassionwasrevealedbythatgesture.Hadherefusedtofolloworders,hisneckwouldhavebeenstretched.Hemawassurehe'dactedagainsthisconscience.

Maybethis iswhatkeepsmeinAddisall theseyears,Hemathought, this juxtapositionofcultureandbrutality,thismoldingofthenewoutofthecrucibleofprimevalmud.Thecityisevolving,andIfeelpartofthatevolution,unlikeinMadras,wherethecityseemstohavebeencompletedcenturiesbeforeIwasborn.DidanyonebutmyparentsnoticethatIleft?“Whydon'tyoustayinIndia?TherearesomanypoorwomenwhodieneedlesslyhereinMadras,”herfatherhadsaidhalfheartedlyonthisvisit.“Youwantmetogivefreeservicetothepoorfromthishouse?”shesaid.“Ifnot,thengetmeajob.LettheCityCorporationhireme,ortheGovernmentMedicalService.Ifmycountryneedsme,why is it that theydon't takeme?”Theybothknewtheanswer: jobswenttothosewillingtogreasepalms.Shesighed,causingthetaxidrivertolookover.Shewasrelivingthepainofsayinggood-byetoherparentsyetagain.

Thesightofbarefootpeasantscarryingimpossibleheadloadsandhorse-drawngharriesplyingtheroadsmaintainedtheauraandmystiqueofthisancientkingdomthatalmostjustifiedthefabuloustalesofPresterJohn,whowroteinmedievaltimesofamagicalChristiankingdomsurroundedbyMuslimlands.Yes, itmightbetheeraofthekidneytransplantinAmericaandavaccineforpoliodue to arrive even in India, but here Hema felt she'd tricked time; with her twentieth-centuryknowledgeshehadtraveledbacktoanearlierepoch.ThepowerfiltereddownfromHisMajestytotheRases, theDejazmaches,and the lessernobilityand then to thevassalsandpeons.Herskillsweresorare,soneededforthepoorestofthepoor,andevenattimesintheroyalpalace,thatshefeltvalued.Wasn'tthatthedefinitionofhome?Notwhereyouarefrom,butwhereyouarewanted?

ATABOUTTWOintheafternoon,hertaxipulleduptothechukker-browngatesofMissing,aworlduntoitself.

The rockwall enclosed the hospital grounds and hid the buildings. Eucalyptus towered over thewall, andwhere therewasno eucalyptus therewere firs and jacarandaandacacia.Greenbottleshardspokedup from themortarat the topof thewall todissuade intruders—robberyandpettytheft were rampant in Addis—though the sight of roses lapping over the wall softened thisdeterrent. The wrought-iron gate covered with sheet metal was normally kept closed, andpedestrianswereadmittedthroughthesmaller,hingeddoorinthegate.Butnowthebiggatewaswideopen,aswasthepedestrianflap.

Inside,HemasawthatGebrew'ssentryhutdoorandshutterwerealsoopen,andwhentheycrestedthehill,shecouldseethateveryvisiblewindowanddoorinMissing'soutpatientbuildingwasopen,too;infact,shecouldseeGebrew,thewatchman(whohappenedtobeapriest),intheprocessofproppingopenthewoodsheddoorwitharock.

Spotting the taxi, he came running, his army surplus overcoat flapping, hiswhite priest's turbandwarfinghissmallface,hisflywand,cross,andbeadsclutchedinonehand.Heseemedtobetryingtoshoothetaxiaway.Gebrewwasanervouschapgiventorapidspeechandjerkymovements,buthewasfarmoreagitatedthanwashisnorm.Helookedstunnedtoseeher,asifhe'dneverexpectedhertocomeback.

“Praise-God-for-bringing-you-safely, welcome-back-madam, how-are-you-are-you-well? God-answered-our-prayers,”hesaidinAmharic.Shematchedhimbowforbowasbestshecould,buthewouldn'tstopuntilshesaid,“Gebrew!”

Sheheldoutafive-birrnote.“TakebowltoShebaBarandfetchpleasedoro-wot,”shesaid,namingthedelectable red chickencurry cooked inEthiopianpeppers—berbere.HerAmharicwas crude,andshecouldonlyspeakinthepresenttense,butdoro-wotwasatermshe'dmasteredearly.Anddoro-wot had occupied her dreams her last few nights inMadras, after somany days of a purevegetariandiet.ThewotcamepouredontothesoftcrepelikeinjeraandtherewouldbemorerollsofinjerawhichHemawouldusetoscoopupthemeat.ThecurrywouldhavesoakedintotheinjerathatlinedthebowlbythetimeGebrewbroughtit.Hermouthwateredjustthinkingofthedish.

“Indeed-I-will-madam,Sheba-is-best,blessed-is-their-cook,Sheba-is—”

“Tellme,Gebrew,whybedoorsandwindowsopen?”Nowshenoticedhisnailsand fingerswerebloody,andhissleeveshadfeathersstickingtothem,andfeatherswerecaughtupinhisflyswish.

Itwas then that Gebrew said, “Oh,madam! This iswhat I have been trying to tell you. Baby isstuck!Thebaby.AndSister!Andthebaby!”

Shedidnotunderstand.She'dneverseenhimsoworkedup.Shesmiledandwaited.

“Madam!Sisterisborning!Sheisnotborningwell!”

“What?Sayagain?”PerhapsbeingawayandnothearingAmharichadmadehermisunderstand.

“Sister, madam,” Gebrew said, alarmed that he didn't seem to be getting through, and thinkingvolumeandpitchmighthelp,thoughwhatcameoutwasasqueak.

“Sister”inMissingalwaysreferredtoSisterMaryJosephPraise,fortheonlyothernuntherewasMatronHirst,whowentbyMatron,whileall theothernurseswereaddressedasNurseAlmazorNurseEsther,andnotSister.

ToHema'sastonishment,Gebrewwascrying,andhisvoiceturnedshrill.“Passageisclosed!Itriedeverything.Iopenedallthedoorsandwindows.Isplitopenachicken!”

He clutched his belly and strained in a bizarre imitation of parturition.He triedEnglish. “Baby!Baby?Madam,baby?”

What he tried to convey was clear enough; there was no mistaking it. But it would have beendifficultforHematobelieveitinanylanguage.

CHAPTER7FetorTerribilis

THEDOORSTOTHEOPERATINGTHEATERburstopen.Theprobationershrieked.Matronclutchedherchestatthesightofthesari-cladwomanstandingthere,handsonherhips,bosomheaving,nostrilsflaring.

Theyfroze.Howweretheytoknowif thiswastheirveryownHema,oranapparition?Itseemedtaller and fuller thanHema, and it had the bloodshot eyes of a dragon.Onlywhen it opened itsmouthandsaid,“WhatbloodynonsenseisGebrewtalking?InGod'sname,whatisgoingon?”didtheirdoubtsvanish.

“It'samiracle,”Matronsaid,referringtothefactofHema'sarrival,butthisonlyfurtherconfusedHema.Theprobationer,herfaceflushedandherpockmarksshininglikesunkennailheads,added,“Amen.”

Stone stood and unfurrowed his brows at the sight of Hema. Though he didn't say a word, hisexpressionwasthatofamanwho,havingfallenintoacrevasse,spottedthebowlineloweredfromtheheavens.

Hema,recallingthiseventmanyyearslater,saidtome,“Mysalivaturnedtocement,son.Asweatbroke out over my face and neck, even though it was freezing in there. You see, even before Idigestedthemedicalfacts,I'dalreadyregisteredthatsmell.”

“Whatsmell?”

“Youwon't find itany textbooks,Marion, sodon'tbother looking.But it'setchedhere,” shesaid,tappingherhead.“IfIchosetowriteatextbook,notthatIhaveanyinterestinthatkindofthing,I'dhaveachapteronnothingbutobstetricodors.”Thesmellwasbothastringentandsaccharine,thesetwocontrarycharacteristicscomingtogetherinwhatshe'dcometothinkofasfetorterribilis.“Italwaysmeansalaborroomcatastrophe.Deadmothers,ordeadbabies,orhomicidalhusbands.Oralltheabove.”

Shecouldn'tbelievetheamountofbloodonthefloor.Thesightofinstrumentslyinghelter-skelter—onthepatient,nexttothepatient,ontheoperatingtable—assaultedhersenses.Butmostofall—and shed been resisting this—she couldn't accept the fact that SisterMary Joseph Praise, sweetSister,who shouldhavebeen standing, gowned,masked, and scrubbed, a beaconof calm in thiscalamityinsteadlayallbutlifelessonthetable,herskinporcelainwhiteandherlipsdrainedofallcolor.

Hema's thoughts became dissociated, as if they were no longer hers but instead were elegantcopperplatescrollingbeforeherinadream.SisterMaryJosephPraise's lefthandlyingsupineonthe table drew Hema's eye. The fingers were curled, the index finger less so, as if she'd beenpointing,whensleeporcomaovercameher.ItwasapostureofreposethatonerarelyassociatedwithSisterMaryJosephPraise.Hema'seyeswouldbedrawntothathandrepeatedlyasthehourunfolded.

ThesightofThomasStonebroughtherbacktohersensesandgalvanizedher.SeeingStoneinthehallowedplacebetweenawoman'slegsthatwasreservedfortheobstetricianrankledHema.Thatwasherspot,herdomain.Sheshoulderedhimaside,andinhishasteheknockedthestoolover.Hetriedtoexplainwhathadhappened:findingSister,theirdiscoveryofherpregnancyandthenherobstructedlabor,theshock,thebleedingthatneverstopped—

“Ayoh,what is this?”shesaid,cuttinghimoff,hereyesroundwithalarm,browsshootingupandhermouthaperfectO.ShepointedatthebloodytrephineandtheopentextbookrestingbySisterMaryJosephPraise'sbelly.“Booksandwhatnots?”Sheswipedthemaside,andtheyclatteredtothefloor,thesoundreverberatingoffthewalls.

Theprobationer'shearthammeredagainstherbreastlikeamothinalamp.Notknowingwheretoputherhands,shestuffedtheminherpockets.Shereassuredherselfthatshehadnopartinthebooksandwhatnots.Herfailure(andshewasbeginningtoseethis)wasafailureofSoundNursingSense;she'dmissedthegravityofSisterMaryJosephPraise'sconditionwhenshedeliveredStone'smessage.She'dassumedthatotherswouldlookinonSisterMaryJosephPraise.NoonehadbeenawarethatSisterMaryJosephPraisewasthatill,andnoonehadtoldMatron.

SISTERMARYJOSEPHPRAISEmovedherhead,andMatronbelievedthatshewasatleasttransientlyawarethat Matron held her hand. But so relentless was her pain that Sister couldn't acknowledgeMatron'skindness.

InhishandsIsawalargegoldenspearandatitsirontipthereseemedtobeapointoffire.

Matron's guess from the fragments she could understand was that Sister Mary Joseph Praise'smumbledwordswereperhapsthewordsofSt.Teresathattheybothknewsowell.

Ifeltasifheplungeditintomyheartseveraltimes,sothatitpenetratedallthewaytomyentrails.Whenhedrewitout,heseemedtodrawthemout,andleftmeinflamedwithagreatloveforGod.Thepainwassosevere, itmadememoanseveral times.Thesweetnessof this intensepain issoextreme,thereisnowantingittoend,andthesoulisnotsatisfiedwithanythinglessthanGod.

ButunlikeSt.TeresaofAvila,SisterMaryJosephPraisesurelydidwantthepaintoend,andjustthen,Matron said, thepain seemed to loosen its grip onherbelly, andSister sighedand clearlysaid,“Imarvel,Lord,atyourmercy.ItisnotsomethingIdeserve.”

Abriefperiodofluciditywithrovingeyemovementsfollowed,alongwithmoreattemptsatspeech,but itwasunintelligible.Lightsplashed intotheroom,andMatronsaid itwasas ifashroudthathadformedinfrontofherfacemeltedaway.Inthatmoment,asSisterMaryJosephPraiselookedaroundOT3—heroperatingtheaterforalltheseyears—Matronthoughttheyoungnunrealizedthatshewasnowthepatienttobeoperatedonandthattheoddswereagainsther.

“Perhapsshefeltshedeservedtodie,”Matronsaid,guessingatmymother'sthoughts.“Iffaithandgraceweremeant to balance the sinful nature of all humans, hers had been insufficient, and sowhat she feltwas shame.Still shemusthavebelieved, evenwithall her imperfections, thatGodlovedherandforgivenessawaitedherinHisabode,ifnotonearth.”

Matronwondered if it scaredmymother that shemightdie inAfrica,acontinentaway fromherbirthplace.Perhapsdeepinher—perhapsdeepineverybeing—therelingersadesiretobringthecircleoflifebacktoitsstartingpoint,whichinhercasewasCochin.

ThenMatronheardmymotherclearlywhisper“Misereremei,Deus”beforesoundlefther.MatroncarriedherthroughtherestofthepsalminLatin,servingashervoiceboxwhileSisterMaryJosephPraise'slipsmoved:“…Behold,Iwasshapenininiquity;andinsindidmymotherconceiveme…Purgemewithhyssop,andIshallbeclean:washme,andIshallbewhiterthansnow…”

Whenshefinished,Matronsaidtheshroudwasback.Thelightwasslippingawayfromherworld.

“PICK UP THE STOOL, Stone,” Hema barked. “And you,” Hema said, snapping her fingers at theprobationer,“getyourhandsoutofyourpockets.”

Stonesetthestoolupright justasHemlathaeaseddownontoit.ThekeybunchHemahadfishedouttoopenherhousewasnowtuckedintothewaistofhersari,anditjingledasshesettledherself.Underthetheaterlightsthediamondinhernosesparkled.Strandsofloosehairfelloverherearsandinfrontofhereyes;throughpursedlipssheblewthesewaywardlocksaside.Shesquaredhershoulders,squaredthemtothehorrorandtheunlovelinessofwhatwasbeforeher.Inthatgestureshe slipped off the mantle of the traveler and put on that of the obstetrician. The task ahead,howeverdifficult,dangerous,orunpleasant,washersandhersalone.

Hemafeltherselfgaspingforair.Herlungswouldneedaweektoacclimatize.ShedcomefromsealevelinMadrastoanoperatingroom8,202feetabovesealevel,notcountingthestoolonwhichshesat.Hernostrilsflaredwitheachinhalation,likeathoroughbredafterthequartermile.

Butherbreathlessnesscamealsofromwhatwasbeforehereyes.Gebrewhadn't losthismindorimbibedtoomuchtalla;hedbeentellingthetruth.Theeverydaymiracleofconceptionhadtakenplace in theoneplace it shouldnothave: inSisterMary JosephPraise'swomb.Yes,SisterMaryJosephPraisewaspregnant,hadbeenformonthsbeforeHemaleftforIndia!Andnotjustpregnant,butnowinextremis.Andthefather?

Whoelse?SheglancedatStone'sgrayface.

Butwhynot?shethought.WhyshouldIbesurprised?“Theincidenceofcancerofthecervix,”sherememberedherprofessorsaying,“ishighestinprostitutes,andalmostzeroinnuns.Whyalmostzeroandnotzero?Becausenunsarenotbornnuns!Becausenotallnunswerechastebeforetheybecamenuns!Becausenotallnunsarecelibate!”That'sneitherherenorthere,Hemaadmonishedherself,whileshethrustherhandsintoglovesthatMatronproduced.

The probationer recorded in the chart the arrival of Dr.Hemlatha. She chastised herself for notthinkingofthegloves.

Hemlatha spread her own legs. Her feet were swollen from the long flight. She flexed her toesagainstthestrapsofhersandalsandpawedthegroundtogetgoodpurchaseonthebloodyfloor.Withthefingersofherlefthandshespreadthelabia.Then,withamotionmadesimplebycountlessrepetitions,herrighthandpulleddownontheposteriorrim,openingthebirthcanaltoview.

“Rama,Rama, this isabloodyStoneAgeutensil,”Hemlathashoutedasshecarefullydisengagedfirstonehalfandthentheotherhalfoftheskullcrusher,slippingthemoverandthenoffthebaby'sears.Whenthebloodyinstrumentwasfree,shelookedatitwithdistasteandflungitaside.

Matronfeltrelief.Whateverhappened,atleastnowarealobstetricianwasincharge.Shecouldn'thelp but note howHemlatha and Stone had reversed roles:Hemawas now the shouter and theflinger.

MatronofferedthehistorythatSisterMaryJosephPraisehadbeeninseverepain,greatspasmsofit,andthenthepainshadsuddenlyceasedandshe'dseemedalmostlucid,talking…butnowshehaddeterioratedagain.

“MyGod,”Hemasaid,knowingthatinnaturepainsdon'tceasetillababyisout,“itsoundslikeauterinerupture.”Itwouldexplainallthebloodonthefloor.Placentaprevia—aplacentaplasteredover the exit to thewomb—was another possibility.Neither possibilitywas good. “When did youstophearingthefetalheartsounds?”Noonereplied.

“Pressure?”

“Sixtybypalpation,”thenurseanesthetistsaid,afterapause,as ifsheexpectedsomeoneelsetovolunteerthenumberthatshewasresponsiblefor.

HemapeeredaroundSisterMaryJosephPraise'sswollenbellytofixNurseAsqualwithawitheringlook. “Are you waiting for it to get to zero before you breathe for her? Put in a tracheal tube.Connect it to thehandbellows. If shewakes,giveher some intravenouspethidine.Tellmewhenyou're done.Where's Ghosh? Have you sent for him?” Nurse Asqual busied herself, grateful forstep-by-stepinstructionbecausehermindhadseized.

“Andwhohasgoneforblood?What!Nobody?AmIdealingwithidiotshere?Go!Run!Run!”Twopeoplechargedforthedoor.“Roundupanyoneandeveryonetogiveblood.Weneedlotsofblood!”

Hema insinuated two fingers of her right hand around the fetal skull. With her other hand shepushed down on Sister Mary Joseph Praise's belly. She peeked over the rise of the abdomen atSister'sface;ithadgonegray,grayerthanStone's.

NurseAsqual,herhandsshaking,managedto insertthetrachealtube.Witheverysqueezeoftheairbag,Sister'sengorgedbreastsheavedup.

Hema'shandswerelikeextensionsofhereyesassheexploredthespacethatshethoughtofastheportal to her work; fingers inside took their soundings, helped by the hand on the outside. Sheclosed her eyes, the better to receive what her fingertips conveyed about the pelvic width, thebaby's position. “What havewehere… ?” she said aloud. Indeed, the babywas head down, butwhatwasthis?Anotherskull?

“GoodGod,Stone?”Hemlathasaid,snatchingherhandoutasifshe'dtouchedahotcoal.

Stonelookedon,notunderstanding,butafraidtoask.ShefixedhergazeonStone,herfacetaut,waitingforareply,anyreply,andpreparedtoshoutitdownwhenitcame.

“Betteroutthanin?”Stonemumbled,thinkingshemeanthisskull-crushingattempts.

“Damnit,ThomasStone,don'tquotemeyouridiotbook.Doyouthinkthisisajoke?”Stone,whodidn'tatallseethisasajoke,whoinfactsawthateverythingHemawasdoingwassomethinghecould have and should have done, turned crimson. Hema turned back to probe once more thatcalamitousspaceinSisterMaryJosephPraise'sbodywheretwoliveswereinjeopardy.HerwordswerelikebodyblowsdirectedatStone.

“Oneprenatalvisit?Couldyouhaveletmeseeherforatleastoneprenatalvisit?I'dhavecanceledmy trip. Look at the soup we are in! Miracle, my foot. Completely avoidable … completelyavoidable“thelasttwowordsdeliveredlikelashes.

Stone stood as if in front of the headmistress. Hema seemed to expect him to speak and so hestammered,“Ididn'tknow!”

Hemlatha's jawdropped.She staredathim.Therewasapartofher thatwas incredulousat theideaofStoneimpregnatingSisterMaryJosephPraise—whocouldimaginethat?Butthecynicismofthe obstetricianwho has seen everything crept back in. “You're thinking virgin birth, Dr. Stone?Immaculate conception?” She came around the table. “In that case, guess what, Mr. ExpedientOperator?ThisisbetterthanthemangerinBethlehem.Thisvirginishavingtwins!”Shepausedtolet it sink in. “For goodness’ sake, couldn't you have done a Cesarean section?” Her singsongintonationroseattheend,leavingthewords“Cesareansection”hangingoverStone'shead.

“Glovesandgown,quick!”Hemlathashouted.“C-sectiontrayhere.Wakeup,allofyou!Doyounotwanttosaveher?Hurry!Hurry!Hurry!”SherepeatedthisinAmharic—“Tolo,tolo,tolo!”—incaseEnglishwasn'tgettingthrough.

Theauthorityofherwordskeptthemfromretreatingintotheshockthathadparalyzedthem.“Andyou nurses standing around all starched and useless,”Hemlatha said, as she pulled on a sterilegownanddonned freshgloves (therewasn't time towash), “couldn't youhavesaid something tohim?Matron?”Matronlookedtothefloor.

“Howlongagodidthefetalheartsoundsstop?Whatwasthefetalheartrate?”

“Ithappenedtooquickly.We—”

“Oh,shutup,Stone.Oneofyougivemeastraightanswer.Otherwiseallofyoushutup.Pressurenow?”

“Barelysixty.”

“Where'stheblood?AmIdealingwithdeafaswellasdumbpeople?Answerme?”

Thehospitalhadnobloodbank,justapintortwoifonewerelucky,keptinarefrigerator.Patients’familieswerereluctanttogiveblood.Hemaoncepressedahusbandtogivebloodforhiswife,andhe'drefusedoutright.Whenshesuggestedthathiswifewouldsurelygivebloodforhimifthetableswere turned,hesaid, “Youdon'tknowmywife.She'swaiting forme todie to takemycowsandproperty.”Timeandagain,sheandGhoshandStoneandMatronwoulddonatetheirownbloodandprevailonsomeof thenursestodothesame.At leastonceayearGhoshwouldtakehiscarandroundupmembersofhiscricketteamtogiveblood.

“Hasnoonethoughtaboutblood?”Hemasaidagain.“Allofyouwhoaren'tneededhere,goatonceandgiveblood.Thisisoneofourown,forGod'ssake.Go,now.No,notyouStone!Getgloved,man,forgoodness’sake.Makeyourselfuseful.Whatwasthefetalheartrate?”

Theprobationerkepthereyes focusedon thechart, terrifiedat the ideaofgivingbloodandnotdaring to look up. And she knew that no one had listened for a fetal heart. They'd been toopreoccupiedwiththemother.Theprobationerdrewalinethroughher“C-sectionindicated”entry,sensing that it reflectedbadlyonMatron. Itwasnoconsolation toseeDr.Stonestanding frozen,eyes downcast, like a dogwho'd disobeyed itsmaster, every instinct telling it to slink away butknowingthattheslightestmovementwouldonlybringmorepunishment.

HemasawthatSisterMaryJoseph'sPraise'sfacewaslosingallcolor,theeyelidsloweredtoquartermast,thehoodedgazenowunfocused,alookthatwassooftenaprecursortodeath.

“Pressure?”

“Can'tfindit…”

“Doesn'tmatter,pour inblood, splashsome iodinehere, let'sgo!”With that she rippedopen thesteriletray,grabbedthescalpel,andslashedthroughtheskin—notimeforsterilityeven—averticalcutbelowthenavel.Hemastillcouldn'tbelievewhatshewasdoing,orwhomshewascutting.

ShehalfexpectedSisterMaryJosephPraisetositupinprotest.

InsteadsheheardthethudofabodyfallingandturnedintimetoseeMatroncrumpledonthefloor.

CHAPTER8MissingPeople

CUSTODYOFTHEBODY”wasthefirstthingoutofMatron'smouthwhensherevived.She'dpassedoutforprobablyfewerthanfiveseconds;everyonewasinthesameposition,butnowstaringdownather.Theprobationerranovertohelp.DespiteHema'sprotests,Matronclawedandkneedherwayontotheanesthetist'sstool,shouting,“I'mnotleaving!”Theyweretoobusytoargue.

ShesatneartheboardthattetheredSisterMaryJosephPraise'sarm,bloodfinallyrunningfromabottle into a vein. Matron reached for that hand, bending over it, studying Sister Mary JosephPraise'sfingers.Shedidn'twanttolookatwhatthedoctorsweredoing,theirredglovesreachinginSister'sbelly.Matronstillfeltlight-headed.

As she massaged Sister's fingers to still the shaking in her own, the words came to Matronunbidden:“InstrumentsofGod.”SisterMaryJosephPraisehadbeautifulfingers,slenderandsoft,eachadelicatesculpture.Evenatrest theyspokeof finemotorskills.Matron'sbycontrastweredoughywhite, the knuckles large and red as if someone had taken a ruler to them; the knobbyexcrescenciesonthefingersspokeofnothingbutageandtoilandthecausticsoapsandscrubbingswhichwerethefirsttoolsofherprofession;thefireburstofwrinklesonherpalmsspokeofherlovefortheEthiopiansoilandherwillingnesstoplantandweedanddigalongsideGebrew.Hewasguard, gardener, odd-job man, and priest, and he believed Matron had no business dirtying herhands.

Matronfeltherbodyshaking.Lord,youcantakeme,shethought.Butwaittillthey'redonebecauseIdon'twanttodistractthemagain.HowshelongedforacupofcoffeemadefromtheirownplantgrownonMissingsoil.Shelovedthegrittyfeelofthestone-groundbeanagainstherteeth,andthewayitrolleddownthethroatlikeleadshot.TheItalianshadleftbehindtheirpassionformacchiatoandespressosothateverycaféinAddisservedthesebeverages.Matronhadnouseforanyofthat.Missing coffee, brewed traditionally, that's what sustained her through the day, and what sheneededrightnow.

Tears trackeddown into thecrevicesat theanglesofhermouth.OneofmyCherishedOwn, shethought;thedaughterIcanneverhave,nowwithchild…SomanytimesatMissing,Matronhadbecomeprivytoanunspeakablesecretrevealedbycatastrophicillness.Impendingdeathhadawayofunexpectedlyunearthingthepastsothatitcametogetherwiththepresentinanunholycoupling.ButLord,shecriedoutsilently,Youcouldhavesparedusthis.Sparedher!

Asshestrokedtheyoungerwoman'sskin,MatronthoughtoftheimpulsethathadmadeSisterMaryJosephPraisechoosetohideherbodyunderanun'shabitorunderscrubsuitandmask.Ithadn'tworked;hercoveringexaggeratedwhatlittlefleshwasexposed.Whenafacewassolovely,lipssofull,evenaveilcouldn'tblockitssensuality.

AfewyearsafterSisterMaryJosephPraise'sarrival,Matronthoughtthatthetwoofthemshouldgiveupthewhitehabit.TheEthiopiangovernmenthadcloseddownanAmericanmissionschoolinDebreZeitforproselytizing.Matronwasinthebusinessofrunningahospital,notconvertingsouls;she decided itmight be politically smart to forgo nun's habit. But when she'd seen SisterMaryJosephPraiseleavingOperatingTheater3inaskirtandblouse,Matronwantedtorunoutandcoverherwithasheet.W.W.Gonafer,Missing'slaboratorytechnician,standingnexttoMatron,hadalsoseenSisterMaryJosephPraisewalkbyinmufti.He'dfrozenlikeasetterpointingtoquail,aflushcreepingfromhiscollartotherootsofhishair,asiflustwereacompanionfluidtoblood.MatronhaddecidedthenthatnunsatMissingshouldremaininhabit.

A sudden exclamation that could have been fromHema or from Thomas Stone startledMatron,broughtherback to thepresent.She jerkedherheadup, andbefore she could stopherself, shelooked…What she sawmadeher shudderand feel as if she'dkeeloveragain.Shedroppedherheaddownbetweenhershoulders,closedhereyes,andforcedhermindtofindanotherfocus…

Matronhadnosaintwhomshemodeledherselfafter,someonetocallonatthesetimes.TothinkofSt.CatherineofSienadrinkingthepusofinvalids—oh!howthatdisgustedher.MatronthoughtofsuchdisplaysasaparticularContinentalweakness,andshewasimpatientwithcelestialbillingandcooing,bleedingpalmsandstigmata.AndasforSt.TeresaofAvila…why,shedidn'thaveanythingagainstTeresa.Shedidn'tgrudgeSisterMary JosephPraiseheradulationofTeresa.Butsecretlyshe agreedwith Dr. Ghosh, the internalmedicine physician atMissing, that St. Teresa's famousvisions and ecstasies were probably nothing but forms of hysteria. Ghosh had shown Matron

photographsthatCharcot,thefamousFrenchneurologist,hadtakenofhispatientswithhysteriaatthe Salpêtrière hospital in Paris. Charcot believed that these delusions sprung from a woman'suterus—hystera inGreek.Hispatients,whowereallwomen, stood in smilingposes—provocativeposes,Matronthought—thatCharcothadlabeled“Crucifixion”and“Beatitude.”Howcouldanyonesmile in the face of paralysis or blindness? La belle indifférence was what Charcot called thisphenomenon.

If Sister Mary Joseph Praise had visions, she wasn't one to speak about them. Some mornings,SisterMaryJosephPraisehadlookedsleepless,herbrightcheeks,herfloatingcarriage,suggestingher feet strained to remain earthbound. Perhaps that explained her equanimity while workingshouldertoshoulderwithThomasStone,amanwhoforallhistalentsgavelittleencouragementtothosewholaboredwithhim.

Matron'sfaithwasmorepragmatic.She'dfoundinherselfacallingtohelp.Whoneededhelpmorethanthesickandthesuffering,moresoherethaninYorkshire?ThatwaswhyshecametoEthiopiaa lifetimeago.The fewphotographs,mementos,books, andcertificatesMatronbroughtwithherhadovertheyearsbeenpilferedormislaid.Sheneverworriedoverthis—oneBible,afterall,woulddojustaswellasthenext.Theessentialswerealsoeasilyreplaceable:hersewingkit,herwater-colors,herclothes.

Butshe'dcometovaluethe intangibles: thepositionshehadgrownto inthecitywhereshewas“Matron” to everyone, even to herself; the resourcefulness she'd discovered that allowed her tomakeacozyhospital—anEastAfricanEden,asshethoughtofit—growoutofadisorganizedjumbleof rudimentary buildings; and the core group of doctors whom she'd recruited andwho by longassociationhadevolvedintoherCherishedOwn.TheumbilicalcordthathadconnectedhertotheSocietyofHolyChildOrder,totheSudanInteriorMission,hadshriveledandfallenoff.Theywereallnowself-exiledprisonersatMissing—sheandherCherishedOwn.

MissingHospitalwasn'titsname,ofcourse,andnowandthenMatrontriedtocorrectpeople,teachthemtosay“Mi-shun” insteadof “Missing.”But in truth that year itwasn't evenMissing; itwaseitherBaselMemorialorBadenMemorial—shehad toconsult thepaper taped toherdesk tobesure—namedafter agenerous church in eitherSwitzerlandorGermany.TheBaptists ofHoustonwerebigdonors,buttheyweren'tatallconcernedaboutnamingthehospital.Dr.GhoshlikedtosaythatthehospitalhadasmanyformsasaHindugod.“Onanygivenday,onlyMatronknowswhichhospitalweworkin,andifwearewalkingintotheTennesseeBaptistoutpatientclinic,ortheTexasMethodistoutpatientclinic,sohowcanyoublamemeforbeinglate—Ihavetogetoutofbedandgo findmy place ofwork.Oh,Matron, there you are!” Prisoners they all were,Matron thought,smiling despite herself; Missing People who could hardly choose their cell mates. But even forGhosh, who was without doubt one of the strangest of God's creations, Matron felt a maternalaffection.Andtheparallelanxietythatcomeswithsuchanimpishchild.

MATRONSIGHEDandwassurprisedtohearwordstumbleoutofhermouth,andshefelttheothersintheoperating theater staring at her. Only then did she realize that her lips had been busy shapingprayers.Sinceturningfifty,Matronhadnoticedsuchdissonancesanddisconnectionsbetweenherthoughtandaction;theywerebecomingcommon.Forexample,atinopportunemomentshermindbusieditselfpastingimagesintoamentalscrapbook.Why?Whenwouldsheeverhaveoccasiontorecall all thesememories?At a testimonial dinner?Onherdeathbed?At thepearly gates?She'dlongagostoppedthinkingliterallyaboutsuchmatters.Herfather,aminerwhohadlosthimselfinalcohol and the darkness of the tunnels, had loved the words “pearly gates.” On his tongue itsounded like the name of a blowsy woman, one of many that had come between him and hisconjugalduties.

Still,Matronwassureofonething:theimageshewitnessedwhenshe'dinadvertentlylookedupashort while before, that was one she'd never ever forget.What happenedwas this: the sun hadsuddenlyfreeditselffrombehindacloud,andbysomeaccidentofelevationandseasonpresenteditself directly on the ground-glass window of Operating Theater 3. Lambent and white, it hadbouncedoffthewalls,reflectedoffglass,metal,andtile,andthereitwasjustwhenHemaorStoneorwhoeveritwasmadealoudexclamation,whichwaswhathadmadeMatronlookup.Thatwaswhen Matron saw them all bent over like hyenas over carrion, peering into Sister Mary JosephPraise'sopenabdomenanditsscandalouscontents.Shesawthelightnosingitswaybetweenelbowandhip.ThenthesunbeamfelldirectlyonSisterMaryJosephPraise'sgraviduterus,whichbulgedoutof thebloodywound likeanobscenityonasaint's tongue.Ablue-blackcollectionofblood—ahematoma—stretched thebroad ligamentof theuterus, and itglowed in the light like theHost.Matron felt that thishadbeenthesun's intentallalong—to find theunborn.Wehaveseeneachother anew.Weareunmasked. Yes, itwas the kind of event thatmight be termed a “miracle”—except thatnothinghappened; the laws of natureweren't suspended (whichMatron feltwas thesinequanonformiracles).Butitwasasifthetwins’placeinthefirmamentaswellasintheearthly

orderofthingshadbeensecuredforthemevenbeforetheywereborn;sheknewthatnothing—noteventhefamiliarscentofeucalyptus,orthesightofitsleavesthrustintoanostril,orthedrumrollofrainoncorrugatedtinroof,orthevisceralodorofafreshlyopenedabdomen—couldeverbethesameagain.

CHAPTER9WhereDutyLies

HEMA WIELDED HER SCALPEL likeawomanon fire.Notimeto tieoffbleeders,and, inanycase,verylittlebleedingalongtheway—notagoodsign.Sheopenedtheglisteningperitoneumandquicklypositioned retractors to hold thewound edges back. The uterus bulged out of thewound. Then,beforehereyes,itseemedtoswellandturnluminous…Shestoodfrozen,untilsherealizeditwasbecause the sun had suddenly struck the frosted window and lit up the table. In all her yearsoperatingatMissing,shecouldn'trememberthathappeningbefore.

JustasHemafeared,therewasalateraltearintheuterus.Bloodhadfilledthebroadligamentononeside.Thatmeantthatonceshegotthebabiesout,shedhavetodoanemergencyhysterectomy,noeasytask inpregnancy,whatwiththeuterinearteriesbeingtortuous, thickened,andcarryinghalf a liter of blood a minute. Not to mention the massive blood clot shimmering in the light,growing before her eyes and gloating at her like a smiling Buddha, as if to say,Hema, I havecompletelydistortedtheanatomy,dissectionisgoingtobebloodydifficult,andyourlandmarkswillallbegone.Butcomeoninanyway,whydon'tyou?

Hemabelievedinnumerology;nexttoone'sname,nothingwasasimportantasnumbers.Whatisitaboutthisday?sheaskedherself.It'sthetwentiethdayoftheninthmonth.Nofoursorsevensinthere…Airplanealmostcrashes,achildbreakshisleg…IcrackaFrenchman'snuts…Whatmore,Isay,whatmore?

SherappedStone'sknuckleswithascissors.“Stop!”Hewasfumblingwithanoozingvesselwhensheneededhimtoretract.

She incised the uterus and tried to deliver the twin who sat higher in the uterus but wasnevertheless head down, upside down. This twin would have been the second to come out haddeliveryproceeded through thebirthcanal,butnow itwouldbe the firstborn.Butstrangely, thistwin,handjammedagainstitscheek,wouldn'tbudge.

Sheextendedtheuterinewound.

Shesuctionedtheinfant'smouth.

Shedrewasharpbreaththatinvertedhermaskagainstherlipsbecauseshecouldseetheproblem.

Thebabieswerejoinedatthehead.Ashort,fleshytubepassedfromthecrownofonetotheother,atubethatwasnarrowerandofadarkerhuethantheumbilicalcords.Theyweretetheredtogether,buttherewasafataltearinthisstalk,ajaggedopeningcausednodoubtbyStone'sfishingwiththebasiotribe.Andfromthisrent,whatlittlebloodthetwoinfantspossessedwaspumpingout.

PleaseGod,shethought, letthisbeonlyabloodvessel,andaminoroneatthat.Lettherebenobrainormeningesorventricleorcerebralarteryorcerebrospinalfluidorwhatnotinit.ShespokealoudtoStonenow, to theroom, toGod,andto the twinswhose lives, if theysurvived,mightbeirrevocably affected by this decision: “They could have seizures the minute I cut this. One twincouldbleedoutandtheotheroverfillwithblood.Theycouldgetmeningitis…”

Thiswasatechniquesurgeonsusedwhendifficultdecisionshadtobemade:thinkaloudforyourassistantbecauseitmighthelpclarifytheissuesforyourself.Andtheoreticallyitgavetheassistanttime topointouther faulty reasoning, thoughshewasn'tabout to takeanopinion from themanresponsibleforthisblunder.Acarefuldecisionwasneededsoasnottoblunderagain.Itwasoftenthesecondmistakethatcameinthehastetocorrectthefirstmistakethatdidthepatientin.

“Nochoice,”shesaid.“Ihavetocut.”Sheputclampsacrossthestalkwhereitemergedfromeachinfant'sscalp.SheinvokedLordShiva'sname,heldherbreath,andcutaboveeachclamp,bracingherselfforsomethingterrible.

Nothinghappened.

Shetiedoffthestumps.Shecuttheumbilicalcordandeasilypulledoutthefirstinfant,amale.Shehandedittothegownedandglovedprobationerwhostoodnearby.Thisbabyhadbeensparedhisfather'sprobings.Thenshepulledouttheotherinfant—againaboy,anidenticaltwin,whosescalpwasbloodiedfromStone'sknifeandwhoseskullwouldhavebeencrushedhadshenotarrived.

Both infants were tiny, three pounds at best. Clearly less than full term. A month premature,perhapsmore.Neitherinfantcried.

DistractednowbyheavyoozingfromSisterMaryJosephPraise'ssoggy,friableuterus,Hematurnedbackfrominfantstothemother.

“WhatisherBP?”Hemaasked,peeringoverthedrapes,firstatNurseAsqual,andthenatSisterMaryJosephPraise'sface.Theanesthetist,thewhitesofhereyesshowinglikesaucers,shookherhead.BeautifulSisterMaryJosephPraise'sfacenowlookedbloatedandlifeless.“Moreblood!ForGod'ssake.Pouritin!”Hemashouted.

Asshetoiledinthenowdeflatedcavityofthebelly,Hemlatharememberedthatwhenshe'dhandedover the second baby to the probationer, she had been surprised to find the probationer stillstandingthere,holding the first,ablank lookonher face.ButHemahadno timetoworryaboutthat.Oncethebabieswereout,herdutyasanobstetricianwastoturncompletelytoSisterMaryJosephPraise;herdutywastothemother.

CHAPTER10DanceofShiva

WETWOUNNAMEDBABIES,newlyarrived,werewithoutbreath.IfmostnewbornsmeetlifeoutsidethewombwithaVV shrill, piercingwail, ourswas the saddest of all songs: the still-born's song ofsilence.Ourarmsweren'tclampedtoourbreasts;ourhandsdidnotmakefists.Instead,wewerelimpandfloppyliketwowoundedflounders.

Thelegendofourbirthisthis:identicaltwinsbornofanunwhodiedinchildbirth,fatherunknown,possiblyyetinconceivablyThomasStone.Thelegendgrew,ripenedwithage,and,intheretelling,newdetails came to light.But lookingback after fifty years, I see that there are still particularsmissing.

Afterlaborstalled,Idraggedmybrotherbackintothewombandoutofharm'swayaslancesandspears came at him through our only natural exit. The attack ceased. Then I remember—and IbelieveIdo—themuffledvoices,thetuggingandsawingoutside.Astherescuersnearedus,Irecalltheblindingglareandstrongfingerspullingatme.Theshatteringofthedarknessandthesilence,the deafening racket outside was so great that I almost missed the moment when we werephysically separated, when the cord connectingmy head to Shiva's fell away. The shock of thatparting lingers. Even now, what I think about the most isn't that I lay there without breathing,immobile in thecopperbasin,born to theworld, yetnotalive—instead, I recall only thepartingfromShiva.But,toreturntothelegend:

Theprobationerunloadedthetwostillbornsintoacopperbasinusedtoholdplacentas.Shecarriedthebasintothewindow.Shemadeanotationinthedeliverychart:Japanesetwinsconnectedbytheheadbutnowdisconnected.Inhereagernesstobeuseful,shecompletelyforgotherABC's:Airway,Breathing, and Circulation. Instead, she thought of what she had read the previous night aboutjaundiceofthenewbornandthehelpfulroleofsunlight.Shedmemorizedthatpassage.ShewishedshehadreadaboutJapanesetwins(theword“Siamese”eludedher)orasphyxiatedbabies,butthefactwasshehadn't;shedreadaboutjaundice.Butthen,asshesetthebasindown,sherealizedthatforsunlighttowork,thebabieshadtobealive,whichtheseweren't.Hersorrowandshamemadeherconfusionworse.Sheturnedaway.

The twins lay face-to-face, feeling the basin's galvanic touch against their skin. In the chart theprobationerusedthewords“whiteasphyxia”todescribetheirdeathlypallor.

Thesun,whichhadstage-littheroommomentsbefore,nowhonedinonthebasin.

The copper glowed orange. Its molecules became agitated. Its prana rose into the infants’translucentskinandpassedintotheirdoughyflesh.

HEMLATHADISSECTEDthebroadligaments,thenclampedtheuterinearteries,prayingthatshewouldn'taccidentally clamp the ureters and shut down the kidneys in that bloody mess. “Quick, quick,quick!” She was tempted to smack Stone on the forehead instead of on the knuckles. “Retractproperly,man!”

She followedhis gaze toSisterMary JosephPraise's head,whichbobbed like a ragdoll's as theanesthetist tugged at her arm to find another vein. Matron, teary and lost in her grief, strokedSisterMaryJosephPraise'sotherhand.

WhenHemafinallydeliveredtheuterus,clampsandall,intoabasin,shesawnopulsationsintheabdominal aorta. Her hands, steady till now, shook as she loaded a syringe with Adrenalin andattached a three-and-a-half-inch needle to it. She lifted Sister Mary Joseph Praise's left breast,hesitatedforamoment,invokedGod'snameagain,thenplungedtheneedlebetweentheribsandintotheheart.Shepulledtheplungerback,andamushroomofheartbloodappearedinthesyringe.WheneverI'vehadtoresorttoadrenalinetotheheart ithasneverworked,Hemasaidtoherself.Notonce.MaybeIdoitasawaytosignaltomyselfthatthepatientisdead.Butsurelyitmusthaveworked,somewhere,withsomeone.Whyelsewasittaughttous?

Hemlathapridedherselfonbeingmethodicalinanemergency,keepinghercool.Butshestifledasobnowasshewaited,herrighthandburiedinSisterMaryJosephPraise'sabdomen,palmdown,justoverthespine,waitingforathrobintheaorta,aslaptoregisterinherfingers.Shecouldn'tforget that thiswasdearSister'sheart shewas trying to jump-start, andwhose lifewas slippingaway.They'dsharedthebondoftwoIndianwomeninaforeignland.ThebondextendedbacktotheGovernmentGeneralHospitalinMadras,India,eventhoughtheyhadn'tknowneachotherthere.To

shareageographyandalandscapeofmemorymadethemsisters,afamily.AndHemacouldseehersister's hands turning blue, the nail beds dusky, and the skin turning dull. It was the hand of acorpse,andholdingitwasMatron,herheadbowedasifshewereasleep.

Hemawaitedlongerthanshemighthaveundernormalcircumstances.Itwassometimebeforeshecouldbringherselftosay,hervoicebreaking,“Nomore.Wehavelosther.”

ITWASDURINGthishiatusofactivityintheroomthatthefirstborn,theonewho'dbeensparedaskullpuncture, signaled its presence. It rapped its hands on the copper basin. It brought its left heeldowntoproduceamuffledgong.Nowthatithadcomewhollyforthfromadyingwomb,itreachedbotharmsskywardandthentoitsright,toitsbrother.HereIbe,itannounced.Forgettheshouldsand coulds and might haves and hows and whys. I am sympathetic to the situation, thecircumstance,andinduecoursewecanexplorethedetails,and,inanycase,BirthandCopulation,andDeath—that'sallthefactswhenyoucomedowntobrasstacks…I'vebeenborn,andonceisenough.Helpmybrother.Look!Here!Comeatonce!Helphim.

Hemlatharanoveratthissummons,saying“Shiva,Shiva,”invokingthenameofherpersonaldeity,theGodwhomothersthoughtofastheDestroyer,butwhoshebelievedwasalsotheTransformer,theonewhocouldmakesomethinggoodcomeoutofsomethingterrible.Latershewouldsaythatshe'dassumedtheworstaboutthetwins.Oneofthemhadhisheadbloodied,andthentherewasthematterofherdividingthefleshytubethatconnectedthem,andGodknowshowmuchdistressthey'dbeen inbeforeshecut themfreeof thewomb.Butshe'dalsoassumedthatMatronor theprobationer or both would be reviving the infants while she worked on the mother, though sherecalledseeingMatronseatedandimmobile.

Theprobationerwasmortifiedat thesoundofababy thathadcomealiverightbehindherback,confoundinghermostbasicclinicalassumptions.Thechildwasnolongerwhite,butpink,andnotjaundiced.Theotherinfantwasarobin'seggblue,anditwasstillandunmovingasif itwerethediscardedchrysalis fromwhich the cryingbabyhademerged.Matron,hearing thatnewborn cry,jumpedoffherstool.Herglancelettheprobationerknowshewasahopelesscase.HemlathawenttoworkonthetwinthatwasunmovingwhileMatronhastenedtocleanupthelivingone.

THEBREATHINGTWINgazedoutfromthecoppervessel.Itspuffynewborneyessurveyedtheroom,tryingtomakesenseofitssurroundings.

Therestoodthemaneveryonetooktobethefather,atall,sinewywhiteman,lookinglostinhisowntheater.Thefather'shandswerepreternaturallypalefromthetalcthatlingeredonthemafterhe'dstrippedoffhisgloves.Hisfingerswereclaspedtogetherinaposturesharedbysurgeons,priests,andpenitents.Hisblueeyesweresetdeepintheorbitsunderaledgeofabrowwhichcouldmakehimlookintense,butonthisdaymadehimlookdull.Fromtheshadowssprungthegreataxbladeofanose,anosethatwassharp,inkeepingwithhisprofession.Hislipswerethinandstraightasifdrawnwitharuler.Indeed,thefacewasallstraightlinesandsharpangles,comingtoapointinalancetshapedchin,asifithadallbeencarvedoutofasinglesquareofgranite.Hishairwaspartedon the right, a furrow that originated inboyhoodwith every follicle tamedby the comb to knowexactlywhichdirectionitwastotilt.Thetopwascutunevenly,asifaftersaying,“Ashortbackandsides,”he'drisenfromthechairwhenthatwasaccomplished,despitethebarber'sprotests.Itwasthekindofobstinate,determinedfacethatwithaspyglassheldtotheeyeandaponytailwouldn'thavebeenoutofplaceonthedeckofanEnglishman-of-war.Except,ofcourse,forthetearsrollingfreelydownthecheeks.

Andfromthattear-stainedface,avoiceemerged:“WhataboutMary?”startlingeveryonebecauseithadbeensilentforsolong.Themeasuredsyllableshadthequalityofaslowfuse.

“I'msorry,Thomas.Itistoolate,”saidHemlathaasshesuctionedtheinfant'spharynx,thenpushedairintothebaby'slungs,hermovementsspeedyandalmostfrantic.TheirritationwithStonewasgonefromhervoice,andpityhadtakenitsplace.Shestoleaglanceathimoverhershoulder.

AwrenchingnoiseemergedfromStone'smouth,thecryofanunsoundmind.HedbeenapassiveobserverandaworthlessassistanteversinceHema'sarrival.Nowheleapedforwardandgrabbedascalpelfromthetray.HeplacedahandonSisterMaryJosephPraise'schest.Hemlathathoughtofrestraininghimandthendecideditwasn'tprudenttoapproachamanwieldingaknife.

Stone liftedSisterMary JosephPraise's breast. Themotto of thosepioneers of resuscitation, theRoyalHumaneSociety,resoundedinhisears:Lateatscintillulaforsan—asmallsparkmayperhapsbehidden.

Hepushedthebreastupandoutoftheway,andunderhisknifearedgashappearedbetweenthefourthand fifth ribs.Hedrew theknifeover thewoundagain, andyet again till hewas through

muscle. Ifhewasclumsyearlier,hismovementsnowwere thoseof aman incapableof tentativestrokes.Hecutthecartilagesthatconnectedthetworibstothebreastbone.Hespreadtheribsandwatched in disbelief as his ungloved hand slid out of sight and into the still warm cavity of herchest.Thespongy lunghepushedaway.Andthere,underhis fingers likeadeadfish inawickerbasket,was SisterMary Joseph Praise's heart.He squeezed, surprised at its size, barely able toencircleit.Meanwhile,heexhortedthenurseanesthetisttokeeppushingairintoherlungs,nottostop.

His right hand was buried within her thorax, but his eyes were on Sister Mary's engorged leftbreast,whichheheldoutofthewaywithhislefthand.Thebreastfeltfirm,unliketheslippery,softheart.Hesawblotchyblueshadowscreepintoherface,ahuethatherbrownskinshouldn'thavebeen capable of.Her abdomen had collapsed, its surface crinkled like an airless balloon, its twohalvessplayedopenlikeabookwhosespinehadgivenway.

“God?God?God?”Stonecriedwithevery squeeze, callingonaGodhehad renouncedonceanddidn'tbelieve in.ButSisterMarybelieved, risingbeforedawn topray,and lingering inprayeratnightbeforesheslept.EverybeatofherlifeandeachdayofhercalendarhadbeenfilledwithGodevents,andnomorseloffoodenteredhermouthwithoutGod'sblessing.Makeyourlifesomethingbeautiful forGod. IfThomasStoneneverunderstood it,herespected it,because itwas thesamequalityshebroughttotheoperatingtheater,andtothetextbookshe'dhelpedhimwith.ThatwaswhyhecalledoutGod'snamenow,becauseiftherewasaGod,GodbloodywellowedHisdevotedservant,SisterMaryJosephPraise,amiracle.Otherwise,GodwastheshamelessfraudStonehadalwaysfoundHimtobe.“Ifyouwantmetobelieve,God,I'llgiveyouanotherchance.”

Thetheaterdoorsswungopen.

Alleyesturnedtothefigurethatentered.

But it was only wide-eyed Gebrew, priest, servant of God, and watchman. The covered bowl hecarriedheldtheinjeraandwot,andtheirscentwasaddedtothatofplacenta,blood,amnioticfluid,and meco-nium. Gebrew had hesitated to come into this sanctum sanctorum. He held the foodcontainerinfrontofhim,unsureifitweretheingredientthatmightsavetheday.Hiseyesalmostpoppedoutof their socketswhenhesaw,on thealtarof thishallowedplace,SisterMary JosephPraiseopenedlikeasacrificiallambwithStone'shandinherchest.Hestartedtoshake.Heputthefoodonthefloor,squatteddownagainstawall,pulledouthisbeads,andswayedinprayer.

Stoneredoubledhisefforts.“IdemandamiracleandIwantitrightnow,”hesaid,hisbodyrockingback and forth. He kept it up even when the heart had turned mushy in his hand, and he wasshoutingnow.“Thebloodyloavesandfishes…Lazarus…thelepers…MosesandtheRedSea…”Gebrew'schantinginancientGeezmatchedStone,callandresponse,asifGebrewweretranslatingbecauseinthishemisphereGoddidn'tknowEnglish.

Stone lookedupto theceiling,prepared for thetiles topartandforanangel to intercedewheresurgeonsandpriestshadfailed.Allhesawwasablackspiderhangingdownfromitsweb,withitscompoundeyestakinginthesceneofhumanmiserybelow.Stone'sshouldersslumped,andthoughhis hand was still in Sister Mary's thorax, he was now merely caressing her heart, no longersqueezing.Hischestheaved,tearsfallingontothebodyofSisterMaryJosephPraise.Hisheadfellforwardsoitrestedonhisarms,whichrestedonSister'schest.Noonedaredapproach.Theyweretransfixedbythesightoftheirsurgeonsodefeated,sodestroyed.

ATLONGLASThelookedup,seeingasifforthefirsttimethegreentilegoinghalfwayupthewall,theswinginggreendoor to theautoclaveroom, theglass instrumentcase, thebloodyuteruswith itsnecklace of hemostats lying in the green towel, the blue-black placenta right next to it on thespecimen table, and the jade-coloredground-glasswindows throughwhich sunlight filtered.HowdidthesethingsdaretoexistifMarydidnot?

Thatwaswhenhiseyesfellonthetwins,nolongerintheircopperthrone;thatwaswhenhesawtheorangehaloof lightthatsurroundedthetwoboys.Somehowbothchildrenwerealive,bright-eyed,oneofthemseemingtostudyhim,thesecondonenowaspinkasthefirst.

“Ohno, no, no,” he said in a pitiful voice. “No.Thatwas not themiracle I asked for!”When hewithdrewhishandfromMary'sbodyitmadeagurglingsound.Heleftthetheater.

Hecamebackwithalongbroom.Hebrushedthespiderofftheceiling,andthen,withhisheel,hegrounditintothetile.

Matronunderstoodhewasintentonblasphemy;incasethearachnidwasGod,hewaskillingGod.

“Thomas,”Hemlathasaid,usinghisfirstname,whichsoundedstrangeonhertongueinOperatingTheater 3,because theywerealways formalhere.By this timebothbabieswere inHema'sarms,wipedoffandsuctionedandswaddledinreceivingblankets.TheoneinwhoseskullStonehadtriedto drill a hole had aspirated some amniotic fluid but now seemed recovered; there was a bigpressuredressinginplaceovertheheadwound.Theotherchildshowedonlythestumpoftheflesh-bridgethathadconnectedhimtohisbrother,astumpnowtiedoffwithumbilicalcordsuture.

Hemlathahadestablishedthattheboyscouldmovetheirlimbs,neitherofthemwascockeyed,andtheyseemedtohearandtosee.“Thomas,”shesaid,approaching,buthecringed.Heturnedaway.Hewouldnotlook.

Thismanshethoughtsheknewwell,sevenyearsacolleague,nowstoodbentasifhedbeengutted.

That,shesaidtoherself,isvisceralpain.Asangryasshedbeenwithhim,thedepthofhisgriefandhisshamemovedher.Alltheseyears,shethought,itshouldhavebeencleartousthatheandSisterwere a perfectmatch;maybe ifwed encouraged them it could have been somethingmore.HowoftendidIseeSisterassistinghiminsurgery,workingonhismanuscripts,takingnotesforhimintheoutpatientdepartment?WhydidIassumethatwasall therewasto it?Ishouldhavereachedoverandsmackedhimatmydinnertable.Ishouldhaveshoutedathim,Don'tbeblind.Seewhatyouhaveinthiswoman!Seehowshelovesyou.Proposetoher!Marryher.Gethertodiscardherhabit,renegeonhervows.It'sclearherfirstvowistoyou.Butno,Thomas,Ididn'tdoitbecauseweallassumed thatyouwere incapableofanythingmore.Whoknew that thismuch feelingwashiddeninyourheart?Iseeitnow.Yes,nowwehavethesetwoasproofofwhatwasinyourhearts.

Thetwobundlesinherarmspropelledherforward,becausetheywere,afterall,his,andevenasshethoughtthat,shewasstillfightingherowndisbelief.Surelyhewouldn'ttrytodenythatfact.She couldn't back away from thismoment; she had to force the issue—who else could speak forthesechildren?Stonewasafoolwholosttheonewomanintheworldfatedforhim.Butnowhehadgainedtwosons.AndMissingwouldrallyroundtheseinfants.He'dhavelotsofhelp.

Shemovedcloser.

“Whatshallwenamethesebabies?”Shecouldsensetheuncertaintyinhervoice.

Heappearednottohear.Afterapause,sherepeatedthequestion.

Stone thrusthis chinather, as if to say shecouldname themwhatever shewanted. “Pleasegetthemoutofmysight,”hesaidverysoftly.

HekepthisbackturnedontheinfantstogazeoncemoreatSisterMaryJosephPraise.Whichwaswhy he missed the way his words fell on Hema like hot oil; he didn't see the flames of angershootingoutofhereyes.Hemawouldmisreadhisintentions,andhehers.

Stonewantedtorunaway,butnotfromthechildrenorfromresponsibility.Itwasthemystery,theimpossibilityoftheirexistencethatmadehimturnhisbackontheinfants.HecouldonlythinkofSisterMaryJosephPraise.Hecouldonlythinkofhowshe'dconcealedthispregnancy,waiting,whoknowsforwhat.InresponsetoHema'squestion,itwouldhavebeenasimplethingforStonetosay,Whyaskme?Iknownomorethanyoudoaboutthis.Exceptforthecertaintythatsatlikeaspikeinhisgutthatitwassomehowhisdoing,eventhoughhehadnorecollectionhoworwhereorwhen.

SisterMaryJosephPraiselaylifelessandunburdenedofthetwolivesshehadcarried,asifthathadbeen her sole earthly purpose.Matron had pulled down SisterMary Joseph Praise's eyelids, buttheywouldnotstayclosed.Thehalf-masteyelids,theunseeinggaze,hammeredintherealityofherdeath.

Stonetookonelastlook.HewantedtorememberhernotasSister,notashisassistant,butasthewomanheshouldhavedeclaredhis love for, thewomanheshouldhavecared for, thewomanheshould have wed. He wanted the ghoulish image of her corpse burned into his brain. He hadnegotiatedhiswaythroughlifebywork,andwork,andmorework.ItwastheonlyarenainwhichhefeltcompleteandtheonlythinghehadtogiveSisterMaryJosephPraise.Butatthismomentworkhadfailedhim.

Thesightofherwoundsshamedhim.Theredbenohealing,noscarstoform,harden,andfadeonherbody.Hewouldbear the scar, hewould carry it from the room.Hedknownonly onewayofbeing,and itcosthim.Buthewouldhavebeenwilling tochange forherhadsheonlyasked.Hewouldhave.Ifonlyshecouldhaveknown.Whatdiditmatternow?

He turned to leave again, glancing around as if to seal in his memory this place in which hed

polishedandelevatedhisart, thisplace thathed furnished tosuithisneedsand thathe thoughtwashisrealhome.Hetook itall inbecauseheknewhednevereverreturn.HewassurprisedtofindHemastillstandingbehindhim,andagainthesightofthebundlesshecarriedmadehimrecoil.

“Stone,thinkaboutthis,”Hemasaid.“Turnyourbackonmeifyouwant,becauseI'llhavenouseforyou.Butdon'tturnyourbackonthesechildren.Iwon'taskyouagain.”

HemaheldherlivingburdenandwaitedonStone.Hewasonthevergeofspeakingtoherhonestly,oftellingherall.Inhiseyesshesawpainandpuzzlement.Whatshedidn'tseewasanyrecognitionof the infants as being connected to him.He spoke like amanwho'd just been hit on the head.“Hema,Idon'tunderstandwho…whytheyarehere…whyMaryisdead.”

Shewaited.Hewascirclingaroundatruththatmightemergeifshewaited.Shewantedtograbhisearsandshakeitoutofhim.

At last hemethergaze, refusing to lookdownat the infants, andwhathe saidwasn'twhat shewantedtohear.“Hema,Idon'twanttoseteyesonthem,ever.”

ThelastofHema'srestraintfellaway.Shewaslividforthechildren,furiousthatheseemedtothinkthiswasjusthisloss.

“Whatdidyousay,Thomas?”

Hemusthaveknownabattlelinehadjustbeendrawn.

“Theykilledher,”hesaid.“Idon'twanttoseteyesonthem.”

Sothisishowitwillbe,Hemathought,thisishowweshallpassfromeachother'slives.Thetwinsmewledinherarms.

“Whosearethey,then?Aren'ttheyyours?Sodidn'tyoukillher,too?”

Hismouthopenedinpain.Hehadnoanswer,soheturnedtoleave.

“Youheardme,Stone,youkilledher,”Hemasaid,raisinghervoicesothatshedrownedouteveryothersound.Heflinchedasthewordslashedintohim.Itpleasedher.Shefeltnopity.Notforamanwhowouldn'tclaimhischildren.Hepushedtheswingingdoorsoharditshriekedinprotest.

“Stone,youkilledher,”sheshoutedafterhim.“Theseareyourchildren.”

THEPROBATIONERBROKEtheensuingsilence.Shewastryingtoanticipate,sosheopenedacircumcisiontrayandpulledongloves.TheonethingMatronallowedhertodowithoutsupervisionwastousetheforeskinguillotine.

But instead of praising her, Hema pounced on her. “My goodness, girl, don't you think thesechildrenhavehadquiteenough?They'repreemies!Theyarenotoutofdanger.Want them tobechip-cock-Charliesontopofall this?…Andyou?Whathaveyoubeendoingall thetime,eh?Youshould'vebeenworryingabouttheirswallowingends,nottheirwateringcans.”

HEMAROCKEDTHETWINS, thrilledbytheirbreathingselves,bytheirpeacefulsmiles, theoppositeof theusualanxious,panicked faceofanewborn.Theirmother laydead in thesameroom, their fatherhadrun,buttheyknewnothingofthat.

Matron,Gebrew,thenurseanesthetist,andotherswhohadgatheredwereweepingaroundSister'sbody.Wordhadspreadtothemaidsandhousekeepers.Nowafuneralwail,apiercinglululululululurippedthroughtheheartofMissing.Theululationswouldcontinueforthenextfewhours.

EventheprobationerbegantoshowthefirstinklingofSoundNursingSense.Insteadofstrugglingto appear to be something shewas not, shewept for Sister,whowas the only nursewho reallyunderstoodher.Forthefirsttimetheprobationersawthechildrennotas“fetuses”or“neonates”but instead asmotherless children, like herself, children to be pitied.Her tears poured out.Herbodyslumpedas if thestarchhadvanishednot just fromherclothesbut fromherbones.Toheramazement,Matroncameandputanarmaroundher.ShesawnotjustsadnessbutfearinMatron'sface.HowcouldMissinggoonwithoutSister?OrwithoutStone?Forsurelyhewasnevercomingback,thatshecouldsee.

Hemlathashutoutthesobbingaroundherassherockedthebabies,andthenshebegantocroon,herankletsjinglingfaintlylikecastanetsassheshiftedweightfromonefoottotheother.ShefeltthelossofSisterMaryJosephPraiseasacutelyasanyone,andyetshefeltguided—perhapsthis

was Sister's doing—to give her all at thismoment to the two infants. The twinswere breathingquietly; their fingers fanned over their cheeks. They belonged in her arms. How beautiful andhorrible life is,Hema thought; toohorrible to simply call tragic. Life isworse than tragic.SisterMary,brideofChrist,nowgonefromtheworldintowhichshejustbroughttwochildren.

HemathoughtofShiva,herpersonaldeity,andhowtheonlysensibleresponsetothemadnessoflifeinthisherthirtiethyearwastocultivateakindofmadnesswithin,toperformthemaddanceofShiva,tomimictherigidmaskingsmileofShiva,torockandswayandflapsixarmsandsixlegstoaninnertune,atablabeat.Thim-thaga-thaga,thim-thaga-thim,thim-thaga…Hemamovedgently,kneesflexing,tappingherheels,thenherforefootintimetothemusicinherhead.

ThebitplayersinTheater3regardedherasifsheweremad,butshedancedonevenastheytidiedthe corpse, she danced as if her minimalist gestures were shorthand for a much larger, fuller,recklessdance,onethatheldthewholeworldtogether,keptitfromextinction.

Ridiculous,thethoughtsthatcametoherasshedanced:hernewGrundig,Adid'slipsandhislongfingers, the thump of Matron falling over, the revolting feel of the Frenchman's balls but thesatisfaction in seeing the color fleehis face,Gebrewwith chicken feathers stuck to him.What ajourney … what a day … what madness, so much worse than tragic! What to do except dance,dance,onlydance…

Shewas surprisinglygraceful and light onher feet, theneckandheadand shouldergestures ofBharatnatyamautomaticforher,eyebrowsshootingupanddown,eyeballsflittingtotheedgesoftheir sockets, feetmoving, a rigid smile onher face, andall thiswhileholding thebabies inherarms.

Outside the hospital, as the light faded, the lions in the cages near the Sidist Kilo Monument,anticipating the slabs ofmeat the keeperwould fling through the bars, roaredwith hunger andimpatience;inthefoothillsofEntoto,thehyenasheardandpausedastheynearedtheedgeofthecitythreestepsforwardandoneback,cowardlyandopportunistic;theEmperorinhispalacemadeplans for a state visit toBulgaria andperhaps to Jamaica,where he had followers—Rastas—whotooktheirnamefromhisprecoronationnameofRasTeferiandwhothoughthewasGod(anideahedidn'tmindhisownpeoplebelieving,butwhen itcamefromso farawayandforreasonsthathedidn'tunderstand,madehimwary).

THELASTFORTY-EIGHThourshadirrevocablyalteredHema'slife.Shehadtwoinfantssquintingupatherfromtimetotimeasiftoconfirmtheirarrival,theirgoodfortune.

Hema felt light-headed, giddy. Iwon the lotterywithout buying a ticket, she thought. These twobabiespluggedaholeinmyheartthatIdidn'tknowIhaduntilnow.

Buttherewasdangerintheanalogy:shedheardofarailwayporteratMadrasCentralStationwhowon lakhs and lakhs of rupees, only to have his life fall apart so that he soon returned to theplatform. When you win, you often lose, that's just a fact. There's no currency to straighten awarpedspirit,oropenaclosedheart,aselfishheart—shewasthinkingofStone.

Stonehadprayedforamiracle.Thesillymandidn'tseethatthesenewbornsweremiracles.Theywereobstetricmiracles forsurvivinghisassault.Hemadecidedtonamethe first twin tobreatheMarion.MarionSims,shewouldtellmelater,wasasimplepractitionerinAlabama,USA,whohadrevolutionized women's surgery. He was considered the father of obstetrics and gynecology, thepatronsaint;innamingmeforhim,shewasbothhonoringhimandgivingthanks.

“AndShiva, for Shiva,” she said, naming the childwith the circular hole in his scalp, the last tobreathe, the child she had labored over, a child all but dead until she had invoked Lord Shiva'sname,atwhichpointhetookhisfirstgasp.

“Yes,MarionandShiva.”

Shetackedon“Praise”tobothnames,aftertheirmother.

Andfinally,reluctantly,almostasanafterthought,butbecauseyoucannotescapeyourdestiny,andsothathewouldn'twalkawayscot-free,sheaddedoursurname,thenameofthemanwhohadlefttheroom:Stone.

PARTTWOWhenapolegoesintoaholeitcreatesanothersoulwhichiseitherapoleorahole

Newton'sFourthLawofMotion(astaughtbytheMightySeniorSirsofMadrasChristianCollegeduring the initiation/ raggingofA.Ghosh, JuniorPisserKataan,Batchof 1938,St.ThomasHall,DBlock,Tambaram,Madras)

CHAPTER11BedsideLanguageandBedroomLanguage

ONTHEMORNINGofthetwins’birth,Dr.AbhiGhoshawokeinhisquarterstothesoundofpigeonscooingonthewin-dowsill.ThebirdshadfiguredinhiswakingdreaminwhichheswungfromthegiantbanyantreeoutsidehisboyhoodhomeinIndia.Hedbeentryingtopeekattheweddingbeingconductedindoors,butevenwiththebirdsusingtheirwingstowipethewindows,hecouldn'tsee.

NowthatGhoshwasawake,onlytheancientbanyantree,whichhadstoodinthesharedcourtyard,still feltvivid. Itsbranchesweresupportedbypillarlikeaerial rootswhich toachildappeared tohave shot up from the ground instead of the otherway around. Immovable through theMadrasmonsoonsand through thedogdaysof summer, that treehadbeenhisprotectorandguide.ThecantonmentnearSt.ThomasMount,ontheoutskirtsofMadras,teemedwithrailwayandmilitarybrats;itsuitedafatherlesschild,particularlyonewhosemotherwastoodefeatedbyherhusband'sdeathtobeofmuchusetoherchildren.AnandGhoshe,aBengalifromCalcutta,hadbeenpostedtoMadrasbytheIndianRailways.Hemethisfuturewife,theAnglo-IndiandaughterofthePeramburstationmaster,atarailwaydancetowhichhehadgoneona lark.Neither familyapprovedof themarriage.Theyhadtwochildren,firstagirl,thenaboy.LittleAbhiGhoshewasamontholdwhenhisfatherdiedofhepatitis.Hegrewintoaself-sufficient,fun-lovingchildwhomettheworldhead-on. When he came of age, he dropped the e at the end of his name, because he thought itredundant,likeaskintag.Inhisfirstyearofmedicalschool,hismotherdied.Hissisterandherhusbandpulledaway,resentfulthatthecantonmenthousecametohim.Hissistermadeitclearthatheceasedtoexistforher,andintimehesawthiswastrue.

THEMORNINGSwerewhenGhoshfeltHema'sabsencefromMissingthemost.Herbungalow,hiddenbyhedges,wasashoutawayfromhis,butitwaslockedupandsilent.WhenevershewentonholidayinIndia,hislifebecameunbearablebecausehewasterrifiedthatshedreturnmarried.

AttheairportbeforeHemaleft,hedbeendyingtoblurtout,Hema,let'sgetmarried.Butheknewshewouldhavethrownherheadbackandlaughed.Helovedherlaughter,butnotathisexpense;hehadswallowedhismarriageproposal.

“Fool!”shehadsaidbeforeboardingwhenheaskedheryetagainifsheintendedtoseeprospectivebridegrooms.“Howlonghaveyouknownme?WhydoyoukeepthinkingIneedagroominmylife?I'llfindabrideforyou,Itellyouwhat!You'retheonewhoismatrimoniallyobsessed.”

Hemasawhisjealousyastheirlittlejoke:Ghoshplayedatwooingher(orsoshebelieved),andsheplayedherrolebyfendinghimoff.

If sheonlyknewhow tormentedhewasbyuninvited images:Hema inbridal sariweigheddownwith ten-sovereign gold necklace; Hema seated next to ugly groom, garlands piled around theirnecksliketheyokeonwaterbuffalo…“Goahead!WhatdoIcare?”hesaidaloud,asifshewerethereintheroom.“Butaskyourself,canheloveyouthewayIloveyou?What'stheuseofeducationif you let your father lead you like a cow to theBrahmabull?” That led him to picture a bovinepenis;hegroaned.

This time,whenHema'sdepartureappeared inevitable,Ghoshdidsomethingdifferent:hequietlymailedoutapplications foran internship inAmerica.Granted,hewas thirty-twoyearsold,but itwasn'ttoolatetostartagain.Mailingtheenvelopegavehimasenseofcontrollinghisdestiny,moreso when Cook County Hospital in Chicago cabled that they were sending a voucher for a planeticket.Whentheletterandcontractarrived,theydidn'tdiminishhisanxietyaboutHema,butitdidmakehimfeellesshelpless.

FromthekitchenGhoshheardtheviolentclangofAlmazextractingwaterfromMussolini.“ForthesakeofGod,begentle!”hecalledoutashedidmostdays.Thestovehadthreerings,butitwasthebulgingovenbelow,whichresembledacertainfallendictator'spotbelly,thatgaveititsname.Setinto its side was a metal cavity so that whenever the stove was lit, water was heated. Almazgrumbledabouthavingtosplitwood, thenstokethe fire inMussolini—all forwhat?Tomakeonecup of that vile powder coffee for the getta? (In the mornings Ghosh preferred instant to thesemisolidEthiopianbrew.)Butitwasn'tthecoffeehevaluedasmuchasthehotwaterforhisbath.

HedrewtheblanketoverhisheadasAlmazstagger-steppedtothebathroom,heftingthesteamingcauldron.“Banya skin!”shemuttered inAmharic.Amharicwasall sheeverspoke, thoughGhoshsuspected she understood more English than she let on. After emptying the cauldron into thebathtub, she finished the thought: “It must be so sickly to require washing every day. What

misfortunethegettadoesn'thavehabe-sha skin. Itwouldstaycleanwithout theneed forall thisscrubbing.”

NodoubtAlmazhadbeentochurchthismorning.WhenGhoshfirstcametoEthiopia,ashewalkeddownMenelikStreet,awomanacrosstheroadstoppedandbowedtohimandhewavedback.Onlylaterdidherealizethathergesturewasaimedatthechurchacrosstheway.Pedestriansbobbedbeforeachurch,kissingthechurchwallthriceandcrossingthemselvesbeforegoingon.Ifthey'dbeenchaste,theymightenter.Otherwisetheystayedontheothersideofthestreet.

Almazwas tallwithoak-colored skinanda shield-shaped face.Heroval eyes slopeddown to thebridgeofhernose,givingherasultry, invitinggaze.Hersquarechincontradicted thatmessage,andthishintofandrogynybroughtheradmiringlooks.Shehadlargebutshapelyhands,widehips,and buttocks that formed a broad ledge on which Ghosh believed he could balance a cup andsaucer.

Shewastwenty-sixwhenshecametoMissingwithlaborpains,ninemonthspregnant,hercheeksflushedwithpridebecausethisbabyshewouldcarrytoterm,unlikealltheothersthathadfailedtotake root in her womb. In the prenatal clinic visits, nursing students had twice recorded FHSH(FetalHeart SoundsHeard) in the chart. But on the day of her putative labor,Hemaheard onlysilence. Hema's exam revealed that the “baby” was a giant fibroid of the uterus and the FHSHnothingbutarattleinaprobationer'sbrain.

Almaz refused to accept the diagnosis. “Look,” she said, fishing out an engorged breast andsqueezingforthajetofmilk.“Couldatitdothatiftherewerenochildtofeed?”Yes,atitcoulddothatandmoreifitsownerbelieved.IttookthreemoremonthswithnotruesignsoflaborandanX-raythatshowednobaby'sskull,nospine,forAlmaztoconcede.Atthesurgery,whichsheat lastagreedto,Hemahadtoremoveboththefibroidandtheuteruswhichithadswallowed.InthetownofSabathatheystillwaitedforAlmaztoreturnwiththebaby.ButAlmazcouldn'tbeartogoback.ShestayedonandbecameoneoftheMissingPeople.

HeheardAlmazreturnandthejangleofacupandsaucer.Thescentofcoffeemadehimpeekfromunderhistent.

“Isthereanythingelse?”sheasked,studyinghim.

Yes, I need to tell you that I am leavingMissing. Really, I am! I can't let Hema play me like aharmonium.Buthedidn'tsaythis;instead,heshookhishead.HefeltAlmazunderstoodintuitivelywhatHema'sabsencedidtohim.

“Yesus Christos, please forgive this sinner, but he was out drinking last night,” she said as shestoopedtopickupabeerbottlefromunderthebed.Alas,Almazwasinaproselytizingmood.GhoshfeltasifhewereeavesdroppingonherprivateconversationwithGod.WhatabadideaithadbeentogivetheBibletoanyonebutpriests,Ghoshthought.Itmadeapreacheroutofeverybody.

“BlessedSt.Gabriel,St.Michael,andalltheothersaints,”shecontinuedinAmharic,confidenthewouldunderstand,“forIprayedformastertobeanewman,forhimtoonedaygiveuphisdooriyeways,butIwaswrong,yourvenerableholinesses.”

Itwastheworddooriye thattrickedGhoshintospeaking.Itmeant“lout,”“lecher,”“reprobate”—anditstunghimtohearthatword.

“Whatgivesyoutherighttoaddressmethisway?”hesaid,thoughhedidn'treallyfeeltheangerhis voice carried. He was about to add, Are you my wife?—but choked those words off. To hisperpetual shame,heandAlmazhadbeen intimate twiceover theyears,both timeswhenhewasdrunk.She'dlaindown,lifted,andspread,grumblingevenasherhipsfellintorhythmwithhis,butnomorethanshegrumbledaboutthecoffeeorhotwater.He'ddecidedthatgrumblingwithAlmazwasthe languageofbothpleasureandpain.Whentheywerespentshe'dsighed,pulledherskirtdown,andasked,“Willtherebeanythingelse?”beforeleavinghimtohisguilt.

Helovedherforneverholdingthosetwoepisodesagainsthim.Butithadgivenherthelicensetonaghim, to raise her grumbling to a steadypitch. Thatwasher prerogative, but the saints helpanyoneelsewhoaddressedhiminthattone;shedefendedhim,hisbelongings,andhisreputationwithhertongueandwithherfistsandfeetifnecessary.Sometimeshefeltthatsheownedhim.

“Whydoyouharassmelikethis?”hesaid,thefiregonefromhisvoice.Heknewhedneverhavethecouragetobreakthenewsofhisleavingtoher.

“WhosaidIwastalkingtoyou?”Almazreplied.

Butwhenshelefthesawthetwoaspirinsinthesaucerwithhiscoffee,andhisheartmelted.Mygreatestconsolation,Ghoshthought,foronlythehundredthtimesincehisarrivalinEthiopia,hasbeenthewomenofthisland.Thecountryhadcompletelysurprisedhim.Despitepictureshe'dseeninNationalGeographic,he'dbeenunpreparedforthismountainempireshroudedinmist.Thecold,thealtitude,thewildroses,thetoweringtrees,remindedhimofCoonoor,ahillstationinIndiahe'dvisited as a boy. His Imperial Majesty, Emperor of Ethiopia, may have been exceptional in hisbearinganddignity,butGhoshdiscoveredthatHisMajesty'speoplesharedhisphysical features.Theirsharp,sculptednosesandsoulfuleyessetthembetweenPersiansandAfricans,withthekinkyhairofthelatter,andthelighterskinoftheformer.Reserved,excessivelyformal,andoftenmorose,theywerequicktoanger,quicktoimagineinsultstotheirpride.Asfortheoriesofconspiracyandthemost terrible pessimism, surely they'd cornered theworldmarket on those. But get past allthose superficial attributes, and you found people who were supremely intelligent, loving,hospitable,andgenerous.

“Thankyou,Almaz,”hecalledout.Shepretendednottohear.

INTHEBATHROOMGhoshfeltasharppainashepeedandwasforcedtocutoffhisstream.“Likeslidingdowntheedgeofarazorbladeusingmyballsasbrakes,”hemuttered,hiseyestearing.WhatdidtheFrenchcallit?Chaudepisse,butthatdidn'tcomeclosetodescribinghissymptoms.

Was this mysterious irritation from lack of use? Or from a kidney stone? Or was there, as hesuspected, amild, endemic inflammation along the passage that carried urine out? Penicillin didnothing for this condition, which waxed and waned. He'd devoted himself to this question ofcausation, spending hours at themicroscopewith his urine andwith that of others with similarsymptoms,studyingitlikethepiss-potprophetsofold.

AfterhisfirstliaisoninEthiopia(andtheonlytimehe'dnotusedacondom),hehadreliedontheAlliedArmyFieldMethodfor“post-exposureprophylaxis,”asitwascalledinthebooks:washwithsoap andmercuric chloride, then squeeze silver proteinate ointment into the urethra andmilk itdown the length of his shaft. It felt like a penance invented by the Jesuits. He believed the“prophylaxis”waspartlybehind theburningsensations thatcameandwentandpeakedonsomemornings.Howmanyothersuchtime-honoredmethodsouttherewerejustasuseless?Tothinkofthe millions that the armies of the world had spent on “kits” like this, or to think that beforePasteur'sdiscoveryofmicrobes,doctorsfoughtduelsoverthemeritsofbalsamofPeruversustaroil for wound infection. Ignorance was just as dynamic as knowledge, and it grew in the sameproportion.Still,eachgenerationofphysiciansimaginedthatignorancewasthespecialprovenanceoftheirelders.

Therewasnothing likeapersonalexperience to tilt aman towarda specialty,andsoGhoshhadbecomethedefactosyphilologist, thevenereologist, the lastwordwhen itcametoVD.Fromthepalacetotheembassies,everyVIPwithVDcametoconsultGhosh.PerhapsinthecountyofCookinAmerica,theydbeinterestedinthisexperience.

AFTERHEBATHEDanddressed,hedrovethetwohundredyardstotheoutpatientbuilding.HesoughtoutAdam, theone-eyedcom-pounder,who,underGhosh's tutelage,hadbecomeanatural andgifteddiagnostician. But Adamwasn't around, and so hewent toW.W. Gonad, aman ofmany titles—LaboratoryTechnician,BloodBankTechnician,JuniorAdministrator—allofwhichweretobefoundonaname tagonhis oversizewhite coat.His full namewasWondeWossenGonafer,whichhe'dWesternizedtoW.W.Gonad.GhoshandMatronhadbeenquicktopointoutthemeaningofhisnewmoniker, but it turned out that W.W. needed no edification. “The English have names like Mr.Strong?Mr.Wright?Mr.Head?Mr.Carpenter?Mr.Mason?Mrs.Moneypenny?Mr.Rich?IwillbeMr.W.W.Gonad!”

HewasoneofthefirstEthiopiansGhoshhadcometoknowwell.Outwardlymelancholic,W.W.wasnevertheless fun-loving and ambitious. Urbanization and education had introduced in W.W. agravitas, an exaggerated courtliness, the neck and body flexed, primed for the deep bow, andconversation full of the sighs of someone whose heart had been broken. Alcohol could eitherexaggeratetheconditionorremoveitentirely.

GhoshaskedW.W.togivehimaB12shot;itwasworthatry—evenplaceboshadsomeeffect.

As he readied the syringe, W.W. made clucking noises. “You must be sure to always useprophylactics,Dr.Ghosh,”hesaidandimmediatelyturnedsheepish,becauseW.W.washardlyonetoproffersuchadvice.

“ButIdo.AfterthatfirsttimeI'veneverhadunrubberizedintercourse.Don'tyoubelieveme?ThatiswhyIdon'tunderstandthisburningsomemornings.Andyou,sir?Whydon'tyouuseacondom,W.W.?”

Gonadworeheel liftsthatmadehimwalkwithanostrichlikepelvictilt.Heteasedhishair intoaloftyhalothatwouldonedaybecalledanAfro.Now,hepulledhimselftohisfullfivefootoneandsaidhaughtily,“IfIwantedtomakelovetoarubbergloveIwouldneverhavetoleavethehospital.”

IF GHOSH HAD BEEN AWARE that at this very moment Sister Mary Joseph Praise was in distress in herquarters,he'dhaverushedtohelp;itmighthavesavedherlife.Butatthatpointnooneknew.Theprobationerhadyet todeliverhermessage,andwhenshedid,she failed to tellanyonehowsickSisterwas.

Ghoshmadeleisurelyroundswiththewardnurseandtheprobationers.Hepointedoutasulfarashto the newest probationers, removed ascitic fluid from the belly of a man with cirrhosis. Theoutpatientclinicsthentookmostoftheday,exceptforaformallecturetothenursingstudentsontuberculosis.Keepingbusyhelpedhim forget aboutHema,who shouldhavebeenback twodaysago.Hecouldthinkofonlyoneexplanationforherdelay,anditdepressedhim.

In the late afternoon,Ghosh drove out ofMissing.Hemissed by a fewminutes the hue and crywhenThomasStonecarriedSisterMaryJosephPraiseoutofthenurses’hostel.

HEPARKEDnearthetoweringLionofJudah,alandmarkfortheareaneartherailwaystation.Carvedout of blocks of gray-black stone,with a square crown on its head, that cubist lion resembled achesspiece.Theeyeslitsbeneaththelowbrowstaredacrosstheplaza;thesculpturegavethispartoftownanavant-gardesensibility.

GhoshsteppedintothechromedandlacqueredworldofFerraros,whereahaircutcosttentimesasmuchasat JaiHind, the Indianbarbershop.ButFerraros,with its frosted-glasswindowand red-and-white-stripedbarber'spole,wasrejuvenating.Themirroredwalls,thenecklaceofglobelights,theoxbloodleatherchairwithmoreknobsandchromeleversthanMissing'soperatingtable—youcouldonlygetthisattheItalianestablishment.

Ferraro,dazzlinginhiscollarlesswhitesmock,waseverywhere:behindGhoshtoslipoffhiscoat,alongsidehimasheledhimtothechair,theninfrontofhimtosliponthegown.FerrarochattedinItalian and it didn't matter that Ghosh knew only a fewwords; the conversation was offered asbackgroundmusic,notrequiringaresponse.Hefeltateasewiththeolderman.“Bewareofayoungdoctorandanoldbarber”went thesaying,butGhoshthoughtbothheandFerrarowere ingoodhands.

Ferrarohad soldiered inEritrea before becoming a barber inAddis.Had they shared a commonlanguage, therewasmuch thatGhoshwouldhaveasked.He'dhave loved tohearabout the 1940styphus epidemicduringwhich somebrilliant Italian official decided to douse thewhole citywithDDT,gettingridofliceandthetyphus.HowhadtheItalianshandledVDinthetroopswhocouldn'tpossiblyhaveconfinedthemselvestothesixItalianladiesinAsmarawhoweretheofficialgarrisonputtanas?

He felt anurge toconfide inFerraro, to tellhimhowhis chestachedwith jealousy;howhewasleaving the country because of awomanwho didn't take his love seriously. Ferraromade a softcluckingnoise,as ifhehad intuited theproblemand itsgender;easing thechair intoarecliningpositionwasFerrarosfirststeptofindingasolution.NeithermancouldhaveguessedthatatthatmomentSisterMaryJosephPraise'shearthadstoppedbeating.

Ferrarogentlydrapedthe firsthot towelaroundGhosh'sneck.Whenthe last towelwas inplace,blottingoutall light,Ferrarofelltactfullyquiet.Ghoshheardhimtiptoetowherehe'dparkedhiscigarette,andthenthesoundofhisexhalingsmoke.

IfIcouldhaveavalet,thiswouldbemyman,Ghoshthought.OneneverdoubtedforamomentthatitwasFerrarosdestinytobeabarber;hisinstinctswereperfect;hisbaldnesswasinconsequential.

GHOSHEMERGEDinacloudofaftershave.Drivingaway,hetookinthesightsasifforthelasttime:upthe steep slope of Churchill Road and past Jai Hind to the traffic light where a balancing actbetweenacceleratorandclutchwasrequiredbeforethelightturnedgreen.HeturnedleftandwentpastVanilal'sSpiceShop,Vartanian'sFabrics,andstoppedatthepostoffice.

Theleperchildwhostakedoutthisterritorywhereforeignersaboundedhadblossomedintoateenseeminglyovernight.Herperkybreastspushedthroughhershamawhilethecartilageofhernosehadcollapsedtoformasaddlenose.Heputaone-birrnoteintoherclawedhand.

He turned at the sound of castanets. A listiro, bottle caps threaded onto a nail on his shoe box,lookedupathim.Ghoshstoodagainstthepostofficewallalongwithahalf-dozenothermenwhowere smokingor reading thepaperwhile listirosworked like bees at their feet. The Italians are

responsible for this, too, Ghosh thought: people getting their shoes shinedmore often than theybathe.

Itwasstartingtodrizzle,andthe listiro'selbowsflewlikepistons.Onthenapeoftheboy'sneck,Ghoshnoticedapatchofalbino-whiteskin.SurelynotthecollarofVenus?Soyoung,andalreadywithscarsofhealedsyphilis?Venereuminsontium—”innocentlyacquired”syphilis—wasstillinthetextbooks, thoughGhoshdidn't believe in sucha thing.Other than congenital syphiliswhere themotherinfectedtheunbornchild,hebelievedthatallsyphiliswassexuallyacquired.He'dseenfive-year-oldsatplaymimickingtheactofcopulationwitheachotheranddoingagoodjobofit.

AsuddencloudburstsentGhoshscramblingtohiscar.Therainwashedoffacoatofennuithathadenveloped thePiazza.Thestreetlightscameonandreflectedoff thechromeofpassingcars.TheAmbassabuses turnedavivid red.On the rooftopof the three-storyOlivettiBuilding (whichalsohousedPanAm, theVeneziaRistorante, andMotilal Import-Exports) theneonbeermug filledupwithyellowlager, foamedover inwhitesuds,thenwentdarkbeforethecyclestartedagain.Thatsignhadbeena sourceof suchwonderwhen itwas first putup.Thebarefootmendriving theirsheepintotownforMeskelfestivalhadstoppedtowatchtheshow,knottinguptrafficastheherdgotawayfromthem.

AT ST. GEORGE'S BAR, raindrippedoff theCampari umbrellas onto thepatio. Itwaspacked insidewithforeignersandlocalswhofelttheambienceworththeprices.Theglassdoorsheldinarichscentofcan-noli,biscotti,chocolatecassata, groundcoffee, andperfume.Agramophoneblended into thechatterofvoices,thetinkleofcupsandsaucers,andthesharpsoundsofchairsscrapingbackandglasssmackingonFormica-toppedtables.

HehadjustsatdownatthebarwhenhesawHelen'sreflectioninthemirror—shewasseatedatafar corner table. She was shortsighted and probably wouldn't see him. Her fair features werestrikingagainsther jet-blackhair.Shewaspayingnoattention toher companion,whowasnoneotherthanDr.Bachelli.Ghosh'sinstinctwastoleaveatonce,butthebarmanstoodwaiting,soheaskedforabeer.

“MyGod,Helen,youarebeautiful,”Ghoshmutteredtohimself,studyingherreflection.St.George'sdidn'temploybargirls,butithadnoobjectionstotheclassierwomencomingin.Helen'slegswerecrossed under her skirt, the skin of her thighswhite as cream.He remembered those generousgluteithatobviatedanyneedforasupportingpillow.Amoleonherjawlineaddedtoherdistinction.Butwhywasittheprettiesthalf-castegirls—thekillis,astheywereoftencalled,thoughthetermwasderogatory—putonthisairofbeingaboveitallandbored?

Bachelli,hissilkkerchiefflowingoutofhiscreamcoatandmatchinghistie,appearedmucholderonthisnightthanhisfiftyorsoyears.Hiscarefullysculptedpencilmustacheandhisexpressionofequanimitycigaretteinhand,botheredGhoshbecausehesawinithisowninertia,thethingthathadkepthiminAfricasolong.GhoshwasfondofBachelli;themanwasnotagreatphysician,butheknewhislimitsinmedicine,thoughhedidn'talwaysknowhislimitinalcohol.

Just a week ago, Ghosh had been shocked to see Bachelli drunk and singing the “Giovinezza,”goose-steppingdownthemiddleof theroad in theheartof thePiazza. Itwasnearmidnight,andGhosh had stopped his car then and tried to get him off the street. Bachelli became loud andboisterous, screaming about Adowa, which was enough to get him beaten up if he persisted.BachelliwaslostinthememoryofboardinghistroopshipinNaplesin1934;hewasayoungofficeragain in the 230th Legion of the National Fascist Militia, off to fight for Il Duce, off to captureAbyssinia,offtoexpungetheshameofbeingdefeatedatthebattleofAdowabyEmperorMenelikin1896.AtAdowa, tenthousandItaliansoldiers,withasmanyof theirEritreanaskaris,poureddownfromtheircolonytoinvadeandtakeEthiopia.TheyweredefeatedbyEmperorMenelik'sbarefootEthiopianfightersarmedwithspearsandRemingtons(soldtothembynoneotherthanRimbaud).NoEuropeanarmyhadeverbeensothoroughlythrashedinAfrica.ItstuckintheItaliancraw,sothatevenmenwhoweren'tbornatthetimeofAdowa,likeBachelli,grewupwantingvengeance.

Ghoshdidn'tunderstandanyofthistillhecametoAfrica.Hehadn'trealizedthatMenelik'svictoryhad inspired Marcus Garvey's Back to Africa Movement, and that it had awakened Pan-AfricanconsciousnessinKenya,theSudan,andtheCongo.Forsuchinsights,onehadtoliveinAfrica.

TheItaliansneverforgottheirhumiliation,andsoonthenexttry,somefortyyearslater,Mussolinitooknochances;hismottowasQualsi-asimezzo!—winbyanymeans.Themonkey-manedEthiopianhorsemenwith leather shields and spears and single-shot rifles found the enemywas a cloud ofphosgenegas that choked them todeath,Genevaprotocolbedamned.Bachelli hadbeenpart ofthat.AndlookingatBachelli'sface,soflushedwithliquorandpride,ashedidhisvictorymarchinthePiazza,GhoshhadrealizeditmusthavebeenBachelli'sproudestmoment.

Ghoshsattryingtobeinconspicuousatthebar,butwatchingthecoupleinthemirror.WhenGhoshfirstmetHelen,he'dfallenmadlyinlovewithher—forafewdays.EverytimeHelensawhimshe'dsay,“Givememoney,please.”Whenheaskedforwhat,she'dblinkandthenpoutasifthequestionwere unreasonable. She'd say, “Mymother died,” or “I need abortion”—whatever came into herhead.Mostbargirlshadheartsofgoldandeventuallymarriedwell,butHelen'sheartwasofbasermetal.

Poor Bachelli was smitten byHelen and had been for years, even though he had a common-lawEritreanwife.HegaveHelenmoney.Heexpectedandacceptedherselfishness.Hecalledherhisdonna delin-quente, offering themole on her cheek as proof. Ghoshmeant to ask Bachelli if heactually believed anything in Lombroso's abominable book, La Donna Delinquente. Lombroso's“studies” of prostitutes and criminal women uncovered “characteristics of degeneration”—suchthings as “primitive” pubic hair distribution, an “atavistic” facial appearance, and an excess ofmoles.Itwaspseudoscience,utterrubbish.

Ghoshslippedoutabruptlywithout finishinghisbeer,becausesuddenly the ideaofmakingsmalltalkwitheitherofthemthateveningwasintolerable.

THEAVAKIANSWERELOCKINGUPtheirbottled-gasstore,andbeyondtheirshopthelightsofthePiazza,thetransitoryillusionofRoma,cametoanend.Nowitwasalldarkness,andtheroadranpastthelong,gloomy,fortresslikestonewallthatheldupthehillside.Agashinthemoss-coveredstoneswasSäbaDereja—Seventy Steps—a pedestrian shortcut to the roundabout at Sidist Kilo, though the stepsweresoworndownthatitwasmorearampthanstairs,treacherouswhenitrained.Hedrovepastthe Armenian church, then around the obelisk at Arat Kilo— another war monument at aroundabout—past the Gothic spires and domes of the Trinity Cathedral and then the ParliamentBuilding,which took its inspiration from theoneon thebanksof theThames.At theOldPalace,becausehewasnotquitereadytoheadhome,heturneddowntoCasaINCES,aneighborhoodofprettyvillas.

He wasn't in the mood for the Ibis or one of the big bars in the Piazza that employed thirtyhostesses.Hesawasimplecinder-blockbuildingupahead.Itappearedtobepartitionedintofourbars. There were hundreds of such places all over Addis. A soft neon glow showed from twodoorways.Aplankfordedtheopengutter.Hechosethedoorontheright,pushingthroughthebeadcurtain.Itwas,ashehadsuspectedgiventhesize,aone-womanoperation.Thetubelighthadbeenpainted orange, creating a womblike interior, exaggerated by the frankincense smoking on thecharcoalbrazier.Twopaddedbarstoolsfrontedashortwoodencounter.Thebottlesontheshelfonthe backwallwere impressive—Pinch, JohnnyWalker, Bombay gin—even if theywere filledwithhome-brewedtej.HisMajestyHaileSelassietheFirst,inImperialBodyguarduniform,gazeddownfromaposterononewall.AleggywomaninaswimsuitsmiledbackatHisMajestyfromaMichelincalendar.

Whatlittlefloorspaceremainedheldatableandtwochairs.Herethebarmaidsatwithacustomerwhoheldherhand;themanseemedintentonkeepingherattention.JustwhenGhoshdecidedtherewasnopoint in staying, shewrenchedherhand free, scrapedher chairback, stood, andbowed.Highheels toshowoffhercalves.Darkpolishonher toenails.Verypretty,hethought.Thesmileseemedgenuine and suggested abetter disposition thanHelen's. Theothermanpushed sullenlypastGhoshandleftwithoutaword.

Thelandofmilkandhoney,Ghoshthought.Milkandhoney,andloveformoney.

NowsheandGhoshtradedhow-are-yousandI-am-wells,bowing,thedeepexcursionsdiminishingtill thelastfewweremereinclinationsofthehead.Ghosheasedontothebarstoolasshecircledbehind the counter. Shewas perhaps twenty, but with big bones, and the fullness of her blousesuggestedshehadmotheredatleastonechild.

“Min the tetalehf she asked, thrusting her finger at her mouth, in case he didn't understandAmharic.

“IdeeplyregretthatIdroveyouradmireraway.HadIknownhewashere,orhowmuchhecaredforyou,Icouldneverhaveintrudedonsuchatryst.”

Shegaspedwithsurprise.

“Him!Hewantedtokeepthatonebeergoingtilldaylightwithoutbuyingmeone.HeisfromTigre.

YourAmharic is better thanhis,” she said, gushing, relieved that itwouldnot be anight of signlanguage.

Hergauzywhitecottonskirtendedjustbelowherknees.Thecolorfulborderwasrepeatedonthepiping of the blouse, and again in the frill of the shama over her shoulders. Her hair wasstraightenedandpermed,aWesterndo.Acollaroftattoosintheformofcloselyspacedwavylinesmadehernecklooklonger.Prettyeyes,Ghoshthought.

HernamewasTurunesh,buthedecidedtocallherwhathewasinthehabitofcallingallwomeninAddis:Konjit,whichmeant“beautiful.”

“I'llhaveblessedSt.George's.Andpleaseserveoneforyourself.Wemustcelebrate.”

Shebowedherthanks.“Isityourbirthday,then?”

“No,Konjit,evenbetter.”Hewasabouttosay,ItisthedaythatIhavefreedmyselffromthechainsofawomanwhohasdeviledmeforoveradecade.ThedayIhavedecidedmysojourninAfricaendsandAmericaawaits.

“ItisthedayIhaveseteyesonthemostbeautifulwomaninAddisAbaba.”

Her teeth were strong and even. A rim of upper gum showed when she laughed. She was self-consciousaboutthisbecauseshebroughtherhandtohermouth.

Somethinginsidehimmeltedatthesoundofherhappylaughter,andforthefirsttimesincewakingthatmorning,hefeltalmostnormal.

Whenhe firstarrived inAddisAbabahe'dsunk intoadeepdepression.Heconsidered leavingatoncebecausehe'dfoundthathe'dcompletelymisunderstoodHema'sintentionsinsendingforhim.WhathethoughtwasthetriumphantconclusionofacourtshipthatbeganwhentheywereinternsinIndiaturnedouttobeinhisheadalone.HemathoughtshewasjustdoingGhosh(andMissing)afavor.Ghoshhidhisembarrassmentandhumiliation.Itwasthetimeofthelongrainsandthatalonewasenoughtomakeamankillhimself.TheIbisinthePiazzasavedhim.He'dbeenlookingforadrink and was attracted by an entrance with an arch of ivy that was festooned with Christmaslights.Hecouldhearmusicfromwithinandthesoundsofwomanlylaughter.Inside,hethoughtheddied and returned as Nebuchadnezzar. In those Ibis women—Lulu, Marta, Sara, Tsahai, Meskel,Sheba, Mebrat— and in the sprawling bar and restaurant that occupied two floors and threeenclosedverandas,hefoundafamily.Thegirlswelcomedhimlikealong-lostfriend,restoringhisgoodhumor,encouragingthejokerinhim,alwayshappytositwithhim.Femininegoodlookswereas abundant as the rain outside; skin tones ranged from café au lait to coal. The few half-castewomen at Ibis had white or olive-toned skin and blue-brown, or even green, eyes. The comingtogether of races generally produced the most exotic and beautiful fruit, however the core wasunpredictableandoftensour.

ButofallthequalitiesofthewomenhemetinAddis,themostimportantwastheiracquiescence,theiravailability.Formonthsafterhisarrival inAddis,well afterhisdiscoveryof the Ibisand somanyotherbars like it,Ghoshwascelibate.The ironyof thatperiodwas that theonewomanhewantedrejectedhisadvances,whileallaroundhimwerewomenwhoneversaidno.Hewastwenty-fourandnottotallyinexperiencedwhenhearrivedinEthiopia.TheonlyintimacyhedeverhadinIndiawaswith a youngprobationer by the name of VirginMagdaleneKumar. Shortly after theirthree-monthaffairended,sheleftherorderandmarriedachapheknew(andpresumablychangedhernametoMagdaleneKumar).

“Hema, I am only human,” he murmured now as he did every time he thought he was beingunfaithfultoher.

HereachedacrossandfeltthefleshunderKonjit'sribs,pinchingupaskinfold.

“Ahmydear,shouldwesendfordinner?Weneedtoputfleshonyou.Andsustenanceforwhatweareabouttodotonight.Itis,Iwillconfesstoyou,myvery,veryfirsttime.”

Hadshebeenanolderwoman(andmanyone-womanbarswererunbyolderwomenwhohadsavedmoney for their own place afterworking somewhere grand like the Ibis), hewould have used adifferent tone,one thatwas lessdirect,morecourtly—agentler formof flattery.Butwithher,hehadsettledonthenaughtyschoolboyapproach.

Whenshereachedtofeelhishair,rubhisscalp,Ghoshpurredwithcontentment.Ontheradiothemuffledtwangofakrarrepeatedasix-noterifffromapentatonicscalethatseemedcommontoall

Ethiopianmusic,fastorslow.Ghoshrecognizedthesong,averypopularone.Itwascalled“Tizita;”therewasnosingleequivalentEnglishword.Tizitameant“memorytingedwithregret.”Wasthereanyotherkind,Ghoshwondered.

“Yourskinisbeautiful.Whatareyou?Banya?”sheasked.

“Yes,mylovely,IamindeedIndian.Andsincenothingaboutmeotherthanmyskinisbeautiful,youaregracioustosayso.”

“No,no,whydoyousay that? I swearon the saints Iwish Ihadyourhair. I can'tgetoveryourAmharic.Areyousureyourmotherisnothabesha?”

“Youflatterme,”hesaid.HedlearnedalittleAmharicinthehospital,butitwasonlythroughtête-à-têteslikethisthathebecamefluent.HehadatheorythatbedroomAmharicandbedsideAmharicwere really the same thing:Please lie down. Take off your shirt. Open yourmouth. Take a deepbreath…Thelanguageoflovewasthesameasthelanguageofmedicine.“Really,IonlyknowtheAmharicoflove.Ifyousentmeoutsidetobuyapencil,Iwouldn'tbeabletodoit,forIlackthosewords.”

Shelaughedandagaintriedtocoverherlips.Ghoshheldherhands,andsoshedrewherlowerlipupasiftohideherteeth,agesturehefoundnubileandtouching.

“Butwhyhideyoursmile?…There.Howbeautiful!”

Much,much later, theyretiredto thebackroom;heclosedhiseyesandpretended,ashealwaysdid,thatshewasHema.AmostwillingHema.

THEMISTWASinchesoffthegroundwhenheemerged,andithadbroughtwithitafunerealsilenceandbone-chillingcold.He tooka leakby the roadside.Ahyena laughed,whetherathisactionorhisequipment he couldn't be sure. He spun around and saw lupine retinas shining from the treesbeyondthefirstsetofhouses.Heranwhiletryingtozipup,unlockedhiscar,andjumpedin.Hequickly started the engine andmoved off. A peeingman had to worry aboutmore than hyenas.Shiftas,lebas,madjiratmachi,andallsortsofvillainswereathreataftermidnight,evenintheheartofthecityandnearpavedroads.Justthepreviousmonth,twomenhadrobbed,raped,andthencutoffanEnglishwoman'stongue,thinkingitsabsencewouldpreventherfromtattling.Anothervictimofarobberyhadhisballscutoff—acommonenoughpractice—inthebeliefthathewouldhavenocouragelefttoextractrevenge.Theyweretheluckyones.Therestweresimplymurdered.

THEGATESOFMISSINGwerewideopenwhenhegotback,whichwasstrange.Hepulleduptohiscottage,slidthecarintotheopen-sidedshed.Ashislightsshoneontherockwall,heslammedthebrakes,terrifiedbywhathesaw:aghostlywhitefigurerosefromasquattostandbeforehisheadlights,theeyes reflecting back a shimmering red, just like the hyena's eyes. But this was no hyena, but aweeping,bereftAlmazwhohadclearlybeenwaitingforhim.

“Hema, Hema, what have you done,” he muttered to himself, convinced that the worst hadhappenedandHemahadreturnedmarried.WhyelsewouldAlmazstayso lateexcept to tellhimthis?SheandthewholeworldknewhowhefeltaboutHema.Theonlypersonwhodidn'tknowwasHema.

The ghostly figure ran over to the passenger side, opened the door, and climbed in. Bowing herheadandinthemostformaltoneandwithoutmeetinghiseyes,shesaid,“Iamsorrytobringyoubadnews.”

“It'sHema,isn'tit?”

“Hema?No.ItisSisterMaryJosephPraise.”

“Sister?WhathappenedtoSister?”

“SheiswiththeLord,mayHeblesshersoul.”

“What?”

“Lord help us all, but she is dead.”Almazwas sobbing now. “She died giving birth to twins.Dr.Hemaarrivedbutcouldnotsaveher.Dr.Hemasavedthetwins.”

GhoshstoppedhearingafterherfirstmentionofSisteranddeath.Hehadtohaveherrepeatwhatshe said, and then repeat again everything that she knew, but each time it camedown toSisterbeingdead.Andsomethingabouttwins.

“Andnowwecan'tfindDr.Stone,”shesaidatlast.“Heisgone.Wemustfindhim.Matronsayswemust.”

“Why?”Ghoshmanagedtoaskwhenhefoundhistongue,butevenashesaidthatheknewwhy.HesharedwithStonethebondofbeingtheonlymalephysiciansatMissing.GhoshknewStoneaswellasanyonecouldknowStone,except,perhaps,SisterMaryJosephPraise.

“Why?Becauseheissufferingthemost,”Almazsaid.“ThatiswhatMatronsays.Wemustfindhimbeforehedoessomethingstupid.”

It'sabittoolateforthat,Ghoshthought.

CHAPTER12Land'sEnd

THEMORNINGAFTERthebirthsandthedeath,MatronHirstcametoherofficeveryearlyasifitwereanyotherdayShedsleptbutafewhours.SheandGhoshhaddrivenaround,huntingforThomasStonelateintothenight.Stone'smaid,Rosina,hadkeptavigilinhisquarters,buttherehadbeennosignofhim.

Matronpushedawaythepapersstackedonherdesk.Throughherwindowshecouldseepatientslined up in the outpatient department, or rather she could see their colorful umbrellas. Peoplebelievedthesunexacerbatedallillnesses,sotherewereasmanyumbrellasastherewerepatients.Shepickedupthephone.“Adam?”shesaid,whenthecompoundercameontheline.“Pleasesendword to Gebrew to close the gate. Send patients to the Russian hospital.” Her Amharic, thoughaccented,wasexceedinglygood.“AndAdam,pleasedealwiththepatientswhoarealreadyintheoutpatientdepartmentasbestyoucan.I'llbeaskingthenursestomakeroundsontheirwardsandtomanage.Lettheprobationersknowthatallnursingclassesarecanceled.”

ThankGodforAdam,Matronthought.Hiseducationhadstoppedatthethirdgrade,whichwasashame, because Adam could have easily been a doctor. Not only was he adept at preparing thefifteen stockmixtures, ointments, andcompoundswhichMissingprovided tooutpatients,healsohaduncannyclinicalsense.Withhisonegoodeye(theothermilkywhitefromachildhoodinfection)hecouldspottheseriouslyillamongthemanywhocameclutchingtheteal-bluegraduatedMissingmedicinebottles,readytohavethemrefilled.Itwasasadfactthatthecommonestcomplaintintheoutpatientdepartmentwas“Rasehn…libehn…hodehn,”literally,“Myhead…myheart…andmystomach,”withthepatient'shandtouchingeachpartasshepronouncedthewords.Ghoshcalleditthe RLH syndrome. The RLH suffererswere often youngwomen or the elderly. If pressed to bemore specific, the patients might offer that their heads were spinning (jasehn yazoregnal) orburning(yakatelegnal),ortheirheartsweretired(libdekam),ortheyhadabdominaldiscomfortorcramps (hod kurteth), but these symptoms were reported as an aside and grudgingly, becauserasehn-libehn-hodehnshouldhavebeenenoughforanydoctorworthhissalt.IthadtakenMatronherfirstyearinAddistounderstandthatthiswashowstress,anxiety,maritalstrife,anddepressionwere expressed in Ethiopia— somatization was what Ghosh said the experts called thisphenomenon.Psychicdistresswasprojectedontoabodypart,becauseculturallyitwasthewaytoexpressthatkindofsuffering.Patientsmightseenoconnectionbetweentheabusivehusband,ormeddlesomemother-in-law,or therecentdeathof their infant,andtheirdizzinessorpalpitations.And they all knew just the cure forwhat ailed them: an injection. Theymight settle formisturacarminativa or else amagnesium trisilicate andbella donnamixture, or someothermixture thatcametothedoctor'smind,butnothingcuredlikethemarfey—theneedle.Ghoshwasdeadagainstinjections of vitamin B for the RLH syndrome, but Matron had convinced him it was better forMissingtodoitthanhavethedissatisfiedpatientgetanunsterilizedhypodermicfromaquackinthe Merkato. The orange B-complex injection was cheap, and its effect was instantaneous, withpatientsgrinningandskippingdownthehill.

THEPHONERANG,andforonceMatronwasgrateful.Normallyshehatedthesoundbecauseitalwaysfeltlikearudeinterruption.ThesmallMissingswitchboardwasstillanovelty.Matronhaddeclinedanextensioninherquarters,butshethoughtitwasimportanttohavephonesinthedoctor'squartersandthecasualtyroom.Eventhisphoneinherofficesheconsideredaluxury,butnowshegrabbedthereceiver,hopingforgoodnews,newsaboutStone.

“Pleasehold forHisExcellency, theMinisterof thePen,”a femalevoicesaid.Matronheard faintclicks,andimaginedalittledogwalkingonthewoodenfloorsofthepalace.ShestaredatthestacksofBiblesagainst the farwall.Thereweresomany they looked likeabarricadeof shiny, cobbledrexine.

Theminister came on, asked aboutMatron's health, and then said, “HisMajesty is saddened byyourloss.Please,accepthisdeepestcondolences.”Matronpicturedtheministerstanding,bowingashespokeintothephone.“HisMajestypersonallyaskedmetocall.”

“Itismostkind,mostkind,ofHisMajestytothinkofus…atthistime,”Matronsaid.ItwaspartoftheEmperor'smystiqueandakeytohispowerthathekneweverythingthatwentoninhisempire.Shewonderedhowwordhadreachedthepalacesosoon.Dr.ThomasStonewithSisterMaryJosephPraiseassistinghadremovedapairofroyalappendices,andHemahadperformedanemergencyCesareansectiononagranddaughterwhodidn'tmakeittoSwitzerland.SincethenafewothersintheroyalfamilycametoHemafortheirconfinement.

Matrononlyhadtoask,theministersaid,iftherewassomethingthepalacecoulddo.Theministerdidn'ttouchonthemannerofSister'sdeath,orthefateofthetwobabies.

“Bytheway,Matron…,”hesaid,andshewasalertbecauseshesensedthiswastherealreasonforthecall.“Ifbyanychanceamilitary…aseniorofficercomestoMissingfortreatment,forsurgeryinthenextdayorso,theEmperorwouldliketobeinformed.Youcancallmepersonally.”Hegaveheranumber.

“Whatsortofofficer?”

Shetookthesilencetomeantheministerwasgivingthoughttohisanswer.

“AnImperialBodyguardofficer.Anofficerwhohas—shallwesay—noneedtobeatMissing.”

“Surgery, you say?Oh, no.We've closed the hospital.We have no surgeon,Minister. You seeDr.ThomasStone…isindisposed.Theywereateam,yousee…”

“Thankyou,Matron.Pleaseletusknow.”

Shemulledoverthecallaftershehungup.EmperorHaileSelassiehadbuiltupastrong,modernmilitary,consistingofarmy,navy,airforce,andtheImperialBodyguard.TheBodyguardwasaforceas large as the others, the equivalent of the Queen's Guard in England who stood outsideBuckingham Palace. But just like the Queen's Guard, the Imperial Bodyguard wasn't merely aceremonialunit;itsprofessionalsoldiersanditsunitswerenodifferentthantherestofthearmedforces,andtrainedforbattle.Up-and-comingcadetsfromalltheserviceswenttoSandhurstorWestPointorPoona.But thosesojournshadawayofexpandingone'ssocialconscience.TheEmperorfearedacoupbytheseyoungofficers.Havingthesecond-orthird-largeststandingarmedforceonthecontinentwasamatterofpride,butitwasalsopotentiallydangeroustohisreign.TheEmperordeliberately kept the four services in competition with one another, kept their headquarters farapart, and he transferred generals who were getting too powerful. Matron sensed some suchintrigue—whyelsewouldtheMinisterofthePencallpersonally?

TheministerhadnoideawhatitmeantforMissingnottohaveasurgeon,Matronthought.BeforeThomasStone'sarrival,Missingcouldhandlemostinternalmedicineandpediatricpatients,thankstoGhosh, and it tackledcomplicatedobstetricandgynecologic conditions, thanks toHema.Overthe years a number of other doctors had come and gone, some of them capable of surgery. ButMissingneverhadafullytrainedandcompetentsurgeontillStone.AsurgeonallowedMissingtofix complex fractures, remove goiters and other tumors, perform skin grafts for burns, repairstrangulatedhernias,takeoutenlargedprostatesorcancerousbreasts,ordrillaholeintheskulltoletoutabloodclotpressingagainstthebrain.Stone'spresence(withanassistantlikeSisterMaryJosephPraise)tookMissingtoanewlevel.Hisabsencechangedeverything.

THEPHONERANGagainafewminuteslater,andthistimethesoundwasominous.Matronbroughttheinstrumentgingerlytoherear.PleaseGod,letStonebealive.

“Hello?ThisisEliHarris.OftheBaptistcongregationofHouston…Hello?”

Foracall fromAmerica, theconnectionwascrystal clear.Matronwassosurprised that shesaidnothing.

“Hello?”thevoicesaidagain.

“Yes?”Matronsaidgruffly.

“I'mspeakingfromtheGhionHotelinAddisAbaba.CouldIspeaktoMatronHirst?”

She held the receiver away, covering themouthpiece. She felt panicked. And confused.What onearth was Harris doing here? She was accustomed to dealing with donors and charitableorganizationsbymail.Sheneededtothinkquickly,buthermindrefusedtocooperate.Atlast,shetookherhandawayandbroughtthephoneup.“I'llpassthemessageon,Mr.Harris.Shewillcallyouback—”

“MayIknowwhoisspeaking—”

“Yousee,wehavehadadeathofoneofourstaff.Itmightbeacoupleofdaysbeforeshecallsyou.”Hestartedtosaysomething,butMatronhungupabruptly.Thenshetookthereceiveroffthehook,glaringatit,daringittoring.

TheBaptistsofHoustonwereof lateMissing'sbestandmostconsistentfunders.Matronsentout

handwrittenletterseveryweektocongregationsinAmericaandEurope.Sheaskedthatherletterbe forwarded to others if theywere unable to help. If a reply came expressing any interest, sheimmediatelymailed themThomasStone's textbook,The ExpedientOperator: A Short Practice ofTropicalMedicine.Thoughexpensivetomail,itwasbetterthananyprospectus.Donors,shefound,alwayshadaprurientinterestinwhatcouldgowrongwiththehumanbody,andthephotographsand illustrations (by Sister Mary Joseph Praise) in the book satisfied that desire. A picture of astrange creature with the face of a pig, the furriness of a dog, and with small, myopic eyesaccompaniedthechapteronappendicitis,andMatronalwaysputher letter thereasabookmark.Thelegendread“Thewombatisaburrowing,nocturnalmarsupialfoundonlyinAustralia,andtheonlyreasontomentionitisthedubiousdistinctionithasinjoiningmanandapesinownershipofanappendix.”Thebook,morethananyexchangeofletters,hadwontheHoustonBaptists’support.

Ghosharrivedhalfanhourlater,shakinghishead.“IwenttotheBritishEmbassy.Idrovearoundthe city. I went to his house again. Rosina's there and she hasn't seen him. I walked all overMissing'sgrounds—”

“Let'stakearide,”Matronsaid.

As they drove down toMissing's gate, they saw a taxi coming up the hill carrying awhiteman.“Thatmust beEliHarris,”Matron said, sliding down in the passenger seatwith an alacrity thatsurprisedGhosh.ShetoldhimaboutHarris'scall.“IfIremembercorrectly,IgotHarristofundaprojectthatwasyouridea:acitywidecampaignagainstgonorrheaandsyphilis.Harrishascometoseehowwearedoing.”

Ghoshalmoststeeredthemofftheroad.“Butwehavenosuchproject,Matron!”

“Ofcoursenot.”Matronsighed.

Ghoshnever lookedhisbest inthemorning,evenafterabathandshave.Hehadn'thadtimeforeitherofthese.Darkstubblesweptupfromhisthroat,detouredaroundhislips,andreachedalmosttohisbloodshoteyes.

“Wherearewegoing?”hesaid.

“ToGulele.Weneedtomakefuneralarrangements.”

Theyrodeinsilence.

THE GULELE CEMETERY was on the outskirts of town. The road cut through a forest where the denseoverhanging canopy of treesmade it feel like dusk. Suddenly the forbidding wrought-iron gatesloomed before them, standing out against the limestonewalls. Inside, a gravel road led up to aplateauthickwitheucalyptusandpine.TherewerenotallertreesinAddisthaninGulele.

They trudgedbetween thegraves, their feetcrunchingandcracklingon thecarpetof leavesandtwigs.Nourbansoundsorvoicesweretobeheardhere;onlythestillnessofaforestandthequietofdeath.Afinedrizzlewettheleavesandbranches,thengatheredintobigdropsthatploppedontheirheadsandarms.Matronfeltlikeatrespasser.ShestoppedatagravenolargerthananaltarBible. “An infant, Ghosh,” she said, wanting to hear a living voice, even if it was only hers.“Armenian,judgingbythename.Lord,shediedjustlastyear.”Theflowersbytheheadstonewerefresh.MatronbeganaHailMaryunderherbreath.

Farther downwere the graves of young Italian soldiers: NATO à ROMA, or NATO à NAPOLI, but nomatterwheretheywereborntheywereDECEDUTOADADDISABABA.Matron'svisionturnedmistyasshethoughtofthemhavingdiedsoveryfarfromhome.

JohnMelly'sfaceappearedtoher,andshecouldhear“Bunyan'sHymn.”Itwasthehymntheyhadplayedathisfuneral.Attimesthetunefoundher;thewordscametoherlipsunbidden.

SheturnedtoGhosh,“YouknowIwasinloveonce?”

Ghoshwhoalreadylookedtroubled,frozewherehestood.

“Youmean…withaman?”hesaidatlast,whenhecouldspeak.

“Ofcoursewithaman!”Shesniffed.

Ghoshwassilentforalongtime,thenhesaid,“Weimagineweknoweverythingthereistoknowaboutourcolleagues,butreallyhowlittleweknow.”

“Idon'tthinkIknewIlovedMellyuntilhewasdying.Iwassoyoung.Easiestthingintheworldistoloveadyingman.”

“Didheloveyou?”

“Hemust have. You see he died trying to saveme.”Her eyeswelled up. “It was in 1935. I'd justarrived in thecountry,and Icouldn'thavepickedaworse time.TheEmperor fled thecityas theItalians were about to march in. The looters went to town, pillaging, raping. John MellycommandeeredatruckfromtheBritishLegationtocomeandgetme.Yousee,IwasvolunteeringatwhatisnowMissing.Hestoppedtohelpawoundedpersononthestreet,andalootershothim.Forabsolutelynoreason.”Sheshuddered.“Inursedhimfortendays,andthenhedied.OnedayI'lltellyouallaboutit.”Then,uncontrollably,shehadtositdown,herheadinherhands,weeping.“I'mallright,Ghosh.Justgivemeaminute.”

ShewasmourningnotMellyasmuchasthepassageoftheyears.She'dcometoAddisAbabafromEnglandaftergettingrestlessteachinginaconventschoolandrunningthestudentinfirmary;she'dacceptedapostwithSudan InteriorMission towork inHarrar,Ethiopia. InAddis, she foundherorderswerecanceledbecausetheItalianshadattacked,andsoshehadsimplyattachedherselftoasmallhospitalallbutabandonedbytheAmericanProtestants.Duringthatfirstyearshe'dwatchedassoldiers—someoftheyoungmenburiedhere—aswellasItaliancivilianspouredintopopulatethenewcolony:carpenters,masons,technicians.ThepeasantFlorinobecameDonFlorinowhenhecrossedtheSuez.Theambulancedriverreinventedhimselfasaphysician.Shehadcarriedon,justastheIndianshopkeepers,theArmenianmerchants,theGreekhoteliers,theLevantinetradershadcarriedonduringtheoccupation.Matronwasstilltherein1941,whentheAxis'sfortunesturnedinNorthAfricaandinEurope.FromtheHotelBellaNapoli'sbalcony,MatronwatchedWingateandhisBritish troops parade into town, escorting Emperor Haile Selassie, who was returning after sixyears of exile. Matron had never set eyes on the diminutive Emperor. The little man seemedastonishedbythetransformationofhiscapital,hisheadswivelingthiswayandthattotakeinthecinemas,hotels,shops,neonlights,multistoryapartmentbuildings,pavedavenueslinedwithtrees…MatronsaidtotheReuterscorrespondentstandingbesideherthatperhapstheEmperorwishedhe'dstayedinexilealittlelonger.Toherchagrin,shewasquotedverbatim(butfortunatelyasan“anonymousobserver”)ineveryforeignpaper.Shesmiledatthatmemory.

Sherose,brushedawayhertears.Thetwoofthemtrudgedon.

Theywalkeddownthepathbetweenonerowofgraves,thenbackupanother.

“No,”Matronsaidabruptly.“This'llneverdo.Ican'timagineleavingourcherisheddaughterinthisplace.”

OnlywhentheybrokeoutintothesunlightdidMatronfeelshecouldbreathe.

“Ghosh, ifyouburyme inGulele, I'llnever forgiveyou,”shesaid.Ghoshdecidedsilencewasthebeststrategy.“WeChristiansbelievethatintheLord'sSecondComingthedeadwillberaisedfromthegrave.”

GhoshwasraisedaChristian,afactthatMatronneverseemedtoremember.

“Matron,doyousometimesdoubt?”

Shenoticedthathisvoicewashoarse.Hiseyelidssagged.Shewasremindedagainthatthiswasnothergriefalone.

“Doubt is a first cousin to faith, Ghosh. To have faith, you have to suspend your disbelief. OurbelovedSisterbelieved…IworrythatinaplaceasdampanddisconsolateasGulele,evenSisterwillfindithardtorisewhenthetimecomes.”

“Whatthen?Cremation?”

One of the Indian barbers doubled as apujari and arranged cremations for Hinduswho died inAddisAbaba.

“Ofcoursenot!”ShewonderedifGhoshwasbeingwillfullydense.“Burial.IthinkImightknowjusttheplace,”Matronsaid.

THEY PARKED AT Ghosh's bungalow andwalked to the rear ofMissing,where the bottlebrushwas so

ladenwith flowers that it looked as if it had caught fire. The property edgewasmarked by theacacias, their flat tops forming a jagged line against the sky. Missing's far west corner was apromontorylookingoveravastvalley.Thatacreageasfarastheeyecouldseebelongedtoaras—aduke—whowasarelativeofHisMajestyHaileSelassie.

Abrook,hiddenbyboulders,burbled;sheepgrazedunder theeyeofaboywhosatpolishinghisteethwithatwig,hisstaffnearby.HesquintedatMatronandGhoshandthenwaved.JustasinthedaysofDavid,hecarriedaslingshot.Itwasagoatherdlikehim,centuriesbefore,whohadnoticedhow frisky his animals became after chewing a particular red berry. From that serendipitousdiscovery,thecoffeehabitandtradespreadtoYemen,Amsterdam,theCaribbean,SouthAmerica,andtheworld,butithadallbeguninEthiopia,inafieldlikethis.

AnunusedborewelloccupiedthiscornerofMissing.Fiveyearsbefore,oneoftheMissingdogshadfallenintothewell.Koochooloo'sdesperateyelpsbroughtGebrew.Hefishedheroutbydanglinganoose around her, almost lynching her in the process. The well needed to be sealed over. Insupervising that task,Matron foundusedprophylacticsandcigarettebuttsaround the rockwall;she'd decided the areawas in need of redemption.Coolies cleared the brush and planted nativegrassseedlings.Intwomonthsabeautifulgreencarpetsurroundedthewell.Gebrewtendedtothislawn,squatting,crabwalking,grabbingafistfulofgrasswithhislefthandandsweepingunderitwiththesickleinhisrighthand.

ItwasSisterMaryJosephPraisewhoidentifiedthewildcoffeebushbythewell.ButforGebrew'sregularlynippingthetopbuds,itwouldhavegrownoutofreach.WithafewoldoutpatientbenchesbroughttothislawnitbecameaplacewhereevenThomasStonetemporarilyabandonedhiscares.Cigaretteinhand,mindadrift,hedsmokeandwatchwhileSisterMaryJosephPraiseandMatronfussedwiththeirplants.Butbeforetoolonghewouldgrindhiscigaretteintothegrass(apracticewhichMatronthoughtvulgar)andmarchoffasiftosomeurgentsummons.

Matronprayedsilently.DearGod,onlyYouknowwhatwillbecomeofMissingnow.Twoofoursaregone.Achildisamiracle,andwehavetwoofthose.ButforMr.Harrisandhispeople,itwontbethat. For them itwouldbe shameful, scandalous, a reason topull out.Missinghadno income tospeak of from patients. It relied on donations. Its modest expansion of the last few years camebecause of Harris and a few other donors. Matron had no rainy-day fund. It was against herconsciencetoholdbackmoneywhenmoneyallowedhertocuretrachomaandtopreventblindness,orgivepenicillinandcuresyphilis—thelistwasendless.Whatwasshetodo?

Matron studied the view in every direction. She wasn't registering what she saw because herthoughtswereturnedinward.Butgradually,thevalley,thescentof laurel,thevividgreencolors,thegentlebreeze,thewaylightfellonthefarslope,thegashleftbythestream,andaboveallthisthesweepofskywithcloudspushedtooneside—ithad itseffectonher.For the first timesinceSisterMaryJosephPraise'sdeath,Matron feltasenseofpeace,asenseofcertaintywheretherehadbeennone.Shewascertain that thiswas thespot—thiswaswhere the longvoyageofSisterMaryJosephPraisewouldend.Sheremembered,too,howinherfirstdays inAddis,whenthingshadlookedsobleak,soterrifying,sotragicwithMelly'sdeath—itwasatthosemomentsthatGod'sgracecame,and thatGod'splanwasrevealed, though itwasrevealed inHis time.“Ican't see itLord,butIknowYoucan,”shesaid.

CHAPTER13PraiseintheArmsofJesus

THEBAREFOOTCOOLIESwerejovialmen.ToldbyGhoshwhattheirtaskwouldbe,theymadecluckingsounds of condolence. The big fellowwith the prognathic jaw shed his fraying coat; his shortercompanionpulledoffhistatteredsweater.Theyspatontheirpalms,heftedthepickaxes,andsettoit;happened-had-happenedandbe-will-beasfarastheywereconcerned,andthoughitwasagravetheyweredigging, itguaranteedthenight'sbottleoftejortallaandperhapsabedandawillingwoman.Sweatoiledtheirshouldersandforeheadsanddampenedtheirpatchworkshirts.

Theskyhadstartedoffbluffing,convoysofgraycloudsscurryingacrosslikesheeptomarket.Butbyafternoonaperfectbluecanopystretchedfromhorizontohorizon.

GHOSH,SUMMONEDtothecasualtyroombyMatron,spottedaleanandverypalewhitemanwaitingbyapillar.Ghoshkepthisheaddown,certainthiswasEliHarris,andthankfulthattheman'sbackwastohim.

Inside,Adampointedtoacurtain.Ghoshheardregulargrunting,comingwitheachbreathandintherhythmofalocomotive.HefoundfourEthiopianmenstandingthere,threeinsportscoatsandone inaburly jacket.Theyweregatheredaround thestretcher,as if inprayer.All fourhadspit-shinedbrownshoes.AstheysqueezedouttomakeroomforGhosh,heglimpsedaburgundyholsterunderacoat.

“Doctor,”themanlyingonthetablesaid,offeringhishandandtryingtorise,butwincingwiththeeffort.“Mebratuismyname.Thankyouforseeingme.”Hewasinhisthirties,hisEnglishexcellent.Athinmustachearchedoverastrongmouth.Painhadgivenhimapeakedexpression,but itwasneverthelessanextraordinary,handsomeface,thebrokennoseaddingto itscharacter.Helookedfamiliar,butGhoshcouldn'tplacehim.Unlikehiscompanions,he seemedstoic,not fearful, eventhoughhewastheoneinpain.

“Itellyou,Ihaveneverhurtlikethis.”Hegrinnedfromeartoearasiftosay,Amanisgoingalongwhenoutofthebluecomesabananapeel,acosmic joke that leavesyouupendedandclutchingyourbelly.Awaveofpainmadehimwince.

Ican'tpossiblyseeyoutoday.BelovedSisterhasdiedandanyminuteIexpectsomeonetotellmetheyhavefoundDr.ThomasStone'sbody.ForGod'ssakegotothemilitaryhospital.ThatwaswhatGhoshwantedtosay,butinthefaceofsuchsufferinghewaited.

Ghoshtooktheprofferedhandandwhilesupportingithefeltfortheradialartery.Thepulsewasboundingatonehundredandtwelveperminute.Ghosh'sequivalentofperfectpitchwastobeabletotelltheheartratewithoutawatch.

“Whendidthisstart?”heheardhimselfsay,takingintheswollenabdomenthatwassoincongruentonthislean,muscledman.“Beginatthebeginning…”

“Yesterdaymorning. I was trying to…movemy bowels.” The patient looked embarrassed. “AndsuddenlyIhadpainhere.”Hepointedtohislowerabdomen.

“Whileyouwerestillsittingonthetoilet?”

“Squatting, yes.Within seconds I could feel swelling… and tightening. It came on like a bolt oflightning.”

TheassonancecaughtGhosh'sear. Inhismind'seyehecouldseeSirZacharyCope's littlebook,TheDiagnosis of theAcuteAbdomen inRhyme.He'd found that treasureon thedusty shelf of asecondhandbookstoreinMadras.Thebookwasarevelation.Whoknewthatamedicaltextcouldbefull of cartoon illustrations, be so playful, and yet provide serious instruction? Cope's linesregardingsuddenblockageofthenormalpassagethroughtheintestinecametohim:

…rapidonsetofdistentionWillcertainlyattractyourkeenattention.

Heaskedthenextquestion,eventhoughheknewtheanswer.Thereweretimeslikethiswhenthediagnosiswaswrittenonthepatient'sforehead.Orelsetheygaveitawayintheirfirstsentence.Oritwasannouncedbyanodorbeforeoneevensawthepatient.

“Yesterdaymorning,”Mebratureplied.“Justbeforethepainbegan.Sincethennostool,nogas,nonothing.”

Sometimesabowel-coilgetsoutofplaceBytwistingrounduponanarrowbase…

“Andhowmanyenemasdidyoutry?”

Mebratuletoutashortsharplaugh.“Youknew,huh?Two.Buttheydidnothing.”

He wasn't just constipated but obstipated—not even gas could pass. The bowel was completelyobstructed.

Outsidethecubiclethemenseemedtobearguing.

Mebratu'stonguewasdry,brown,andfurred.Hewasdehydrated,butnotanemic.Ghoshexposedthegrotesquelydistendedabdomen.Thebellydidn'tpushoutwhenMebratutookabreath.Infactitmovedhardlyatall.Thisismywork,Ghoshthoughttohimselfashepulledouthisstethoscope.Thisismygrave-diggingequivalent.Dayinanddayout.Bellies,chests,flesh.

Inplaceofthenormalgurglingbowelsounds,whatheheardwithhisstethoscopewasacascadeofhigh-pitchednotes, likewaterdrippingontoa zincplate. In thebackgroundheheard the steadydrumoftheheartbeat.Astonishinghowwellfluid-filledloopsofboweltransmittedheartsounds.Itwasanobservationhe'dneverseeninatextbook.

“You have a volvulus,” Ghosh said, pulling his stethoscope off his ears. His voice came from adistance,anditdidn'tsoundlikeitbelongedtohim.“Aloopofthelargebowel,thecolon,twistsonitselflikethis—”Heusedthetubingofhisstethoscopetodemonstratefirsttheformationofaloop,thenthetwistformingatthebase.“It'scommonhere.Ethiopianshavelongandmobilecolons.Thatandsomethingaboutthedietpredisposestovolvulus,wethink.”

Mebratu tried to reconcilehis symptomswithGhosh's explanation.Hismouth turnedup;hewaslaughing.

“YouknewwhatIhadassoonasItoldyou,right,Doctor?Beforeyoudidallthese…otherthings.”

“IsupposeIdid.”

“So…willthistwistuntwistbyitself?”

“No.Ithastobeuntwisted.Surgically.”

“It'scommon,yousay.Mycountrymenwhogetthis…whathappenstothem?”

Atthatmoment,Ghoshconnectedthefacewithascenehewishedhecouldforget.

“Without surgery? They die. You see, the blood supply at the base of the loop of bowel is alsotwisted off. It's doubly dangerous. There's no blood going in or out. The bowel will turngangrenous.”

“Look,Doctor.Thisisaterribletimeforthistohappen.”

“Yes, it is a terrible time,” Ghosh burst out, startling Mebratu. “Why here, if I may ask? WhyMissing?Whynotthemilitaryhospital?”

“Whatelsehaveyouunderstoodaboutme?”

“Iknowyou'reanofficer.”

“Thoseclowns,”hesaid,noddinghischininthedirectionofhisfriendsoutside.“Wedon'tdoagoodjob of dressing as civilians,” Mebratu said, wryly. “If their shoes aren't spit polished they feelnaked.”

“It'smorethanthat,actually.Yearsago,shortlyafterIarrivedhere,Isawyouconductanexecution.I'llneverforgetthat.”

“Eightyearsandtwomonthsago.Julythefifth.Irememberit,too.Youwerethere?”

“Notintentionally.”AsimpledriveintothecityhadturnedintosomethingelsewhenalargecrowdontheroadhadforcedhimandHemaintobeingspectators.

“Pleaseunderstand,itwasthemostpainfulorderIevercarriedout,”Mebratusaid.“Thoseweremyfriends.”

“I sensed that,” Ghosh said, recalling the strange dignity of both the executioner and thecondemned.

Anotherwaveofpain traveledoverMebratu's faceand theybothwaited till it passed.“This isadifferentkindofpain,”hesaid,tryingtosmile.

“Youshouldknow,”Ghoshsaid,“thatearliertodaythepalacecalled.TheyaskedMatrontoinformthemifamilitarypersoncameherefortreatment.”

“What?” Mebratu swore and tried to sit up, but the movement made him yell in pain. Hiscompanionsrushedin.“DidMatrontellthepalace?”hemanagedtoask.

“No.Matrontoldmeshewouldn'tturnyouawayknowingthatyouhadnowhereelsetogo.”

Thepatientrelaxednow.Hisfriendshadaquickdiscussion,andthentheyremainedintheroom.

“Thankyou.ThankMatronforme. IamColonelMebratu,of theImperialBodyguard.Youseewehadplans,afewofus,tomeetonthisdateinAddis.IcamefromGondar.WhenIgothereIfoundthemeetinghadtobecalledoff.Wefearedwewere…compromised.ButIdidn'tgetthemessagetillIwasalreadyhere.BeforeIleftGondar,yesterday,mypainbegan.Isawaphysicianthere.Likeyou,hemusthaveknownwhatIhad,buthetoldmenothing.Hetoldmetocomebackandseehiminthemorningandthathewantedtocheckmeagain.Hemusthavetoldthepalace,orelsewhywouldtheycallthehospitalsinAddis?HangingwillalsobemyfateifIamdiscoveredinAddis.Youmusttreatme.Ican'tbeseenatthemilitaryhospitaltoday.”

“Thereisanotherproblem,”Ghoshsaid.“Oursurgeonhas…hehasleft.”

“Weheardaboutyour…loss.Iamsorry.IfDr.Stonecan'tdoit,thenyouhaveto.”

“ButIcan't—”

“Doctor,Ihavenootheroptions.Ifyoudon'tdoit,Idie.”

One of themen stepped forward.With his light beard, he lookedmore like an academic than amilitaryman.“Whatifyourlifedependedonit?Couldyoudoit?”

Colonel Mebratu put his hand on Ghosh's sleeve. “Forgive my brother,” he said, then smiled atGhoshasiftosay,YouseewhatIhavetodotokeeppeace?Outloudhesaid:“Ifsomethingshouldhappen, you can say in good faith that you knewnothing aboutme,Dr.Ghosh. It's true. All youknowaboutmeareallthethingsyouguessed.”

GHOSHDIALEDHema'squarters.ItoccurredtohimthatColonelMebratuandhismenmusthavebeenplottingsomekindofacoup.WhatelsecouldthesecretmeetinginAddishavebeenabout?Ghoshwasfacedwithaconundrum:Howdidonetreatasoldier,anexecutioner,whonowwasengagedintreasonagainsttheEmperor?Butofcourse,asaphysician,hisobligationwastothepatient.HefeltnodislikefortheColonel,thoughhecoulddowithoutthebrother.Itwasdifficulttodislikeamanwhobravelysufferedphysicalpainandmanagedtoretainhismanners.

Overthehumofthereceiver,Ghoshcouldhearthebloodrushingintohisearwitheveryheartbeat.

Hema'sbrusque“Hello” toldhimshewasscowling. “It'sme,”hesaid. “Doyouknowwho Ihaveheretonight?”Hetoldherthestory.Sheinterruptedbeforehecouldfinish:“Whyareyoutellingmethis?”

“Hema,didyouhearwhatIjustsaid?Wehavetooperate.It'sourduty.”

Shewasn'timpressed.

Headded,“They'redesperate.Theyhavenowhereelsetogo.Theyhaveguns.”

“Iftheyaresodesperate,theycanopenthebellythemselves.Iamanobstetrician-gynecologist.TellthemIjusthadtwinsandI'minnoconditiontooperate.”

“Hema!”Hewassomadthatwordswouldnotcomeout.Atleastinthebusinessofpatientcare,shewassupposedtobeonhisside.

“AreyouminimizingwhatIhaveonmyhands?”shesaid.“WhatI'vegonethroughjustyesterday?Youweren'tthere,Ghosh.Sonowthesechildren'severybreathismyresponsibility.”

“Hema,I'mnotsaying…”

“Youoperate,man.You'veassistedhimwithvolvulus,haven'tyou?I'veneveroperatedonvolvulus.”By“him”shemeantStone.

Thesilencewaspunctuatedonlybythesoundofherbreathing.DoesshenotcareifIgetshot?Whytakethisattitudewithme?AsifI'mtheenemy.AsifIcausedthedisastershewalkedintowhenshereturned.DidIinvitetheColonelhere?

“WhatifIhavetoresectandanastomoselargebowel,Hema?Ordoacolostomy?…”

“I'mpostpartum.Indisposed.Outofstation.Notheretoday!”

“Hema,wehaveanobligation,tothepatient…theHippocraticoath—”

She laughed, a bitter, cutting sound. “The Hippocratic oath is if you are sitting in London anddrinkingtea.Nosuchoathshereinthejungle.Iknowmyobligations.Thepatientisluckytohaveyou,that'sallIcansay.It'sbetterthannothing.”Shehungup.

GHOSH WAS an internal medicine specialist through and through. Heart failure, pneumonia, bizarreneurologicalillness,strangefevers,rashes,unexplainedsymptoms—thosewerehismétier.Hecoulddiagnosecommonsurgicalconditions,buthewasn'ttrainedtofixthemintheoperatingtheater.

InMissing'sbetterdays,wheneverGhoshpoppedhisheadintothetheater,Stonewouldhavehimscrub and assist. It allowed Sister Mary Joseph Praise to relax, and for Ghosh, being the firstassistanttoStonewasafunchangefromhisroutine.Ghosh'spresencetransformedthecathedralhush of Theater 3 to a carnival racket, and somehow Stone didn't seem to mind. Ghosh askedquestionsleftandright,cajolingStoneintotalking,instructing,evenreminiscing.Atnight,GhoshsometimesassistedHemawhenshedidanemergencyC-section.Rarely,Hemasentforhimwhensheperformedanextensiveresectionforanovarianoruterinecancer.

Butnowhefoundhimselfalone,standinginStone'splace,onthepatient'sright,scalpelinhand.Itwasaspothehadn'toccupiedformanyyears.Thelasttimehestoodontherightwasduringhisinternshipwhen,asarewardforgoodservice,theylethimoperateonahydrocelewhilethestaffsurgeonstoodacrossandtookhimthrougheachstep.

Onhisinstructionthecirculatingnursepassedarectaltubeintotheanus,guidingitupashighasitwouldgo.

“Webetterstart,”hesaidtotheprobationerwhowasscrubbed,gowned,andglovedontheotherside of the table, ready to assist him.Her faint pockmarkswere hidden by cap and gown. Eventhoughher lidswerepuffy,shehadbeautifuleyes.“Wecan't finish ifwedon'tstartsowebetterstartifwe'retofinish,yes?”

Averylargeincisionshouldbemade—ofsmallonesinsuchcasesbeafraid—Thecoilbroughtout,untwistedbyaturn

—aclockwiseturnasyouwillquitesoonlearn—Andthenarectaltubeisupwardpassed—

Thereonthereissuesforthagaseousblast…

With thecolonswollen toHindenburg proportions itwouldbeall tooeasy tonick thebowelandspillfecesintotheabdominalcavity.Hemadeamidlineincision,thendeepeneditcarefully,likeasapperdefusingabomb.Justwhenpanicwassettinginbecausehefelthewasgoingnowhere,theglistening surface of the peritoneum—that delicate membrane that lined the abdominal cavity—cameintoview.Whenheopenedtheperitoneum,straw-coloredfluidcameout.Insertinghisfingerintotheholeandusingitasabackstop,hecuttheperitoneumalongthelengthoftheincision.

Atonce,thecolonbullieditswayoutlikeazeppelinescapingitshangar.Hecoveredthesidesofthewoundwithwetpacks,insertedalargeBalfourretractortoholdtheedgesopen,anddeliveredthetwistedloopcompletelyoutofthewoundontothepacks.Itwasaswideacrossastheinnertubeofa car tire, boggy, dark, and tensewith fluid, quite unlike the flaccid pink coils of the rest of thebowel.Hecouldseethespotwherethetwisthadoccurred,deepinthebelly.Gentlymanipulatingthetwolimbsoftheloop,heuntwisted,clockwise,justasCopesaid.Heheardagurgleandatoncethebluecolorbegantowashoutoftheballoonedsegment.Itpinkedupattheedges.

HefeltthroughthebowelwallfortherectaltubethatNurseAsqualhadinserted.Hefedituplikea

curtainrodinaloop.Whenthetubereachedthedistendedbowel,theywererewardedwithaloudsighandtherattleoffluidandgashittingthebucketbelow.“Anddownthecoilcontractsandyouwillsee,thepartsarrangedmoreastheyoughttobe,”Ghoshsaid,andtheprobationer,whohadnoideawhathewastalkingabout,said,“Yes,Dr.Ghosh.”

Ghoshflexedhisglovedfingers.Theylookedcompetentandpowerful—asurgeon'shands.Youcan'tfeelthisway,hethought,unlessyouhavetheultimateresponsibility.

AFTER HE CLOSED,ashewasstrippingoffhisgloves,hesawHema's face in theglassof theswingingdoors. It disappeared. He charged after her. She ran, but he soon caught up with her in thewalkway.Shestoodpantingagainstthepillar.“So?”shesaidwhenshecouldspeak.“Itwentwell?”

They were both grinning. “Yes … I just untwisted the loop.” He couldn't hide the pride andexcitementinhisvoice.

“Itcouldtwistagain.”

“Well,hischoicewaseithermeornothing,sincetheotherdoctorherewouldnothelp.”

“True.Goodforyou.I'vegottogo.AlmazandRosinaarewatchingthebabies.”

“Hema?”

“What?”

“YouwouldhavehelpedifIgotintotrouble?”

“No,Iwasjuststretchingmylegs…”Despiteherself,atwinkleshowedinhereyes.“Silly.Whatdidyouthink?”

WithHema,evensarcasmfeltlikeagift.Hefoughttheinstincttojumpforward,theeagerpuppytooreadytoforgetthecuffingithadreceivedminutesbefore.

“Justyesterday,”Hemasaid,“Idrovepastthespotwherewesawthatfirsthanging,andIthoughtaboutit…”Sheseemedtostudyhimmeditatively“Haveyoueatenanythingtoday?”

That was when he noticed: His beloved, his Madras-returned, unmarried beauty, was moremagnifiedthanever.Thereweresucculentrollsvisiblebetweensariandblouse.Theskinunderherchinwasgentlyswollenlikeasecondmons.

“I'venoteatensinceyouleftforIndia,”hesaid,whichwasalmosttrue.

“You'velostweight.Itdoesn'tlookgood.Comebyandeat.There'sfood,tonsofit.Everybodykeepsbringingfood.”

Shewalkedoff.Hestudiedthewaythefleshonherbuttocksswungthisway,andthat,abouttosailoffherhips.She'dbroughtbackfromIndiamoreofherselftolove.Itwastheworsttimeforthis,buthewasaroused.

Hedressedandfoundhimselfthinkingabouttheoperationagain.ShouldIhavetackedthesigmoidcolontotheabdominalwalltopreventittwistingagain?Didn'tIseeStonedothis?ColopexyIthinkhecalledit.HadStonespokentomeaboutthedangerofacolopexyandwarnedagainstit,orhadherecommendedit?Ihopewetookoutallthesponges.Shouldhavecountedoncemore.Ishould'vetakenonemore look.Checkedforbleederswhile Iwasat it.HerecalledStonesaying,Whentheabdomenisopenyoucontrolit.Butonceyoucloseit,itcontrolsyou.“Iunderstandjustwhatyoumean,Thomas,”Ghoshsaid,ashewalkedoutofthetheater.

ITWASLATEEVENINGbeforethehospitalstaffgatheredbythegapingcavityintheearth,nowshoredupwithtimber.Therewasnotimetowaste,becausebyEthiopiantradition,nooneeatstillthebodyisinterred. That meant the nurses and probationers were starving. The casket arrived on theshouldersoforderliestreadingthesamepathdownwhichSisterMaryJosephPraisewouldcometositinthisgrove.Hematrailedbehindthepallbearers,walkingwithStone'smaid,Rosina,andwithGhosh'smaid,Almaz,thethreeofthemtakingturnscarryingthetwoinfantswhowherebundledupinblankets.

They laid the casket down by the edge of the grave, and removed the lid. Therewere sobs andstrangledcriesasthosewhohadyettoseethebodypressedcloser.

ThenurseshaddressedSisterMaryJosephPraiseintheclothestheyoungnunfirstdonnedwhen

shepledgedbodyandsoultoChrist—her“bridal”dress.Thearching,hoodedveilwastoshowthathermindwasnotonearthlythingsbutonthekingdomofheaven;itwasthesymbolofherbeingdeadtotheworld,butinthegatheringmistitwasnolongerasymbol.Thestarchedguimpearoundher neck hung down like a bib.Her habitwaswhite, interrupted by a plaitedwhite cord. SisterMaryJosephPraise'shandsemergedfromthesleevesandmetinthemiddle,thefingersrestingonher Bible and a rosary. Discalced Carmelites originally shunned footwear—hence the term“discalced.”SisterMaryJosephPraise'sorderhadbeenpracticalenoughtowearsandals.Matronhadleftherfeetbare.

MatronchosenottocallFatherdelaRosaofSt.Joseph'sCatholicChurch,becausehewasamanwhohadadisapprovingmannerevenwhentherewasnothingtodisapprove,andtherewasplentyhere.ShealmostcalledAndyMcGuirefromtheAnglicanchurch;hewouldhavebeenacomfortandmostwilling.ButintheendMatronfeltthatSisterMaryJosephPraisewouldhavewantednoonebutherMissingfamilytoseeheroff.ThesameinstinctledMatrontoaskGebrewearlierthatdaytoprepare to say a short prayer. Sister was always respectful of Gebrew, even though his being apriest was incidental to his duties as watchman and gardener; shewould have appreciated howmuchithonoredandconsoledGebrewtobecalledoninthisfashion.

Inthecoolandverystillair,Matronheldupherhand.“SisterMaryJosephPraisewouldhavesaid,‘Don'tgrieveforme.Christismysalvation.’Thatmustbeourconsolationaswell.”Matronlosthertrainofthought.Whatelsewasthere?ShenoddedatGebrewwhowasimmaculatelydressedinawhite tunic extending to his knees, trousers underneath, and tightly coiled turban on his head.These were the ceremonial clothes he wore only on Timkat, the day of the Epiphany. Gebrew sliturgywasinancientBiblicalGeez,theofficiallanguageoftheEthiopianOrthodoxChurch.Withgreat effort, he kept his singsong recitation short. Then the nurses andprobationers sangSisterMaryJosephPraise's favoritehymn,oneshehadtaught themandwhichthey favored inmorningchapelinthenurses’hostel.

Jesuslives!ThyterrorsnowCannolonger,death,appallus;

Jesuslives!BythisweknowThou,Ograve,canstnotenthrallus.

Alleluia!

Theyallpushedforward,strainingforalastlookbeforethelidwasnailedinplace.Gebrewwouldsay later thatSisterMary JosephPraise's faceglowed,herexpressionwaspeaceful,knowingherordealonearthwasover.Almazinsistedthatalilacscentemergedasthelidwentdown.

Ghoshfeltamessagebeingconveyedtohim.Sisterseemedtobesaying,Makegooduseofyourtime.Don'twastemoreyearspursuing lovethatmightneverbereciprocated.Leavethis landformysake.

Hema,standingclose,vowedsilentlytoSisterMaryJosephPraisethatshedlookafterusasifwewereherown.

Withropesunderthecasket,thecooliesloweredSisterintohergrave.TheheavystonesrequiredbyEthiopiantraditionwerehandeddowntothetallercooliewhosefeetwereperchedoneithersideofthecoffin.Thestonesweretokeephyenasout.

Atlastthetwomenpushedtheearthbacktofill inthegrave,theserviceallbutover.Allbuttheululations.

Shiva and I, so new to life, were startled by that unearthly sound. We opened our eyes tocontemplateaworldinwhichsomuchwasalreadyamiss.

CHAPTER14KnowledgeoftheRedeemer

THEDAYAFTERTHEFUNERAL,Ghoshroseearly.ForachangehiswakingthoughtswerenotaboutHemabutaboutStone.Assoonashewasdressed,hewentstraighttoStone'squarters,buthefoundnosign that the occupant had returned. Deflated, he went to Matron's office. She looked upexpectantly.Heshookhishead.

He was eager to see his postoperative patient and check his handiwork. He'd been a reluctantsurgeon,butnowtheanticipationhefeltwasarevelationtohim.ItmusthavebeenafeelingStonehadregularlyenjoyed.“Thiscouldbeaddictive,”hesaidtonooneinparticular.

He found Colonel Mebratu sitting on the edge of the bed, his brother helping him dress. “Dr.Ghosh!”Mebratusaid,smilinglikeamanwithoutacareintheworld,thoughhewasclearlyinpain.“Mystatusreport:Ipassedgaslastnight,stooltoday.TomorrowIwillpassgold!”Hewasamanused to charming others, and even in his weakened state, his charisma was undiminished. Forsomeonefewerthantwenty-fourhoursoutofsurgery,helookedgreat.Ghoshexaminedthewound,anditwascleanandintact.

“Doctor,”theColonelsaid,“ImustreturntomyregimentinGondartoday.Ican'tbegoneformuchlonger.Iknowit'stoosoon,butIdon'thaveachoice.IfIdon'tshowmyfaceIwillbeunderevendeeper suspicion. You don't want to save my life only for me to be hanged. I can arrange forintravenousfluidsathome,whateveryousay.”

Ghoshhadopenedhismouthtoprotest,butherealizedhecouldnotinsist.

“All right. But listen, there is a real hazard of the wound bursting if you strain. I'll give youmorphine. Youmust travel lying flat.We'll arrange intravenous fluids, and tomorrow you can sipwaterandthenclearliquidsthenext.Iwillwriteitalldown.Youwillneedthestitchesremovedinabouttendays.”TheColonelnodded.

ThebeardedbrotherclaspedGhosh'shandandbowedlow,mutteringhisthanks.

“Willyoutravelwithhim?”Ghoshsaid.

“Yes, of course.Wehavea vancoming.Oncehe is settled, I'll go tomynewposting inSiberia.”Ghoshlookedpuzzled.“Iambeingbanished.”

“Areyoualsointhemilitary?”Ghoshsaid.

“No,asofthismoment,Iamnothing,Doctor.Iamnobody.”

ColonelMebratuputhishandonhisbrother'sshoulder.“Mybrother ismodest.Doyouknowhehas amaster's degree in sociology fromColumbia? Yes, hewas sent to America byHis ImperialMajesty. The Old Man wasn't happy when my brother was attracted by the Marcus GarveyMovement. He didn't let him pursue a Ph.D. He summoned him back to be a provincialadministrator.Heshouldhavelethimfinish.”

“No,no, Icamewillingly,” thebrothersaid.“Iwantedtohelpmypeople.But for that Iamoff toSiberia.”Ghoshwaited,expectingmore.

“Tellhimwhy,”theColonelsaid.“It'sahealthmatter,afterall.”

Thebrother sighed. “TheHealthMinistry built a public health clinic in our formerprovince.HisImperialMajesty came to cut the ribbon.Halfmybudget for thedistrictwas consumed tomakeeverythinglookgoodalongHisMajesty'sroute.Paint,fences,evenabulldozertoteardownhuts.Assoonasheleft,theclinicclosed.”

“Why?”

“Thebudgetfortheclinicwasspent!”

“Didyounotprotest?”

“Ofcourse!Butnorepliestomymessages.TheHealthMinisterinterceptedthem.So,Ireopenedthehealthcentermyself. Ittookabouttenthousandbirr.Igotamissionarydoctor inatownfifty

milesawaytocomeonceaweek.Ihadaretiredarmynursedoingdressings,andIfoundamidwifetomovethere.Igotsupplies.Thelocalbootleggergavemeagenerator.Thepeoplelovedme.TheHealthMinisterwantedtokillme.TheEmperorsummonedmetoAddis.”

“Howdidyougetthemoney?”Ghoshasked.

“Bribes!Peoplewouldbringover abig injera basket,withmoremoney in it than Injera.When Iused thebribes foragoodpurpose, theygavememorebribesbecause theywereworried that Iwouldexposethem.”

“YoutoldthistoHisMajesty?”

“Ah!Butthatiscomplicated.Everyoneiswhisperinginhisear.‘YourMajesty,’Isaid,whenIgotmyaudience.‘Thehealthcenterneedsabudgettokeepgoing.’Heactedsurprised.”

“Heknew,”theColonelinterjected.

“Heheardmeout.Thoseeyesgiveawaynothing.WhenIwasdone,HisMajestywhisperstoAbbaHanna,theMinisterofthePurse.AbbaHannascribblesintherecord.Andtheotherministers,haveyouseenthem?Theyareinastateofconstantterror.Theyneverknowiftheyareintheirmaster'sfavorornot.

“HisMajesty thanksme formyservice to thatprovince,etcetera,etcetera,and then Ibowandbowandwalkbackward.ImeettheMinisterofthePurseattherearoftheroom,andhegivesmethreehundredbirr!Ineedthirtythousand,oreventhreehundredthousand,Icoulduse.ForallIknow theEmperor said one hundred thousand andAbbaHanna decided itwasworth only threehundred. Or was three hundred the Emperor's idea? And who do you ask? By then, the nextpetitioneristellinghisstory,andtheMinisterofthePurseisrunningbacktotakehispositionneartheEmperor.

“I tried to shout from thebackof the room,YourMajesty,did theministermakeamistake?’Myfriendsdraggedmeaway—”

“Otherwiseyouwouldn'tbearoundtotellusthisstory,”theColonelsaid.“Myfoolhardybrother.”

TheColonelturnedserious,hiseyesonGhoshashetookGhosh'shandinbothofhis.“Dr.Ghosh.You'reabettersurgeonthanStone.Asurgeoninhandisworthtwowhoaregone.”

“No,Iwaslucky.Stoneisthebest.”

“Ithankyouforsomethingelse.Yousee,IwasinterriblepainallthewayfromGondartohere.Thejourneygoingback isgoingtobeeasybycomparison.Thepainwas…Iknewwhateverthiswaswouldgetworse,wouldkillme.But Ihadoptions. I came toyou.Whenyou toldme that formyfellowcountrymen, if theyhavetosufferthis, theysimplydie…”TheColonel's faceturnedhard,andGhoshcouldnotbesureifitwasangerorifhewasholdingbacktears.Heclearedhisthroat.“Itwasacrimetoclosemybrother'shealthcenter.WhenIcametoAddisAbabaforthismeetingwithmy…colleagues,Iwaspreparedtolisten.ButIwasn'tsure.Youcouldsaymymotivesweresuspect.IfIwantedtobepartofachange,wasitforthebestofreasons,orjusttograbpower?I'mtellingyouthingsyoucanneverrepeat,Doctor,doyouunderstand?”

Ghoshnodded.

“Myjourney,mypain,myoperation…,”theColonelwenton,“Godwasshowingmethesufferingofmypeople. Itwas amessage.Howwe treat the least of ourbrethren, howwe treat thepeasantsufferingwithvolvulus,that'sthemeasureofthiscountry.Notourfighterplanesortanks,orhowbigtheEmperor'spalacehappenstobe.IthinkGodputyouinmypath.”

Later,whentheyhadleft,Ghoshrealizedhowhe'dbeensopredisposedtodislikeColonelMebratu,but the opposite had happened. Conversely, as an expatriate, it was easy to project benevolentqualitiesontoHisMajesty.Nowhewaslesssure.

MR. ELIHU HARRISwasdressedallwrong.Thatwas the first thingMatronnoticedwhenheclosed thedoor behind him and stepped up to her desk and introduced himself. He had every right to beannoyed, having visited Missing on the two previous days without meeting Matron. Instead, heseemedgratefultoseeher,worriedaboutintrudingonhertime.

“Ihadnoideayouwerecoming,Mr.Harris,”Matronsaidpresently.“Underanyothercircumstance,itwouldhavebeenapleasure.Butyousee,yesterday,weburiedSisterMaryJosephPraise.”

“You mean …” Harris swallowed hard. His mouth opened and closed. He saw such sorrow inMatron'seyes,andhewasembarrassed tohaveoverlooked it. “Youmean…theyoungnun fromIndia?…ThomasStone'sassistant?”

“Theverysame.AsforThomasStone,hehasleft.Vanished.Iamveryworriedabouthim.Heisadistraughtman.”

Harris had a pleasant face, but his overdeveloped upper lip and uneven front teeth left him justshort of handsome.He fidgeted in his chair. Hewas doubtless yearning to ask how all this hadhappened,buthedidn't.Matronunderstoodhewas the sort ofmanwho, evenwhenhehad theupperhand,didn't knowhow topress forhis rights.Ashe stoodbeforeher,his softbrowneyesreluctanttoengage,herheartsoftenedtohim.

SoMatrontoldHarriseverything,arushofsimplesentencesthatwereweigheddownbywhattheyconveyed.Whenshewasfinished,shesaid,“Yourvisitcomeswhenweareatourworst.”Sheblewher nose. “Somuch ofwhatwe did atMissing revolved around Thomas Stone.Hewas the bestsurgeon in thecity.Heneverknewthat itwasbecauseof thepeopleheoperatedon in theroyalfamily, in thegovernment, thatwewereallowed togoon.Thegovernmentmakesuspayaheftyannualfeefortheprivilegeofservinghere,canyouimagine?Theycouldiftheywantsimplycloseusdown.Mr.Harris,evenyourgivingusmoneywasbecauseofhisbook…ThismightbetheendofMissing.”

AsMatrontalked,Harrissankfartherbackinthechair,asifsomeonehadafootonhischest.Hehadanervoushabitofpattinghiscowlick,eventhoughitwasnotindangeroffalling.

Therearepeopleintheworldwhowerecursedbybadtiming,Matronthought.Peoplewhosecarsbreakdownonthewaytotheirwedding,orwhoseBrightonholidayisinvariablyruinedbyrain,orwhosecrowningdayofprivategloryisovershadowedbyandforeverrememberedasthedayKingGeorgeVIdied.Suchpeople vexed the spirit, and yet onewasmoved topitybecause theywerehelpless.Itwasn'tHarris'sfaultthatSisterhaddiedorStonehaddisappeared.Yettherehewas.

IfHarriswantedanaccountingofmoney,shehadnothingtoshowhim.Matronsubmittedprogressreports under duress, and since what donors wanted to spend on had no link to the reality ofMissing'sneeds,herreportswereaformoffiction.She'dalwaysknownadaylikethiswouldcome.

Harrischoked,thencoughed.Whenherecovered,withmuchthroatclearingandfumblingwithhishandkerchief,hecameindirectlytohisbusinesswithMatron.Butitwasn'twhatMatronimagineditwouldbe.

“You were right about our plan to fund a mission for the Oromo, Matron,” Harris said. Matronfaintly recalledamentionof this ina letter. “Thedoctor inWollosentmea telegram.Thepolicehaveoccupied thebuilding.Thedistrictgovernorwill donothing toevict them.The suppliesarebeingsold.Thelocalchurchhasbeenpreachingagainstus,sayingwearethedevils!Ihadtocometostraightenthingsout.”

“Pardonmeforbeingblunt,Mr.Harris,buthowcouldyouhavefundeditsightunseen?”Shefeltapangofguiltasshesaidthis,sinceHarrishadn'tseenMissingtillnow.“IfIrecall,Iwrotetosaythatitwasunwise.”

“It'smyfault,”Harrissaid,wringinghishands.“Iprevailedonmychurchsteeringcommittee…Ihaven'ttoldthemyet,”Harrissaid,almostinawhisper.Clearinghisthroatandfindinghisvoiceheadded,“Myintentions…,Ihopethecommitteewillunderstand,weregood.We…IhopedtobringknowledgeoftheRedeemertothosewhodonothaveit.”

Matron let out an exasperated sigh. “Did you think they were all fire worshippers? Treeworshippers?Mr.Harris,theyareChristians.Theyarenomoreinneedofredemptionthanyouareinneedofahairstraighteningcream.”

“ButIfeelit'snottrueChristianity.It'sapagansortof…,”hesaid,andpattedhisforehead.

“Pagan! Mr. Harris, when our pagan ancestors back in Yorkshire and Saxony were using theirenemies’skullsasaplatetoservefood,theseChristianshereweresingingthepsalms.TheybelievetheyhavetheArkoftheCovenantlockedupinachurchinAxum.Notasaint'sfingerorapope'stoe,buttheArk!Ethiopianbelieversputontheshirtsofmenwhohadjustdiedoftheplague.TheysawintheplagueasureandGod-sentmeansofwinningeternallife,offindingsalvation.That,”shesaid,tappingthetable,“ishowmuchtheythirstedforthenextlife.”Shecouldn'thelpwhatshesaidnext.“Tellme,inDallas,doyourparishionershungerlikethatforsalvation?”

Harrishadturnedred.Helookedaroundasifforaplacetohide.Buthewasn'tcompletelydone.Menlikehimbecamestubbornwithopposition,becausetheirconvictionswerealltheyhad.

“It's actually Houston, not Dallas,” he said softly. “But, Matron, the priesthood here is almostilliterate—Gebrew, yourwatchman, doesn't understand the litany that he recites because it is inGeez,whichnoonespeaks. Ifheholds to theMonophysitedoctrinethatChristhadonlyadivinenature,notahumanone,then—”

“Stop! Mr. Harris, do stop,” Matron said, covering her ears. “Oh, how you vex me.” She camearoundthetable,andHarrisdrewbackas ifheworriedthatshemightboxhisears.ButMatronwalkedtothewindow.

“WhenyoulookaroundAddisandseechildrenbarefootandshiveringintherain,whenyouseethelepersbeggingfortheirnextmorsel,doesanyofthatMonophysiticnonsensemattertheleastbit?”

Matronleanedherheadonthewindowpane.

“Godwill judgeus,Mr.Harris,by”—hervoicebrokeasshe thoughtofSisterMary JosephPraise—”bywhatwedidtorelievethesufferingofourfellowhumanbeings.Idon'tthinkGodcareswhatdoctrineweembrace.”

Thesightofthatplain,weatheredfacepressedagainsttheglass,thewetcheeks,theinterlockingfingers…itwasforHarrismorepowerfulthananythingshehadsaid.Herewasawomanwhocouldgiveuptherestrictionsofherorderwhenitstoodintheway.Fromherlipshadcomethekindoffundamental truthwhich,becauseof its simplicity,wasunspoken ina church likeHarris'swhereinternecine squabbling seemed to be the purpose for the committee's existence, as well as amanifestationoffaith.ItwasasmallblessingthatanoceanseparatedthedoerslikeMatronfromtheirpatrons,becauseiftheyrubbedshouldersthey'dmakeeachotherveryuncomfortable.

HarrisstaredatthestackofBiblesbythewall.Hehadn'tseenthemwhenhefirstwalkedin.

“WehavemoreEnglishBiblesthanthereareEnglishspeakingpeopleintheentirecountry.”Matronhad turned from the window and followed his gaze. “Polish Bibles, Czech Bibles, Italian Bibles,French Bibles, Swedish Bibles. I think some are from your Sunday-school children. We needmedicineandfood.ButwegetBibles.”Matronsmiled.“IalwayswonderedifthegoodpeoplewhosendusBibles really think thathookwormandhungerarehealedby scripture?Ourpatients areilliterate.”

“Iamembarrassed,”Harrissaid.

“No, no, no. Please! People here love theseBibles. They're themost valuable thing a family canpossess.DoyouknowwhatEmperorMene-lik,whoruledbeforeHaileSelassie,didwhenhefellill?Heatepagesof theBible. Idon't think ithelped.This isa landwherepaper—worketu—ismuchvalued. Did you know that among the poor,marriage consists simply ofwriting two names on apieceofpaper?Andtodivorce,whyyoujusttearupthepaper.Priestswillgiveoutpiecesofpaperwith verses on them.Thepaper is foldedover again andagainuntil it is a tiny square and thenthesearewrappedinleatherandwornaroundtheneck.

“IwashappytogiveawayBibles.ButtheInteriorMinistersawitasproselytizing.‘Howcanitbeproselytizingwhennoonecanread?Besidesitisthesamefaithasyours,’Isaid.Buttheministerdisagreed.SonowtheBiblespileup,Mr.Harris.Theybreedinthetoolshedlikerabbits.Theyspilloverintoourstoreroomsandintomyoffice.Weusethemassupportforbookshelves.Ortopaperthewallsofthechikkahuts.Anythingatall,really!”

Shewalkedover to thedoorandbeckonedhim to joinheroutside. “Let's takeawalk,”shesaid.“Look,”Matronsaidwhentheywereinthehallway,pointingtoasignaboveadoor:OPERATINGTHEATER1.

Theroomwasacloset, jammedfullofBibles.Wordlesslyshepointed toanotherroomacross thewaywhichHarriscouldseewasastoreroomformopsandbuckets.ThesignaboveitreadOPERATING

THEATER2.“Wehaveonlyonetheater.WecallitOperatingTheater3.Judgemeharshly,ifyouwill,Mr.Harris,butItakewhatIamgiveninGod'snametoservethesepeople.AndifmydonorsinsistongivingmeanotheroperatingtheaterforthefamousThomasStone,whenwhatIneedarecatheters,syringes,penicillin,andmoneyforoxygentankssoIcankeepthesingletheatergoing,thenIgivethemtheiroperatingtheaterinname.”

Atthestepsof theMissingoutpatientdepartmentthebougainvilleawas in fullbloom,concealingthepillarsofthecarportsothattheroofappearedtobecantilevered.

Amanhurriedby,bundledinaheavywhitewrapoveraraggedmilitaryovercoat.Hiswhiteturban

andthemonkey-manefly-swishinhishandmadehimstandout.

“That'stheveryGebrewweweretalkingabout,”MatronsaidasGebrewspottedthemandstoppedandbowed.“ServantofGod.Andwatchman.And…oneofourbereaved.”

HarriswassurprisedatGebrew'srelativeyouth.Inoneofherletters,MatronwroteofaHarrarigirlof twelve or thirteenwho had been brought in,moribund, a cut umbilical cord trailing out frombetween her legs. She had given birth a few days before, but there had been no afterbirth; theplacentawouldn'tbudge.ThefamilyhadtraveledbymuleandbusfortwodaystogettoMissing.And asGebrew, in his compassion, lifted the poor girl out of the gharry, she screamed.Gebrew,instrumentofGod,hadinadvertentlysteppedonthetrailingumbilicalcord,causingtheplacentatobreakfree.Thelittlegirlwascuredevenbeforeshecrossedthethresholdofthecasualtyroom.

Harrisshiveredinasleevelesscottonshirt,hiseyeballsoscillating,hisfingerstuggingathiscollar,thenadjustingapithhelmetwhichMatrondidn'trealizehehadwithhim.

Matronwalkedhim through the children'sward,whichwasnomore thana roompaintedbrightlavenderwithinfantsonhighbedswithmetalrails.Themotherscampedoutonthefloorbesidethebeds.TheyjumpedupatthesightofMatronandbowed.“Thatchildhastetanusandwilldie.Thisone has meningitis, and if he lives he might well be deaf or blind. And its mother”—she said,affectionatelyputtingherarmaroundawaiflikewoman—”bystayingatMissingnightandday isneglectingherthreeotherchildren.Lord,we'vehadachildbackhomefallintoawell,getgoredbyabull,andevenkidnappedwhilethemotherwashere.Thehumanethingistotellhertogohome,totakethechildhome.”

“Thenwhyisshehere?”

“Lookathowanemicsheis!Wearefeedingher.Wegiveherthechild'sportions,whichthechildcan'teat,aswellasherportion,andI'veaskedthemtogiveheraneggeveryday,andsheisgettinganironinjectionandmedicineforhookworm.Inafewdayswe'll findherbusfareandthensendherhomewiththischildifheisalive.Butatleastshe'llbehealthier,betterabletolookaftertheotherchildren…Nowthischildisawaitingsurgery…”

Inthemaleward,whichwaslongandnarrowandheldfortypeople,shekeptupherrecitation.Thepatientswhocouldtriedtosituptogreetthem.Onemanwascomatose,hismouthopen,hiseyesunseeing.Anothersatleaningforwardonaspecialpillow,strugglingmightilytobreathe.Twomen,sidebyside,hadbelliesswollentothesizeofripepregnancy.

“Rheumatic heart valve damage, nothing we can do … and these two fellows have cirrhosis,”Matronexplained.

Harris was struck by how little it took to nurture and sustain life. A huge chunk of bread in achippedbasinandagiantbattered tincupof sweetened tea—thatwasbreakfastand lunch.Veryoften,ashecouldsee,thisfeastwasbeingsharedwiththefamilymemberssquattingbythebed.

Whentheyemergedfromtheward,Matronstoppedtocatchherbreath.“Doyouknowthatatthismomentwehavefundsforthreedays,that'sall?SomenightsIgotosleepwithnoideaofhowwecanopeninthemorning.”

“Whatwillyoudo?”Harrisasked,butthenherealizedheknewtheanswer.

Matronsmiled,hereyesalmostdisappearingashercheekspushedup,givingherachildlikequality.“That'sright,Mr.Harris.Ipray.ThenItakeitoutofthebuildingfundorwhateverfundhasmoney.TheLordknowsmypredicament, or so I tellmyself.Hemustapprove the transfer.Whatwearefightingisn'tgodlessness—thisisthemostgodlycountryonearth.Wearen'tevenfightingdisease.It's poverty.Money for food, medicines … that helps. When we cannot cure or save a life, ourpatientscanatleastfeelcaredfor.Itshouldbeabasichumanright.”

Harris'sanxietyaboutthesteeringcommitteehadallbutgone.

“I'llconfess,Mr.Harris,thatasIgetolder,myprayersaren'taboutforgiveness.MyprayersareformoneytodoHiswork.”Shereachedoutforhishandandhelditinbothofhers,pattingit.“Doyouknow,dearman,thatinmydarkestmoments,youhavesooftenbeentheanswertomyprayers?”

Matronfeltshehadsaidenough.Itwasagamble.Shehadnothingtoputonthetablebutthetruth.

CHAPTER15CrookednessoftheSerpent

THE NEWBORNS SEEMED UNREAL toGhosh, all noses andwrinkles, as if they'dbeenplanted inHema'shouse,alabexperimentgoneawry.Ghoshtriedtomakeappropriatenoisesandactinterested,buthefoundhimselfresentingtheattentiontheyweregetting.

Itwas fivedayssinceSisterMaryJosephPraise'sdeath.HehadstoppedbyHema'shouse in theearlyeveningbeforesettingouttolookforStone.He'dfoundhisAlmazthere,verymuchathome,immersedinthetaskofcaringforthebabies,barelyregisteringhispresence.Thelastfewdays,hehadbeenforcedtomakehisowncoffeeandheathisownbathwater.Matron,SisterAsqual,Rosina,andseveralnursingstudentswere there, too, fussingover thenewborns.Rosina,withnothing tooccupyhernowthatThomasStonewasgone,hadalsomovedovertoHema's.NoonenoticedwhenheleftHema'sbungalow.

HedrovefirsttotheGhionandtheRashotels,thentothepoliceheadquarterswherehesoughtoutasergeantheknew.Themanhadnonewsforhim.HedrovethroughthePiazzafromoneendtotheother,andthen,afterabeeratSt.George's,decideditwastimetogohome.Hisplanstoleavehadsolidified.HehadanairlinetickettoRome,thenontoChicago,leavinginfourweeks.Bythattime,perhapsthingsatMissingwouldhavesettled.Hecouldn'tseehimselfstayingon,notnow,notwithStonegoneandSisterdead.ButhehadyettofindthecouragetotellMatronorAlmaz—orHema.

Itwasdarkwhenhepulled intohis carport.He sawAlmaz squattingby thebackwall,wrappedagainstthecoldsoonlyhereyesshowed.ShewaswaitingforhimjustasshehadthenightSisterMaryJosephPraisehaddied.

“OhGod.Whatnow?”

She came to the passenger door, yanked it open, and climbed in. “Is it Stone?” he said. “Whathappened?”

“Where have you been?No, it's not Stone. One of the babies stopped breathing. Let's go to Dr.Hema'sbungalow.”

THE BLUE NIGHT-LIGHT made Hema's bedroom seem surreal, like a set for a movie. Hema was in anightdress,herhairlooseandflowingoverhershoulders.Hefounditdifficulttolookaway.

The twonewbornswere on the bed, their chests rising and falling evenly, eyes closed, and theirfacespeaceful.

TurningbacktoHema,hesawshewastrembling,herlipsquivering.Heputhishandsout,palmsup,askingwhathadhappened.Bywayofananswer,sheflewintohisarms.

Heheldher.

In the years he had known her, he'd seen her happy, angry, sad, and even depressed but,underneath, always feisty.Hehadnever seenher fearful; itwas as if she'd become some otherperson.

Hetriedtoleadheroutsideoftheroom,hisarmstillaroundhershoulder,butsheresisted.“No,”shewhispered.“Wecan'tleave.”

“What'sgoingon?”

“IhappenedtobelookingatthemjustafterIputthemtobed.IsawMarionbreathingevenly.ButShiva…”She sobbednow, as shepointed to the childwith thedressingonhis scalp. “I sawhisstomachrise, then itwentdownasheexhaled…andthennothing. Iwatchedas longasIcould.‘Hema, you are imagining things,’ I said. But I could see him turning blue, even in this light,especiallywhenIcomparedhiscolorwithMarion's.Itouchedhim,andhisarmsshotoutasifhewasfalling,andhetookadeepbreath.Hisfingerscurledaroundmyfinger.Hewassaying,Don'tleaveme.Hewasbreathingagain.Oh,myShiva.IfIhadn'tbeenstandingthere…he'dbegonebynow.”

Shesobbed intoherhands,whichrestedonhischest.Ghoshheldher,hertearsmakinghisshirt

damp.Hedidn'tknowwhattosay.Hehopedshedidn'tsmellbeer.Inamoment,shepulledaway,andtheystoodarminarm,Almazjustbehindthem,gazingatShiva.

WhyhadHematakenonthenamingofthebabies?Itfeltpremature.Hecouldn'tgethislipsaroundthenames.Werethenamesnegotiable?WhatifThomasStoneshowedup?Andwhynamethechildof anunandanEnglishmanafteraHindugod?And for theother twin, alsoaboy,whyMarion?Surelyitwastemporary,untilStonecametohissenses,ortheBritishEmbassyorsomeonemadearrangements.Hemawasactingasifthekidswerehers.

“Didithappenmorethanonce?”heasked.

“Yes!Oncemore.Aboutthirtyminuteslater.JustwhenIwasabouttoturnaway.Heexhaled…andstopped. I mademyself wait. Surely he has to breathe. I held back until I couldn't stand it anylonger.WhenItouchedhimhestartedbreathingasifhedbeenwaitingforthatlittlepush,asifheforgot.I'vebeenhereforthelastthreehours,tooscaredtoevengototheloo.Ididn'ttrustanyoneelsetowatch,andbesidesIcouldnotquiteexplainittothem…ThankGodAlmazdecidedtostaytohelpmewiththenightfeeds.Isenthertogetyou,”Hemasaid.

“Goahead,”hesaid.“I'llwatchthem.”

Shewasbackinnotime.“Whatdoyouthink?”shesaid,leaningagainsthisarmasshedabbedhereyeswithahankie.“Shouldn'tyoulistentohislungs?Hewasn'tcoughingorstruggling.”

Ghosh,fingertochin,hiseyesnarrowing,studiedthechildquietly.Afteralongwhilehesaid,“I'llexaminehimthoroughlywhenheisawake.ButIthinkIknowwhatitis.”

Thewayshelookedathimmadehisheartswell.Thiswasn'ttheHemawhoreactedtoeverythinghesaidwithskepticism.“Infact,I'msure.Apneaofthepremature.It'swelldescribed.Yousee,hisbrainisstillimmature,andtherespiratorycenter,whichtriggerseachbreath,isn'tfullydeveloped.He‘forgets’tobreatheeverynowandthen.”

“Are you sure it isn't something else?” Shewasn't challenging him; like anymother, shewantedcertaintyfromthedoctor.

Henodded.“I'msure.Youwerelucky.Usuallyapneaisfatalbeforeanyonerecognizesit.”

“Don'tsaythat.OhGod.Whatcanwedo,Ghosh?”

Hewasabouttotellherthattherewasnothingonecoulddo.Nothingatall.Ifthechildwaslucky,itmightoutgrowtheapneainafewweeks.Theonlychoicewastoputthesepreemiesonmachinesthatbreathedforthemtilltheirlungsmatured.EveninEnglandandAmericathiswasrarelydone.AtMissingitwasoutofthequestion.

Shewaitedforhispronouncement.Shehadsuspendedherownbreathing.

“Hereiswhatwedo,”hesaid,andshesighed.Hewasmakingthisup.Hedidn'tknowifhisplanwouldwork.Butheknewhedidnothavethehearttosaytherewasnothingtobedone.

“Getmeachair.Oneofthosefromthelivingroom.Alsogivemesomeofyourankletsandapairofpliers.Andsomethreadortwine.Aclipboardoranotebookifyouhaveone.AndtellAlmaztomakecoffee.Thestrongestshecanmakeandasmuchof itasshecanmakeand tellher to fillup thethermosflask.”

ThisnewHema,theadoptivemotherofthetwins,roseatoncetodohisbidding,neveraskingwhyorhow.Hewatchedherdanceaway.

“If I knew youwere that agreeable Id have asked for a cognac and a footmassage aswell,” hemutteredtohimself.“Andifthisdoesn'twork…atleastI'llhavemybagspacked.”

GHOSHSATINTHECHAIR,sippingcoffee,astringwrappedaroundhisfinger,andthehousesilentaroundhim. Itwas two in themorning. The other end of the string connected to one ofHema's ankletswhichhe'dcutinhalfandloopedaroundShiva'sfoot.Thetinysilverbellsdanglingfromtheankletmadeapleasantcymbal-likesoundwhenthefootmoved.

Hehadstrappedhiswristwatchtothearmofhischair.Onthefirstpageofanexercisebook,hemadeverticalcolumns labeledwithdateandtime.Shivastirred inhissleep; theankletsoundingreassuringly. Earlier, they had fed the twins, adding one drop of coffee to Shiva's bottle. It wasGhosh's hope that caffeine, a nervous-system stimulant and irritant, would keep the respiratorycenterticking.Ithadclearlymadetheinfantmorerestlessthanhisidenticaltwin.

Hemasleptonthesofainthefarcornerofthelivingroom,whichwasjustbeyondthisbedroom.AfloorlampwithashadethattheymovedtoHema'sroomgavehimlighttoseethepage.

Ghoshstudiedthewalls.Alittlegirlinpigtailsandahalfsaristoodbetweentwoadults.AframedpictureofPrimeMinisterJawaharlalNehru,handsomeandpensive,onefingeronhischeek,hungopposite Ghosh's chair. He'd imagined Hema's bedroom would be neat, everything in its place.Instead,therewereclothesspillingoffthebedrail,asuitcaseopenonthefloor,moreclothespiledinthecorner,andbooksandpapersstackedonachair.Andjustinsidethebedroomdoorhenoticedforthefirsttimewasacratethesizeofasideboard.Shedidit,hethought,asheleanedclosertoreadthewritingontheoutside.AGrundig,noless.Thebestmoneycanbuy.Hisowngramophoneandradiohadconkedoutafewmonthsbefore.

Periodicallyhewouldglanceatthechild,makesurethelittlechestwasmoving.Afterwhatfeltlikehalfanhour,heyawned, lookedathiswatch,andwasastonishedtofindthatonlysevenminuteshad passed.My God, this is going to be difficult, he thought. He finished his cup of coffee andpouredasecond.

Hestoodandcircledtheroom.Ononeshelfwasaboundsetofbooks.GREATWORLDCLASSICSSERIESwasstampedinagoldimprint.Hepickedonevolumeandsatdown.Thebookwasbeautifullybound,inaleatherycover,andhadgold-trimmedpagesthatlookedasiftheyhadneverbeenopened.

ATFOURINTHEMORNING,hewenttowakeHema.Insleepshelookedlikealittlegirl,bothhandstogetherandtuckedunderonecheek.Hegentlyshookher,andsheopenedhereyes,sawhim,andsmiled.Heheldoutthecupofcoffee.

“Myturn?”Henodded.Shesatup.“Didhestopbreathing?”

“Twice.Therewasnodoubtaboutit.”

“God.OhGod.Iwasn'timaginingit,wasI?We'resoluckyIsawthatfirstone.”

“Drinkthis,thenwashyourfaceandcometothebedroom.”

Whenshereturnedhegaveherthethreadrunningtotheanklet,thenotebookwiththepenclippedtoit.“Whateveryoudo,don'tlieonthebed.Stayinthischair.It'stheonlywaytostayawake.I'vebeenreading,whichreallyhelps.Ilookupattheendofeverypage.IfIheartheankletmove,thenIdon'tlookupandIkeepreading.Whenhestoppedbreathing,Ituggedattheankletandhestartedrightbackup.Littlefellowjustforgetstobreathe.”

“Whyshouldhehavetoremember?Poorbaby.”

HEMAHADHARDLYSETTLEDinthechairwhensheheardastrangenoise.Ittookherasecondtorealizethatitwas the soundofGhosh snoring.She tiptoed towherehewas on the sofa, dead to theworld,lookinglikeabigteddybear.Shecoveredhimwiththeblanketwhichhadslippedtothefloor,andshereturnedtohervigil.Thesnoringreassuredher.Ittoldhershewasnotalone.ShepickedupthebookGhoshhadbeenreading.

She'dboughtthesetoftwelvebooksfromastafferattheBritishEmbassywhowasreturninghome.Shewasashamednottohavereadevenone.Ghoshhadputabookmarkonpageninety-two.Hadhereallycomethatfar?Whydidhepickthisbook?Sheturnedtothefirstpage:

Whothatcaresmuchtoknowthehistoryofman,andhowthemysteriousmixturebehavesunderthevaryingexperimentsofTime,hasnotdwelt,atleastbriefly,onthelifeofSaintTheresa,hasnotsmiledwith somegentlenessat the thoughtof the littlegirlwalking forthonemorninghand-in-handwithherstillsmallerbrother,togoandseekmartyrdominthecountryoftheMoors?

She read that opening sentence three times before she understoodwhat itmight be about. Shelookedat thetitleof thebook.Middlemarch.Whycouldn't thewriterbeclear?Shereadon,onlybecauseGhosh hadmanaged to keep reading. Little by little, she found herself immersed in thestory.

THENEXTMORNING,asGhoshmaderounds,hewonderediftheColonelmadeitbacktohisgarrisoninGondar without incident. If the Colonel had been arrested, or hanged, would news ever reachMissing? The Ethiopian Herald never wrote about treason, as if it were treasonable to reporttreason.

Afterlookinginonhispatients,GhoshunearthedanincubatorfromoneofthestorageshedsbehindMatron'sbungalow.GhoshwasMissing'sdefactopediatrician.Intheearlyyearshe'dfashionedanincubatorforprematurebabies.AftertheSwedishgovernmentopenedapediatrichospitalinAddis

Ababa,Missingsentalltheveryprematurebabiesthereandputtheincubatoraway.

Despite its delicate construction with glass on four sides and a tin base, the incubator was stillintact.HehadGebrewhoseitoff,dustitforfleas,putitinthesunlightforafewhours,thenrinseitagainwithhotwater.GhoshwipeditdownwithalcoholbeforesettingitupinHema'sbedroom.Nosoonerhadhe steppedback to admire it thanAlmazwalkedaround it three timesmaking thew-thew sounds, stopping short of actually spitting. “To ward off the evil eye,” she explained inAmharic,wipingherlipwiththebackofherforearm.

“Remindmenevertoinviteyouintotheoperatingtheater,”GhoshsaidinEnglish.“Hema?”hesaid,hopingshewouldweighin.“Antisepsis?Lister?Pasteur?Areyounolongerabeliever?”

“YouforgetIampostpartum,man,”shesaid.“Wardingoffspiritsismuchmoreimportant.”

The twins layswaddlednext toeachother like larvae,sharing the incubator, theirskullscoveredwithmonkeycapsandonlytheirwizened,newbornfacesshowing.NomatterhowfarapartHemaput them,whenshecameto themagain, theywouldbe inaV, theirheads touching, facingeachother,justastheyhadbeeninthewomb.

SOMENIGHTSashetookhisshiftbythesleepinginfant,exhausted,fightingsleep,hetalkedtohimself.“Whyareyouhere?Wouldshedo this foryou?”Theold resentmentsmadehis jaw tighten. “Yousillybugger,youallowedyourselftosuccumbtoherspellagain?”Whydidhelackthewillpowertosaywhatmustbesaid?

He toldhimself that once the infant, thisShiva,wasover itsbreathingproblem,hewould leave.KnowingHema,whensheno longerhadtorelyonhim, thingswouldbeback towhere theyhadalways been. Since Harris's visit, it was unclear if the Houston Baptists would continue theirsupport.Matronwouldn'tgiveheropinion.

FortwoweeksheandHemakeptavigiloverShiva,gettinghelpinthedaytime,butreservingthenight for themselves. They had finishedMiddlemarch in aweek and it had given themplenty todiscuss. He picked Zola's Three Cities Trilogy: Paris next, and that they both found absorbing.Shiva'sepisodesofapneadecreased frommore thantwentyaday to twoadayandthenceased.Theyextendedtheirvigilintoathirdweek,justtobeonthesafeside.

Hema'ssofawastoosmall foramanofGhosh'sproportions,andseeinghimscrunchedupthere,she felt grateful to him and conscious of his sacrifice. Itwould have surprised her to knowhowmuchherelishedoccupyingthespacethatshe'djustvacated,andcoveringhimselfwithablanketstillscentedwithherdreams.ThejinglingofShiva'sanklebraceletfilteredintohissleep,andonenight hedreamed thatHemawasdancing for him.Naked. Itwas so vivid, so real, that thenextmorning,hehurriedtoCook'sTravel,waitedtill theyopened,andcanceledhistickettoAmerica.Hediditbeforehehadanycoffee—orachancetosecond-guesshimself.

MATRONWASINCREASINGLYSTOOPED,herfacemoreweatheredintheaftermathofSisterMaryJosephPraise'sdeath.ShespenthereveningsatHema's—everybodydid—butshedidn'tprotestwhenGhoshandHemasentherback toherquartersbyeight,accompaniedbyKoochooloo.ThatdoghadbecomeprotectiveofMatron,andsincetheothertwonamelessdogsoftenfollowedKoochooloo,Matronhadanentouragewithher.

TwoweeksaftertheyburiedSister,Gebrewsawabarefootcooliewalkbywithhisrightarminalongcast,theelbowstraightathisside.Worsestill,themanwassosleepyhestaggeredandwasindangerofbreakinghishead,nottomentionhisotherarm.GebrewfeltterriblebecauseitwashewhohaddirectedthecoolietotheRussianhospitalwhenheshowedupatMissingwithafracture.TheRussiandoctorslovedinjectingbarbituratesnomatterwhatailedyou,andsincetheirpatientsloved the needle, no one left the Russian hospital unsedated. Gebrew knew from his years atMissingthatabrokenforearmhadtobecast inaneutralandfunctionalposition,withtheelbowflexed toninetydegrees, the forearmmidwaybetweenpronationand supination, even thoughheknewnoneofthoseterms.Heescortedtheunsteadycoolietothecasualtyroomwhere,afterGhoshlookedat theX-ray, the orderlies reapplied the cast.At thatmoment, thoughnoneof themquiterealizedit,Missingofficiallyreopenedforbusiness.

Hemarefusedtoleavetheinfants.Sheclaimedshewasnolongeradoctor,butamother.Shewasthekindofmotherwhowasfearfulforherchildren,wholovedbeingwiththemandwasunwillingtopartfromthem.Thetwomamithus—Stone'sRosinaandGhosh'sAlmaz—tookturnssleepingonamattressinherkitchen,andwerereadytohelp.

WithStonegoneordead,andHemaafull-timemother,oncethegatesopened,theburdenonGhoshwashuge.MatronhiredBachellitorunthemorningoutpatientclinicswherethegreatmajorityof

Missing's patientswere seen. This allowedGhosh the freedom to operatewhenhe could, and toconcentrateonthepatientsadmittedtothehospital.

SIXWEEKSAFTERSisterMaryJosephPraise'sdeath,thegravestonearrived,hauledupbydonkeycart.HemaandGhoshwent to see it levered intoplace.Themasonhad carvedaCoptic cross on thestone.BelowithehadetchedlettershecopiedfromthepaperMatronhadgivenhim:

Matronarrived,shortofbreathandagitated.Thethreeofthemstoodthere,studyingthestrangelettering.Themasonlookedon,hopingforacommendation.Matronletoutasighofexasperation.

“I don't suppose he can do much about that now,” Matron said, and gave the man a nod. Hegatheredhiscrowbarsandgunnysacksandledhisanimalaway.

“Iwasthinking,”Hemasaid,hervoicehoarse.“Thatinscriptionshouldread,‘Diedatthehandsofasurgeon.NowsafeinthearmsofJesus.’“

“Hema!”Matronprotested.“Custodyofthetongue.”

“No, really,”Hema said. “A richman's faults are coveredwithmoney, but a surgeon's faults arecoveredwithearth.”

“SisterMaryJosephPraiseiscoveredinthesoilofthelandshecametolove,”Matronsaid,hopingtoputastoptothiskindoftalk.

“Puttherebyasurgeon,”saidHemawhohadtohavethelastword.

“Whohasnowleftthecountry,”Matronsaid.

Theyturnedtolookather,mouthsopen.

Matron said, apologetically, “I got a call from theBritishConsulate. That'swhy Iwas late.FromwhatIcanpiecetogether,StonewenttotheKenyanborder,thentoNairobi,don'taskmehow.He'sinbadshape.Drink,Ipresume.Themanwascrazed.”

“He'snothurtoranything?”Ghoshsaid.

“AsbestasIcantellhe'sinonepiece.ImadeatrunkcalltoMr.ElihuHarrisjustnow.Yes,IgotHarrisinvolved.TheyhaveabigmissioninKenya.Ifhesobersup,HarristhinksStonecouldworkthere.Orifhedoesn'twantthat,ElicanarrangeforhimtogotoAmerica.”

“Butwhatabouthisbooks,andhisthings?”Ghoshsaid.“Shouldwesendthemontohim?”

“Iimaginehe'llwriteforhisbooksandspecimensonceheissettled,”Matronsaid.

ThenewsbothannoyedandpleasedHema. ItmeantStonehadabandonedthechildren,andthathe'd given up any claims on them. She wished he'd signed a paper to that effect. She still feltuneasy. A man who made his name at Missing, whose lover was buried at Missing, and whosechildrenwerebeingraisedatMissing,mightnotbeabletocuttheMissingcordthateasily.“Thecrookednessoftheserpentisstillstraightenoughtoslidethroughthesnakehole,”Hemasaid.

“He'snoserpent,”Ghoshsaidsharply,contradictingHema.Shewastooastonishedtoreply.“Heismy friend,” Ghosh continued in a tone that dared anyone to disagree. “Let's not forget what avaluablecolleaguehewasalltheseyears,thegreatservicehegavetoMissing,theliveshesaved.He'snoserpent.”Hespunonhisheelsandwalkedoff.

Ghosh'swordsprickedHema'sconscience.Shecouldn'tassumethathewastofeeleverythingshefelt.Notifshecaredforhim.Ghoshwashisownman,hadbeenallalong.

She gazed at Ghosh's receding back andwas frightened. She'd neverworried particularly aboutGhosh'sfeelings,butnow,atthegraveside,shefeltlikeayounggirlwho,whiledrawingwateratthewell,meetsahandsomestranger—aonce-in-a-lifetimeopportunity—butsheruins itbysayingthewrongthing.

CHAPTER16BrideforaYear

THEMILKCOWWASHEMA'SFOLLY,butoncethefirstcream-richmouthfulsliddownherthroattherewasnogoingback,evenifGhoshhadtakenawaythereasonforacow.

“Areyoujoking,Hema?Youcan'tgivecow'smilktonewbornbabies!”

“Whosaysso?”shesaid,butwithoutconviction.

“Ido,”hesaid.“Besides,they'vebeenthrivingonformulaforweeks.Theyarestayingonformula.”

After his sharpwords at Sister's graveside, she'd felt a terrible premonition that hewould leaveMissing,butintheensuingdayshehadprovedtruetoher,returningtosleeponthesofa.Thecalm,methodicalwayhe'dapproachedShiva'sproblemwasasideofhimshehadn'tappreciated.Onthewallbythedoorhe'dtapedapaperthatgraphedthewaninganddisappearanceofthoseterrifyingepisodesofapnea.Hemawouldneverhavehadtheconfidencetosaywhathesaidoneevening—thatthenightwatchwasover.

He'dbeensleepingonthesofasincethedayshesummonedhim,andnowshedidn'twanthimtoleave—hissnoringwasasoundshe'dcometodependon.Butshecouldn'tresistarguingwithhimnowandthen;itwasanoldreflex.Shethoughtofitasherwayofbeingaffectionate.

Theydidn't take theankletoffShiva's foot,eventhough itwasno longerneeded.ThesoundhadbecomepartofShiva,andtoremoveitfeltakintotakingawayhisvoice.

Intheearlymorningastonebellheraldedtheprocessionofcow,calf,andAsrat,themilkman,upthedriveway.ThecowbellwastonallyrelatedtothechimeofShiva'sanklet.Asratchargedmoreforbringingthemilkfactorytothehouse,butbymilkingunderRosina'sorAlmaz'swatchfuleye,therewasnoquestionofthemilkbeingwatereddown.

BythetimeHemarose,thehousewassuffusedwiththescentofboilingmilk.Shetooktoaddingmore and more milk to her morning coffee. Soon when Hema heard the cowbell, her mouthwatered, just as if shewere one of Professor Pavlov'smutts. Hermorning “coffee” grew to twotumblers,andshehadanothertwoglassesduringtheday,moremilkthancoffee,lovingthewaythebutteryflavorlingeredonhertongue.Unlikethebuffalomilkofherchildhood,thismilkwasmadesoverytastybythehighlandgrassonwhichthecowfed.

WhenAsrat,whosebovineequanimityHemabelievedcamefromhavinghiscowssleep insidehishutatnight,saidonemorning,“Ifonlymadamwouldbuycornfeed,themilkwouldbesothickaspoonwouldstandupinit,”shedidn'thesitate.SoonacooliearrivedwithtensacksonahandcartstampedROCKEFELLERFOUNDATIONandNOTFORRESALE. “Thebest investment I'veevermade,”Hemasaidafewdayslater,smackingherlipslikeaschoolgirl.“Cornmakesallthedifference.”

“Hardlyacontrolledexperiment,giventhebiasyouintroducedbypayingforthecorn,”Ghoshsaid.

Asrat tethered the animalsbehind thekitchen, the calf just out of reach of itsmother's udders,whilehedeliveredwhatmilkremainedtootherhomes.Thecowandcalfcalledtoeachotherwithsuch soothing and auspicious sounds. Hema remembered hermother saying, “A cow carries theuniverseinitsbody,Brahmainthehorns,Agniinthebrow,Indrainthehead…”

Thecalf'scallforitsmotherwasnothinglikethecryofhertwins,buttheemotionwasidentical.Inher years as an obstetrician, Hema had never thought too much about a newborn's cry, neverpausedtoconsiderthefrequencythatmadeababy'stongueandlipsquiverlikeareed.Itwassuchahelpless,urgentsound,buthitherto its importance lay inwhat itsignaled:asuccessful labor,alivebirth.Onlywhenitwasabsentwasitnoteworthy.Butnow,whenhernewborns,herShivaandMarion, cried, it was like no other earthly sound. It summoned her from sleep's catacombs andbroughtshushingnoises toher throatassherushed to the incubator. Itwasapersonalcall—herbabieswantedher!

Sherememberedaphenomenonshe'dexperiencedforyearswhenshewasabouttofallasleep:asensethatsomeonewascallinghername.Nowshetoldherselfithadbeenherunborntwinstellinghertheywerecoming.

Therewereothernoisesshebecameattunedtoinhernew-motherstate.Thethwackofwetclothon

the washing stone. The clothesline sagging with diapers (banners to fecundity) and raising aflappingalarmbeforearainsquall,sendingAlmazandRosinaracingoutside.Theglass-harpnotesof feeding bottles clinking together in the boiling water. Rosina's singing, her constant chatter.Almazclangingpotsandpans…thesesoundswerethechoraleofHema'scontentment.

AMaharashtrianastrologer,ona tourofEastAfrica, came to thehouseoverGhosh'sobjections.Hemapaidforhimtoreadthechildren'sfortunes.Withhisspectaclesandfountainpensinhisshirtpocket,helookedlikeayoungrailwayclerk.Afterrecordingtheexacttimeofthetwins’births,hewantedtheparents’birthdates.HemagavehersandthenvolunteeredGhosh's,throwingGhoshawarninglook.Theastrologerconsultedhistablesandhiscalculationsfilledonesideofafoolscappaper.At lasthe said, “Impossible.”He lookednervouslyatHema,butavoidedGhosh'seyes.Hecappedhispen, put awayhispapers, andwhile anastonishedHema lookedon,hemade for thedoor.“Whateveristheirdestiny,”hesaid,“youcanbesureit'slinkedtothefather.”

Ghosh caught up with him at the gate. He declined Ghosh's offer of money. With a mournfulexpressionheintoned,“Doctorsaab, I'mafraidyoucannotbethe father.”Ghoshpretendedtobedeeplytroubledbythisnews.GhoshreportedbacktoHema,butshewasn'thalfasamusedashewas.Itleftherfearful,asifthemanhadsomehowpredictedThomasStone'sreturn.

ThenextdayGhoshfoundHemasquatting,cuppingriceflourinherfistanddrawingarangoli—anelaboratedecorativepattern—onthewoodenfloorjustoutsideherbedroom,takingpainsthatthelineswereuninterrupted,sotheevilspiritscouldnotpass.Abovethedoorframetothebedroom,Hema hung a mask of a bearded devil with bloodshot eyes, his tongue sticking out—a furtherdeflection of the evil eye. It became part of her morning ritual along with the playing of“Suprabhatam” on the Grundig, a version sung by M. S. Subbulakshmi. The chant's hiccupingsyncopationevokedforGhoshthesoundofwomensweepingthefrontyardaroundthebanyantreein theearlymornings inMadrasand thedhobi ringinghisbicyclebell. “Suprabhatam”waswhatradiostationsusedtobegintheirdailybroadcast,andasastudent,Ghoshhadheardthewordsof“Suprabhatam”onthelipsofdyingpatients.ItamusedhimthathehadtocometoEthiopiatolearnexactlywhatitwas:aninvocationandawake-upcallforLordVenkateswara.

GhoshnoticedthatHema'sbedroomclosetwasnowashrinedominatedbythesymbolofShiva:atall lingam. In addition to the little brass statues ofGanesh, Lakshmi, andMuruga, now came asinister-looking ebony carving of the indecipherable Lord Venkateswara, as well as a ceramicImmaculateHeartoftheVirginMaryandaceramiccrucifiedChrist,bloodwellingoutofthenailholes.Ghoshheldhistongue.

Without fanfareandquiteunexpectedly,GhoshhadbecomeMissing'ssurgeon.ThoughhewasnoThomasStone, he had nowhandled several acute abdomens (his stomach fluttering just like thefirsttime)anddealtwithstabwoundsandmajorfracturesandevenputinachesttubefortrauma.Awomaninthelaboranddeliveryroomhadsuddenlydevelopedairwayobstruction.Ghoshraninandcuthighintheneck,openingthecricothyroidmembrane;theaspiratesoundofairrushinginwasitsownreward,aswasthesightofthepatient'slipsturningfromdeepbluetopink.Laterthatday,underbetterlightingintheoperatingtheater,hedidhisfirstthyroidectomyOperatingTheater3wasnowafamiliarplace,butstillfraughtwithdanger.Nothingwasroutineforhim.

Onthedaythetwinsturnedtwomonthsold,Ghoshwasinmid-surgerywhentheprobationerpokedher head in to say thatHemaurgently needed him.Ghoshwas removing a foot so destroyed bychronicinfectionthatithadbecomeaweeping,oozingstump.TheboyhadtraveledalonefromhisvillagenearAxum,avoyageofseveraldays,tobegGhoshtocutofftheoffendingpart.“Ithasstucktomybodyforthreeyears,”hesaid,pointingtothefootthatwasfourtimesthesizeofhisotherfootandshapeless,withtoesbarelyvisible.

Madurafootwasfoundwhereverpeoplehabituallywalkedbarefoot,butthetownofMadurai,notfarfromMadras,hadthedubioushonoroflendingitsnametothisdisease.Noplaceevercameoffwell when a disease was named after it: Delhi belly, Baghdad blues, Turkey trots. Madura footbeganwhenafield-workersteppedona largethornornail.Their livelihoodgavethemnochoicebut to keep walking, and slowly a fungus overran the foot, invaded bone, tendon, and muscle.Nothingshortofamputationwouldhelp.

Encouragedbytheoldsurgicalsaw“Anyidiotcanamputatealeg,”Ghoshhaddecidedtoproceed.Ifhehesitated, itwasbecause therestof thesayingwent“but it takesaskilledsurgeontosaveone.”Stilltherewasnosavingthisfoot.

TheboywasthefirstpatientGhoshhadeverseenwhosangandclappedhiswayintothetheater,overjoyedathavingsurgery.Ghoshcutthroughskinabovetheankle,leavingaflapatthebacktocoverthestump.Hetiedoffthebloodvesselsandsawedthroughtheboneandheardthethumpof

thefootlandinginthebucket.Itwasatthispointthattheprobationerdeliveredhersummons.

Ghoshcoveredthewoundwithadampsteriletowel,andheranhome,tearingoffhismaskandcap,imaginingtheworst.

HeburstintoHema'sbedroom,breathless.“Whatisit?”

Hema,inasilksari,hadspreadriceoutonthefloor.InSanskritletters,shedspelledouttheboys’names inthegrains.Shivawas inherarms,andRosinaheldMarion.HemahadassembledafewIndianwomen,whowereglaringathimindisapproval.

“Thepostcame,”Hemasaid.“Weforgottodothenama-karanum,Ghosh.Namingceremony.Shouldbeontheeleventhday,butyoucanalsodoitonthesixteenthday.Wehavenotdoneitoneitherofthosetwodays,butinmymother'slettershesaysaslongasIdoitassoonasIgetheraerogramweareallright.”

“Youmademeleaveanoperationforthis?”Hewasfurious.Itwasonhislipstosay,Howcanyousubscribetoallthiswitchcraft?

“Look,”Hemahissed,embarrassedbyhisbehavior,“the father issupposedtowhisperthechild'snameintoitsear.Ifyoudon'twanttodoit,I'llcallsomeoneelse.”

Thatword—”father”—changedeverything.Hefeltathrill.Hequicklywhispered“Marion”andthen“Shiva”intoeachtinyear,kissedeachchild,thenkissedHemaonthecheekbeforeshecouldpullaway, saying “Bye, Mama,” scandalizing Hema's guests before he raced back to the theater tofashiontheflapoverthestump.

THE TWINS WEREN'T EASY to tell apart but for the ankletwhichHemahad kept onShiva as a talisman.While Shiva was peaceful, quiet, Marion tended to furrow his eyebrows in concentration whenGhoshcarriedhim,asiftryingtoreconcilethestrangemanwiththecurioussoundshemade.Shivawasslightlysmaller,andhisskullstillborethemarksofStone'sattemptsatextraction;hefussedonlywhenheheardMarioncrying,asiftoshowsolidarity.

By twelveweeks, the twins had gainedweight, their crieswere lusty theirmovements vigorous.Theyclenchedtheirfistsagainsttheirchests,andnowandthentheystretchedouttheirarmsandfocusedontheirhandswithcross-eyedwonder.

Iftheydidn'tshowawarenessofeachother,Hemabelieveditwasbecausetheythoughttheywereone.When theywere bottle-fed, one inRosina's arms, the other inHema's orGhosh's, it helpedgreatly for them to bewithin earshot, heads or limbs touching; if they took one twin to anotherroom,theybothbecamefussy

Atfivemonths,theboyshadariotofblackcurlyhair.TheyhadStone'sclose-seteyes,whichmadethemappearhypervigilant,examiningtheirsurroundingslikeclinicians.Theiririses,dependingonthelight,wereaverylightbrownoradarkblue.Theforehead,roundandgenerous,andtheperfectCupid's bowof the lipwas all SisterMary JosephPraise. Theywere,Hema thought,muchmorebeautifulthanGlaxobabies,andthereweretwoofthem.Andtheywerehers.

Tohisdelight,Ghoshhadthemagictouchwhenitcametoputtingthemtosleep.Hesupportedonechildoneachforearm,theircheeksagainsthisshoulderwhiletheirfeetrestedontheshelfofhisbelly.HewouldcircumnavigateHema'slivingroom,bobbingandswaying.Forlackoflullabies,hereached into his repertoire of bawdy verse. One nightMatron took Ghosh aside and said: “Yourlimericksareusurpingmyprayers.”GhoshpicturedMatrononherkneesreciting:

TherewasamanfromMadrasWhoseballsweremadeoutofbrass

InstormyweatherTheyclangedtogether

Andsparkscameoutofhisarse.

“I'msorry,Matron.”

“Itcanhardlybegoodforthemtohearthesethingsatsuchatenderage.”

GHOSHCOULDBARELYREMEMBERwhathislifewaslikebeforethetwinsarrived.Whentheysnuggledinhisarms, smiled, or pressed their wet chins against him he felt his heart would burst with pride.MarionandShiva;nowhecouldnotimagineanybetternames.Oflatehisshouldersachedandhishandswerenumbwhenthemamithusliftedthesleepingboysfromhisarms.

SincehestartedsleepingonHema'ssofa,he'dnothadatwingeofdiscomfortwhenhepeed.

Hemaregainedsomeofheroldmanner.Attimeshemissedtheirsparring.Hadhepursuedherallthese years precisely because shewas sounattainable?What if shehad agreed tomarryhimassoonashearrived inEthiopia?Wouldhispassionhavesurvived?Everyoneneededanobsession,andinthelasteightyears,shedgivenhimhis,andforthatperhapsheshouldbegrateful.

Manyanight,afterputtingtheboystobed,hehadtoreturntofinishupatthehospital.NotonedropofbeerhadtouchedhislipssincehisfirstnightonHema'ssofa.OnHema'snarrowcouchhesleptpeacefullyandwokerefreshed.

Livingunder thesameroof,GhoshdiscoveredthatHemachewedkhat. Itbeganduring thenightvigilswithShivaandithadhelpedherthroughhershift.Herbookmarkwassoonaheadofhis inMiddlemarch,andshewasonZolabeforehewasdone.Shetriedtohidethekhat fromhim,andwhenhementioned it,he found it touchinghowflusteredshebecame.“Idon'tknowwhatyou'retalkingabout,”shesaid.

Sohedidn'tbringitupagain,thoughheknewwhenhesawherknittinglateintothenight,orwhenshewaitedupforhimandwaschattierthanRosina,thatshehadprobablyhadalittlechewbeforehearrived.Adid,thealwayssmilingmerchantshehadseenontheplanecomingbackfromAdenandwhosecompanytheybothenjoyed,broughthertheleaves.

As for Ghosh, proximity to Hema was his drug. He brushed against her when he lowered thesleepingbabiesintothecribthatreplacedtheincubator.Hewasencouragedwhenshedidn'tturnaround and snap at him. He gazed at her while sipping his morning coffee as she wrote outshoppinglistsforhim,orconsultedwithAlmazabouttheplansfortheday.Onedayshesawhimlooking.

“What?Ilookhorriblefirstthinginthemorning.Isthatit?”

“No.Youlooktheoppositeofhorrible.”

Sheblushed.“Shaddap,”shesaid,buttheglowinherfacedidnotfade.

Oneeveningatdinner,hesaid,moretohimselfthantoher,“IwonderwhathasbecomeofThomasStone.”

Hemapushedherchairbackandstoodup. “Please. Idon'twantyou toevermention thatman'snameinthishouse.”

Thereweretearsinhereyes.Andfear.Hewenttoher.Hecouldbearheranger,hecouldsufferit,buthecouldn'tbeartoseeherindistress.Hegrabbedherhands,pulledhertowardhim;shefoughtbutfinallygavein,ashemurmured,“Itisallright.Ididn'tmeantoupsetyou.It'sallright.”I'dsellmybestfrienddowntherivertobeabletoholdyoulikethis.

“What if he comes and claims them? You heard the astrologer.” She was trembling. “Have youthoughtaboutthat?”

“Hewon't,”Ghoshsaid,butsheheardtheuncertainty inhisvoice.Shemarchedtoherbedroom.“Well,ifhetries,itwillbeovermydeadbody,doyouhearme?Overmydeadbody!”

ONE VERY COLD NIGHT when the twins were nine months old, and while themamithus slept in theirquarters, and when Matron had returned to hers, everything changed. There was no longer areasonforGhoshtosleeponthecouch,butneitherofthemhadbroughtuptheideaofhisleaving.

Ghoshcame in justbeforemidnight, andhe foundHemasittingat thedining table.Hecameupclosetohersoshecouldinspecthiseyesandseeiftherewasliquoronhisbreath—itwaswhathealwaysdidtoteaseherwhenhereturnedatthishour.Shepushedhimaway.

Hewent in to look at the twins.When he came out he said, “I smell incense.”Hed scolded herbeforeforlettingthetwinsbreatheinanysmoke.

“It'sahallucination.Maybethegodsaretryingtoreachyou.”Shepretendedtobeabsorbedinthetaskofputtinghisdinneronthetable.

“Macaroni thatRosinaprepared,” she said,uncoveringabowl. “AndAlmaz left chickencurry foryou.Theyarecompetingtofeedyou.Godknowswhy.”

Ghoshtuckedhisnapkinintohisshirt.“Youcallmegodless?IfyoureadyourVedasoryourGita,you'llrememberamanwenttothesage,Ramakrishna,saying,‘OMaster,Idon'tknowhowtoloveGod.’“Hemafrowned.“Andthesageaskedhimiftherewasanythingheloved.Hesaid,‘Ilovemy

littleson.’AndRamakrishnasaid,‘ThereisyourloveandservicetoGod.Inyourloveandservicetothatchild.’“

“Sowherewereyouatthishour,Mr.GodlyMan?”

“Doing a Cesarean section. I was in and out in fifteen minutes,” Ghosh said. Hema did threeCesareansectionsintheweeksafterthebirthofthetwins:oncetoteachGhosh,oncetoassisthimashedidit,andthethirdtimetostandbyandwatch.NowomanwoulddieatMissingorbesentelsewhereforwantofaC-section.“Thebabyhadthecordwrappedarounditsneck.Babyisfine.Themotherisalreadyaskingforherboiledegg.”

WatchingGhosheathadbecomeHema'snightlypastime.Hisappetitesengagedhim;helivedinthecenterofaflurryofideasandprojectsthatmadepilesaroundhersofa.

Hermindhadbeendrifting,soshehadtoaskhimtorepeatwhathesaid.

“IsaidIwouldbe inthemiddleofmyinternshipatCookCountyHospitalnow,hadIgone.IwasreadytoleaveEthiopia,youknow.”

“Why?BecauseStoneleft?”

“No,woman.Beforethat.BeforethebabieswerebornorSisterdied.Yousee,IwasconvincedthatyouwouldcomebackfromIndiaamarriedwoman.”

ToHemathiswassoabsurd,sounexpected,areminderofaninnocenttimefromsolongago,thatsheburstoutlaughing.Ghosh'sconsternationmadeitevenfunnier,andthesafetypinthatheldthetopofherblousetogetherflewintotheairandlandedinhisplate.Thatwastoomuchforher,andsheclutchedherbreastandrosefromherchair,doubledover.

SinceherreturnfromIndiaandthetragedyofSister'sdeath,therehadbeenfewoccasionsforside-splitting humor.When she caught her breath she said, “That'swhat I like about you, Ghosh. I'dforgotten.Youcanmakemelaughlikenooneelseonearth.”Shesatbackinherchair.

Ghoshhad stoppedeating.Hepushed theplate away.Hewas clearlyupset and shedidn't knowwhy.Hewipedhislipswiththenapkin,hismovementspreciseanddeliberate.Therewasaquaverinhisvoice.

“Whatjoke?”hesaidagain.“Mywantingtomarryyoualltheseyearswasajoke?”

Shefounditdifficulttomeethisgaze.She'dnevertoldhimwhathadgonethroughhermindwhenshethoughtherplanewascrashing,andhowherlastearthlythoughtwasabouthim.Thesmileonher face felt falseandshecouldn't sustain it.She lookedaway,buthereyecaught themenacingmasknailedupoverthebedroomdoor.

Ghoshdroppedhisheadintohishands.Hismoodhadturnedfromebullienttodespairing;shehadpushedhimpastabreakingpoint.Andallbecauseshehadlaughed?Onceagainshefeltuncertainaroundhim,asshehadthatdayatSisterMaryJosephPraise'sgrave.

“It'stimeImovedbacktomyquarters,”hesaid.

“No!”Hemasaid,soforcefullythattheywerebothstartled.

Shepulledherchairclosertohis.Shepeeledhishandsfromhisheadandheldthem.Shestudiedthestrangeprofileofhercolleague,herunhandsomebutbeautifulfriendofsomanyyearswhohadallowed his fate to become so inextricably tangled with hers. He seemed intent on leaving. Hewasn'tlookingtoherforguidance.

Shekissedhishand.Heresisted.Shemovedevencloser.Shepulledhisheadtoherbosom,which,withoutthesafetypin,wasmoreexposedthanithadeverbeeninfrontofaman.SheheldhimthewayhehadheldherwhenhecamerunningthenightShivastoppedbreathing.

Afterawhilesheturnedhisfacetohers.Andbeforeshecouldthinkaboutwhatshewasdoing,orwhy,andhowthishadhappened,shekissedhim,findingpleasureinthewayhislipsfeltonhers.Shesawnowandwasashamed toseehowselfishly shehaddealtwithhim,madeuseofhimalltheseyears.Shednotdone itconsciously.Nevertheless, shed treatedhimas ifheexisted forherpleasure.

Itwasherturntosigh,andsheledthestunnedGhoshtothesecondbedroom,whichwasusedtoironclothesandasstorage,abedroomsheshouldhavegivenhimlongagoinsteadofleavinghim

onthesofa.Theyundressedinthedark,clearedthebedofthemountainofdiapers,towels,saris,and other garments. They resumed their embrace under the covers. “Hema, what if you getpregnant?”heasked. “Ah, youdon'tunderstand,” she said. “I'm thirty. Imayhave left it too latealready.”

Tohisshame,nowthatthosemagnificentorbshehadfantasizedaboutwereunfetteredandinhishands, now that she was his from the fleshy chin pad to the dimples above her buttocks, thetransformation of his member from floppy flesh to stiff bamboo did not happen. When Hemarealizedwhatwas amiss, she said nothing.Her silence only increased his distress. Ghosh didn'tknowthatHemablamedherself,thatshethoughtshehadbeenovereagerandthatshehadmisreadthe signs andmisunderstood theman.Ahyena's coughing in thedistance seemed tomock themboth.

Shestayedperfectlystill,asiflyingonalandmine.Atsomepointshefellasleep.Sheawoketoasensationofrisingfromunderwatertoberesurrectedandreclaimed.AnditwasbecauseGhosh'smouthwasaroundherleftbreast,tryingtoswallowit.Hedirectedhermovements,pushingherthiswayandthat,anditmadeherthinkthatevenwhenhehadbeenathismostpassive,hehadreallybeenincharge.

Thesightofhisgreatblockofaheadandhislipsrestingwherenomanhadbeenbeforebroughtfortha rushofblood tohercheeks,herchest,anddeep inherpelvis.Oneofhishandsheldherotherbreast,shockwavessurgingthroughher,whilehisotherhandcaressedherinnerthighs.Shefoundherhandsrespondinginkind,pullinghisheadtoher,reachingforhisbroadback,wantinghim to swallow herwhole. And now she felt something unmistakable and promising against herthighs.Inthatmoment,witnessinghisanimaleagerness,sheunderstoodthatshedforeverlosthimasaplaything,asacompanion.HewasnolongertheGhoshshetoyedwith,theGhoshwhoexistedonlyasareactiontoherownexistence.Shefeltashamedfornothavingseenhimthiswaybefore,ashamed for presuming to know the nature of this pleasure and thereby denying herself anddenying him all these years. She pulled him in, welcomed him—colleague, fellow physician,stranger, friend, and lover.Shegasped in regret for all theevenings they'd sat across fromeachother,baitingeachotherandthrowingbarbs(though,nowthatshethoughtaboutit,shedidmostofthebaitingandthrowing)whentheycouldhavebeenengagedinthisastonishingcongress.

INTHEEARLYMORNINGsheawoke,fedandchangedthechildren,andwhentheywentbacktosleep,shereturnedtoGhosh.Theybeganagain,anditwasasifitwerethefirsttime,thesensationsuniqueandunimaginable,theheadboardslappingagainstthewalladvertisingtheirpassiontoAlmazandRosinawhowere justarriving in thekitchen,butshedidn'tcare.Theyslept,andonlywhentheyheardthecowbellandthecalfcrydidtheyrise.

GhoshstoppedHemaasshewasabouttoleavetheroom.

“Ismarryingmestillalaughingmatter?”

“Whatareyousaying?”

“Hema,willyoumarryme?”

Hewasunpreparedforherresponse,andlaterhewonderedhowshecouldhavebeensoreadywithananswer,onethatwouldneverhaveoccurredtohim.

“Yes,butonlyforayear.”

“What?”

“Faceit.Thissituationwiththechildrenthrewustogether.Idon'twantyoutofeelobliged.Iwillmarryyouforayear.Andthenwearedone.”

“Butthatisabsurd,”Ghoshsputtered.

“Wehavetheoptiontorenewforanotheryear.Ornot.”

“IknowwhatIwant,Hema.Iwantthisforever.Ihavealwayswantedit foreverandever.IknowthatattheendoftheyearIwillwanttorenew.”

“Well you may know,my sweetman. But what if I don't? Now you have surgery scheduled thismorning, no? Well, you can tell Matron that I'll start doing hysterectomies and other electivesurgery again.And it's time you learned somegynecologic surgery, something other than justC-sections.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder as she departed, and the coyness in her smile and themischiefinhereyesandherarchedeyebrows,andthesteeptiltofherneck,werethoseofadancersendingasignalwithoutwords.Hermessagesilencedhim.Insteadofayearoralifetime,suddenlyhecouldonlythinkofnightfall,andthoughitwasonlytwelvehoursaway,itfeltlikeaneternity.

PARTTHREEIwillnotcutforstone,evenforpatientsinwhomthediseaseismanifest;Iwillleavethisoperation

tobeperformedbypractitioners,specialistsinthisart…

HippocraticOath

TheirsisthestonelessfruitofloveWhoseloveisreturned.

Tiruvalluvar,TheKural

CHAPTER17“Tizita”

IREMEMBER THE EARLY MORNINGS, sweeping into the kitchen in Ghosh's arms.He is counting under hisbreath, “One-two … onetwothree.” We twirl, dip, lunge. For the longest time I will think thatdancingishisoccupation.

Weexecutea turnbefore thestoveandarriveat thereardoor,whereGhoshworks the lockandshootsbacktheboltwithaflourish.

AlmazandRosinastepin,quicklyshuttingthedooragainstthecold,andagainstKoochooloo,whoiswagginghertail,awaitingbreakfast.Bothmamithusarewrappedlikemummies,onlytheireyesshowinginacrescentgap.Theypeelofflayers,andtheodorsofcutgrass,andthenturnedearth,thenberbereandcoalfiresrisefromthemlikesteam.

Ilaughuncontrollablyinanticipation,tuckmychinintomybody,becauseIknowRosina'sfingers,which are like icicles,will soon strokemy cheek. The first time she did this, I was startled intolaughter instead of tears, a mistake, because it has encouraged this ritual that I dread andanticipateeveryday.

AFTERBREAKFAST,HemaandGhoshkissShivaandmegood-bye.Tears.Despair.Clinging.Buttheyleaveanyway,offtothehospital.

Rosinaplacesusinthedoublepram.Soon,withupliftedhands,Ibegtobecarried.Iwanthigherground.Iwanttheadultview.Shegivesin.Shivaiscontentwhereverheisplaced,aslongasnoonetriestoremovehisanklet.

Rosina'sforeheadisaballofchocolate.Herbraidedhairmarchesbackinneatrows,thenfliesoutinafringethatreacheshershoulders.Sheisabouncing,rocking,andhummingbeing.HertwirlsandturnsarefasterthanGhosh's.Frommydizzyperch,herpleateddressmakesgorgeousflorets,andherpinkplasticshoesflashinandoutofsight.

Rosina talks nonstop. We are silent, speechless, but full of thoughts, impressions, all of themunspoken.Rosina'sAmharicmakesAlmazandGebrewlaughbecauseherguttural,throat-clearingsyllablesdon't really exist inAmharic. It neverdissuadesher.Sometimes shebreaks into Italian,particularlywhensheisbeingforceful,strugglingtomakeapoint.Italinyacomeseasilytoher,andstrangely its meaning is clear, even though no one else speaks it, such is the nature of thatlanguage.Whenshespeakstoherself,orsings,itisinherEritreantongue—Tigrinya—andthenhervoiceisunlocked,thewordspouringout.

Almaz,whoonceservedGhoshinhisquarters,isnowthecookinhisandHema'sjointhousehold.Shestandsrootedlikeabaobabtoherspotinfrontofthestove,agiantesscomparedwithRosina,andnotgiventosoundotherthandeepsonoroussighs,oranoccasional“Ewunuth!”—“Youdon'tsay!”—to keep Rosina or Gebrew's chatter going, not that either of them needs encouragement.Almaz is fairer than Rosina, and her hair is contained by a gauzy orange shash that forms aPhrygianhelmet.WhileRosina'steethshinelikeheadlights,Almazrarelyshowshers.

BYMIDMORNING,whenwereturnfromourfirstBungalow–to–Casualty–to–Women'sWard–to–FrontGateexcursion,withKoochoo-looasourbodyguard,thekitchenisalive.SteamrisesinplumesasAlmazclangs lids on and off the pots. The silver weight on the pressure cooker jiggles and whistles.Almaz'ssurehandschoponions,tomatoes,andfreshcoriander,makinghillocksthatdwarfthetinymounds of ginger and garlic. She keeps a palette of spices nearby: curry leaves, turmeric, drycoriander, cloves, cinnamon,mustard seed, chili powder, all in tiny stainless-steel bowlswithin alargemotherplatter.Amadalchemist,shethrowsapinchofthis,afistfulofthat,thenwetsherfingersandflingsthatmoistureintothemortar.Shepoundswiththepestle,thewet,crunchythunk,thunksoonchangestothesoundofstoneonstone.

Mustardseedsexplodeinthehotoil.Sheholdsalidoverthepantofendofthemissiles.Rat-a-tat!likehailonatinroof.Sheaddsthecuminseeds,whichsizzle,darken,andcrackle.Adry,fragrantsmokechasesoutthemustardscent.Onlythenaretheonionsadded,handfulsofthem,andnowthesoundisthatoflifebeingspawnedinaprimordialfire.

ROSINAABRUPTLYHANDSMETOAlmazandhurriesoutthebackdoor,herlegscrossinglikescissorblades.Wedon'tknowthis,butRosinaiscarryingtheseedofrevolution.Sheispregnantwithababygirl:Genet.Thethreeofus—Shiva,Genet,andme—aretogetherfromthestart,sheinuterowhileShivaandInegotiatetheworldoutside.ThehandofftoAlmazisunexpected.

IwhimperonAlmaz'sshoulder,perilouslyclosetothebubblingcauldrons.

Almazputsdownthestirringladleandshiftsmetoherhip.Reachingintoherblouse,gruntingwitheffort,shefishesoutherbreast.

“Hereitis,”shesays,puttingitinmyhandsforsafekeeping.

Iamtherecipientofmanygifts,butthisisthefirstoneIremember.Eachtimeitisgiventomeitisasurprise.Whenitistakenaway,theslateiswipedclean.Buthereitis,warmandalive,easedoutofitsclothbed,bestowedonmelikeamedalIdon'tdeserve.Almaz,whohardlyspeaks,resumesstirring,hummingatune.Itisasifthebreastnomorebelongstoherthandoesherladle.

Shivainthepramputsdownhiswoodentruck,whichhissalivahasdigestedtoasoggypulp.Itis,unlikehisanklet,separablefromhimifneedbe.Inthepresenceofthatmagnificentone-eyedteat,Shivaletsthetruckfalltothefloor.ThoughIhavepossessionofthebreast,strokingit,palpatingit,Iamalsohisamanuensis.

AraptShivaspursmeonandsendssilentinstructions:Throwittome.AndwhenIcannot,hesays,Openitandseewhatisinside.That,too,isimpossible.Imoldit,indentit,andwatchitrebound.

Put it to yourmouth, Shiva says because this is the firstmeans bywhich he knows theworld. Idismissthisideaasabsurd.

ThebreastiseverythingAlmazisnot:laughing,vibrant,anoutgoingmemberofourhousehold.

WhenItrytolift it,toexamineit,thatteatdwarfsmyhandsandspillsoutbetweenmyfingers.Iwishtoconfirmhowallitssurfacessweepuptothesummit,thedarkpapthroughwhichitbreathesand sees theworld. The breast comes down tomy knees. Or perhaps it comes down to Almaz'sknees. I can't be sure. It quivers like jelly. Steam condenses on its surface, dulling its sheen. ItcarriesthescentofcrushedgingerandcuminpowderfromAlmaz'sfingers.Yearslater,whenIfirstkissawoman'sbreast,Ibecomeravenous.

AflashoflightandablastofcrispairannounceRosina'sreturn.Iambackinherarms,removedfromthebreastwhichvanishesasmysteriouslyasithasappeared,swallowedbyAlmaz'sblouse.

INTHELATEMORNING,thechilllonggoneandthemistburnedaway,weplayonthelawntillourcheeksarered.Rosinafeedsus.Hungeranddrowsinessblendtogetherperfectly likethericeandcurry,yogurtandbananas,inourbelly.Itisanageofperfection,ofsimpleappetites.

After lunch, Shiva and I fall asleep, arms around each other, breath on each other's face, headstouching.Inthatfuguestatebetweenwake-fulnessanddreaming,thesongIhearisnotRosina's.Itis“Tizita,”whichAlmazsangwhenIheldherbreast.

IWILLHEARTHATSONGthroughallmyyearsinEthiopia.WhenIleaveAddisAbabaasayoungman,Iwillcarryitwithmeonacassettethathas“Tizita”alongwith“Aqualung.”Departureorimminentdeathwill forceyoutodefineyourtruetastes.Duringmyyearsofexile,asthebatteredcassettewearsout,I'llmeetEthiopiansabroad.Mywordofgreetinginoursharedlanguageisaspark,alinktoacommunity a network: the phonenumber ofWoizero (Mrs.)Menenwho, for amodest fee, cooksinjeraandwotandservesyouinherhouseifyoucallherthedaybefore;thetaxidriverAto(Mr.)Girma,whosecousinworks forEthiopianAirlinesandbrings inkibe—Ethiopianbutter—becausewithoutbutter fromcows that liveataltitudeandgrazeonhighpastures,yourwotwill tasteofKrogerorFoodMartorLandO'Lakes.ForMeskelcelebrations,ifyouwantasheepslaughteredinBrooklyn,callYohannes,andinBostontrytheQueenofSheba's.Inmyyearsawayfrommybirthland, living in America, I will see how Ethiopians are invisible to others, yet so visible to me.ThroughthemIwilleasilyfindotherrecordingsof“Tizita.”

Theyareeager toshare, to thrust that song inmyhands,as ifonly “Tizita”explains thestrangeinertia that overcomes them; it explains how they were brilliant at home, the Jackson 5, theTemptations,and“Tizita”ontheir lips,aperfectAfroontheirheads,bell-bottomsswishingaboveDouble-O-Sevenboots,andthenthefirstfootholdinAmerica—behindthecounterofa7-Eleven,or

breathingcarbonmonoxidefumesinaKinneyundergroundparkinglot,orbehindthecounterofanairportnewsstandorMarriottgiftshop—hasturnedouttobeacementfootplant,ahaventhattheyarefearfulofleavinglesttheysufferafateworsethaninvisibilitynamelyextinction.

GetachewKassa's slowversion of “Tizita,” a bright but haunting, sober lament on abackdropofminor-chord arpeggios, is the best known. He has another version, with a fast Latin rhythm.MahmoudAhmed,AsterAweke,TeddyAfro…everyEthiopianartistrecordsa“Tizita.”TheyrecorditinAddisAbaba,butalsoinexileinKhartoum(yes,Khartoum!whichprovesthatevenhellhasarecordingstudio)andofcourseinRome,Washington,D.C.,Atlanta,Dallas,Boston,andNewYork.“Tizita” is theheart'santhem, the lamentof thediaspora, reverberatingupanddownEighteenthStreet in theAdamsMorgansectionofWashington,D.C.,where itpoursout fromFasika's,AddisAbaba, Meskerem, Red Sea, and other Ethiopian eateries, drowning out the salsa or the ragasemanatingfromElRinconandQueenofIndia.

There is a fast “Tizita,” a slow “Tizita,” an instrumental “Tizita” (which the Ashantis made sopopular),ashortandalong“Tizita”…thereareasmanyversionsastherearerecordingartists.

Thatfirstline…Ihearitnow.

Tizitashzeweterwodeeneeyemetah.Ican'thelpthinkingaboutyou.

CHAPTER18SinsoftheFather

INOURHOUSEHOLD,youhadtodiveintothedinandpushtothefrontifyouwantedtobeheard.ThefoghornvoicewasGhosh's,echoingandtailingoffintolaughter.Hemawasthesongbird,butwhenprovoked her voicewas as sharp as Saladin's scimitar,which, according tomyRichard the LionHeartedand theCrusades, coulddivide a silk scarf allowed to float downonto theblade's edge.Almaz, our cook,mayhavebeen silent on theoutside, buther lipsmoved constantly,whether inprayerorsong,nooneknew.Rosinatooksilenceasapersonaloffense,andspokeintoemptyroomsandchatteredintocupboards.Genet,almostsixyearsofage,wasshowingsignsoftakingafterhermother,tellingherselfstoriesaboutherselfinasingsongvoice,creatingherownmythology.

Had ShivaMarion been delivered vaginally (impossible, given how our heads were connected),Shiva,presentingskullfirst,wouldhavebeenthefirstborn,theoldertwin.ButwhentheCesareansectionreversedthenaturalbirthorder,Ibecamethefirsttobreathe—seniorbyafewseconds.IalsobecamespokespersonforShivaMarion.

Trailing after Hema and Ghosh in the Piazza, or threading between gharries and lorries intoMotilal'sGarments in the crowdedMerkato ofAddisAbaba, I never heardHema say, “That blueshirtwilllooksogoodonShiva,”or“ThosesandalsareperfectforMarion.”ThearrivalofDr.GhoshandDr.Hemameantchairsweredraggedoutanddusted,andaboysentrunning toreturnwithwarm Fanta or Coca-Cola and biscuits, despite all protests. Tapemeasures sized us, our cheekswerepinchedbyroughhands,andasmallcrowdgatheredtogawk,asifShivaMarionwasalioninthe cages atSidistKilo. Theupshot of all thiswouldbe thatHemaandGhoshpurchased twoofwhatever piece of clothing itwas they feltwe needed.Ditto for cricket bats, fountain pens, andbicycles.Whenpeople sawus and said, “Look!Howsweet,” did they really imagine thatwehadpickedthematchingoutfitsourselves?I'lladmit,theonetimeItriedtodressdifferentlyfromShiva,Ifeltuneasyaswestoodbeforethemirror.Itwasasifmyflywereundone—itjustdidn'tfeelright.

We—”TheTwins”—were famousnot just for dressing alike but for sprinting around at breakneckspeed,butalways instep,a four-leggedbeing thatknewonlyoneway toget fromA toB.WhenShivaMarionwasforcedtowalk,itwaswitharmslockedaroundeachother'sshoulders,notreallyawalkbutatrot,championsofthethree-leggedracebeforeweknewtherewassuchathing.Seated,we shareda chair, seeingno sense in occupying two.Weevenused the loo together, directingadouble jet into the porcelain void. Looking back, you could say we had some responsibility forpeopledealingwithusasacollective.

AskTheTwinstocomeinsidefordinner.

Boys,isn'tittimeforyourbath?

ShivaMarion,doyouwantspaghettiorinjeraandwottonight?

“You”or“Your”nevermeantoneofus.Whenwerepliedtoaquestion,noonecaredwhichofushadspoken;ananswerfromonewasananswerforTheTwins.

Perhaps the adults believed that Shiva,mybusy, industrious brother,was naturally parsimoniouswithhiswords. If the soundof theankletwhichhe insistedonwearing countedas speech, thenShivawasaterriblechatterbox,onlysilentwhenhemuffledthetinybellsunderhissockforschool.PerhapstheadultsbelievedInevergaveShivamuchofachancetospeak(whichwastrue),butnoonewantedtotellmetoshutup.Inanycase,inthehullabalooofourbungalow,wherethebridgecrowd congregated twice a week, where a 78 rpm spun on the Grundig, and where Ghosh'slumbering tread rattled the dishes as he struggled to learn the rumba and the cha-cha-cha, twoyearswentbybeforetheadultsfullyregisteredthatShivahadstoppedspeaking.

WHENWEWEREINFANTS,Shivawasconsideredthemoredelicate:itwashisskullthatStoneattemptedtocrushbeforeHemasavedus.ButthenShivahitallhisdevelopmentalmilestonesontime,liftinghisheadwhenIdidandcrawlingwhenitwastimetocrawl.Hesaid“Amma”and“Ghosh”oncue,andwebothdecided towalkwhenwewere amonth shy of one year of age.HemaandGhoshwerereassured.AccordingtoHema,weforgothowtowalkwithina fewdaysof takingour firststeps,becausewehaddiscoveredhowtorun.Shivaspokeasmuchasheneededtowell intohisfourthyear,butaboutthattimehebegantoquietlyhoardhiswords.

Ihastentosay,Shivalaughedorcriedattheappropriatetimes;heoftenactedasifhewereabouttosaysomethingjustwhenIpipedin;hepunctuatedmywordswithexclamationsfromhisanklet

andhesangla-la-lalustilywithmeinthebath.Butwhenitcametoactualwords—hehadnoneedforthem.Hereadfluently,butrefusedtodosoaloud.Hecouldaddandsubtractbignumbersataglance,scribblingouttheanswerwhileIwasstillcarryingtheoneoverandcountingfingers.Hewasconstantlyjottingnotestohimself,ortoothers,leavingthesearoundlikedroppings.Hedrewbeautifully,butintheoddestplaces,likeoncardboardcartonsorthebackofpaperbags.Whatheloved todrawbestat that stagewasVeronica.Wehadan issueofArchiecomics in thehouse—IboughtitfromPapadakis'sbookstore;thethreeframesonpagesixteenhadtodowithVeronicaandBetty.Shivacouldreproducethatpage,completewithballoons,lettering,andcrosshatchshading.It was as if he had a photograph stored in his head and could spill it onto paper whenever hewanted.Heleftnothingout,noteventhepagenumber,orthestainoftheflythathadmetitsdeathonthemarginoftheoriginal.InoticedthathealwaysaccentuatedthecurvedlineunderVeronica'sbreast,particularlywhencomparedwithBetty's. Ichecked thesource,andsureenough, the linewasthere,butShiva'swasthicker,darker.Sometimesheimprovisedanddepartedfromtheoriginalimage,renderingthebreastsaspointedmissilesabouttolaunch,orelseaspendulousballoonsthathoveredoverthekneecaps.

GenetandIcovered forShiva'ssilence. Idid itunconsciously; if Iwas talkative toexcess, itwasbecause I saw this as the necessary output for ShivaMarion. Of course, Ihad no problemcommunicatingwithShiva.Intheearlymorning,theshakeofhisanklet—ching-ding—said,Marion,are you awake?Dish-chingwasTime to get up. Rubbing his skull onmine said,Rise and shine,sleepyhead.Alloneofushadtodowasthinkofanactionandtheoddsweretheotherwouldrisetocarryitout.

ItwasMrs.GarrettyatschoolwhomadethediscoveryaboutShiva'shavinggivenupspeech.TheLoomis Town & Country School catered to the merchants, diplomats, military advisers, doctors,teachers, representatives of the Economic Commission for Africa, WHO, UNESCO, Red Cross,UNICEF, andespecially thenewly formingOAU—theOrganizationofAfricanUnity. TheEmperorhadofferedthegiftofAfricaHall,astunningbuilding, to the fledgingOAU,acunningmovethatwouldbringtheorganization'sheadquarterstoAddisAbabaandalreadywasboostingbusinessforeveryonefromthebargirlstotheFiat,Peugeot,andMercedesimporters.TheOAUkidscouldhavegone to the Lycée Gebremariam, an imposing building that loomed over the steepest part ofChurchill Road. But the envoys from the Francophone countries—Mali, Guinea, Cameroon, IvoryCoast, Senegal,Mauritius, andMadagascar—had an eye to the future, and so the carswith theCorps Diplomatiques plates carried les enfants past the lycée to Loomis Town & Country. Forcompleteness, I must mention St. Joseph's, where, according to Matron, the Jesuits, those footsoldiersofChrist,believedinGodandtheRod.ButSt.Joseph'swasboysonly,whichruleditoutforusbecauseofGenet.

Whynottherough-and-tumbleofthegovernmentschools?Ifwe'dgonetherewemighthavebeentheonlynon-nativechildren,andwewouldhavebeeninaminorityofkidswithmorethanonepairof shoes and a home with running water and indoor plumbing. Hema and Ghosh felt their onlychoicewastosendustoLoomisTown&Country,whichwasrunbyBritishexpats.

Our teachersatLT&Chad theirA levelsand theodd teachingcertificate. It isastonishinghowablackcreperobewornoveracoatorablousegivesaCockneypunteroraCoventGardenflowergirlthegravitasofanOxforddon.AccentbedamnedinAfrica,aslongasit'sforeignandyouhavetherightskincolor.

Ritual. Thatwas thebalm to soothe theparents’ disquiet aboutwhat theyweregetting for theirmoneyatLT&C.Gymkhana,TrackandFieldDay,theSchoolCarnival,theChristmasPageant,theSchoolPlay,GuyFawkesNight,Founder'sDay,andGraduation—wecarriedsomanymimeographednoticeshomethat theymadeHema'sheadspin.WewereassignedtoMondayHouse,orTuesdayHouse,orWednesdayHouse,eachwith itscolors, teams,andhousemasters.OnTrackandFieldDaywecompeted for thegloryofourhouseandfor theLoomisCup.Everymorning inAssemblyHall,Mr.LoomisledusinAssemblyPrayer,thenareadingfromtheRevisedStandardVersion,andthenwebeltedout thehymn from thebluehymnalwhileone teacheroranotherbangedout thechordsontheassemblypiano.

IamconvincedthatonecanbuyinHarrodsofLondonakitthatallowsanenterprisingEnglishmantocreateaBritishschoolanywhereinthethirdworld.Itcomeswithblackrobes,preprintedreportcardsforMichaelmas,Lent,andEasterterms,aswellashymnals,PrefectBadges,andasyllabus.Assemblyrequired.

Unfortunately,theLT&Cstudents’passratesfortheGeneralCertificateofEducationOlevelswereterrible when compared with the free government schools. There the Indian teachers were alldegreeholderswhomtheEmperorhiredfromtheChristianstateofKerala,theplaceSisterMaryJoseph Praise hailed from. Ask an Ethiopian abroad if perchance they learned mathematics or

physics froma teachernamedKurien,KoshyThomas,George,Varugese,Ninan,Mathews, Jacob,Judas,ChandyEapen,Pathros,orPaulos,andtheoddsaretheireyeswilllightup.Theseteacherswere brought up in the Orthodox ritual which St. Thomas carried to south India. But in theirprofessional roles, theonly ritual theycaredaboutwasengraving themultiplicationandperiodictablesaswellasNewton'slawsintothebrainsoftheirEthiopianpupils,whowereuniformlysmartandwhohadagreataptitudeforarithmetic.

Myclass teacher,Mrs.GarrettycalledHemaandGhoshat theendofadaywhen I stayedhomefromschoolwithafever.SheknewusastheadorableStonetwins,thosedarling,dark-haired,light-eyedboyswhodressedalike,whohappilysang,ran,drew,jumped,clapped,andchatteredtoexcessinherclass.ThedayIstayedhome,Shivaran,drew,jumped,andclappedbutneverutteredawordand,whencalledon,wouldnotorcouldnot.

HemawentfromdisbelievingtoblamingMrs.Garretty.Thensheblamedherself.Shecanceledthedancing lessons at Juventus Club, just when Ghosh had mastered the fox-trot and couldcircumnavigate a room. The turntable got its first rest in years. The bridge regulars shifted toGhosh'soldbungalow,whichhehadbeenusingasanofficeandclinicforprivatepatients.

HemacheckedoutKipling,Ruskin,C.S.Lewis,EdgarAllanPoe,R.KNarayan,andmanyothersfromtheBritishCounciland theUnitedStates InformationService libraries. In theevenings, thetwo of them took turns reading to us in the belief that great literature would stimulate andeventuallyproducespeechinShiva.Inthosepretelevisiondays,itwasentertaining,exceptforC.S.Lewis, whose magical cupboards I didn't buy, and Ruskin, who neither Ghosh nor Hema couldunderstandorreadfor long.Buttheypersisted,hopingthatatthevery leastShivamightyell forthemtostop,thewayIdid.Theykeptonevenafterwe'dfallensleep,becauseHemabelievedonecould prime the subconscious. If they had worried over Shiva's survival after birth, now theyworriedoverlingeringeffectsoftheantiquatedobstetricinstrumentsthathadbeenappliedtohishead.Therewasnothingtheywouldnottrytobringaboutspeech.Shivaremainedsilent.

ONEDAY,soonafterweturnedeight,wegothomefromschooltofindHemahadablackboardinstalledinthediningroom.Shestoodthere,chalkattheready,copiesofBickham'sPenmanshipMadeEasy(YoungClerksAssistant)ateachofourplaces,andamaniacalgleam inhereyes.OntopofeachbookwasashinynewPelikanpen, thePelicano,everyschoolkid'sdream,alongwithcartridges—suchanovelty.

A timewould comewhen Iwould be glad to be knownas a surgeonwith goodhandwriting.Mynotesinthechartperhapsgavesomeintimationofsimilarskillswithaknife(thoughIwillsayitisnotarule,andtheconverseisn'ttrue:chicken-scratchscribblesaren'tasignofpoortechniqueinthetheater).OnedayIwouldgrudginglythankHemaformakinguscopyintheroundandornatestyles:

Shivawas already fingering his Pelicano. Genet said nothing. Her position in thesematters wasdelicate.

I stood firm. I didn't trustHema'smotivation: guilt leads to righteous action, but rarely is it theright action. Besides, I had planned a special parade ofmyDinky Toys in aweaving path I hadcarvedoutonalowembankmentnexttothehouse.Hertimingwasterrible.

“Whycan'twegooutandplay?Idon'twanttodothis,”Isaid.

Hema's mouth tightened. She seemed to be considering not what I said, but my person, myobstinacy.Subconsciously,atleast,sheblamedmeforShiva.ShesawmeandevenGenetashavingcamouflagedhissilenceinablanketofchatter.

“Speakforyourself,Marion,”shesaid.

“Idid.Whycan'twe—I—goplay?”

Shivaalreadyhadhiscartridgeloaded.

“Why?I'lltellyouwhy.BecauseyourschoolisnothingbutplayIhavetoseetoyourrealstudies.Now,sitdown,Marion!”

Genetquietlytookherseat.

“No,”Isaid.“Thisisn'tfair.Besides,itwon'thelpShiva.”

“Marion,beforeItwistyourear—”

“Hewontspeaktillheisready!”Ishouted.

Withthat,Idashedout.Iflewaroundonethecornerofthehouse,gatheringspeedontheturn.Atthesecondcorner,IranstraightintoZemui'sbroadchest.MyfirstthoughtwasHemahadsentthemilitarytogetme.

“Cousin,whereisthewar?”Zemuisaid,smiling,peelingmefree.Hisoliveuniformwasascrispasever,thebelt,holster,andbootsallbrownandgleaming.Asareflex,hestompedhisrightfootandsnappedasalutewithenoughvigorforhisfingerstosailoff.

Sergeant Zemuiwas the driver to amanwhowas now full colonel in the Imperial Bodyguard—ColonelMebratu.Ghoshhadsavedhislifeinsurgeryyearsbefore.ColonelMebratuwasonceundersuspicion,butnowhewasintheEmperor'sfavor.HewasbothseniorcommanderoftheImperialBodyguard and liaison to themilitary attachés fromBrit ain, India, Belgium, andAmerica, all ofwhomhadapresence inEthiopia.TheColonel's job involved frequentdiplomatic receptionsandparties,nottomentiontheregularbridgenightsatourplace.PoorZemuicouldonlybeginhislongwalkhometohiswifeandchildrenwhenhisboss'sheadwasonthepillowandthestaffcarparkedintheshed.TheColonelhadassignedZemuiamotorcycletomakeiteasierforhimtogetbackandforth. SinceZemui,who lived nearMissing, didn'twant to ruin his tires on the crude stone andshingletrackthat ledtohisshack,hegotGhosh'spermissiontoparkthebikeunderourcarport.Therehispreciousmachinewasshelteredfromtheelementsandfromvandals.

“JustthepersonIwashopingtosee,”Zemuisaid.“What'sthematter,mylittlemaster?”

“Nothing,”Isaid,suddenlyembarrassed.Mytroublesseemedminorwhentalkingtoasoldierwho'djustdonehistourwiththeUNpeacekeepingforcesinthecivilwarintheCongo.“Howcomeyou'repickingupyourmotorcyclesolate?”Iasked.

“Thebosswasatapartytillfourinthemorning.WhenIgothimhome,thesunwascomingup.HetoldmeIcouldcomebackintheevening.Listen,come,sitdown.Iwantyoutoreadmethisletteragain.”Heparkedhimselfontheedgeofthefrontporch,tooktheblue-and-redaerogramfromhisfrontpocket, andhanded it tome.He tookoffhispithhelmet toextractahalf-smokedcigarettetucked carefully under one of the straps on the outside. The pith topee, in themanner ofwhiteexplorersofold,wasuniquetotheImperialBodyguard,recognizableatadistance.

“Zemui,”Isaid,“canIreaditlater?Hemaisafterme.Italkedbacktoher.She'llcutoffmytongueifshecatchesme.”

“Oh,that'sserious.Ofcoursewecandoitlater,”Zemuisaid,springingup.Heputtheletteraway,butIcouldsensehisdisappointment.“DoyouthinkDarwingotmyletterbynow?”

“Iamsurehisletteriscoming.Anyday.”

Hesalutedmeandwentontothebackofthehouse.

Darwinwas aCanadian soldierwho'd beenwounded in Katanga; I'd read his letter to Zemui sooftenIknewitbyheart.HesaiditwascoldandsnowinginToronto.Attimeshewasdiscouragedandhedidn'tknowifhecouldevergetusedtoawoodenleg.“AretherewomeninEytopiaintrustedinaone-legwhitemanwithascardface?Ha-ha!”Hedidnothavemuch,butifhispalZemuieverneededanything,he,Darwin,woulddo itbecausehe'dnever forgethowZemuisavedhis life. I'dwritten back in English for Zemui, translating as best I could. I wondered how the two hadconversedintheCongo.Zemuishowedmeapinwheelgoldpendantwhichheworearoundhisneck,a St. Bridget's cross. The wounded Darwin had pressed it on Zemui when they parted on thebattlefield.

ThesightofRosina,peeringbackatmeasZemuiwalkedtowardher,mademestartrunningagain.Ifeltavacuumwheremybrothershouldhavebeenrunningnexttome.

MYMOTHER'SGRAVE,withitshalooffreshcutapothecarybloomsanditsinscriptionofσAFEinAPMσOFJEσUσheldnofascinationforme.ButintheautoclaveroomnexttoOperatingTheater3,Isensedher presence, a scent, a feel so linked tomine. That was wheremy feet tookme. It wasn't thesmartestchoiceasaplacetohide.

IneverunderstoodShiva'sreluctancetovisitthisroom.PerhapshesawitasabetrayalofHema,whohadwatchedoverhiseverybreath,whohadlinkedherselfbyacordtohisanklet.ComingherewasoneofthefewthingsIdidalone.

Seatedinmymother'schair,thescentofCuticurainthecardigan,Ispoketoher,orperhapsIspoketomyself.Icomplainedaboutinjusticeathome;Iconfessedmyworstfear:thatHemaandGhoshmightonedaydisappear,justasStoneandSisterwerenolongerinourlives.ItwasonereasonIloitered around Missing's front gate—who was to say Thomas Stone might not come back? Myfantasy was that on a sunny morning when the air was so crisp that you could hear it crackle,GebrewwouldopenMissing'sgates,andinsteadofthestampedeofpatients,ThomasStonewouldbestandingthere.ThefactthatIhadnoideawhathelookedlike,orwhatmymotherlookedlike,

wasinconsequentialtothisfantasy.Hiseyeswouldfallonme.Afterafewsecondshewouldsmilewithpride.

Ineededtobelievethat.

IRETURNEDTOOURBUNGALOWtofacethemusic.Therewasmusic,allright,andthesightofHemaleadingGenet andShiva in dance. All three of themwore dance anklets, not Shiva's usual kind, but bigleather thongswith fourconcentricringsofbrassbells.Theyhadmovedthedining tableagainstthewall.Indianclassicalmusicwithasnappytablabeatmarkedtime.Hemahadtuckedhersarisothatoneloopranbetweenherlegs,creatingwhatlookedlikepantaloons.She'dtaughtShivaandGenet a complex series of steps and poses in the time I'd been out. Arms in, arms out, armstogether,pointing,dipping,drawingabow,firinganimaginaryarrow,theeyeslookingthiswayandthat,thefeetsliding,acymbalclashofankletseverytimetheirheelsthumpedthefloor.Ithurtmetoseethis.

Shiva,Genet,and Ihadentered theworldalmost inunison. (Genetwasahalf stepbehindandawomb across from us, but she'd caught up.) As toddlers, we had freely traded milk bottles andpacifiers,muchtoHema'sdismay.Shiva'spropensitytojumpintobuckets,puddles,orditchesfullof water terrified the adults, who feared he'd drown. To keep him from deeper water, Matronpurchaseda JollyBabywadingpool.Here the threeofus splashednakedandposed forpicturesthatwouldembarrassusoneday.Ourfirstcircus,ourfirstmatinee,ourfirstdeadbody—wearrivedatthesemilestonestogether.Inourtreehouse,we'dpickedatscabsuntilwefoundred,andthenwetookabloodoaththatweThreeMissketeerswouldstandtogetherandadmitnoother.

Now,we'darrivedatanotherfirst:aseparation.Istoodoutside,lookingin.Hemabeckonedmetojoin.Shewasnolongerangry.Herforeheadglintedwithperspiration,strandsofhairstucktohercheeks. If she planned to punish me, perhaps she saw in my expression that it had alreadyhappened.

Genet,withananklet,lookedmorefeminine,morelikeagirlthanthetomboyIknew.Inevergavemuch thought to that sort of thing. In the gameswe played, shewas like any boy. Now, as shedanced,shewasastepoff, struggling;despite thatshewasgraceful,extraordinarilyso,as if theanklet had unlocked this quality in her. Even when she missed her cue, or bungled the turn,suddenlyshewas—andIcouldn'thelpbutnotice—allgirl.

Mytwinhadnomiscues.Hedlearnedthedanceinaflash,Icouldsee.Hehadawayofholdinghischinhighasiffearfulthatotherwisethecurlshebalancedonhisheadwouldslideoff,anditmadehimseemtaller,moreuprightthanme.Thatmannerismofhiswasexaggeratedinthedance.WhenShivawasexcited,hisirisesturnedfrombrowntoblue,andtheywerethatwaynowashisheelshitthefloorinunisonwithHema's,andhematchedhereverydipandflourish.Itwasasifhisankletmovedhim,andthat incopyingthesoundofHema'sanklets, therequisitemovementofhisbodycameabout.Istudiedthislean,supplecreatureasifseeinghimforthefirsttime.

My brotherwho could draw anything frommemory,who could juggle huge numbers in his headwithease,hadnowfoundanewvehicleforlocomotionandanewlanguageforhiswilltoexpressitself, separate from me. I didn't want to join in. I was certain that I would look clumsy. I feltenvious,almostasifIwereahandicappedchild,unableratherthanunwillingtoparticipate.

“Traitor,”IsaidtoShiva,undermybreath.

Butheheardme;therewasnothingwrongwithhisearsandhe'dhaveknownwhatIsaidevenifIhadsaiditonlytomyself.

Mytwinbrother,myskullmate,thislittledancinggodskatedaway,avertinghiseyes.

CHAPTER19GivingDogsTheirDue

THEWEEKBEFOREShivagaveuphisanklet,wewerealldrivingintotownwhenamotorcycle,sirenwailing,wenttearingby,wavingusoffthestreet.

“Allright,allright,”Ghoshsaid,pullingtotheside.“HisImperialMajesty,HaileSelassietheFirst,LionofJudah,needstheroad.”

WepiledoutontoMenelikIIAvenue.DownthehillwasAfricaHall,whichlookedlikeawatercolorboxstandingonitsside.Itspastelpanelsweremeanttomimicthecolorfulhemsofthetraditionalshama. Outside the new headquarters for the Organization for African Unity the flag of everycountryonthecontinenthaditsspot.ThebuildinginitsshortexistencehadalreadybeengracedbythelikesofNasser,Nkrumah,Obote,andTubman.

TheEmperor'sJubileePalacewasontheothersideoftheavenue.IcouldseethemountedImperialBodyguardsentries,oneoneachsideofthepalacegate.TheEmperor'sresidencerosebehindthelavishgardenslikeapalehallucinationofBuckinghamPalace.Atnight,thefloodlitbuildingglowedivory.Sinceitwasthattimeofyear,oneofthepinesinthecompoundwasstrungwithlightsandbecameagiantChristmastree.

Pedestrians,gharries,cars—everythingcametoastop.Abarefootmanwithmilkyeyestookoffhistattered hat to reveal a ring of curly gray hairs. Three women in the black cloth of mourning,umbrellasovertheirheads,alsowaitednexttous.Theyweresweatingfromtheeffortofwalkinguphill.Oneof these ladiessaton thecurb.Sheeasedoffherplastic shoe.Twoyoungmenstoodbackfromthecurb,lookingdispleasedathavingtointerrupttheirwalk.

Theseatedwomansaid,“MaybeHisHighnesswillgiveusalift.Tellhimwecan'taffordthebus.Myfeetarekillingme.”

Theoldmanglared,hislipsmovingasifworkingupthespittletochastiseherforsuchblasphemy.

Now a green Volkswagen with a siren and loudspeaker on top sped by. I never thought aVolkswagencouldgothatfast.

“IbetyouHisMajestyisinthenewLincoln,”IsaidtoGhosh.

“Theoddsareagainstyou.”

It was 1963, the year Kennedy was assassinated. According to a schoolmate whose father was amemberofParliament,theLincolnwasPresidentKennedy'susedcar,butnottheoneinwhichhedbeen shot. This one was covered and was spectacular, not for its curves but for its impossiblelength.AjokehadcirculatedintownthatfortheEmperortogetfromtheOldPalaceontopofthehill,whereheconductedhisofficialbusiness,downtotheJubileePalace,allhehadtodowasclimbintothebackseatandcomeoutofthefront.

Of the twenty-six cars atHisMajesty's disposal, twentywereRolls-Royces.OnewasaChristmaspresentfromtheQueenofEngland.Itriedtoimaginewhatelsewasunderamonarch'sChristmastree.

A LAND ROVER PASSED BY—Imperial Bodyguard, not police— moving slowly, its tailgate open, men withmachinegunsacrosstheir thighs lookingout.Weheardarumblethatsounded likewardrums;aphalanxofeightmotorcyclesemergedoutoftheether,twoabreast,theairshimmeringaroundtheengine's fins.Thesunglintedoffchromeheadlightsandcrashbars.Despitetheirblackuniforms,whitehelmets,andgloves,theridersremindedmeofthewide-eyed,monkey-manedwarriorswhocameoutofthehillsonhorsebackontheanniversaryofMussolini'sfall,lookingmeanandhungrytokillagain.

ThegroundshookastheDucatisslidpast,hugereservesofhorsepowerreadytobeunleashedwithaturnofthewrist.

HisMajesty'sgreenRolls-Roycewaspolishedtoamirrorlikefinish.Onabuilt-upseat,HisMajestylookedoutofwindowsspeciallyconstructedformonarchstoviewandbeviewed.Inthewakeofthemotorcycleshiscarwasallbutsilentsaveforafaintwheezefromthevalves.

Ghoshmuttered,“Forthepriceofthat,wecouldfeedeverychildintheempireforamonth.”

Theoldmannexttouswasonhisknees,andthenastheRollsreachedushekissedtheasphalt.

IsawtheEmperorclearasday,his littledogLuluonhis lap.TheEmperor lookeddirectlyatus,smilingaswebowed.Hebroughtthepalmsofhishandstogether.Thenhewaspast.

“Didyouseethat?”Hemasaid,excited.“Didyouseetheñamaste?”

“Inhonorofyou,”Ghoshsaid.“Heknowswhoyouare.”

“Don'tbesilly.Itwasthesari.Still,howsweet!”

“Isthatallittakestoswayyou?Oneñamaste?”

“Stopit,Ghosh.Idon'tgetinvolvedinpolitics.Iliketheoldman.”

The Rolls turned toward the palace gate. The motorcyclists and the Land Rover pulled up justbeyondthegate.Thetwoguardsonhorseback,resplendentintheirgreentrousers,whitejackets,andwhitepithhelmets,presentedarms.

Alonepolicemanheldbacktheusualclusterofpetitionerswhowaitedononesideofthegate.AnoldwomanwavingherpapermusthavecaughttheEmperor'seye.TheRollsstopped.Icouldseethe little Chihuahua, its paws on the window and its head snapping back and forth: Lulu wasbarking.Theoldwoman,bowing,thrustherpapertothewindowwithbothhands.

She seemed to be speaking. The Emperorwas evidently listening. The oldwoman becamemoreanimated,gesturingwithherhands,herbodyrocking,andnowwecouldhearherclearly.

The carmoved on, but the old ladywasn't done. She tried to runwith the Rolls, fingers on thewindow.Whenshecouldn'tkeepup,sheyelled,“Leba,leba”—”Thief,thief.”Shelookedaroundforastone,findingnone,tookoffhershoeandbounceditoffthetrunkbeforeanyonecouldreact.

Isawonlytheriseofthepoliceman'sclubandthenshewasslumpedontheground,likeasack.Thepalacegatesswungshut.Themotorcycleridersranforwardandbeganclubbinganyonenearthegate,ignoringtheirshrieks.Theoldwoman,motionless,neverthelessgotaviciouskicktoherribs.Themountedsentriesstaredstraightahead,theirmountsdisciplinedandstill,onlythehorses’skintwitching.

Westoodstunned.Thetwoyoungmenbehindussnickered,andwalkedquicklyaway.

Thewomannexttous,herhandsonherhead,said,“Howcouldtheydothattoagrandmother?”Theoldman,hatinhand,saidnothing,butIcouldseehewasshaken.

Aswe drove away, I saw themotorcycle riders had turned on the policeman, giving him a goodthrashing.Hismistakewasnot clubbing the oldwomandownbefore she openedhermouth andembarrassedthemall.

THESEMANYYEARSLATER,eventhoughIhavewitnessedsomuchviolence,thatimageremainsvivid.Theunexpectedclubbingoftheoldwoman,secondsaftertheEmperorhadgreetedussowarmly, feltlikeabetrayal,andwithitcametheshockofknowingHemaandGhoshwerepowerlesstohelp.

In my mind, that bug-eyed Chihuahua was a party to the cruelty. She was the only creaturepermittedtowalkbeforeHisMajesty.Sheateandsleptbetterthanmostofhissubjects.Fromthatday forth I had a new perception of the Emperor, and of Lulu. And I definitely didn't like thatoverweeneddog.

IF LULU WAS THE CANINE Empress of Ethiopia, our Koochooloo and the two nameless dogs were thepeasantry.APersiandentistwhodworkedbrieflyatMissingchristenedher“Koochooloo.”TonameadoginEthiopiaistosaveit.Missing'stwonamelessdogshadmangycoatsthatweresomud-andtar-stainedthatonecouldnotbesureoftheoriginalcolor.Duringthelongrains,whenallotherdogssoughtshelter,thesetwostayedoutratherthanriskaboottothehead.Itwasquitepossiblethattheywereinfactasuccessionofnamelessdogswhohappenedtovisitintwos.

SisterMary JosephPraise fedKoochooloowhen thePersiandentistdisappeared.Afterherdeath,Almaztookover.

Koochooloo's eyeswere expressive dark pearls. They hinted at a playfulness, amischievousness,thatlife'sdisappointmentshadn'tquitesnuffedout.Dogsaren'tsupposedtohaveeyebrows,Iknow,butIswearshehadfoldsthatcouldmoveindependently.Theyconveyedapprehension,amusement,andevenabefuddledlookthatremindedmeofStanofLaurelandHardyfame—wesawtheirfilmsatCinemaAdowa.TherewasnoquestionofKoochooloocomingintoourhouse.Cowsweresacred;dogswerenot.

Wedidn'tknowKoochooloowaspregnantuntilthedayafterNewYear's.Wehadn'tseenherfortwodaysandthen, justbeforeweleft forschool,wefoundherbehindthewoodpile inacrawlspace.Ourflashlightrevealedherutterexhaustion.Shecouldbarelyliftherhead.Thefurballswrigglingatherbellyexplainedeverything.

We ran to Hema and Ghosh and then toMatron to tell them the exciting news.We thought upnames.Inretrospect,theadults’lackofexcitementshouldhavewarnedus.

OURTAXIDROPPEDUSatMissing's frontgateafterschool.Wehad justcrestedthehillwhenwesaw it,thoughat firstwehadno ideawhatwewereseeing.Thepupswere ina largeplasticbagwhosemouthwastiedwithcordtotheexhaustpipeofataxi.WefoundoutlaterthatthedriverhadseenGebrewmakingoffwiththelitter,andhe'dproposedalessmessymeansofgettingridofthepupsthandrowningthem.Gebrew,alwaysinaweofmachinery,wastooeasilyconvinced.

Underoureyes thecabbie firedhisengine, thebagballoonedout,and ina fewseconds, thecarstalled.Koochooloo,whothatmorningcouldhardlywalk,torearoundthewheelsofthecar,nippingat thesmoke-filledbag. Inside it,herpuppies, their snoutsoverblownwhen theypressedagainsttheplastic,tumbledoveroneanotherlookingforanexit.Koochooloo'sexpressionwasbeyondgrief.Shewas crazed and desperate. Patients and passersby found it entertaining. A small crowd hadgathered.

Iwasnumb,disbelieving.Was this somenecessary ritual in the raisingofpuppieswhich Ididn'tknowabout?Itookmycuesfromtheadultsstandingaround—thatwasamistake.Butinside,IfeltjustlikeKoochooloo.

Shiva took his cues from no one. He ran to the car and tried to untie the plastic bag from theexhaustpipe,burninghispalmsintheprocess.Thenhewasonhisknees,rippingatthethickbag.Gebrewpulledhimaway,kickingand fighting.OnlywhenShivasaw that thepuppieswerequitestill,ahillockoffur,onlythendidhestop.

IglancedatGenetandwasshockedbyherdeadpanexpression:itsaidshewaswellawareoftheundercurrentsoftheworldwelivedinandhadknownwellbeforeus.Nothingsurprisedher.

HowKoochooloocouldforgiveusandliveonatMissing,Ineverunderstood.SheknewnothingofMatron'squotasandedictsforMissingdogs.Justaswedidn'tknowthatseveraltimesinthepast,Gebrew,underorders,hadpluckedKoochooloo'snewbornsfromherteatsanddrownedthem.

SHIVA HAD SCRAPED HIS KNEES and blistered his hands.Hema, Ghosh, andMatron rushed tomeet us inCasualty.

Ghosh put Silvadene onShiva's burns and dressed his knees. The grown-ups had nothing to sayaboutthepups.

“Why did you let Gebrew do that?” I said. Ghosh didn't look up from the dressings. He wasincapableoflyingtous,butinthiscasehe'dwithheldknowledgeofwhatwouldhappen.

“Don'tblameGebrew,”Matronsaid.“Theyweremyinstructions.I'msorry.Wejustcan'thavepacksofdogsroamingaroundMissing.”

Thisdidn'tsoundlikeanapology.

“Koochooloowillforget,”Hemasaidsoothingly.“Animalsdon'thavethatkindofmemory,myloves.”

“WilljyouforgetifsomeonekillsmeorMarion?”

Theadultslookedatme.ButIhadn'tspoken.Moreover,IwasagoodeightfeetawayfromwhereShivawasgettingbandaged.His iriseshadgone frombrown toasteelyblue,hispupilsdown topinpoints,hischinthrusthigherthanever,exposinghisnecksothathewassightingdownhisnose

ataworldpopulatedbypeopleforwhomheseemedtohavethegreatestdisdain.

WillyouforgetifsomeonekillsmeorMarion?

Thosewordswereformedinthevoicebox,shapedbythelipsandtongue,ofmyheretoforesilentbrother.Forhisfirstspokenwordsinyears,he'dcraftedasentencenoneofuswouldforget.

TheadultslookedatShivaandthenatme.IshookmyheadandpointedtoShiva.

Finally,Hemawhispered,“Shiva…whatdidyousay?”

“Willyouforgetaboutustomorrowifsomeonekillsustoday?”

HemareachedforShiva,wantingtohughim,tearsofjoyinhereyes.ButShivadrewbackfromher,drewback fromallof them,as if theyweremurderers.Hebentdown,rolleddownhissock,andsnappedofftheanklet,placingitonthetable.Thatanklethadnevercomeoffexcepttoberepaired,enlarged,andthreeorfourtimesreplacedbyanewone.Itwasasifhe'dcutoffafingerandlaiditonthetable.

“Shiva,” Matron said at last, “if we let Koochooloo have her litters, we'd have about sixty dogsaroundMissingbynow.”

“Whathappenedtotheotherpuppies?”Shivaasked,beforeIcould.

Matron mumbled something about Gebrew having disposed of them humanely and that the carexhaustwas ill-advisedandnotsanctioned,andGebrewshouldhavedoneitwellbeforewecamebackfromschool.Iwasinstepwithhimnow.

Shivatouchedmyshoulder,andwhisperedinmyear.

“Whatdidhesay?”Hemaasked.

“He said,whenyouall are so cruel,why shouldhe speak?He sayshedoesn't thinkSisterMaryJosephPraiseorThomasStonewouldhavedonesomethinglikethis.Maybeiftheywereherethiswouldneverhavehappened.”

Hema sighed, as if shed been waiting for one of us to bring their names up in just this way.“Darling,”shesaid,inavoicelikegravel,“youhavenoideawhattheymightdo.”

Shivawalkedout.GhoshandMatronhadthestunnedexpressionofpeoplewhohadseenaghost.Nowtheyweretheoneswhoweremute.How,Iwondered,couldtheseadultswhocaredsomuchwhethermybrother spokeornot,whocared for thepoor, the sick, themotherless,whowereasbotheredaswewereby thecruelty to theoldwomanoutside thepalace,beso indifferent to thecrueltywehadwitnessed?

IaskedMatron later if she thought that thedeathofherpups leftscarsonKoochooloo's insides.Matronsaidshedidn'tknow,butshedidknowthatMissingcouldn'taffordtobreeddogs,andthreewas the limit.Andno, shedidn't think therewasaseparatedogheaven,and franklyshedidnotknowGod'sopiniononwhatwastherightnumberofdogsforMissing,butHehadgivenhersomediscretiononthismatterandthatwasnotsomethingshewantedtodebatewithme.

AFTERTHEKILLINGS,IsawinKoochooloo'seyesherdisappointmentinusasarace.Shesoughtoutplaceswhereshecouldcurlupandnotrunintohumans.Weleftfoodoutforher,andifsheate,itwasnotwhenwewerearound.

Forweeks, therewasonlyoneperson forwhomshewouldattempt towagher tail,andthatwasShiva.

When Shiva learned to dance Bharatnatyam (and became Hema's sishya and she was alreadytalkingabouthisarangetram—hisdebut),Ifirstbegantoseehimasseparatefromme.Nowthathewouldtalkandcouldexpresshimself,ShivaMariondidn'talwaysmoveorspeakasone.Inearlieryears,ourdifferenceshadcomplementedeachother.Butinthedaysafterthedeathofthepups,Ifelt our identities slowly separating.My brother,my identical twin, was tuned to the distress ofanimals.Asfortheaffairsofhumans,fornowatleast,hewastoleavethattome.

CHAPTER20BlindMan'sBuff

MR.LOOMIS,headmasterofLoomisTown&Country,sawtoitthatourlongholidayscoincidedwiththelongrains.Thatway,hecouldbeinEnglandinJulyandAugust,relaxing,spendingourschoolfees,whilewewerestuckinAddisAbaba.OldhandsinAddisreferredtothemonsoonmonthsas“winter,”whichhopelesslyconfusednewarrivalsforwhomJulycouldonlybesummer.

Itrainedsomuchthat itevenrained inmydreams. Iawokehappythat therewasnoschool,butthatincessantmurmuronthetinroofimmediatelydampenedtheeuphoria.Thiswasthewinterofmyeleventhyear,andwhenIwenttobedatnight,IprayedthattheskiesshouldopenuponMr.Loomis wherever he was, be it Brighton or Bournemouth. I hoped that a personal thundercloudtrailedhimeveryminuteofthatday.

SHIVAWASUNAFFECTEDBYCOLD,fog,mist,orwetness,whileIbecamemoroseandpessimistic.Outsideourwindow, therewas now a brown lake dottedwith atolls of redmud. I lost faith that a lawn andflowerbedcouldeverreappearoutofthat.

OnWednesdaysHematookustotheBritishCouncilandUSISlibraries,wherewereturnedbooks,checkedoutanewpile,loadedtheminthecar,thenshedroppedusoffattheEmpireTheaterorCinemaAdowaforthematinee.Wewerefreetoreadwhateverwewanted,butHemarequiredofusahalf-pagejournalentrytorecordnewwordswelearnedandthenumberofpageswehadread.Wewerealsotocopyoutamemorableideaorsentencetoshareatdinner.

Iresentedthiswintercurriculum,butitdidbringCaptainHoratioHornblowersailingintomylife.Matron,whoseabilitytoreadmysoulIdidnotyetfullyappreciate,askedmetoborrowAShipoftheLine forher. I opened it out of curiosity and found Ihad sailed intoaworldmoredampandwretchedthanmyown,andstrangely,Iwashappytobethere.ThankstoC.S.Forester,IwasonacreakingshipontheothersideoftheworldandintheheadofHoratioHornblower,amanwhowaslike Ghosh and Hema—heroic in his professional role. But he was also like me—”unhappy andlonely.”Ofcourse,Iwasn'treallyunhappyorlonely,butinthemonsoonseasonitseemednecessarytothinkofmyselfthatway.TheunfairnessoftheAdmiraltyinLondon,theironyofHorn-blower'sseasickness, the tragedyofhis returning froma longvoyage to findhischildrenmortally illwithsmallpox…Ihadmyequivalents,trivialastheywere,foralltheseperils.

Afterhoursofreading,Iitchedtobeoutdoors;IknowGenetdid,too.Shivasketchedandscribbled.Hema'scalligraphyexercisescatalyzedanunstoppableinkflowinShiva'spen,buthismediumwasstillpaperbags,napkins,andendpagesofbooks.HelovedtosketchZemui'sBMWandhaddonesoineveryseason.Veronica,ifhedrewher,nowstraddledamotorcycle.

OnaFriday,afterGhoshandHema left forwork, theraincamedownharderandtherewasnowthunderandhail.Thenoiseontheroofwasdeafening.Ipeekedoutofthekitchendoorandwasmetby the scent of sopping hide, and the sight of three donkeys sheltering under the roof overhangalongwiththeiroverseer.Ifthewoodthedonkeysdeliveredwasanywhereaswetastheywere,itdidnotbodewellforourstove.Theanimalsstoodstill,resignedtotheirfate,halfasleep,theirskintwitchinginvoluntarily.

WhenIwentbacktothelivingroom,Genetyelledabovetheracket,“Let'splayblindman'sbuff!”

“Sissygame,”Isaid.“Stupidgirls’game.”Butshewasalreadyhuntingforablindfold.

Ineverunderstoodwhyblindman'sbuffwassopopularatschool,particularlyinGenet'sclass.I'dseenthemobdancing justoutofreachof“it,”pushingor“buffing”theblindmantillhe(orshe)capturedatormentor.Theblindmanhadtonamethecaptiveorsetthepersonfree.

Wemodifiedthegameforindoors:nobuffingoftheblindman.Instead,youhidbystandingsilent(thoughwith the din on the roof you could bewhistling and it wouldn'tmatter). You could hideanywherebutthekitchen,andnotunderorbehindabarrier.Timewastheobjectofthegame:howfastcouldtheblindmanfindtheothertwo.

THATMORNING,Genetwentfirst.IttookherfifteenminutestofindShiva,andtenmoretogetme.

You would think after twenty-five minutes of standing there I would be bored. I wasn't. I wasintrigued.

It took discipline to stand stock-still. I felt like the InvisibleMan, one ofmy favorite comic bookcharacters.TheInvisibleManstoodastheworldmovedaroundhim,ashisarchenemytriedtofindhim.

Blindfolded,wearingwhitetights,herarmsreachinginfrontofher,puttingonefootout,thentheother,Genetlookedhelpless,asifshewerewalkingtheplankonapirateship.Shehadtheuprightcarriageandthebalanceofonewhocoulddocartwheelswithanarmtuckedtoherside,andwhocouldwalkonherhandswithmoregrace thanGhoshon two feet.Barrettesmadeof yellowandsilver beadswere snug around her hair,whichwas parted in themiddle and pulled up into twostalks.Genetwasn'tvainaboutherdress.Butwhenitcametoheadbands,combs,pins,andbananaclamps,shewasmostparticular.Ofcourse,thistraitmighthavebeenmoreHema'sorRosina'sorAlmaz's doing: they were forever brushing her hair or braiding it into ponytails or rows. HemasometimesputkohlinsideGenet'slowerlid.Thatblacklinehighlightedhereyes,madethemcatchfireandflashlikemirrors.

Girlsmaturedfasterthanboys,sotheysaid,andIbelievedit,becauseGenetactedolderthanten.Shedistrusted theworldandwasmoreargumentativeandalways ready forcombat; if Iwas toowillingtodefertoadultsandassumetheyknewwhattheyweredoing,shewasjusttheopposite,quitewillingtothinkofthemasfallible.Butnow,blindfolded,shehadavulnerabilityI'dneverbeenawareofbefore;allherdefensesseemedtoresideinthehighheatofhergaze.

Twice,Genetalmostwalkedintome–as–InvisibleMan,veeringoffatthelastsecond.Thethirdtime,shewasmillimetersaway,andtheInvisibleMansnortedtosuppressalaugh.Herhands,sweepinglikewindmills,foundmeandnearlytookmyeyesout.

Thenthingsturnedstrange.

When I wore the blindfold, I foundGenet in thirty seconds, and Shiva in half that time.How? Ifollowedmynose. Ihadno inklingsucha thingwaspossible. Iwas “seeing” througholfaction. Iheededaninstinctthatonlymadeitselfknownwhenmysightwasgone.

Shiva,whenitwashisturn,foundusjustasquickly.Suddenly,weforgotabouttherain.

WhenIblindfoldedGenetagain,ittookherevenlongerthanthefirsttime.Hernosewasnohelp.Forhalfanhour,Iwatchedhershufflethiswayandthat.

Frustrated,shewhippedoff theblindfoldandaccusedusofmovingandofbeing incollusion.Onbothcountswewereinnocent.

WhenGhoshcamehomeforlunch,GenetandIrushedtotellhimaboutourgame.“Wait!Stop!”hesaid.“Ican'thearyouwhenyouspeakovereachother.Genet,youfirst.‘Beginatthebeginningandgoonuntilyoucometotheend:thenstop.’Whosaidthat?”

“Youdid,”Genetsaid.

“TheKinginAliceinWonderland,”Shivasaid,“pageninety-three.Chaptertwelve.Andyoumissedfourwordsandtwocommas.”

“Icertainlydidnot!”Ghoshsaid,actingoffended,butunabletoconcealhissurprise.

“Youmissed‘TheKingsaid,comma,verygravely,comma.’“

“Rightyouare…,”Ghoshsaid.“Now,tellmewhathappened,Genet.”

She did and then begged him to referee.Ghosh stationedGenet here and there, and each time,blindfoldedandsightless,Iwentstraighttoher.WeblindfoldedGhoshathisrequest,buthewasnobetterthanGenet.Wewouldhavefurther“exploredthephenomenon,”asGhoshputit,buthehadtoreturntothehospital.

GENET'SFOREHEADSTAYEDFURROWEDallafternoon,hereyebrowsmeetinginaV.Ifeltthevenomofhergazeonmyface.

“Whatareyoulookingat?”shesaid.

“Isitagainstthelawtolook?”

“Yes.”

Istuckmytongueout.Sheflewoutofherchairandcameatme.Iexpectedthat.Wetumbledtothefloor. I soonpinnedher flatonherback,herarmsaboveherhead, straddlingher,but itwas farfromaneasytask.

“Getoffme.”

“Why?Soyoucanhaveanothershot?”

“Getoff,Isaid.”

“Iwill.Butifyoustartagain,Iwilldothis.”Idugmykneeunderherarmpitandintoherribs.Herangerdissolvedintoscreamsandhystericallaughter.Shebeggedmetostop.Knowingherandhowquicklythefirecouldflarewhenyouthoughtyouhadputitout,Igaveheranotherdosetomakesure.WhenIsteppedoff,Ididnotturnmybackonher.

GenetcouldsprintfasterthanShivabutcouldnotquitebeatmeoverashortdistance.Hergaitwassoeffortless,her feetbarely touching theground, that shecould runallday. Iwouldn't raceheroveranythinglongerthanfiftyyards.Climbingtrees,playingsoccer,wrestling,orswordfighting—inalltheseshewasjustaboutourequal.

Butblindman'sbuffhadfoundadifference.

DURINGDINNERwithHemaandGhosh,Genetwasquiet.Theyellowandsilverbarretteshadgivenwaytoaviciousclawclampandaknittingneedlegoingacross.WhenHemaasked,shereportedonherSecret Seven book. She sat next to me and Shiva, fending off Almaz and Rosina, who bustledaround,tryingtoaddtoourplates.Thetwoofthemalwaysatelaterinthekitchen.

Afterdinner,GenetsaidhergoodnightsandretreatedtoRosina'squartersbehindourbungalow.Ifound Ghosh hunting throughAlice inWonderland. I looked over his shoulder as he found pageninety-three.Shivawasright,downtothetwocommas.

Therainstoppedwhenwegotintobed,preciselywhenitwastoolatetotakeadvantageofthelull.Thesilencewasbothareliefandnerve-racking,becauseatanymomentitwouldstartbackup.

Hemareadtousinourbedroom,anightlyritualthatshehadneverinterruptedonceshebeganitin response to Shiva's silence. R. K.Nara -yan'sMan-eater ofMalgudiwas our text the last fewdays.Ghoshsatontheothersideofourbed,headbowed, listening.Thebookhadstartedslowlyandithadyettopickupanypace.Butperhapsthatwasthepoint.Asweadjustedtotheslow,the“boring” world of village India, it revealed itself to be interesting and even funny. Malgudi waspopulatedbycharactersthatresembledpeopleweknew,imprisonedbyhabit,byprofession,andbyamostfoolishandunreasonablebeliefthatenslavedthem;onlytheycouldn'tseeit.

ThesoundofthephoneringingwasforeigntoMalgudianditbrokethethreadofthestory.Ghoshpickedupthereceiver.“Rightaway,”hesaid,gazingatHema.Whenhehunguphesaid,“PrincessTurunesh is in labor.Six centimeters.Pains fiveminutesapart.Matron iswithher in theprivateroom.”

“Whatdoesthatmean,‘sixcentimeters’?”Iasked.

Ghosh was about to answer, but Hema, already at the dresser, brushing her hair, said quickly,“Nothing,sweetie.Theprincesswillhaveababysoon.Ihavetogo.”

“I'llcomewithyou,”Ghoshsaid.HecouldassistifHemaoptedforaCesareansection.

I NEVER LIKED ITwhen they left atnight.Mydreadwasn't intruders,butananxietyaboutHemaandGhosh,afearthatdespitetheirbestintentions,theymightnotcomeback.Ineverfeltthatwayinthedaytime.Butatnight,whentheywentdancingatJuventusorplayedbridgeatMrs.ReddyandEvangeline'shouse,I'dwaitupforthem,imaginingtheworst.

Aftertheyleft,Ipaddedintothelivingroominbarefeetandpajamas.Iworkedtheshort-wavebandontheGrundig.

Abovethestatic, Iheardthemotorcycle.Halfwayupourdriveway,SergeantZemuiwouldalwayscuttheenginesoasnottodisturbus.Theninsilence,saveforthesqueakofspringsandtherattleofmudguards,he'dcoastintothecarport.Thecodawasthemetallicwhumpofcyclerollingbackontoitscenterstand.

IlovedthatungainlyBMWandthewayitsudderlikeenginebulgedoutoneithersideoftheframe.Shivalovedit,too.Allmachineshavegenders,andthatBMWwasaroyal“she.”ForaslongasIcanrecall I'd been hearing her low throb, a lub-dub sound in the early morning and at bedtime, asZemuileftforandreturnedfromwork.WheneverIheardthetrampofhisheavybootsreceding,Ifeltsorryforhim.Ipicturedhislonelyhikehome,particularlyduringthisseasonofmudandrain.Despitethelongraincoatandaplastichoodforhispithhelmet,itwasimpossiblenottogetsoaked.

FIVEMINUTESLATER,Iheardthekitchendooropen.Genetcameinwearingmyhand-me-downpajamas.

Herangerfromearlierwasn'tthere.InitsplacewassomethingIrarelysaw:sadness.Herhairwasheldbackby a blueheadband.Shewas listless,withdrawn, as if years, notminutes, hadpassedsinceIlastsawher.

“Where'sShiva?”sheasked,sittingacrossfromme.

“Inourroom.Why?”

“Justasked.Noreason.”

“HemaandGhoshhadtogotothehospital,”Isaid.

“Iknow.Iheardthemtellmymother.”

“Areyouallright?”

She shrugged.Her eyes looked through theglowingdial of theGrundig, to someplanet beyond.Therewasalittlefleckintherightiris,apuffofsmokearoundit,whereasparkhadpenetrated.Weweremuchyounger, exploding cap-gun strips on thepavement, striking themwith aheavy rock,when that happened. You could only see the blemish close up, and at certain angles. From adistance,thehintofasymmetrymadehergazeseemdreamy.

AcracklyChinesestationfadedinandout,awoman'svoicewithsoundsnothroatshouldbeabletoproduce.Ithoughtitwasfunny,butGenetdidn'tsmile.

“Marion?Willyouplayblindman'sbuffwithme?”Sheaskedinasweet,gentleway.“Justonemoretime?”

Igroaned.

“Please?”

Theurgencyinhervoicesurprisedme.Asifherfuturedependedonthis.

“Didyoucomebackjustforthatreason?Shiva'salreadyinbed.”

Shewassilent,consideringthis,andthenshesaid,“Howaboutjustyouandme.Please,Marion?”

IwasnevergoodatsayingnotoGenet.Ididn'tthinkshewouldhaveanybetterluckfindingmethistimearoundthanbefore.Itwouldonlymakehermoredepressed.Butifthatwaswhatshewanted…

OUTSIDE,therainhadscrubbedtheskyfreeofstars;theblacknightleakedthroughtheshuttersintothehouseandundermyblindfold.

“I'vechangedmymind,”Isaidintothevoid.

Sheignoredme,tyingasecondknottosecuretheblindfold.Forgoodmeasure,sheputanemptyrice-floursackovermyhead,rollinguptheedgestoleavemymouthuncovered.

“Didyouhearme?”Isaid.“Idon'twanttodothis,Ineveragreedtothis.”

“Youcheated?Youadmitit?”Thevoicedidnotevensoundlikehers.

“Iwon'tadmitwhatisnottrue,”Isaid.

Agustofwindrattledthewindows.Itwasthebungalow'swayofclearingitsthroat,warningustocinchupformorerain.

Shedisappearedagain,andwhenshereturnedIfeltmyhandsbeingstrappedagainstmysideswithapieceofleather—Ghosh'sbelt.“That'ssoyouwon'tremovetheblindfold.”

Nowshegrabbedmebymyshoulders.Shespunmearound.Herhandswerepaddles,slappingmychest,my shoulders, turningme like a top.When I yelled for her to stop she added a fewmoreturns.

“Counttotwenty.Anddon'tpeek.”

Iwasstillturninginthatinnerdarkness,wonderingwhynauseahadtobesuchafirmcompanionofvertigo.Icrashedintosomething.Ahardedge.Thesofa.Itcaughtmeintheribs,butitdidkeepmefromfalling.Thiswasn'tfair,tyingmyhands,messingwithmybalance…She'dtrickedme.Ifshewantedtodisorientme,ithadworked.“Cheater!”Iyelled.“Ifyouwanttowinsobad,justsayyouwon,okay?”

Asharpsoundonthetinroofmademejump.Anacorn?Iwaited,butitdidn'trattledowntheslope.Athiefcheckingtoseeifanyonewashome?Withmyhandsbound,Iwasdoublyhelpless.Isneezed.Iwaitedforthesecondsneeze—theyalwayscameintwos.Butnottonight.Icursedthemustysack.

“Screwyourcourageto thestickingplace!” I shouted. Ihadno ideawhat thatmeant,butGhoshsaid ita lot. Itsoundedvulgaranddefiant,agoodthingtorepeatwhenyouneededcourage.Myhearthammeredinmychest.Ineededcourage.

ThescentIhadtofollowwasn'tasdistinctasithadbeeninthemorning.Notbeingabletoreachinfrontofmeandbeingsaddledwithasackonmyheadwerehugehandicaps.“I'llfindyou,”Iyelled,“butthenneveragain.”

In the dining room, using my foot, I traced the sideboard, saying “Screw your courage to thestickingplace”asmymantra.FromthereIwentondownthecorridorleadingtothebedrooms.

Iknewthespotswherethenarrowfloorboardssqueaked.ThereweremanynightsI'dstoodoutsideGhoshandHema'sroom,listening,particularlywhentheyseemedtobearguing.Withthemwhatyou thoughtwas a squabble could be just the opposite. I onceheardHema speak ofme as “Hisfather'sson.Stubborntoafault,”andthenshelaughed.Iwasshocked.Ididn'tthinkofmyselfasstubborn, and I hadno idea that Imight be anything like theman I sometimes fantasizedmightcome through the front gate.Hema nevermentioned his name, and her tone of voicewhen shecomparedmetohimsuggestedfaintpraise.AnothernightIoverheardHemasay,“Where?Exactlywhere?Underwhatcircumstance?Don'tyouthinkwecouldhavelookedatSister'sface,orhisface,andknown?Howdidwenotknow?Theyshouldhavetoldus.Saysomething,Ghosh.”Ididn'tgetit.Ghoshwasstrangelysilent.

Now,withtheblindfoldon,Icouldrecalleverywordoftheirs.Coveringmyeyeshadopenedupnewchannelsinmymemory,justasithadfiredupmysenseofsmell.IfeltIneededtoaskHemaandGhoshaboutthisconversation.Whatweretheytalkingabout?ButhowcouldI?Icouldn'ttellthemIdbeeneavesdropping.

MYNOSELEDMETOourbedroom.Iturnedin.Iinchedforward.Icametowherethescentpeaked.Iwasupagainstthedresser.Bendingforward,myfacetouchedflannel.Herpajamas.Shedpiledthemontopofmydresser.Likeatrackerdog,Iburiedmynoseinthecloth,shookmyfaceinflannelandscatteredthepajamas,sharpeningmyinstrument.

“Veryclever,”Isaid.IknewShivawasonhisbed.Hemusthavestrappedonhisbigdancinganklet,becauseitsoundednow,anoisethatwashisequivalentofanoncommittalgrunt.

Iretracedmysteps.Thekitchenwassupposedtobeoff-limits,butthatiswherethetrailled.Buthere, the scents of ginger, onions, cardamom, and cloves were like curtains that I had to clawthrough.

Onanimpulse,Ikneltandputmynosetothetiles.Whatchancedidbipedalmanhave,nosehighupintheair,againstafour-leggedtrackerwhosenosewastotheground?Yes,thereshewas.Thetrailveeredtotheright.

Inchingtothepantry,Iknewthatthisgame,bornoutofmonsoontedium,wasnolongerthat.Norules now. Nothing would be the same after this. I knew. I may have been just eleven, but myconsciousnessfeltasripeasitwouldeverbe.MybodymightgrowandageandIwouldsoonhavemoreknowledgeandexperience,butall thatwasme,all thatwasMarion, thepart thatsawandregistered theworldandchronicled it inan inner ledger forposterity,waswell seated insidemybodyandnevermoresothanatthatmoment,robbedofeyesandhands.

IstoodupasIenteredthepantry.“Iknowyou'rethere,”Isaid.Theechogavemeafixonthatlongnarrowroom;IknewjustwhereshewasandIwenttoher.

Genetwasinfrontofme.Ifmyhandswerefree,Iwould‘vereachedforher,tickledorpinchedher.Iheardamuffledsound.Itcouldhavebeenlaughter,butIdidn'tthinkso.Shewascrying.

Iwantedtoconsoleher.Theurgetodosogrew.Itwasaferalinstinct,muchliketheonethatledmetoher.

Idrewforward.

Shepushedmeaway,buthalfheartedly.Thepushwasapleaformenottoleave.

I'dalwaysassumedthatGenetwascontentwithherlife.Sheateatourtable,wenttoschoolwithus,andwaspartofthefamily.Shedidn'thaveafather,andwedidn'thaveourrealparents,andIassumedthat,justlikeus,shefeltluckytohaveHemaandGhosh.Isawusasequals,butindoingso, perhaps I glossed over the things she could not overlook.Our bedroomwas bigger than hernarrowanddraftyone-roomquarters.Atnight, ifshewantedtovisit theprivy,Genethadtostepoutintotheelements,passingtheopenshedwherewestackedfirewood.WhileGhoshandHematucked us into bed, transported us to themagi calworld ofMalgudi, then turned off the lights,Genetreadtoherselfunderthesinglenakedbulb,tryingtotuneouttheradiowhichRosinaplayedlate into the night. There was one bed, and mother and daughter slept in it, but Genet wouldprobablyhaverelishedherownbed.Acharcoalbrazierprovidedwarmth.Thesmokeandincensethatpermeatedher clothes embarrassedher. Ifwe foundherquarters cozy, shewasashamedofwhereshelived.Inearlieryears,wewereasofteninthatroomaswewereinourhouse.Butoflate,thoughRosinawelcomedus,Genetdidn'tencourageustocomein.

Blindfolded,Isuddenlysawallthissoclearly.IunderstoodherfiercecompetitivenessinawayI'dneverappreciated.

Onemorestepforward.Iwaited.Thepushorpunchdidnotcome.Iinclinedmyhead,useditasaprobetofindher.Herearandthenhercheekbrushedagainstmine.Wet.Herjerkybreathingwashotagainstmyneck.Slowlyshesettledherchinthere.

Theferalselfstooddutifulandprotective.Watchandlearn,itsaidtome.Defendandcomfort.Ifeltheroic.

Myfeetwereclosetogether.Ihadtiltedforwardtocounterherweight.Whenshereadjusted,Ifellagainsther,sandwichingheragainstthepantryshelf.Ourbodiesweretouchingatthethighs,hips,andatthechest,ourcheeksstilltogether.Iwaitedforhertopushmebacktothevertical,butshedidn't.

Howwellwekneweachother'sbodiesfromwrestling,frompullingeachotheruptothetreehouse,and fromearlieryears,wading inour splashpool together. In thebigpackingcases stuffedwithstrawinwhichglasswarewasshippedtoMissing,weplayedhouseanddoctor.Wewereneverself-consciousaboutouranatomicaldifferences.Butnow,blindfolded,herfaceinvisibletomeandmineobscuredbycloth,itwasallnewandunknown.Iwasn'ttheInvisibleMan.Iwastheblindmanwhocouldsee,whoisforgivenhisclumsinessbytheotherqualitiestheblindnessbringsout.

Thoughmyarmswerepinnedtomyside,Icouldswivelmyhandsforward.Itouchedherhips.Herskinwascold.Shedidn'tflinch.Sheneededmytouch,mywarmth.Ipulledhertome.

Shetrembled.

Shewasnaked.

Idon'tknowhowmanyminutesIstoodthere.Itwaspreciselythecomfortsheseemedtoneedthisnight.Ifonlyshehadknowntoask,orItogive,wecould'vedoneawaywiththeblindfold…ThankGodfortheblindfold.

Sheworked her hands into the gap betweenmy arms andmy trunk. She huggedme. Itwas anawkward,painfulposeforme.YetIdidn'tdaresayawordforfearshe'dletgo.

Therainmurmuredgentlyonthetinroof.

Afteraneternity,shewithdrewherarms.Shetookthericebagoffmyface.

Sheundidmyrestraint,freeingmyhands,andIheardthebeltbuckleclattertothefloor.Butshelefttheblindfoldon.IfI'dwantedto,Icouldhavetakenitoff.

Imissedher embrace. Iwanted to feel it again, now thatmy armswere free. I reached for her.Naked,shefeltsmaller,moredelicate.

Somethingsoft,fleshytouchedmylips.Ihadneverbeenkissedbefore.Atthemovies,GenetandIgroanedandlaughedwhenwesawtheactorskiss.TherewasalwaysoneItalianmovieinthetriplefeature, particularly at Cinema Adowa. It was either dubbed or had subtitles. It typically camebeforetheshortcomicfeature—theChaplinorLaurelandHardy—anditalwayshadlotsofkissing.Shiva studied those onscreen smooches with great seriousness, cocking his head. Genet and Ididn't.Kissingwassilly.Adultshadnoideahowstupidtheylooked.

Ourlipsweredry.Abignothing,justasIthought.Perhapsthekissinghadthesamepurposeastheembrace. To give and get comfort. I tilted my head to one side, movie style, wondering if thesensationwouldgetanybetter.Icaughtherlowerlipbetweenmylips.Thiswasanewdiscovery,that themouthcouldbe thisdelicate tactile instrument,particularly in theabsenceof sight.HertonguetouchedmylipsandIwantedtosnapmyheadback.Ithoughtofthetwenty-five-cent,one-hour sucker onwhich the three of us took turns.Now, slowly, our twomouths shared the candywithoutthecandy.Notreallypleasurable.Notdisgustingeither.

Genet'shandswereonmyface.Theydidthatinthemovies.Islidmyrighthandtohershoulders,thendownherchest.Ifeltthehillocksonwhichhernipplessat,nodifferentthanmine.Herfingerssliddowntotouchmychest,whereitshouldhavebeenticklish,butitwasnot.Myhandsweptoverher belly, and thendown farther, betweenher legs, running over a soft fissure, the absence, theemptyspace,more intriguing thanwhatmighthavebeenpresent.Herhand, tentative likemine,slippedpastmywaistband,prospecting.Whensheheldme,itfeltsodifferentthanwhenItouchedmyself.

THEDOORFROMTHEOUTSIDEtothekitchenopened.

IthadtobeRosina.OrperhapsitwasGhoshandHema.Thefootstepswentonintothelivingroom.

Isteppedback.Ipulledofftheblindfold,blinkinginthedarkpantry,analienlandingonearth.

Inthereflectedlightofthekitchen,Genet'seyesweremoist,herfacepuffyandher lipsswollen.Shedidn'twanttomeetmygaze.Shepreferredmeblind.Hereyeswereslanted,hernoserisingtoaquickpoint.Herforeheadplanedback,notatall likeRosina'sroundedone.ShelookedlikethebustofQueenNefertitiinmyDawnofHistorybook.

MyblindfoldwasoffbutIstillpossessedahyperacuityofthesenses.Icouldseethefuture.Genet'sface in that pantrywas the face thatmost revealedher. It carried intimations of thewoman shewouldgrowuptobe.Icouldseehowthoseeyeswouldstayserene,beautiful,concealingthekindofrestlessnessandrecklessnesssoevident tonight.Hercheekboneswouldpushout,expressing thesheerforceofherwill,makinghernoseevensharper,furtherelongatingherlovelyeyes.Thelowerlipwouldoutgrowtheupper,thebudsonherchestturnintofruit,andherlegswouldgrowliketallvines.Inalandofbeautifulpeople,shewouldbemostbeautifulandexotic.Men—IknewthisbeforeIshouldhaveknown—wouldperceiveherdisdainandwouldwanther.Iwouldwanthermostofall.She'dputupobstacles. Imightneverbeas strong forherorasclose toheras Iwas thisnight.Despitethisknowledge,I'dkeeptrying.

Iknewallthis.Ifeltit,sawit.Itenteredmyconsciousnessinaflash,buttheproofwasyettocome.

RosinacalledGenet'snamefromsomewhereinthehouse.

Ipickedupthebelt.Howwecouldbothbesoserene,I'llneverknow.

ItouchedGenetonhershoulders,gently,carefully.Theothermomentoftouchwaslonggone.Hereyesturnedtomewithwhatcouldbeloveoritsopposite.

“Iwillalwaysfindyou,”Iwhispered.

“Maybe,”shesaid,bringingherlipsclosetomyear.“ButImightgetbetterathiding.”

Rosinawalkedinandstopped,frozenatthesightofus.

“Whatareyoutwodoing?”shesaid,inAmharic.Shesmiledoutofhabit,butherbrowsconveyedherpuzzlement.“I'vebeenlookingalloverforyou.Whereareyourclothes?Whatisthis?”

“Agame,”Isaidwavingtheblindfoldandbeltasifitansweredherquestions,butmythroatwassodryIdon'tthinkanynoisecameout.

Genetbrushedpastme,headingbacktothelivingroom.Rosinagrabbedherhand.“Whereareyourclothes,daughter?”

“Letgomyhand.”

“Butwhyareyounaked?”

Genetsaidnothing,herfacedefiant.

Rosinajerkedherbythearm.“Whydidyoutakethemoff?”

WhenGenetreplied,hervoicewascutting,spoilingforafight.“Whydoyou takeyourclothesoffforZemui?Whenyousendmeout,isitnotforyoutogetnaked?”

Rosina'smouthfrozeintheopenposition.Whenshecouldspeak,shesaid,“Heisyourfather.He'smyhusband.”

Genet's face showed no surprise. She laughed, a cruel, mocking sound, as if she'd heard thesewordsbefore.IcringedformynannyasGenetspoke.“Yourhusband?Myfather?Youlie.Myfatherwouldstaythenight.Myfatherwouldhaveuslivewithhiminarealhouse.”Shewasangry,tearsspilling down her cheeks. “Your husband wouldn't have another wife and three children. Yourhusbandwouldn'tcomehomeandsendmeouttoplaysohecanplaywithyou.”Shepulledherarmfreeandwenttogetherclothes.

ROSINAHADFORGOTTENIwasthere.

Innocence,thecarefreedays,hungoverachasm.Shefinallyturnedtome.

Westudiedeachotheras ifwewerelookingatstrangers.I'dgoneintothepantrysightless.Nowtheblindfoldwasoff.ZemuiwasGenet's father.Was I theonlyonenot toknowthis?HowstupidwasI?WhyhadIneverthoughttoask?DidShivaknow?AllthelonghourstheColonelspentwithusplayingbridge…ItmadesensethatZemuiwasalsoaroundallthattime.True,inamatrilinealsociety, one accepted these things and didn't ask about a father when none was present. But Ishould haveasked. I saw itnow.The signswere there. Iwasblind, andnaïveanddumb.All thelettersIhadwrittenforZemuitoDarwininquiringabouthisfamilyandconveyingbestwishesfromhispalhadgivennocluethatGenetwashischild.Allthosewrittenwords,spokenwords,werejusttheshimmeringsurfaceofadeepandswiftriver; tothinkof thenightsI lay inbed,hearingthatmotorcycle,feelingsorryforZemuitrudginghomeintherain,inthedark.Clearly,Iwasn'ttheonlyonetofeelcompassionforhim.

Rosinaknewmesowell,shecouldreadtheprogressionofmyeverythought.Ihungmyhead:I'dslippedintheesteemofmybelovednanny.OutofthecornerofmyeyeIsawthatnowherheadwasdown,too,asifshe'dfailedme,asifshehadneverwantedmetoknowthissideofher.Iwantedtosay,Aboutwhatyousaw,itwasagame…

Isaidnothing.

Genet returned, clothed in the flannel pajamas. She left without a backward glance, and Rosinafollowed.

Shivawasinthediningroom,justbeyondthedoortothekitchen.

Istayedinthepantryaftershuttingthedoor,andIstoodfacingtheshelves.Ascent lingered,anozonegeneratedbymeandGenet,byourtwowills.

Iheardfootstepsdrawnearandstop,andIknewthatShivawasontheothersideofthedoor,justas he knew I was on this side. ShivaMar-ion couldn't hide much from Shiva or Marion. But IsqueezedmyeyesshutandturnedinvisibleandcarriedmyselftoaplacewhereIwascompletelyaloneandnoonecouldsharemythoughts.

CHAPTER21KnowingWhatYouWillHear

INTHEDAYSTHATFOLLOWED,whenRosinaranherfingersthroughmycurls,orinsistedsheironmyshirtbeforewewentout,itwasasifnothinghadhappened.ButIsawtheseactsofhersdifferentlyTheywere familiar, but also designed to have a hand on me at all times, and thereby put her bodybetweenmeandherdaughter.

Somethinghad transpired that night in the pantry, just as Rosina feared. Id leaned on a hiddenpanel,andmuchlikeinthecomics,Idplungedthrough.Thefallingwasunintentional,butnowthatIwasontheothersideIwantedtostay.IwantedtobearoundGenetmorethanever,andRosinaknewit.

IsawanewdimensiontoRosina—callitcunning.Thesamecunningwasinmeaswell,becauseInolongerfeltsafetellingherwhatIwasthinking.Butmyfeelingsweretoughtohide.WhenIwaswithGenet,Ifeltthebloodrushingtomyface.Ihadforgottenhowtobe.

For the restof theholidays,Genetgravitated toShiva.Hispresencegeneratednoawkwardness,whilemineclearlydid.Iwatchedthemputontheirpracticerecord,clearthediningroom,strapontheiranklets,andrunthroughtheircomplexroutinesinBharatnatyam.Iwasn'tjealous.Shivawasmyproxy,justasIhadbeenhiswhenAlmazhadgivenmeherbreast.IfIcouldnotbewithGenet,wasn'tShiva'sbeingwithherthenext-bestthing?

Perhapsmybloodhoundinstinct,myabilitytofindGenetbyscent,wasnomorethanapartytrick.Butperhapsnot.Weneverplayedblindman'sbuffagain.Theveryideawasdisquieting.

IAVOIDEDZEMUIwhenhecametopickupordropoffhismotorcycle,orwhenColonelMebratucametoplaybridge.TheColonelenjoyeddrivinghisPeugeot,orhisjeep,orhisstaffMercedes,andthelasttime Zemui spottedme, hed been riding shotgun and hewaved and grinned.When I finally didencounter Zemui, I wanted to be annoyedwith him; he had something in commonwith ThomasStone, though Zemui at least saw his daughter every day. But when Zemui shook my hand andexcitedlypulledoutanewDarwinletter,Ifoundmyselfsittingdownwithhimonthekitchensteps.Iwastemptedtosay,Whydontyouaskyourdaughtertodothis?ButIdidn'tbecauseIunderstoodsomething I hadmissed before—that Genet surely didn't make things easy for her father. I wasreadingandwritinglettersforZemuibecausehisdaughterhadrefused.

ON A FRIDAY EVENING, theColonel breezed intoMissing and intoGhosh's old quarters bringing energywithhim,asifnotonemanbutaregimentinfullcolorshadarrived,alongwiththemarchingband.Halfanhourlater,thereweretwotablesgoing.Theplayers—Hema,Ghosh,Adid,Babu,Evangeline,Mrs.Reddy,andanewcomertheybrought—seemedtoinhabittheirbridgehands,becomingPassand Three-No-Trumps, their faces flushed with concentration. Adid, the khat merchant and oldfriendofHema's,ownedashopintheMerkatorightnexttoBabu'sandhadbroughthimintothegroup.Aburstofconversationlikeacollectivesighsignaledtheendofaround.Ilovedtoobservethemplay.

TheColonel,justbackfromLondon,hadararebottleofGlenfid-dichforGhosh,chocolatesforus,and Chanel No. 5 perfume for Hema. The cigarettes in the ashtrays were Dunhill and 555—hiscontributionagain.Thoughheworeablazerandopenshirt,his tucked-inchinandtheshouldersdrawnbackmadeitseemhewasstill inuniform.Ifhe left theparty, I imaginedtherestofthemwouldslumpoverliketoyswhosespringhadunwound.

Evangeline,anAnglo-Indian,abridgeregular,turnedtoColonelMebratu:“AlittlebirdtoldmethatwemightsoonbecallingyouBrigadierGeneral.Isthattrue?”

Colonel Mebratu frowned. “Such vicious rumors. Such an incestuous community. And I fear,Evangeline,youareatthecenterofit.ButinthiscaseImustcorrectyou,mydear.IamnotsoontobecalledBrigadierGeneral.Asofyesterday,IamBrigadierGeneral.”

Well, therewasnostoppingthemafterthat.ZemuiandGebrewmadetworunsfor foodfromtheRasHotel.

Much later thatnight,MebratuandGhoshpalaveredovercognacandcigars. “InKorea in ‘52we

wereoneoffifteencountriesintheUNforces.Iwasn'tlongoutofcommandtrainingwhenIwentthere.Theothercountriesunderestimatedus.Yousee,theyknewnothingaboutEthiopiancourageorthebattleofAdowaoranyofthat.ByGod,weprovedourselvesinKorea.BythetimewegottotheCongo,theyknewwhattoexpect.WehadanIrishcommander,thenaSwedishcommander,andin the thirdyear, theymadeourownGeneralGuebrecommanderofalltheUN forces.Youknow,Ghosh,asacareermilitarymanthatwasmyproudestmoment.EvenmorethanthispromotionIgotyesterday.”

I'LLNEVERKNOWHOW,butGhoshunderstoodwhatIwasgoingthroughafterthepantryepisode;perhapshe recognized that Iwasquarantined fromGenetand thatShivadidn't share in that experience;perhapshesawmyconfusionwhenZemuiwasaround.Maybe itwaswrittenonmy face that I'dbecome aware of human complexity—that's a kinder word than “deceit.” I was trying to decidewheretopegmyowntruth,howmuchtorevealaboutmyself—ithelpedtohavesuchasteadfastfather inGhosh, never fickle, never prying, but knowingwhen I neededhim.HadHema learnedwhatwentoninthepantry,I'dhearaboutittwosecondslater.ButGhosh,ifheknew,wascapableofkeepinghispeace,bidinghistime,hearingmeout;he'dhaveevenkeptitsecretfromHemaifhedidn'tthinkitservedanypurposetotellher.

One wet afternoon, when Genet and Shiva were having their dance lesson with Hema, GhoshtelephonedandaskedmetomeethiminCasualty.“Iwantyoutofeelamostunusualpulse.”Ghoshwasprimarilyasurgeonnow,operatingelectivelythreedaysaweekanddoingtheemergencycasesas needed. But, as he often said at dinner, he was still an internist at heart and couldn't resistcomingdowntoCasualtytoseecertainpatientswhopresentedadiagnosticpuzzle,onethatneitherAdamnorBachellicouldcrack.

IwasgratefulforGhosh'scall.Ineverhadanyinterestindancing,butitbotheredmetoseeGenetenjoyingsomethinginwhichIhadnopart.Iputonmygutta-perchabootsandraincoatanddashedoutwithmyumbrella.

Demissewas in his twenties, sitting on the examining stool in front ofGhosh,wearing only tornjodhpurs.Inoticedatoncethebobbingofhishead,asifaneccentricflywheelturnedwithinhim.Itwasmyfirstformalvisitwithapatient,andIwasembarrassed.Whatwouldthisbarefootfarmhandthinkofayoungboyenteringtheexamroom?Buthewasthrilledtoseeme.LaterIrealizedthatpatientsfeltprivilegedtobesingledoutinthisfashion.NotonlyhadtheymadeitpastAdam,notonlyhadtheyseenthetilikdoctor,thesamebigdoctorwhomtheroyaltycametosee,butnowtheygotabonus—me.

GhoshguidedmyfingerstoDemisse'spulseatthewrist.Itwaseasytofeel,unavoidable,asurging,slapping,powerfulwaveundermyfingertips.NowIcouldseethathisheadbobbinghappenedintimewiththepulse.

“Nowfeelmine,”Ghoshsaid,holdingouthiswrist.Itwashardertofind,subtle.

HehadmegobacktoDemisse'spulse.

“Describeit,”Ghoshsaid.

“Big…strong.Likesomethingaliveundertheskin,slapping,”Isaid.

“Exactly!Thatisaclassiccollapsingorwaterhammerpulse.ItsfullnameistheCorrigan'swaterhammerpulse.”

Hehandedmeafoot-longthinglasstubethatIdseenlyingacrosshistable.“Holditup.Nowturnitover.”The tubewassealedatbothendsandhada littlewater in it.When I flipped it, thewaterraceddowntothebottomofthetubewithanunexpectedsmackingsoundandashock.“There'savacuuminside,yousee,”hesaid.“It'satoythatkidsplayedwithinIreland.It'sawaterhammer.Dr.CorriganwasremindedofthetoywhenhefirstfeltapulselikeDemisse's.”

Ghoshhadmadethewaterhammerforme.HehadsealedoneendofaglasstubewithaBunsenflame.Thenheputafewdropsofwaterinsidethetubethroughtheopenend.Heheatedthelengthofthetubeabovetheliquidtodrivetheairoutandquicklysealedtheopenendundertheflame.

“Demisse'sheartshootsbloodoutintotheaorta.That'sthebighighwayleadingoutoftheheart,”hesaid,makingasketchformeonpaper.“Avalverighthereattheexitfromtheheartissupposedtocloseafter theheart contracts, tokeep theblood from fallingback into theheart.Hisdoesn'tclosewell.Sohisheartsqueezesbloodoutjustfine,buthalfofthatejectedbloodfallsrightbackinto theheartbetween squeezes.That'swhat gives it the collapsingquality.”Howexciting to beabletotouchahumanbeingwithone'sfingertipsandknowallthesethingsaboutthem.Isaidas

muchtoGhosh,andfromhisexpressionyouwouldthinkIdsaidsomethingprofound.

Hesent formeoftenduring thoseholidays.Shivacameat times,butnot if it interferedwithhisdance lesson or if he was in themiddle of a drawing. I learned to recognize the slow, heaving,plateaulikepulseof anarrowedaortic valve. Itwas theoppositeof a collapsingpulse.The smallvalveopeningmadethatpulsebothweakandprolonged.Pulsusparvusettardus,Ghoshcalledit.

I lovedthoseLatinwordsfortheirdignity, their foreignness,andthewaymytonguehadtowraparoundthem.Ifeltthatinlearningthespeciallanguageofascholarlyorder,Iwasamassingakindofforce.Thiswasthepureandnoblesideoftheworld,uncorruptedbysecretsandtrickery.Howextraordinarythatawordcouldserveasashorthandforanelaboratetaleofdisease.WhenItriedtoexplainthistoGhosh,hewasexcited.

“Yes!Atreasuretroveofwords!That'swhatyoufindinmedicine.Takethefoodmetaphorsweusetodescribedisease:thenutmegliver,thesagospleen,theanchovysaucesputum,orcurrantjellystools.Why,ifyouconsiderjustfruitsaloneyouhavethestrawberrytongueofscarletfever,whichthenextdaybecomestheraspberrytongue.Orhowaboutthestrawberryangioma,thewatermelonstomach, the apple core lesion of cancer, thepeaud'orange appearance of breast cancer… andthat'sjustfruits!Don'tgetmestartedonthenonvegetarianstuff!”

OnedayIshowedGhoshthenotebookinwhichIkeptawrittencatalogofeverythinghehadtoldme,andeverypulseIhadseen.Likeabirder,IlistedtheonesIsought:pulsuspar-adoxus,pulsusalternans,pulsusbisferiens…andsimpledrawingsofwhattheymightlooklike.Hewroteintheflyleaf:Namet ipsascientiapotestasest! “Thatmeans ‘Knowledge ispower!’Oh, Idobelieve that,Marion.”

Wedidn'tstopatpulses.IwenttoGhoshasoftenasIcould.Fingernails,tongues,faces—soonmynotebookwaschock-fullofdrawingsandnewwords.I founduseat lastformypenmanship:eachfigurewascarefullylabeled.

OnaFridayevening,ourlastweekendbeforeschoolstarted,IrodewithGhoshtoseeFarinachi,thetoolmaker.GhoshhandedFarinachitwooldstethoscopesandadrawingofhis ideaforateachingstethoscope.Farinachi,adour,stoopedSicilian,woreavestunderhisleatherapron.Hestudiedthedrawingcarefullythroughahazeofcigarsmoke,tracingtheoutlinewithalargeforefinger.HehadfashionedseveralcontraptionsforGhosh,includingtheGhoshRetractor,andtheGhoshScalpClip.Farinachishrugged,asiftosayifthatwaswhatGhoshwanted,hewoulddoit.

Aswewere driving back, Ghosh pulled out a present hedwrapped forme. It wasmy very ownbrand-newstethoscope.“Youdon'thavetowaitforFarinachi.Nowthatyouknowyourpulses,we'regoing to start listening toheart sounds.” Iwasmoved. Itwas the firstgift I'dever received thatwasn'toneofapair.Thiswasminealone.

Lookingback,IrealizeGhoshsavedmewhenhecalledmetofeelDemisse'spulse.Mymotherwasdead,andmyfatheraghost;increasinglyIfeltdisconnectedfromShivaandHema,andguiltyforfeelingthatway.Ghosh,ingivingmethestethoscope,wassaying,Marion,youcanbeyou.It'sokay.Heinvitedmetoaworldthatwasn'tsecret,butitwaswellhidden.Youneededaguide.Youhadtoknowwhattolookfor,butalsohowtolook.Youhadtoexertyourselftoseethisworld.Butifyoudid, if you had that kind of curiosity if you had an innate interest in the welfare of your fellowhumanbeings, and if youwent through that door, a strange thing happened: you left your pettytroublesonthethreshold.Itcouldbeaddictive.

CHAPTER22TheSchoolofSuffering

ONEMORNINGtowardtheendofMichaelmasterm,asShiva,Genet,andIwalkedtoMissing'sgate,schoolsatchelsinhand,Isawacoupleracingupthehilltowardus,achildfloppinglifelessintheman'sarms.Theywerereadytodrop,yetstilltryingtorunupthatinclinewhentheyhadnobreathtowalk.Butaslongastheyranwiththechildintheirarms,itwasstillalivetothem,andtherewashope.

Without amoment's hesitation, ShivaMarion raced tomeet them.Theparents’ distress triggeredthis,gaveusnotimetodebateourresponse,asahigherbrainemerged,doingthedecidingforusandguidingus tomoveasoneorganism ifweknewwhatwasbest. I remember thinking, in themidstofthatpanic,howmuchImissedthatstateandhowexhilaratingitwastobeShivaMarion.EvenasIgrabbedtheinfantboyfromthefather(whosegaitbynowhadbecomeawearyshuffle)andracedaway,Shiva'ssteadyhandonmylowbackwasmyafterburner,andhematchedmystrideperfectly,readytotakeoverwhenItired.Iwasconsciousofthebaby'sskin,thewayitchilledmyhand, sucking the heat out of it as I ran—I knew I'd never again take being “warm-blooded” forgranted,havingnowfeltthealternative.

WehandedthechildoverinCasualtyandwewaitedoutside,panting.Whentheparentscaughtup,we held the doors open for them. Minutes later we heard a scream, then loud protests, andultimatelythewailingthatmeansthesameinanylanguage.Itwasalltoofamiliarasound.

TherewasanotherMissingsoundthatmademyadrenalineflow:itwastheshrieking,gratingsoundofGebrewdraggingthebiggateopenasfastasitwouldgo.Italwayssignaledadireemergency.

AchildhoodatMissingimpartedlessonsaboutresilience,aboutfortitude,andaboutthefragilityoflife.Iknewbetterthanmostchildrenhowlittleseparatedtheworldofhealthfromthatofdisease,livingfleshfromtheicytouchofthedead,thesolidgroundfromtreacherousbog.

Id learned things about suffering thatweren't taught tome by Ghosh: First, thatwhitewas theuniformofsuffering,andcottonitsfabric.Whetheritwasthin(ashamaornettald)orheavyasablanket(inwhichcaseitwasagabby),itmustkeeptheheadwarmandthemouthcovered—nosunorwind should hit because these elements carried themitch, thebirrd, and other evilmiasmas.Eventheministerwiththewaistcoatandfobwatchwould,whenhewasill,throwanettalaoverhiscoat,crameucalyptus leafuphisnose,takeanextradoseofkosso fortapeworm,andthenhurryovertobeseen.

Dayafterdayawhite-robedmassflowedupourhill,gravitythecurrentagainstwhichtheyswam.Thosewhosebreathranshortaswellasthecrippledandthelamestoppedatthehalfwaypointtolookup,togazepastthetopsoftheflankingeucalyptustowheretheAfricanhawkssoaredagainstthebluesky.

Once theycrested thehill,patientswent to theregistrationdesk toget theircard.Fromthere itwason toAdam, themanwhomGhoshcalled theWorld'sGreatestOne-EyedClinician. “Shortofbreath,areyou?”Adammightsaytoapatient.“Butstillyoumanagedtorunupthehillandgetthefourthcardof theday?” InAdam'sbook,anumberunder tenon theoutpatientcard identifiedahypochondriacmoreaccuratelythananytestGhoshmightdo.

From my spot observing the daily influx, I once saw a proud Eritrean woman carrying a heavybasket;insidewassomethinglarge,sprouting,withasurfacethatwasred,raw,andweeping.Itwasherbreast.IthadbecomesohugefromcancerthatthiswastheonlywayforherandherbreasttocometoMissing.

Idrewsuchsightsinmynotebook.MysketcheswerenothinglikeShiva's,buttheyservedmewell.Aglanceatthemallowedmetorecallthememory,evenifitwasnotShiva'sphotographickind.

Onpagethirty-fourIdrewachildinprofile,chubby-cheeked,healthy.Butfromtheotherside,hisprofileshowedachunkofhischeek,onenostril,andtheeyemissing,sothathisglisteningteethandpinkgumand the recessof theorbitwerevisible. I learned fromGhosh tocall thisghastlysightcancrumoris. It came about from a trivial gumor tooth infectionwhich spread because ofmalnutrition and neglect, often during an episode of measles or chicken pox. Once ignited, itprogressedrapidly,usuallycausingdeathbeforethechildcouldbebroughttoMissing.Sometimes,thediseasesimplyranoutofsteam,orthebody'sdefenseswerefinallyabletocontainthemarch,but at the expense of half the face. Death was perhaps a better fate than to live with the

disfigurement. IwatchedGhoshoperateon thischild. Itwas terrifying,and then Iwas inaweatwhatthismanwhosatdowntodinnerwithuseachnightwascapableofdoing:rotateaflapofskintocoverthecheek,andanothertheholeinthenose.Furtherflapsandreconstructionheplannedforalatersurgery.Evensotherewasnorestoringtonormaltheface,muchlessthesoul,ofachildso scarred. After the surgery, what Ghosh said to me was, “Don't be too impressed. I'm anaccidentalsurgeon,son.IdoallIcando.Butyourfather…whathecouldhavedonetothatfacewouldhavebeenasgoodasthebestplasticsurgeonalive.Yousee,yourfatherwasarealsurgeon.Idon't think I've seen anyone better.”Whatmade someone a real surgeon, I asked. Ghosh didn'thesitate:“Passionforhiscraft…andskill,dexterity.Hishandswerealways‘quiet.’Imeanhehadnowastedmovements,nodramaticgestures. It lookedslow, routine,butwhenyou lookedat theclockyourealizedhowfastitmusthavebeen.Butevenmoreimportantistheconfidenceonceyoumake the firstcut, thebelief inyourself,whichallowsyou todomoreandgetbetter results. I'mthankful Icandothesimplethings, thebread-and-butteroperations.ButI'mscaredtodeathhalfthetime.”

Hewasbeingmodest.ButitwastruethatGhoshwasadifferentbeingintheoutpatientdepartmentwherehesaw“consultations”—thepatientsBachelliandAdamkept forhimtorenderanopinion.Ghosh'srealskillemergedwiththosewholooked“normal”tomygaze.Hiddenfromusunschooledobservers,adiseasehad left its traces.Awomanwhowovebasketssaid,“OnSt.Stefano'sDay Ipassedurineonabarbed-wirefence…”Orthisfromasad,distraughtcoolie:“ThemorningaftertheWednesdayfast,Iaccidentallysteppedoverthecast-offwaterfromaprostitute'smorningwash…”Ghoshlistened,hiseyestakingintheblistermarksonthesternumwhichsaidthenativehealerhad been consulted; he noted the thick speech and guessed that the uvula had probably beenrecently amputated on a second visit to the same charlatan. ButGhosh had an ear forwhat laybeneaththosesurfacewords,andapointedquestionuncoveredastorywhichmatchedwithoneinhisrepertoireof tales.Thenitwastimeto lookforthefleshsigns, thebookmarksof thedisease,andtopalpateandpercussandlistenwithhisstethoscopeforcluesleftbehind.Heknewhowthatstoryended;thepatientonlyknewthebeginning.

THEREISONELASTSIGHTINGatMissing—whichhadnothingtodowithGhosh—thatImustdescribebecauseithappenedduring thatperiod: itexplainedShiva's lifecourse,andwhy it veeredaway frommymine.

LateonemorningasShivaandIsatontheculvertbythesideofMissing'shill,afrail,barefootgirl,no older than twelve, came stiff-legged up the hill. Prematurely stooped like an oldwoman, sheleanedheavilyonhergiantofafather.Hismuddy,patchedjodhpursballoonedabovebarefeetandhorned toenails. He could have taken the hill in twenty strides. Instead he took small steps toaccommodatehers.Theycrept forward likesnails,whileothervisitorsspedupwhentheynearedthesetwo,asiffatheranddaughtercreatedananimatingfield.Whenshereachedus,Iunderstoodwhy.Anunspeakablescentofdecay,putrefaction,andsomethingelseforwhichthewordsremaintobeinventedreachedournostrils.Isawnopointinholdingmybreathorpinchingmynosebecausethefoulnessinvadedinstantly,coloringourinsideslikeadropofIndiainkinacupofwater.

In the way that children understand their own, we knew her to be innocent of her terrible,overpoweringodor.Itwasofher,butitwasn'thers.Worsethantheodor(sinceshemusthavelivedwith it formore than a few days) was to see in her face the knowledge of how it repulsed andrevoltedothers.Nowondershehadfallenoutofthehabitoflookingathumanfaces;theworldwaslosttoher,andshetoit.

When shepaused to catchherbreath, a slowpuddle formedat herbare feet. Lookingdown theroad, I could see the trail she left behind. I'll never forget her father's face.Under that peasantstrawhatheburnedwith loveforhisdaughter,andrageagainsttheworldthatshunnedher.Hisbloodshoteyesmeteverystareandevensoughtout thosewho triednot to look.Hecursed theirmothers,andcursedthegodstheyworshipped.Hewasderangedbyascenthecouldhaveescaped.

DidIsayshemetnoone'sgaze?Noone'sbutShiva's.Amomentpassedbetweenthem,abarelydiscernible easing of her features, as if Shiva had caressed her, reached out to comfort her.Hisliftedchindippedforher,hiseyesshadedtoblueandhislipssetfirmlytogether.Herlidssuddenlysparkledwithliquid.Thefatherwhohadblasphemedhiswayupthehillfellsilent.

Mybrother,whooncespokewithankletsandwhosedancecouldbeascomplexasahoneybee's,didn'tknowhewoulddedicatehis lifeto justsuchwomen,theoutcastsofsociety;hewouldseekthem at the Autobus Terra as they arrived from the provinces. Hewould pay touts to go to thefurthermostvillagesandfindthemwheretheywerehiddenaway,shunnedbytheirhusbandsand

families.HewouldhavepamphletsdistributedwherevertheCoca-Colatruckwent,whichistosaywherevertherewerepavedroads,askingforthesewomen—girls,really—tocomeoutofhiding,tocometohim,sothathemightcurethem.Hewouldbecometheworld'sexpert…

ButIamaheadofmystory.Shiva'sunderstandingofthemedicalconditionbehindthatodorcamelater. That afternoon, one of many that I spent wondering about my future, Shiva had alreadysprungintoaction.Withhiseyesonher,hewalkedtothemandledfatheranddaughtertoHema.Ilook back now and I realize that in that act his career was already predetermined, and it wasdestinedtodiffervastlyfrommine.

CHAPTER23TheAfterbirdandOtherAnimals

THERAINSHADENDEDandwehadbeenbackinclassfewerthantwoweekswhenHemawokeuswithwhatItooktobegoodnews.“Noschool.We'rekeepingyouhometoday,”shesaid.Somethingabouttroubleinthecity.Taxiswouldn'tberunning.Istoppedlisteningafter“noschool.”

Itwas a perfect day to be home.Meskel celebrationswere to start, and alreadyMissing's fieldswerecarpetedwithyellow.We'dlosethesoccerballinthedaisies,we'dclimbintothetreehouse…ThenIremembered:withGenetunderRosina'swatchfuleye,itwouldn'tbethesame.

I pushed out thewooden shutters ofmy bedroomwindowand climbed onto the ledge. Sunshinefloodedtheroom.Bynoonthetemperaturewouldreachseventy–fivedegrees,butforthemomentIshivered in my bare feet. From my perch, I could see beyond Missing's east wall onto a quietmeanderingroadwhichdescendedandthendisappeared,thehillsrisingjustbeyond,asiftheroadhad gone underground before it emerged in the distance as amere thread. Itwasn't a roadwetraveledorevenonethatIknewhowtogetto,andyetitwasaviewIfeltIowned.Ontheleftsidea fortresslikewall flanked theroad, recedingwith it, struggling tostayvertical.Giantclustersofpurplebougainvilleaspilledover,brushing thewhiteshamasof the fewpedestrians.Therewasaqualitytothispellucidfirstlightandthevividcolorsthatmadeitimpossibletoimaginetrouble.

Inthediningroom,Inoticedthestrained,preoccupiedexpressiononGhosh'sface.Hehadhisshirt,tie,andcoaton.He'dbeenawakeforhours, itseemed.Hema inherdressinggownwashuddlednexttohim,twistinganduntwistingalockofherhair.IwassurprisedtoseeGenetthere;herheadjerked up when I came in, as if she didn't know I lived in the house. Rosina, who usuallyorchestrated ourmornings,was nowhere to be seen. In the kitchen I foundAlmaz frozen by thestove;onlywhentheeggbegantosmokedidshescoopitoffthepanandontomyplate.Inoticedthetearsinhereyes.

“The Emperor,” she said, when I pressed her. “How dare they do this to His Majesty? Whatthanklesspeople!Don'ttheyrememberhesavedusfromtheItalians?Thathe'sGod'schosen?”

Shetoldmewhatsheknew:WhiletheEmperorwasonastatevisittoLiberia,agroupofImperialBodyguard officers seized power during the night. They were led by our own Brigadier GeneralMebratu.

“AndZemui?”

“Heiswiththem,ofcourse!”shesaid,whispering,shakingherheadindisappointment.

“WhereisRosina?”

Shepointedwithherchininthedirectionoftheservant'squarters.

Genetcameintothekitchen,onherwaytothebackdoor.Shelookedfrightened.Istoppedher,andheldherhand.

“Areyouallright?”Inoticedthegoldchainandstrangecrossaroundherneck.

Shenodded,thenwentoutthebackdoor.Almazdidn'tlookather.

“It's true,”Ghoshsaid,back inthediningroom.HeglancedatHema,as if thetwoof themweretryingtodecidehowmuchtodivulgetous.Whattheycouldn'thidewastheiranxiety.

ThepreviouseveningGeneralMebratuwenttotheCrownPrince'sresidencetotellhimthatotherswere plotting a coup against his father. At the General's urging, the Crown Prince summonedministersloyaltotheEmperor.Whentheycame,GeneralMebratuarrestedthemall.

Itwasabrilliantploy,butitunsettledme.Icouldn'timagineEthiopiawithoutHaileSelassieatthehelm—nobody could. The country and theman seemed to go together.GeneralMebratuwas ourhero,adashingfigurewhocoulddonowrong.TheEmperorhadlostsomeofhisglowforus.ButIneverexpected thisof theGeneral—was thisabetrayal,adarksideofhis thathademerged?Orwashedoingtherightthing?

“Howdoyouknowallthis?”Iasked.

Oneoftheprisoners,anoldandfrailminister,hadhadanasthmaattack,andsoGhoshhadbeensummoned to the Crown Prince's residence in the early morning. “The General doesn't wantanyonedyingifhecanhelpit.Hewantsittobepeaceful.”

“DoeshewanttobeEmperor?”Iasked.

Ghoshshookhishead.“No,Idon'tthinkthat'sitatall.Whathewantsisforthepoortohavefood,tohaveland.ThatmeanstakingitfromtheroyalsandfromtheChurch.”

“Soisthisagoodthingheisdoing,orabadthing?”Shivaasked,lookingupfromthebookhehadbroughttothetable.ThatwasShiva:hehatedambiguity,andhewantedthingscutanddried.OftenwhenShivaaskedsuchaquestion,itwasbecausehedidn'tseewhatwasobvioustome.Butinthiscase,itwasagoodquestion,onethatIwantedtoask,too.“Isn'ttheImperialBodyguardsupposedtodefendtheEmperor?”Shivaadded.

Ghoshwinced,asifShiva'squeryhurt.

“Thisisn'tmycountry,sowhoamItojudge?Mebratuhasagoodlife.Hedidn'thavetodothis.Idothink he's doing this for the people. Long ago he was under great suspicion, then he was thefavoriteson,andrecentlyhewasundersuspicionagain,andhefelthemightbearrestedverysoonanyway.”

Ghoshsaidthat,ashelefttheCrownPrince'spalace,ZemuihadwalkedGhoshtohiscarandgivenGhoshsomething togive toGenet. Itwas thegoldpendantDarwinEastonhad takenoffhisownneckandgiventoZemui—theSt.Bridget'scross.He'daskedGhoshtoconveyhislovetoherandtoRosina.

AfterHemadressed,sheandGhoshleftforthehospital.“Stayclosetohome,boys.Youhear?”WewerenottoleaveMissingproperty,nomatterwhat.

Iwenttothegate.Imetjustthreepatientscomingupthehill.NocarorbuspassedbyMissing.IstoodwithGebrew,staringout.Thesilencewaseerie,noteventheclip-clopofhorseshoesorthejingleofharnessbellstobreakthestillness.“Whenthefour-leggedtaxisstayintheirstables,youknowthingsareserious,”Gebrewsaid.

Therewerebars,a tailor'sshop,andaradiorepairshop in thetwocinder-blockbuildingsacrossfromus; but therewasno sign of life. IgnoringHemaandGhosh'swarnings, and overGebrew'sprotests,IcrossedtheroadtothetinyArabsouk,aplywoodstructurepaintedcanaryyellowthatsatbetweenthelargerbuildings.Thewindowthroughwhichthesoukusuallyconductedbusinesswasshuttered,butachildemergedthroughthedoor,whichwasbarelycrackedopen,carryingacone-shapedpackagemadeoutofnewspaperandwrappedintwine.Probablytencents’worthofsugarforthemorningtea.Islippedin.Theair insidewasthickwithincense.IfI leanedoverthecounterIcouldtouchthebackwall.TheArabsouksalloverAddiswerelikethis,asiftheydcomefrom the samewomb.Dangling down from the ceiling, on clothespins attached to a string,weresingle-use packets of Tide, Bayer aspirin, Chiclets, and paracetamol. They twirled like partydecorations. A meat hook hanging from the rafters held squares of newspaper, ready to use aswrapping.Arolloftwinehungonanotherhook.Loosecigarettessatinajarontopofthecounter,unopenedcigarettepacksstackednexttothem.Theshelveswerestuffedwithmatchboxes,bottledsodas,Bicpens,pencilsharpeners,Vicks,NiveaCreme,notebooks,erasers,ink,candles,batteries,Coca-Cola, Fanta, Pepsi, sugar, tea, rice, bread, cooking oil, and much more. Mason jars full ofcaramelaandcookiesflankedthecounter,leavinganopeninginthemiddleoverwhichIleaned.IsawAliOsman,lacecapgluedtohishead,seatedonthematalongwithhiswife,infantdaughter,andtwomen.ThefloorspacewashardlybigenoughforAliandhisfamilytosleepspoonedagainstoneanother,kneesbent,andnowhehadvisitors.Theysataroundapileofkhat.

Aliwasworried. “Marion, times like this arewhen foreigners like us can suffer,” he said. Itwasstrangetohearhimusethewordferengitodescribehimself,orme,becausewewerebothborninthisland.

IcrossedbackovertoGebrewandsharedwithhimsomestickcandyIhadbought.

SuddenlyRosinawalked right past us. “Look afterGenet,” she called over her shoulder. I didn'tknowwhethershemeantmeorGebrew.

“Wait!”Gebrewsaid,butshedidn't.

Iranafterherandgrabbedherhand.“Wait,Rosina.Whereareyougoing?Please.”

Shespunonmeas if to tellmeoff,but thenher facesoftened.Shewaspale,andhereyeswerepuffyfromcrying.Theskinwastightoverherjaw,whetherinfearordeterminationIcouldn'ttell.

“Theboyisright.Don'tgo,”Gebrewsaid.

“Whatwould you haveme do, priest? I haven't seen Zemui in aweek.He's a simple fellow. I'mworried forhim.He'll listen tome. I'll tellhimhemustbe loyal toGod,and theEmperor,beforeanythingelse.”Iwassuddenlyscared.IclungtoRosina.Shepulledherselffree,butgently.Outofhabit,shepinchedmeonthecheekandranherhandthroughmyhair.Shekissedmeonthetopofmyhead.

“Bereasonable,”Gebrewsaid.“TheImperialBodyguardheadquartersistoofaraway.Ifhe'swiththeGeneral, thenhe's in thepalace.You'll bewalking rightpast the armyheadquarters and theSixthPoliceStation.Itwilltakeyoutoolong.”

Withawaveshewasgone.Gebrew,whoseeyeswereperpetuallyweepyfromtrachoma,lookedasifhemightbawl.HeperceivedadangerfargreaterthananythingIcouldimagine.

Tenminuteslater,ajeepwithamountedmachinegunappeared,followedbyanarmoredcar.Theywere ImperialBodyguardsoldiers,wearinggrimexpressionsandalsocombathelmets inplaceoftheirusualpithhelmets.Camouflagefatiguesandammobeltshadreplacedtheregularolive-greendrill.Avoicecameovera loudspeakermountedonthearmoredtruck:“People.Remaincalm.HisMajesty Crown Prince Asfa Wossen has taken over the government. He will be making anannouncementatnoon today.Listen toRadioAddisAbabaatnoon.RadioAddis atnoon.People.Remaincalm…”

Iwandered away from the gate and drifted over to the hospital.W.W.Gonadwas sitting in thebreezewayoutsidethebloodbank,atransistorradioinhislap,andnursesandprobationerssittingclosetohim.Helookedexcited,happy.

AtnooninourbungalowwegatheredaroundtheGrundigandRosina'stransistorradio,onetunedto theBBCand thesecond toRadioAddisAbaba.Almazstood tooneside;Genetsharedachairwithme.Hematooktheclockdownfromthemantelpieceandwoundit;theunguardedexpressiononherfaceshowedthedepthofheranxiety.Matronseemedtheleastconcerned,blowingonacupof dark coffee, smiling at me. A faceless, stentorian English voice said, “This is the BBC WorldService.”

At last, the announcermoved from a coal strike in Britain to what interested us. “Reports fromAddisAbaba,thecapitalofEthiopia,indicatethatabloodlesscouphastakenplacewhileEmperorHaile Selassie was away on a state visit to Liberia. The Emperor has cut short his visit andabandonedhisplansforastatevisittoBrazil.”

“Coup”was a newword forme. It implied something ancient and elegant, and yet the adjective“bloodless”impliedthattherehadtobea“bloody”variety.

I confess that at that moment I was thrilled to hear our city and even the Imperial Bodyguard,mentioned by the BBC. The British knew nothing of Missing, or the view of the road from mywindow.Butnow,we'dmade them look in ourdirection.Years later,when IdiAmin said anddidoutrageous things, I understood that hismotivation was to rattle the good people of Greenwichmeantime,havethemraisetheirheadsfromtheirteaandscones,andsay,Oh,yes.Africa.Forafleetingmomenttheydhavethesameawarenessofusthatwehadofthem.

ButhowwasitthattheBBCcouldlookoutfromLondonandseewhatwashappeningtous?WhenwelookedoverthewallsofMissingwesawnothing.

Wellafternoon,andlongaftertheBBCbroadcast,themartialmusiconRadioAddisAbabaceasedand,witharustleofpapers,astutteringCrownPrinceAsfaWossencameontheair.WhatlittleIhadseenoftheportly,paleeldestsoninthenewspaperandinthefleshsuggestedamanwhomightscreamatthesightofamouse;helackedtheEmperor'scharismaandbearing.TheCrownPrincereadastatement—anditwasclearhewasreading—inthehighAmharicofofficialdom,difficultforanyonebutAlmazandGebrewtounderstand.Whenhewasdone,Almazleftthediningroom,upset.Minuteslater—howdidtheydothis?—theBBCairedatranslation.

“ThepeopleofEthiopiahavewaitedforthedaywhenpovertyandbackwardnesswouldceasetobe,butnothinghasbeenachieved…”

TheCrownPrincesaidhisfatherhadfailedthecountry.Itwastimefornewleadership.Anewdaywasdawning.LongliveEthiopia.

“ThoseareGeneralMebratu'swords,”Ghoshsaid.

“Morelikehisbrother's,”Hemasaid.

“TheymusthaveaguntotheCrownPrince'shead,”Matronsaid.“Idon'thearanyconvictioninhisvoice.”

“Well,thenheshould'verefusedtoreadit,”Isaid.Everyoneturnedtolookatme.EvenShivaliftedhisheadupfromthebookhewasreading.“Heshouldsay,‘No,Iwon'treadit.Iwouldratherdiethanbetraymyfather.’“

“Marion'sright,”Matronsaid,atlast.“Itdoesn'tsaymuchabouttheCrownPrince'scharacter.”

“It'sjustaploy,usingtheCrownPrince,”Ghoshsaid.“Theydon'twanttodumpthemonarchyrightaway.Theywantthepublictogetusedtotheideaofachange.DidyouseehowupsetAlmazisattheideaofsomeonedeposingtheEmperor?”

“Whydotheycareaboutthepublic?Theyhavetheguns.Thepower,”Hemasaid.

“They care about a civil war,” Ghosh said. “The peasantsworship the Emperor. Don't forget theTerritorialArmy,allthoseagingfighterswhobattledtheItalians.ThoseirregularsareneitherarmynorBodyguard,buttheyfaroutnumberthem.Theycancomepouringintotown.”

“Theymightanyway,”Matronsaid.

“Mebratucouldn'tgetthearmy,police,orairforce'ssupportaheadoftime,”Ghoshsaid.“Isupposethemorepeopleheinvolvedbeforethecoup,themorelikelyhe'dhavebeenbetrayed.TheGeneralandhisbrother,Eskinder,werearguingwhenIgottherethismorning.Eskinderhadwantedtotrapallthearmygeneralsthepreviousnight,usingthesamerusethathadtrappedtheotherloyalists.ButtheGeneralvetoedthat.”

“YousawtheGeneralwhenyouwentthere?”Iasked.

“Iwishhehadn't,”Hemasaid.“Hehasnobusinessgettinginthemiddleofthis,”shesaidlookingcross.

Ghoshsighed.“Iwentasaphysician,Hema,Itoldyou.WhenIgotthere,TsigueDebou,theheadofthepolice,hadthrowninhislotwithMebratu.HeandEskinderwerepressingtheGeneraltoattackthearmyheadquartersbefore thearmycangetorganized.Buthe refused.Hewas…emotional.Thesewerehis friends,hispeers.Hewas sure thatgoodmen in theother serviceswould throwtheirlotinwithhim.Youknowhetookthetimetoseemetothedoor,hethankedme.Hetoldmehewasdeterminedtoavoidbloodshed.”

THE REST OF THE DAY went by with the streets eerily silent. Very few patients came to Missing, andpatientswhocouldleavefledforhome.Wesatgluedtotheradio.

Genetstayedinherquartersalone.Inthelateafternoon,Hemasentmetofetchher.Iledherbackbythehand.Sheputonabravefront,butIknewshewasworriedandscared.Thatnight,shesleptonoursofa:therewasnosignofRosina.

Thenextday,thecitywassoquiet,andtheonlythingcirculatingwasrumors.Onlythebravestofshopkeepers opened his doors. Word was that the army was still wavering, undecided aboutwhethertosupportthecoupleadersorremainloyaltotheEmperor.

Atnoon,Gebrewcametotellusthatweshouldgotothegate.Wegotthereintimetoseeahugeprocession of university students carrying Ethiopian flags, their faces glowing with sweat andexcitement. They were grouped under banners: COLLEGE OF ARTS AND SCIENCES, COLLEGE OF ENGINEERING …Marshalswitharmbandskeptorder.Tomyamazement,therewasW.W.Gonadmarchingunderthebanner of theSchool ofBusiness.Hegaveus a sheepishgrin, adjustedhis tie, andmarchedon,trying to look likeamemberof the faculty.Theremusthavebeenseveral thousandstudentsandstaff,andtheychantedinonevoiceinAmharic:

Mycountrymenawake—historycallsyouNomoreslavery,letfreedomreignanew

BannersinEnglishread:FOREVERYONE,ABLOODLESSREVOLUTIONandLETUSSTANDPEACEFULLYWITHTHENEWGOVERNMENT

OFTHEPEOPLE.

Thestreetwaslinedwithwaryonlookerswho,likeus,hadbeenindoorsmuchtoolong.Straydogs

gathered,barkingatthemarchersandaddingtothenoise.Aprettystudentinjeansputleafletsinourhands.Almazpushedthepaperawayas if itwerecontaminated.“Hey,miss!Isthiswhytheysentyoutouniversity?”Almazcalledafterher.

Anoldmanwithabeardwavedhis flyswatteras ifheweretryingtosmackthestudents.“Ifyouwerestudying,youshouldn'thavetimeforthis,”heshouted.“Don'tforgetwhobuiltyouruniversity,whotaughtyoutoread!”

We learned later from W. W. Gonad that in the Merkato the Muslims and Eritrean shopkeepersreceivedthestudentswithcheers.ButelsewhereinAddis,theirreceptionbythepublicwascold,and when the procession turned to reach the army headquarters, where they had intended toconvincethearmytojointherevolt,theyweremetatanintersectionbyanarmyplatoonincombatgear. The young commander told the crowd that they had exactly oneminute to disperse or hewould give his soldiers orders to fire. The students tried to argue, but the sounds of rifle boltspullingbackconvincedthemarcherstoretreat.ThatwaswhenW.W.Gonadlefttherally.

Iwas still pleased tobeoutof school, but theanxietyon the facesof theadultshad rubbedoff.GhoshandMatronreturnedtothehospitaltoprepareforcasualties.HemahadherVersionClinicthatafternoon.Shiva,who till thenhad little interest inwhatwasgoingon,wasuneasy, as ifhesensedsomethingnooneelsedid.UnusualforShiva,heaskedHemaifshewouldstayhomeandnottogotowork.

“Idon'twanttoleave,mylove,”shesaid,agonizingoverwhattodo,“butIhaveVersionClinic.”

“Takeuswithyou,”Shivasaid.Thenheadded,“WepracticedBick-ham.Seemypaper?Justasyoutoldus.”Hiscalligraphywasbetterthantheexamplesoftheornateandroundstyleinthebook.“Soplease?”

“Ireallycan't…,”Hemasaid.“Ihavetogotothelaborroomfirstbeforeclinic.”

“We'llgowithyou,”Shivasaid.

“No.Iwon'thaveyouinthelaborroom.”ShecouldseethedisappointmentinShiva'sface.“Itellyouwhat,youboysgototheVersionClinicandwaitforme.Whateveryoudo,staytogether.”

Thiswastherarestofinvitations.UnlikeGhosh,ifHemacarriedastethoscope,shedidn'tbringithome. Thewhite coatwe glimpsed herwearing in the hospital stayed there. I rarely thought ofHemaasadoctorbecauseathomeshewasallmother.Ghoshconstantlytalkedmedicine,butHemanever did. We knew she went to Labor and Delivery and that she operated on Mondays andWednesdays.Fromwhatweoverheard,shewasverygoodandingreatdemand,butthespecificswere not mentionable to us. She wanted us to always know that her eyes were on us, and nodoctoring would distract her from that vigilance. The Version Clinic was a good example. We'dheardofitforyears,butwehadn'ttheleastideawhatwentonthere.Accordingtothedictionary,onemeaningof“version”wasfromtheLatin,versus—”toturn.”

Hema'sdepartures in thenight camewith cryptic phrases,words stranger than “version” tossedoverhershoulder:“eclampsia”or“post-partumhemorrhage”or,thatmostchillingtermofall,the“DelayedAfterbird.” That onewasn't even in themedical dictionary.And younever heard of theAfterbirdexceptwhenitwasDelayed.Itwasfeared,andyetitsarrivalwasnecessary.ShivaandIlookedforthatDelayedAfterbirdonthetreesofMissing,orhighupinthesky.

Shiva drew the Afterbird, and in his many renderings it was like a flying wing, an elongatedtriangle, sightless, legless, but beautiful, sleek, aerodynamic, and utterly mysterious. Could ourmother'sdeathbelinkedtotheDelayedAfterbird?ItwouldhavebeensoeasytoaskHema.Butthetopicwasoff-limits.AtleastthatwashowHemamadeitfeel.

THEWOMEN'SCLINICbehindthemainhospitalbuildingdeviatedfromthewhitewasheddecorofMissing,because it had lime-green paint on the outer walls and blue banisters. A hygenia tree droppedorangeblossomsonthesteps.Thesoilunderneaththetreewasaflamewithbluelobeliaandpinkclover.Wefoundagaggleofpregnantpatientsseatedonthesteps,theirhaircoveredbyshashes.Whilewaiting,theydtuckedfreshblossomsbehindtheirearsandstretchedtheirlegsoutinfrontofthem. Their white shamas glowed in the sun, and with bellies swollen, clutching their pinkoutpatientcards,theyresembledaflockoflivelygeese.Somewerebarefoot,andthosewhoweren'thadeasedofftheirplasticshoes.Itwastenseinthecity,butlookingatthesewoman,andhearingtheirlaughter,theircomplaintsaboutswollenankles,husbands,orheartburn,youwouldneverhaveknown.

Whentheyspottedus,theycalledusovertoshakeourhands,askournames,ourage,fusswithour

hair,andremarkonoursimilarity.Theyinsistedthatwesitwiththem,andIwouldhavedeclined,exceptShivahappilysaidyes.Isatthereembarrassed,likeachicksquishedbetweenhens.Shivaseemedtobeinheaven.

Sooftenwenevertrulyseeourownfamilyanditisforotherstotellusthatthey'vegrowntallerorolder.Iconfess,ImostlytookShiva'sappearanceforgranted—hewasmytwinafterall.Butatthatmoment,Iwasseeingmybrotheranew:thelargeroundedforehead,thecurlsthatpileduponhishead,threateningtofallforwardandobscurehissight,theequanimityaroundthebrowandeyes,andhismannerismofputtinghisfingeralongsidehischeekjustliketheNehruportraitonourwallathome.Whatwascompletelynewwas this smilewhich transformedmywombmate intoablue-eyed stranger, rendering a lightness to his being, so thatwere it not for the sturdy female armsdrapedoverhisshoulders,caresssinghishair,hewouldhavefloatedoffthosesteps.

AwomanreadapinkpamphletthathadbeendroppedoverthePiazzaandMerkatobyanairforceplane. She was the lone woman who could read, albeit slowly: “Message from His Holiness,PatriarchoftheChurch,AbunaBasilios,”shesaid,andheadsatoncebowed,andhandsmadethesignofthecross,asifHisHolinesswereonthestepswiththem.“Tomychildren,theChristiansofEthiopia and to the entireEthiopian people. Yesterday, at about ten in the evening, the ImperialBodyguardsoldierswhowereentrustedwiththesafetyandwelfareoftheroyalfamilycommittedcrimesoftreacheryagainsttheircountry…”

Seated intheirmidst,sweating inthesun, Ishivered. Icouldseethatthepatriarch'swordsrangtruefortheseladies.HewasspeakingforGod.Thisdidnotbodewellforthemanwesoadmired,GeneralMebratu.

Thewomenturnednaughtyafterthat,mockingtheBodyguardandthenmeningeneral, laughingandcarryingonas if theywereatawedding.Shivawas inrapture,grinningfromeartoear.Hisearlierapprehensionhadvanished. Itwasas ifhed foundhis idealspot, surroundedbypregnantwomen.TherewasmuchaboutmybrotherIdidnotunderstand.

WhenHemaappeared,thewomenstruggledtotheirfeet,despiteHema'sprotests.Amother'sprideshowedinHema'seyestoseeusadoptedbyherpatients.

THREEATA TIME, thewomenmountedtheexaminingtables.Theypushedtheirskirtsdownjustbelowtheirbelliesandpulled theirchemisesup toexpose theirwatermelonswellings.Whenoneof thepatientsonthetablewavedtoShivatocomecloseandholdherhand,hesteppedin,andIfollowed.Hemabithertongue.

“All late third trimester,”Hemasaid,afterawhile,withoutexplainingwhat thatmeant.Sheusedbothhandstoconfirmthatthebaby'spositionwas“somethingotherthanheaddown.Ababycan'tcomeouteasilyunlessitsheadispointingdowntothemother'sfeet.ThatiswhythePrenatalClinicsentthemheretoVersionClinic,”shesaid,mentioninganotherclinicwhichweknewsheattendedinthisveryroombutonadifferentday.

Shepulledoutastrange,stuntedversionofastethoscope—afeto-scope.ThebellofthestethoscopehadaU-shapedmetalbracketonwhichshecouldrestherforehead,andthenusetheweightofherheadtopressthebellintotheskin,leavingherhandsfreetostabilizethebelly.Sheheldupafingerlikeaconductorsignalingforquiet.Conversationstopped,andthepatientsonthestretchersandthe throng around the door held their breaths, till Hema raised up and said, “Galloping like astallion!”Ascoreofvoicesadded,“Praisethesaints!”Hemadidn'toffertoletuslisten.

Shegotdowntobusiness.“WiththishandIcupthebaby'shead.MyotherhandIputherewherethebaby'sbottomis—howdoIknow?”ShelookedatShivaasifhisquestionwasimpertinent.Thenshelaughed.“DoyouknowhowmanythousandsofbabiesI'vefeltthisway,myson?Idon'thavetothink.Theheadisthiscoconutlikehardness.Thebottomissofter,notasdistinct.Myhandsgivemeapicture,”shesaid,outliningashapeintheairabovetheexposedbelly.“Thebaby'sbackistome.Nowwatch.”Shesetherfeet,thenusingfirmandsteadypressureofhercuppedhands,shepushedtheheadoneway,thebutttheotherway,whilealsopushingherhandstowardeachotherasiftokeep the baby curled up. Something in the way her thumbs were aligned with the rest of herfingers,allheldclosetogether,remindedmeofherBharatnatyamdancegestures.“There!Yousee?Aninitialresistance,astickiness,thenitgives,andthebabytumblesover.”Isawnothing.“Well,ofcourseyoudidn'tsee.Thebaby'sfloatinginwater.OnceIstarttheturn,thebabyfinishesthelastquarterturnbyitself.Nowit'snotabreechbaby.It'saheadpresentation.Normal.”Shelistenedtothefetalheartagaintobesureitwasstillstrong.

Innotime,Hema,possessedofthesamebustlingenergywithwhichshedealtcardsordrilledusonourspelling,wasdone.Onlyonebabyrefusedtosomersault.

“ForallIknow,thiscliniccouldbethebiggestwasteoftime.Ghoshwantsmetodoastudytoseehow many babies float back to where they were after version. You know how he talks. ‘Theunexaminedpracticeisnotworthpracticing.’“Shesnorted,rememberingsomethingelse.“IhadafriendwhenIwasachild,aneighborboybythenameofVelu.Hekeptchickens.Nowandthenahenwouldcluckinapeculiarway,andVeluknew,don'taskmehow,thatitmeantaneggwasstuckina transverseposition.Hewouldreach inand turn it tovertical.Thechickenstoppedclucking,and the eggwould pop out. Veluwas obnoxious at your age. But I remember his trickwith thechickennow,andIwonderifIunderestimatedhim.”

Ididn'tsayawordforfearofbreakingthespell.Itwassoraretohearherthinkaloudlikethis.

“Between you and me, boys, I have no desire to publish a paper that might put me out of thisbusiness.IenjoyVersionClinic.”

“Me,too,”Shivasaid.

“WhetheritisIndiaorhere,theladiesareallthesame,”Hemasaid,gazingatthewomenmillingaround.Noonehadleft.Theywaitedforthetea,bread,andvitaminpillthatwouldfollowtheclinic.TheygrinnedbackatHemawith sisterly affection—no,with adoration. “Lookat them!All happyandradiant.Inafewweeks,whenlaborstarts,they'llbeyelling,screaming,cursingtheirhusbands.They'llturnintoshe-devils.Youwon'trecognizethem.Butnowthey'relikeangels.”Shesighed.“Awomanisnevermoreawomanthaninthisstate.”

Theproblemsofthecityandthecountryhaddisappeared,atleastformeandShiva.HowfortunateweweretohaveHemaandGhoshasparents.Whatwastheretofear?

“Ma,”Shivasaid,“Ghoshsayspregnancyisasexuallytransmitteddisease.”

“Hesaysitknowingyouwillrepeatittome.Thatrascal.Heshouldn'tbetellingyousuchthings.”

“Canyoushowuswherethebabycomesout?”Shivasaid.Iknewhewasutterlyserious,andIalsoknew that with those words hed broken the spell. I was furious with him. Kids need a certaincunning when it comes to dealing with adults, and somehow Shiva had none. In the samemysterious fashion with which permanent teeth arrived, so also self-consciousness andembarrassment came to camouflage my guilt, while shame took root in my body as a price forcuriosity.

“Okay.That'senough.Timeforyouchapstogohome,”Hemasaid.

“Ma,whatdoestheword‘sexual’mean?”Shivasaid,asshepushedusout.Istudiedmytwin.Foronce I was unsure of his intent:Was he teasing her, or was this just his unconventional way ofthinking?Hema'sresponseonlyaddedtomyconfusion:“Ihavetogotothewardsforashorttime.You boys don't leave the house.” She shooed us off.Her tonewas annoyed, and yet if Iwas notmistaken,shewastryingveryhardtohideasmile.

CHAPTER24LovingtheDying

INACOUNTRYwhereyoucannotdescribethebeautyofthelandIwithoutusingtheword“sky,”thesightofthreejetsstreakingupinaJLsteepclimbwasbreathtaking.

Ihappenedtobeoutsideonthefrontlawn.TheshockwavetraveledthroughtheearthtomyfeetandranupmyspinebeforeIheardtheexplosion.Istoodrootedthere.Smokeroseinthedistance.Thestunnedsilencethatfollowedwasshatteredbythescreechofhundredsofbirds,whichtooktothesky,andbythebarkingofeverydoginthecity.

I still wanted to believe that this—the jets, the bombs—was all part of some grand plan, theexpected course of events, and that Hema and Ghosh understood what was going on, even if Ididn't.Whateverthiswas,theycouldturnitaround.

WhenGhoshemergedfromthehouse,runningasfastashecould,andwhenhegrabbedme,fearandconcerninhiseyes,thelastofmyillusionsvanished.Theadultsweren'tincharge.Therewereclues to that earlier, I suppose, but even when I had seen the old woman pummeled by theEmperor'sguards,itsuitedmetobelievethatHemaandGhoshstillcontrolledtheuniverse.

Butfixingthiswasbeyondtheirability.

GHOSH, HEMA, AND ALMAZ draggedmattresses into the corridor.Ourwhitewashedchikka walls—packedmud and straw—offered little protection. In the corridor, the bulletswould at least have to passthrough twoor threechikka walls. Bulletswhined overhead, sounding close,while the pops andthuds sounded distant. Glass tinkled in the kitchen, and laterwe found a bullet had shattered apane.I layonthemattress, frozen,mybodyincapableofmovement.Iwaitedforsomeonetosay,Thisisacolossalerrorthatwillsoonbecorrected,andyoucangooutandplayagain.

“Isupposewecanassumethearmyandairforcedecidednottojointhecoup,”Ghoshsaid,lookingtoseeifthisunderstatementgotaresponsefromHema.Itdid.

Genet's lipswerequivering. Icouldonly imaginehowworriedshewas: I feltacold flutter inmybellywheneverIthoughtaboutRosina,goneformorethantwenty-fourhoursnow.Ireachedout,andGenetclutchedmyhand.

Bydusk,thefiringintensified,anditturnedbitterlycold.Matron,fearless,wentbackandforthtothehospital, despite ourpleas that she stay.When I had togo to thebathroom I crawled. I sawthroughthewindowthebrighttracerscrisscrossingthesky.

Gebrewlockedandchainedthemaingateandwithdrewfromhissentryhut to themainhospitalcomplex.Thenursesandnursingstudentswerebeddeddowninthenurses’diningroomwithW.W.GonadaswellasAdam,thehospitalcompounder,watchingoverthem.

NEAR MIDNIGHT, therewasaknockatourbackdoor, andwhenGhoshopened it, there stoodRosina!Genet,Shiva,and Iswarmedalloverher,huggingher.Throughhot tearsGenetscreamedathermotherinTigrinyaforleavingherandmakingherworry.

MatronstoodgrinningjustbehindRosina;someinstincthadmadeMatronandGebrewgodowntothe lockedgatetocheckone last time.Huddledagainst it theyfoundRosina,shelteringfromthewind.

As she gobbled down food, Rosina told us that thingsweremuchworse than she'd imagined. “Iwanted to reach the upper part of town, but there was an army roadblock. I had to take a bigdetour,firstthisway,thenthat.”Afirefightaroundavillaforcedhertotakecover,andthenarmytanksandarmoredvehiclespreventedherreturn.ShespentthenightontheporchofashopattheMerkato,whereotherstrappedbydarknesshadtakenshelter.Inthemorning,she'dbeenunabletomovefromtheMerkatobecauseofroamingarmyplatoonswhoorderedeveryoneoffthestreet.Ithad takenher tillnightfall tocoveradistanceof threemiles.Sheconfirmedourworst fears: theImperialBodyguardwasunderattackbythearmy,airforce,andpolice.Pitchedbattleswerebeingfoughtallover,butthearmywassteadilyconcentratingitseffortsonGeneralMebratu'sposition.

Rosinasnuckofftoherquarterstowashandchangeclothes,andshereturnedwithhermattress,andalsowithcaramelaforus.Genetstillhadn'tforgivenher,butsheclungtoher.

Matronsankdownonthemattressandstretchedoutherfeet.Shereachedunderhersweaterandpulledoutarevolver,tuckingitbetweenmattressandwall.

“Matron!”Hemasaid.

“Iknow,Hema…Ididn'tbuythiswiththeBaptistmoney,ifthatiswhatyouarethinking.”

“That'snotwhatIwasthinkingatall,”Hemasaid,lookingatthegunasifitmightexplode.

“Ipromiseyou,thiswasagift.Ikeepitinaplacewherenosoulcouldfindit.Butyousee,looters—that'swhatweneedtoworryabout,”Matronsaid.“Thismightstopthem.Ididbuytwootherguns.I'vepassedthemouttoW.W.GonadandAdam.”

Almazcarriedinabasketofinjeraandlambcurry.Weatewithourfingersfromthiscommunaldish.Thenitwasbacktowaiting, listeningtothecracklesandpopsinthedistance.Iwastootensetoreadordoanythingbutliethere.

Shivasatcross-legged.Hecarefullyfoldedasheetofpaper,thentoreitinhalfandthenrepeatedtheprocessagainandagaintillhehadabunchoftinysquares.IknewhewasjustasshakenasIwasby the turnofevents.Watchinghishandsmovingmethodically, I feltas if Iwaskeepingmymindandmyhandsbusy.Nowheputonepapersquareby itself, thencountedandstackedthreesquaresnexttoit,thenseven,theneleven.Ihadtoask.

“Primenumbers,”hesaidasifthatexplainedanything.Herockedbackandforth,hislipsmoving.Imarveledathisgift fordistancinghimselffromwhatwasgoingonbydancing,orbydrawingthemotorcycle,orplayingwithprimenumbers.Hehadsomanywaysofclimbingintothetreehouseinhishead,escapingthemadnessbelow,andpullingtheladderupbehindhim;Iwasenvious.

ButShiva'sescapewasincompletetonight;Iknew,becauseinwatchinghim,Ifeltnorelief.

“Don'ttry,”IsaidtoShiva.“Let'sgotosleep.”

Heputhispapersawayatonce.

RosinaandGenetwerealreadyfastasleep,bothexhausted.Rosina'sreturnwasagreatreprieve,but my greatest relief that night came when my head touched Shiva's, a sense of safety andcompletion,ahomeattheendoftheworld.ThankGodthatwhateverhappenedwedalwayshaveShivaMarion to fall back on, I thought. Surely, we could always summon ShivaMarion when weneededto,thoughIguiltilyrememberedthatwehadn'tdonesoinawhile.Inudgedhisribsandhenudgedback, and I could feel him smilewithout openinghis eyes. I took reassurance from that,becauseearlier thatdayhedbeena stranger sittingon theVersionClinic steps,butnowhewasShivaagain.Togetherwehadanunfairadvantageontherestoftheworld.

IawokeatsomepointtofindeveryonebutMatronandGhoshasleep.Thegunfirecameinintensebursts,butwithunpredictablemomentsofquiet,sothatIcouldhearMatronclearlyasshespoketoGhosh:“WhentheEmperor fledAddis in ‘36, justbefore the Italiansmarched in, itwaschaos…IshouldhavegonetotheBritishLegation.OnelookattheSikhinfantrymenatthegate,withtheirturbansandbeardsandbayonets,andnolooterwasgoingtogetnear.BiggestmistakeImadewasnottogothere.”

“Whydidn'tyou?

“Embarrassment.I'ddinedoncewiththeambassadorandhiswife.Ifeltsooutofplace.ThankGodforJohnMellyHewasayoungmissionarydoctor.Hesatnexttome.Hetalkedabouthisfaith,andhishopestobuildamedicalschoolhere…”Hervoicetrailedoff.

“Youtoldmeabouthimonce,”Ghoshsaid.“Youlovedhim.Yousaidonedayyou'dtellmeallaboutit.”

Therewasalongsilence.Iwastemptedtoopenmyeyes,butIknewthatwouldbreakthespell.

Matron'svoicesoundedthick.“Bystayinghere,IwasresponsibleforJohnMelly'sdeath.Itwasn'tMissingHospitalthen.Surely,ahospitalwillbesparediswhatIthoughtanyway.Butourownwardboyledamobhere.Theysnatchedayoungnursingassistantandrapedher.Ifledtotheotherendofthe infirmary,whereI foundDr.Sorkis.Younevermethim.AHungarian.Aterriblesurgeon,amorosefellow.Heoperatedlikeatechnician.Disinterested.We'dhadsuchaparadeofshort-timedoctorstillyouandHemaandStonearrived…”Shesighedagain.“Onthatnight, though,Sorkis

madeall thedifference in theworld.Hehada shotgunandapistol.When themob reached theinfirmary,IpleadedthroughthecloseddoorwithTesfaye—thatwasthewardboy'sname—‘Don'tbepartofthisevil,forthesakeofGod.’Oh,buthemockedme.‘ThereisnoGod,Matron,’hesaid.Saidmanyothervilethings.

“Whentheybrokedownapanelonthedoor,Dr.Sorkisfiredfirstonebarrelateyelevel,andthesecondbarrel atgroin level.The sounddeafenedme.Whenmyhearingcameback, Iheardmenscreaminginpain.Sorkisreloadedandwentoutside,firingtheshotgunatkneelevel.

“I confess I felt pleasure to see them hobble away. Instead of fear, I felt anger. Tesfaye camechargingagain…Ithinkhethoughttherabblewasstillwithhim.Sorkisraisedhispistol—thisveryonehere—andhesqueezedthetrigger.EvenbeforeIheardthesound,IsawTesfayesteethsprayoutandthebackofhisheadpop.Thefightwentoutoftherest.

“When the Italiansmarched into town the nextmorning, call me a traitor, Ghosh, but I for onewelcomedthembecausethelootingstopped.That'swhenIdiscoveredthatJohnMellyhadtriedtogetmetosafety.Hestoppedhistrucktohelpawoundedman,andwhenhedid,adrunkenlootercamerightuptohimandfiredapistolintoMellyschest.Fornoreasonatall!

“IhurriedtothelegationwhenIheard.Inursedhimroundtheclock.Hesufferedfortwoweeks,buthisfaithneverwavered.ItisonereasonIneverleftEthiopia.IfeltIowedittohim.Hedaskmetosing‘Bunyan'sHymn’tohimwhileIheldhishand.Imusthavesungitathousandtimesbeforehedied.

“Hewhowouldvaliantbe‘Gainstalldisaster

LethiminconstancyFollowtheMaster.

There'snodiscouragementShallmakehimoncerelent

HisfirstavowedintentTobeaPilgrim.”

Whatincrediblediscoveriesonecouldmakewithone'seyesclosed:I'dneverheardMatrontalk(letalonesing)aboutherpast;inmyminditwasasifshe'darrivedintotheworldfullyformed,innun'sgarb,alwaysrunningMissing.Herwhisperedtale,herconfessionofherfear,of love,ofakilling,were more frightening than the gunfire in the distance. In that dark corridor, lit only by theintermittentglowofflaresandartillerytracerswhichmadedancingshadowsonthewall,Ipressedhard against Shiva's skull.What else did I not know? Iwanted to sleep, butMatron's hymn, herquaveringvoice,stillechoedinmyears.

CHAPTER25AngerasaFormofLove

BY THE NEXT EVENING, it was all over—the coup had failed. In three days, hundreds of ImperialBodyguardsoldiershadbeenkilled,andmanymorehadsurrendered.Isawonemanbeingdraggedoutofthecinder-blockbuildingacrossfromMissing;hedtriedtogetridofhisdistinctiveuniform,butthefactthathewaswearingjustavestandboxersidentifiedhimasarebel.

Asthearmytanksandarmoredcarsclosedin,GeneralMebratuandasmallcontingentofhismenfledfromthebackoftheOldPalace,headingnorthintothemountainsundercoverofdarkness.

Themorningafterthat,EmperorHaileSelassietheFirst,ConqueringLionofJudah,KingofKings,DescendantofSolomon,returnedtoAddisAbababyplane.Wordofhisarrivalspreadlikewildfire,andadancing,ululatingcrowdlinedtheroadashismotorcadewentby.Throngstooktothestreet,armslinked,hoppinginunison,springsintheirfeet,chantinghisnamelongafterhepassed.AmongthemwereGebrew,W.W.Gonad,andAlmaz;shereportedthatHisMajesty'sfacehadbeenfullofloveforhispeople,appreciationfortheirloyalty.“IsawhimasclearlyasIseeyoustandingthere,”she said. “I swear he had tears in his eyes, God strike me down if I am lying.” The universitystudentswhohadmarchedthroughthestreetsafewdaysbeforewerenowheretobeseen.

Themoodinthecitywascelebratory.Shopswereopen.Taxisofboththehorse-drawnandpetrolvarietywereoutwithavengeance.ThesunwasshininganditwasabeautifuldayinAddisAbaba.

Inourbungalow, themoodwassomber. Idalways thoughtofGeneralMebratuandZemuias the“good guys,” my heroes. The Emperor was far from a “bad guy,” and the attempts of the coupleaders tomake him oneweren't convincing. Still, Iwanted theGeneral to succeed inwhat hedstarted.The tidehad turned,and theworstpossible thinghadhappened:myheroeshadbecomethe“badguys,”andonedidn'tdaresayotherwise.

RosinaandGenetsufferedagonies,waitingfornews,knowingthatwhateveritwas,itwouldn'tbegood.

ItsunkinformethatZemuiwouldprobablyneverpickuphismotorcycleagain.Darwinwouldgetnomorelettersfromhisfriend.ThebridgeeveningswithGeneralMebratuasthelifeofthepartywerealmostcertainlyover.

TheEmperorofferedahugerewardforthecaptureofGeneralMebratuandhisbrother.Thenightafter the Emperor's return there were gun battles in different neighborhoods as the last of the“rebels”werehunteddown.Ifeltsosorryfortherank-and-fileImperialBodyguardmenliketheoneIsawdraggedaway:hiscrimewastobelongtothelosingside,orperhapseventhewrongside.Butallhe'ddonewasfolloworders;GeneralMebratuhaddeterminedhisfate.

I didn't knowwhat to think about ourGeneral anymore; themanwe knew and admired seemedunrelatedtothenotoriousandnowhuntedrebelwholedthefailedcoup.EverytimeIheardsmallarmsfire,IwonderedifthatwashisandZemui'slaststand.

I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING to loud wails from Rosina's quarters. I ran into Ghosh and Hema in thecorridor,andwewentrushingoutinourpajamas.

GebrewandtwosombermenstoodoutsideRosina'sdoor.Herhystericalwailingwas inTigrinya,butitsmeaningwouldhavebeenclearinanylanguage.

WelearnedthatGeneralMebratu'ssmallgrouphadescapedupintotheEntotoMountainsandthencircledbackintothelowlandsnearthetownofNazareth.TheywereheadedtoMountZuquala,adormantvolcano,wheretheyhopedtoshelteronlandbelongingtotheMojofamily.

Intheend,itwaspeasantswhobetrayedtheGeneralwithloudcriesoflulululuwhentheystumbledonhisgroup.

ApoliceforcesoonsurroundedGeneralMebratu.Inthatlastfire-fight,runningoutofammunition,theGeneraldisarmedawoundedpoliceman,thencrawledtoanotherwoundedpolicemantogethisweapon.HecalledtoEskinder,hisbrother,tohelp,butinsteadEskindershotourbelovedGeneralinthefacebeforeputtingtheguninhisownmouth.Iwonderediftheyhadmadeasuicidepact.OrhadEskindermadeadecisionforthetwoofthem?AsforZemui,fatherofGenet,friendofDarwin,

herefusedtosurrenderortotakehisownlife.Hechargedtheforcesthathadhimsurrounded,andtheygunnedhimdown.

Eskinder's bullet had hit the General's cheek and ripped out his right eye, leaving it dangling,beforelodgingunderthelefteye.Bysomemiraclethebulletdidnotentertheskull.TheGeneralwasunconsciousbutalive.Hewas rushed to themi litaryhospital inAddisAbaba, adistanceofaboutonehundredkilometers.

WESATAROUND thedining table, the fourofus, trying toblockout thewailing fromRosina's. IcouldhearGenet'ssobsfromtimetotime.ThoughHemahadgoneinandcomeoutofRosina'squarters,Icouldn'tbringmyselftodoso.Shivahadhishandsoverhisears,andhiseyesweremoist.

WhilewewerestillhuddledatthetableMr.Loomis'sofficecalled.“Businessasusual,”Ghoshsaid,puttingdownthephone.LoomisTown&Countrywasopen,andifwewereTuesdayHouse,wehadtoremembertobringoursportsgear.

Despiteourmisgivings,GhoshconvincedusthatschoolwouldbebetterthanlisteningtoRosina'swailingallday.Hedroveusthere,ShivaandIsharingthefrontseat.

Near theNationalBanka crowd spilled off the sidewalk, into the street, chargedwith a strangeenergy,headingtowardus.Weinchedforward.SuddenlyIsawdirectlyinfrontofus,asclearlyasiftheywereonastage,threebodiesstrunguponmakeshiftgallows.Ghoshtoldustolookaway,butitwastoolate.Intheirimmobilitythecorpsesappearedtohavebeendanglingthereforcenturies.Theirheadswereangledawkwardly,andtheirhandslashedbehindtheirbacks.

The crowd swarmed around our car. The festivities were apparently just over. One young manwalkingwithtwoothersslappedthehoodofourcar,thesoundmakingmejump.Hegrinned,andwhateveritwashesaid,itwasn'tnice.Someoneelseslammedtheroofaboveourheads,andthenwefeltourcarrockbackandforth.

Iwassurethemobwouldstringusupbyournecks,too.Iclutchedthedashboard,ascreaminmythroat.Ghoshsaid,“Keepcalm,boys!Smile,wave,showyourteeth!Nodyourhead…makeitlookasifwecamefortheshow.”Idon'tknowifIsmiled,butIdoknowthatIstifledthatscream.Shivaand I grinned likemonkeys andpretendedweweren't frightened.Wewaved.Perhaps itwas thesightofidenticaltwins,orthesensethatwewerejustascrazyinsidethecarastheywereontheoutside, but we heard laughter, and the thumps on the car were now more good-natured, lessviolent.

Ghoshkeptnoddinghishead,abig smileonhis face,waving,keepingupanagitatedchatter, “Iknow,Iknow,youunkemptrascal,goodmorningtoyou,too,yesindeed,Ihavecometodelightinthis heathen spectacle…Let'shangyou, by Jove, it certainly ismost civilized of you to do this,thankyou, thankyou,”and inching forward. I'dnever seenhim thiswaybefore, expressing suchdangerouscontemptandangerunderasmilingandfalseexterior.Atlastwewerethrough,thecarmovingfreely.Lookingback,Icouldseehandstuggingattheleathershoesofthecorpses.

ShivaandIhadarmsaroundeachotherinourancientpose.Wewerebadlyshaken.Intheschoolparkinglot,Ghoshturnedofftheengineandheldustohim.IweptforZemui,forGeneralMebratu,shotintheeye,forGenetandRosina,andatlastformyself.TobeinGhosh'sarmsandagainsthischestwastofindthesafesthavenintheworld.HecleanedmyfacewithoneendofhiskerchiefandthenusedtheotherendonShiva.“Thatwasthebravestthingyoumighteverdoinyourlives.Youkeptyourhead.Youscrewedyourcouragetothestickingplace.I'mproudofyou.Itellyouwhat—we'llgooutoftownthisweekend.TothehotspringsinSodere,orWoliso.We'llswimandforgetallaboutthis.”

Hegaveuseachafinalhug.“IfIfindMekonnen,thenhe'llbeherewithhistaxitheusualtime.IfIdon'tfindhim,I'llbeheremyselfatfour.”WhenIwasabouttoentermyclassroom,Iturnedbacktolook.Ghoshwasstillstandingthere,waving.

LoomisTown&Countrywasabuzz.Iheardboastsofwhattheotherkidshadseenanddone.Ifeltnodesiretocontributeorlisten.

THATDAY,whilewewereinschool,fourmeninajeepcametovisitGhosh.Theytookhimawayasifhewereacommoncriminal,hishandsjackedupbehindhisback.Theyslappedhimwhenhetriedtoprotest.HemalearnedthisfromW.W.Gonad,whotoldthementheyweresurelymistakenintakingawayMissing'ssurgeon.ForhisimpertinenceW.W.gotabootinhisstomach.

HemarefusedtobelieveGhoshwasgone.Sheranhome,certainthatshe'dfindhimsunkintohisarmchair, his sockless feet up on the stool, reading a book. In anticipation of seeing him, in the

certaintythathewouldbethere,shewasalreadyfuriouswithhim.

She burst through the front door of our bungalow. “Do you see how dangerous it is for us toassociatewith theGeneral?Whathave Ibeentellingyou?Youcouldgetusallkilled!”Whenevershecameathimlikethat,allhercylindersfiring,itwasGhosh'shabittoflourishanimaginarycapelikeamatadorfacingachargingbull.Wefounditfunny,evenifHemaneverdid.

Butthehousewasquiet.Nomatador.Shewentfromroomtoroom,thejingleofherankletsechoingin thehallways.She imaginedGhoshwithhisarmtwistedbehindhisback,beingpunched in theface,kickedinthegenitals…Sherantothecommodeasherlunchcameup.Latershelitincense,rang thebell, andvowed that she'dmakepilgrimages to the shrinesatTirupati andVelankani iftheyreleasedGhoshalive.

HemapickedupthephonetotellMatron.Butthelinewasdead.Thephoneshadstoppedworkingwhenthebombsfell,andeversince,theyhadonlyworkedsporadically.Shestoodlookingoutofthekitchenwindow.

Ghosh's carwas at the hospital. But even if she got in the car, wherewas she supposed to go?Wherehadtheytakenhim?Andifshewentandtheyarrestedheraswell,thenhersonswouldbeleftalone…Ittookamonumentaleffortofwillforhertodecidetowaitforus.

Hemacouldhearasobbingmonologuefromtheservant'squarters—thevoicewasRosina's,thoughitwashoarseandsoundednothinglikeher.ItwasaddressedtoZemui,ortoGod,ortothemenwhokilledherhusband.Ithadbegunthatmorning,andithadnotreacheditszenith.

HemasawGenetemerge,red-eyedbutcomposed,leadingawobblyRosina.Theywereheadingforthe outhouse. They had no one tomourn with them other than Almaz and Gebrew, who at thatmomentwereelsewhere.HemafeltthatGenethadagedsuddenly,thatahardnesshadcrept intothelittlegirl'sface,andthesugarandspiceandeverythingnicehaddied.

Hemasplashedwateronhercheeks.Shetookadeepbreath.Itwascrucialthatshestaycalmforoursakes,shetoldherself.

Shedrankaglassofwaterthathadpassedthroughthepurifier.Shehad justputtheglassdownwhenAlmazcamerunningin.“Madam,don'tdrinkthewater.Theyaresayingtherebelspoisonedthewatersupply.”

ButitwastoolatebecauseHemafeltherfaceburningandthencametheworstbellycrampsofherlife.

CHAPTER26TheFaceofSuffering

WHEN GEBREW MET US at thegate and saidmenhad comeand snatchedGhosh fromMissing,mychildhoodended.

Iwastwelveyearsold,toooldtocry,butIcriedforthesecondtimethatdaybecauseitwasallIknewtodo.

IwasnotyetmanenoughtosweepintothehouseofwhoeverhadtakenGhoshawayandrescuehim.TheonlyskillIhadwastokeepgoing.

Shivawasashen,silent.ForabriefmomentIfeltimmenselysadforhim,myhandsomebrotherwhohadthereachedtheheightofateenagerwithoutsheddingtheroundedshouldersofboyhood.Hiseyesreflectedmypain,andforthat instantwewereoneorganism,withnoseparationof fleshorconsciousness.Andweranasonebeing,TheTwins,upthehill,frantictogethome.

WEFOUNDHEMAonthesofa,pale,sweaty,wetstrandsofhairstickingtoherforehead.Almaz,hercheekstear-stained, and looking nothing like the stoic Almaz we knew, was by Hema's side, holding abucket.

“Shedrankthewater,”Almazsaidbeforewecouldask.“Don'tdrinkthewater.”

“I'mallright,”Hemasaid,butherwordswerehollow.

Itwasn'tallright.Howcouldshesayitwas?Myworstnightmarehadcometrue:Ghoshgone,andnowHemamortallyill.

Iburiedmyfaceinthedarknessofhersari,mynostrilsfilledwithherscent.Ifeltresponsibleforitall.TheGeneral'sill-fatedrebellion,Zemui'sdeath,thearrestofamanwhowasmorefathertomethananymancanbe,and,yes,eventhepoisoninthewater…

Just then the frontdoor flewopen,andMatronandDr.Bachelli ran in.Bachelli carriedhiswell-wornleatherbag,hischestheaving.Matron,alsogaspingforbreath,said,“Hema!There'snothingwrongwiththewater.Itwasjustarumor.It'sallright.”

Hemalookedconfused.“But…I'vehadcramps,nausea.Ithrewup.”

“I drank it myself,” Bachelli said. “There's nothing wrong with it. You will feel better in a fewminutes.”

Shivalookedatme.

Aglimmerofhope.

Hemarosethen,testingherlimbs,herhead.Laterwefoundoutthatsimilarsceneswereplayingoutalloverthecity.Itwasanearlylessoninmedicine.Sometimes,ifyouthinkyou'resick,youwillbe.

IftherewasaGod,hehadjustgivenusahugereprieve.Iwantedanother.“Ma,whataboutGhosh?Whydidtheytakehim?Willtheyhanghim?Whatdidhedo?Ishehurt?Wheredidtheytakehim?”

Matronsatusdownonthesofa.Herbrighthandkerchiefcameout.“There,there,littleloves.We'llsortthisout.Weallneedtobestrong,forGhosh'ssake.Panicdoesnotserveus.”

Almaz,silenttillthen,watchingwithherhandsonherhips, interruptedtosayinAmharic,“Whatarewewaitingfor?WehavetogoatoncetoKerchelePrison.Letmegetthefoodready.Andweneedblankets.Clothes.Soap.Comeon!”

THE VOLKSWAGEN FELT likeastrangemachinewithHemadriving.Bachelli satup front,andAlmazandMatronwereinthebackseatwithusontheirlaps.Wemadeourjerkywaythroughthecity.

IsawAddisAbabaanew.Ihadalwaysthoughtitabeautifulcitywithbroadavenuesinitsheart,andmany squares with monuments and fenced gardens around which traffic had to circle: MexicoSquare,Patriot'sSquare,MenelikSquare…Foreigners,whoseonlyimageofEthiopiawasthatofstarvingpeoplesittinginblindingdust,weredisbelievingwhentheylandedinthemistandchillof

Addis Ababa at night and saw the boulevards and the tram-track lights of Churchill Road. TheywonderediftheplanehadturnedaroundinthenightandtheywereinBrusselsorAmsterdam.

Butintheaftermathofthecoup,inthelightofGhosh'sarrest,thecitylookeddifferenttome.Thesquareswhich commemorated the bloodshed of Adowa and the liberation from the Italianswerenow fitting places for a mob to conduct a lynching. As for the villas I had once admired—pink,mauve, tan,andhiddenbybougainvillea—itwas in thesehousesthatmen like theGeneralorhiscounterpartsinthearmyandpoliceplottedtherevolutionanditsbetrayal.Therewastreacheryinthestreets,treacheryinthevillas.Icouldsmellit.Perhapsithadalwaysbeenthere.

SOON WE WERE AT the green gates of the prison everyone calledKerchele, a corruption of the Italianwordcarcere,orincarcerate.OtherscalledittheAlemBekagne,anAmharicexpressionthatmeant“Goodbye,cruelworld.”Theentrancewaspastarailwaycrossingonabusytrunkroad.Therewasnopavementhere,noshoulder,justasphaltfallingabruptlyoffintodirt,dirtnowstirredbythefeetof hundreds of anxious relatives, who became our kin in suffering. They stood rooted in theirhelplessness,buttheyletuspassbetweenthemtillwereachedthesentryoffice.

BeforeMatroncouldask,themansaidwithoutlookingup,“Idon'tknowifheorsheishere,Idon'tknowwhenIwillknowifheorsheishereornothere,ifyouleavefoodorblanketsorwhatever,ifheorshe ishere, theymightget it, ifnotsomebodyelsegets it.Writehisnameonapaperwithwhateveryouaredroppingoff,andIwillnotansweranyquestions.”

Peopleleanedagainstthewall,andwomenstoodunderumbrellasunfurledoutofhabiteventhoughthesunwasbehindclouds.Almazfoundaspottosquatwhereshecouldobservethecomingsandgoings,andthenshedidnotbudge.

An hour passed.My feet ached, but still wewaited.Wewere the only foreigners there, and thecrowdwassympathetic.Oneman,alecturerattheuniversity,saidhisfatherhadbeeninthis jailmanyyearsago.“AsaboyIwouldrunthethreemilesfrommyhouse,onceaday,tobringfood.Hewassothin,buteachtimehewouldfeedmefirstandmakemetakebackmorethanhalfthefood.Heknewthatforhimtoeat,wehadtostarve.Oneday,whenmyolderbrotherandmothercamewithfood,theyheardthedreadedwords‘Noneedtobringfoodanymore.’That'showweknewmyfather was dead. And you know why they arrested my brother today? For no reason. He is ahardworkingbusinessman.Butheisthechildofoneoftheiroldenemies.Wearethefirstsuspects.The old enemies and the children of enemies. God knows why they spared me. I was in thedemonstration by the university students. But they took my brother instead. Because he is theoldest.”

BachellitookataxitotheJuventusClubtoseeifhecouldgettheItalianconsulinvolved,andthenhehadtoreturn toMissing.Withonedoctorarrested,andhiswifewaitingoutside the jail, itallrestedontheshouldersof thethirddoctor,namelyBachelli.Hecouldkeepthingsgoing,overseethenursesandAdam,thecompounder.

Shiva,Hema,Matron,andIreturnedtothecartorestourfeet,togetwarm,tohuddle.Afterfifteenminuteswereturnedtostareatthegates.Backandforthwewent,reluctanttoleave,eventhoughwewereaccomplishingnothing.

WHENITWASQUITEDARK,amanwithashamacoveringhishead,mouth,anduppertorsowalkedby,justasweemergedfromthecar.Butforhisshinybootsandthefactthathedcomefromthenarrowlaneonthesideoftheprison,hemighthavepassedforjustanothermanheadinghome.Inhishandheswungaclothshowingtheoutlineofacoveredpot—hislunchordinner.HestaredatMatron.Hepausedbehindthecar,hisbacktotheroadasifheweretakingaleak.

“Don'tturnthisway!”hesaidharshly,inAmharic.“Thedoctorishere.”

“Isheallright?”Matronwhispered.

Hehesitated.“Alittlebruised.Yes,butheisfine.”

“Please,Ibegyou,”Hemabrokein.Ihadneverheardherbeganyoneinmylife.“He'smyhusband.Whatisgoingtohappennext?Willtheylethimgo?Hehadnothingtodowithallthis—”

Themanhissed.Alargefamilywalkedby.Whentheypassed,hesaid,“Talkingtoyouisenoughforsomeonetoaccuseme.IfIwanttobesafe,Imustaccusesomeone.Likeanimalseatingouryoung.It'sabadtime.I'mtalkingtoyoubecauseyousavedmywife'slife.”

“Thankyou.Isthereanythingwecandoforyou?Forhim—”

“Nottonight.Inthemorningatteno'clock,beinthisspot.No,befartheraway.Seethatpostwiththestreetlight?Bethereandbringablanket,money,andadishjustlikethis.Themoneyisforhim.Gohomenow.”

IranovertofetchAlmaz,whohadnotleftherspot,hervoluminousskirtsringedaroundherlikeacircustent,herwhitegabbywrappedaroundherheadandshoulders,onlyhereyesshowing.Shewouldn'thearofleaving.Shewasgoingtostaythenight.Nothingwouldpersuadeher.Reluctantlywelefther,butonlyafterweforcedAlmaztoputonHema'ssweaterandthenwrapherselfwiththegabby.

At home, mercifully the phones were working. Matron got the British and Indian embassies topromise to send their envoys in the morning. None of the royals would talk to Matron; if theEmperor'sownsonwasundersuspicion,sowerehisnieces,nephews,andgrandchildren.Weheardthat there were rumblings of discontent among the junior army officers who felt their generalserred in not joining the coup; there must have been some truth to that, because that day theEmperorauthorizedapayraiseforallarmyofficers.ThewordwasthatonlytheintenserivalryandjealousybetweentheseniorarmyandImperialBodyguardofficershadsavedHisMajesty.

THAT NIGHT SHIVA and I sleptwithHema inherbed.Ghosh'sBryl-creemscentwason thepillow.HisbookswerepiledonthenightstandwithapenwedgedinFrench'sIndexofDifferentialDiagnosistomark a page, and his reading glasses balanced precariously on the cover.His bedtime rituals ofinspectinghisprofileandsuckinghisbellyinandouttentimes,oflyingacrossthemattressforafewminutes sohisheadhungbackover theedge—”antigravity”maneuvers, ashe called them—wereunexciting,butinhisabsence,theirimportancewasrevealed.“Anotherdayinparadise”washisinevitablepronouncementwhenhesettledhisheadonhispillow.NowIunderstoodwhatthatmeant:theuneventfuldaywasapreciousgift.Thethreeofuslaythereandwaitedasifhe'djustgonetothekitchenandwouldfillthedoorwayanysecond.Hemasobbed.Shevoicedourthoughtswhenshesaid,“Lord,Ipromisenevertotakethatmanforgrantedagain.”

Matron,who'ddecidedtosleepinourhouse,inthebedthatbelongedtomeandShiva,calledout,“Hema,gotosleepnow.Boys,sayyourprayers.Don'tworry.”

Iprayedtoallthedeitiesintheroom,fromMurugatotheBleedingHeartofJesus.

INTHEEARLYMORNINGAlmazwasback.There'dbeennonews.“ButIstoodupwheneveracarcameandwent.Ifthedoctorwasinthecar,Iwantedhimtoseeme.”

HemaandMatronplannedtogotothearrangedspotat teno'clock,carryingfood,blankets,andmoney.Thenthey'dmaketheroundsoftheembassiesandtheroyals.Hemaconvincedustostayathome. “What if Ghosh calls home?Someone needs to be here to take themessage.”Rosina andGenetwerethere,soweweren'tcompletelyalone.Almaz,afterrejuvenatingherselfwithbreadandhottea,insistedongoingbacktoKerchelewithHemaandMatron.

By noon, theywere still not back. Shiva, Genet, and I fixed sandwicheswhile Rosina looked on,distracted. She was red-eyed and hoarse. “Don't worry,” she said, “Ghosh will be all right.”Somehowherwordsweren'treassuring.Genet,paleandstrangelylistless,squeezedmyhand.

KOOCHOOLOOWASTHEKINDOFMUTTwhorarelymadeanynoise.AtMissing,barkingatstrangerswouldhavebeenanever-endingproposition.SowhenIheardKoochooloobark,Ipaidattention.Lookingoutofthe living room window I saw a scruffy man in a green army jacket stroll up the driveway anddisappearbehindourhouse.Koochoolooturnedrabid,unleashingavolleyofdeafeningyelps.HermessagewasAverydangerousmanisatourdoorstep.

IrantothekitchenwhereRosina,Genet,andShivawerealreadyatthewindow.Koochooloowasjustbelowus,loudasIhadeverheardher.Shemovedforward,herneckdisappearinginacollarofraisedfur,herteethbared.Themanpulledopenhisheavy jacketanddrewarevolverwhichwastuckedinhispants.Hehadnobelt,noholster,andnoshirt, justawhitevest.Atthesightofthegun,Koochooloofled.Shewasbravebutnotstupid.

“Iknowhim,”Rosinawhispered.“Zemuigavehimarideafewtimes.Heisarmy.Heusedtostandjustoutsidethegate,hopingZemuiwouldcomeby.HewasalwaysflatteringZemui.‘Envyisbehindflattery’ItoldZemui.Zemuiwouldpretendnottoseehim,orhe'dtellhimhewasgoinginanotherdirection.”

Thearmymantuckedthegunbackintohispants,thenhewalkedovertotheBMWandcaressedtheseat.

“See!WhatdidItellyou?”Rosinasaid.

“Comeout,please,”hecalled,lookingourway.“Iknowyou'reinthere.”

“Stayhere,”Rosinasaid,drawingadeepbreath.“No.Don'tstay.Youallgobywayofthefrontdoorandruntothehospital.WaitwithW.W.WaittillIcomeforyou.”Shethrewtheboltback.“Lockthedoorbehindme,”shesaid,asshesteppedout.

I cannot tell youwhy the three of us, instead of obeying her, simply opened the door again andfollowed her. It wasn't bravery. Perhaps the notion of running away felt more dangerous thanstayingwiththeoneadultwecouldcounton.

Theintruder'seyeswerebloodshot,andhelookedasifhe'dsleptinhisclothes,buthismannerwasjocular.Thebulkycamouflagejacketwasbigenoughtoswallowhim,andyethisarmsstuckoutofthesleeves.Hewasmissinghisberet.Hehadadarkverticalfurrowinthemiddleofhisforehead,like a seamwhere the twohalves of his facemet.Despite the scragglymustache, he looked tooyoungforhisuniform.

“This,”hesaid,almostpurringashestrokedthemotorcycletank,“belongsto…tothearmynow.”

Rosinapulledherblackshamaoverherhair,thegestureofawomanenteringachurch.Shestoodsilentandobedientbeforehim.

“Didyouhearme,woman?Thisbelongstothearmy.”

“Isupposeit istrue,”shesaid,eyesdowncast.“Perhapsthearmywillcomeandgetit.”Hertonewasdeferential,whichwaswhyherwordstookafewsecondstosinkin.Iwonderedlaterwhyshechosetoprovokehimandputusatrisk.

Thesoldierblinked.Thenheexclaimedinahigh-pitchedvoice,“Iamthearmy!”

Hegrabbedherhandandyankedhertohim.

“Iamthearmy.”

“Yes.Thisisthedoctor'shouse.Ifyouaretakinganything,youshouldlethimknow.”

“Thedoctor?”Helaughed.“Thedoctorisinjail.I'lllethimknowwhenIseehimagain.I'llaskhimwhyhehiresanimpertinentwhorelikeyou.Weshouldhangyouforsleepingwiththattraitor.”

Rosinastaredattheground.

“Areyoudeaf,woman?”

“No,sir.”

“Goon.TellmeonegoodthingaboutZemui.Tellme!”

“Hewasthefatherofmychild,”Rosinasaidsoftly,refusingtolookhimintheface.

“Atragedyforthatbastardchild.Justtellmesomethingmore.Goon!”

“Hedidwhathewastold.Hetriedtobeagoodsoldier,likeyou,sir.”

“Agoodsoldier,huh?Likeme?”Heturnedtous,asifaskingustowitnessherimpudence.

Then, so quickly that none of us saw it coming, he backhanded her. It was a tremendous blow,sendingherreeling,andyetsomehowshedidn'tfall.Sheheldhershamatoherface.Icouldseetheblood.Shebroughtherfeettogetherandstoodupright.ShivaandIinstinctivelyclaspedhands.

Ifeltsomethingwetrunningdownmyshin.Iwonderedifhednotice,buthewaspreoccupiedwithanastygashontheknuckleofhismiddlefinger.Icouldseeaflashofwhite,eithersinewortendonoratoothfragment.

“Thedevil!Youcutme,yougap-toothedbitch.”

Outofthecornerofmyeye,IsawGenetmoving.Iknewthatlookonherfacesowell.Sheflewathim.Heraisedhisfoot,caughtherinthechest,andpushedheroffbeforeshecouldgetnearhim.Hepulledouthisgunagain,cockedit,pointeditatRosina.“Doitagain,bastardchild,andI'llkillyourmother.Doyouunderstand?Doyouwanttobeanorphan?Andyoutwo,”hesaid,addressingus,“stayoutofmyway.IcouldkillthelotofyourightnowandI'dgetamedal.”

Weall recognizedtheplastickeychain thathepulled fromhispocket. Itwas in theshapeof theCongo.Therewasonlyonelikeitinourworld,anditbelongedtoZemui.

In getting the motorcycle off its stand, he almost fell over. After straddling the bike, he lookedaroundfortheleverand,findingit,hetriedtokick-starttheengine,butthebikewasingear,andsoit lurched forward,almost topplinghimagain.Whenhegothisbalance,he looked to see ifwe'dnoticed.

Hetrompedonthepedal,tryingtofindneutral.ItwassuchacontrasttoZemui,whomerelytoedtheleverandwhohandledtheBMWasifitwerefeatherlight.Zemuiwouldprimethecylinderswitha slow-motion stroke, followed by a brisk kick, and the motor would chug into life. Thinking ofZemui,who'dfoughttothedeathratherthansurrender,Ifeltashamed.Itmademewanttoactinamanner befitting the bike's true owner. I squeezed Shiva's hand. ShivaMarion was on the samepage,Icouldtell,becausehesqueezedback.

Thesoldierflailedatthekick-startlever,asifhewerestompinganenemy,hisfacegettingflushed,sweatpouringoffhisbrow.Ismelledgas.He'dfloodedthecarburetor.

It was a cool day, the sun filtering through a few clouds and glinting off the chrome of themotorcycle.Hepausedtogethisbreath,thentookoffhisjacket,slungitontheseatbehindhim.Heshook out the handwith the bloody knuckle.Hewas a scrawny, thin fellow, I saw. Annoyed andhumiliatedbytheengineresistinghim,hislipsdrewbackinasnarl.Hisfrustrationwasdangerous.

“Letuspushit foryou.Youfloodedtheengineandthat'stheonlywaytostart itnow.”ThisfromShiva.

“Whenyougettothebottomofthehill,justputitinfirstgear,”Isaid.“It'llstartrightaway.”

Helookedover,surprised,asifhedidn'tknowwewerecapableofspeech,letaloneinhismothertongue.

“Isthathowhestartedit?”

Henevereverfloodedit,Iwantedtosay.

“Everytime,”Isaid.“Especiallyifhehadn'tstarteditforawhile.”

He frowned. “Okay, you two help me push the motorcycle.” He shoved his gun deeper into hiswaistband,behindhisbeltbuckle.Hetuckedthejacketthathehadthrownovertheseatunderhisbuttocks.

From the topofourdriveway, thegravel road leadingdown toCasualty startedoff flat and thendescendedandseemedtodisappearoveraledge,beyondwhichonecouldseethelowerbranchesof trees thatwere justwithin theperimeterwall.Onlywhenyouwerehalfwaydowndidyouseehow the road turned sharply, well before the ledge, and then went on to the roundabout nearCasualty.

“Push!”hesaid.“Push,youbastards.”

Wedid,andhehelpedbyleaningforwardandwalkingthemachine.Soonhewasrolling,lickinghislips,happy.Thebikeweavedandthehandlebarsmadewideexcursions.

“Steady!”Icalled.ShivaMarionwaspushinginunison,athree-leggedtrotthatsoonbecameafour-leggedsprint.

“Noproblem,”heshouted,puttinghisfeetonthepedals.“Push!”

Wegatheredspeedonthedownslopenow.

“Openthegascock!Openthevalve,”Shivacalledout.

“What?Oh,yes,”hesaidandhetookhisrighthandoffthehandlebarstofeelforthepetcockunderthetank,precioussecondstickingaway.

“It'sontheotherside!”Ishouted.

Heswitchedhands.He'dnever find it and itdidn'tmatterbecause therewasenough fuel in thecarburetortotakehimatleastamile.

The bike was traveling at speed now, springs squeaking and mudguards rattling, its weightaccelerating it down the hill, aided by our efforts. He'd taken his eyes off the road to find thepetcock.Bythetimehelookedup,ShivaMarionwasrunningasfastasitcould,addingeveryounceofthrustpossibletohisprogress.Isawhiswhite-knuckledgriponthethrottle,whilehislefthandwasundecidedwhethertocontinueitssearchorreturntothehandlebars.

“Putitingear,quick,”Ishouted,givingthebikealastdesperatepush.

“Fullgas!”Shivayelled.

Hewasslowinresponding,firsttwistingthethrottlealltheway,thenglancingdowntostamponthe gear lever. For a heart-stoppingmomentwhen it slipped into first, the bike seized, the backwheellocking,wehadfailed…

AndjustwhenIthoughtthat,theenginesputteredandroaredtolife,revvingtoitsredlinewithavengeance,asifitweresaying,I'lltakeitfromhere,boys.Itsurgedforward,thebacktirespittinggravelatus,nearlythrowingtherideroff,whichonlymadehimclingharder,squeezingthethrottleinadeathgripinsteadoflettinggo.

Ahowlemergedashesawwhatwasahead.Hehadonlyafewfeetandafewsecondstonegotiatetheturnbeforetheledge.Itisanaxiomofmotorcyclingthatyoumustalwayslookinthedirectionyouwant togoandneveratwhatyouare tryingtoavoid.Hisgaze, Iwassure,was fixedontheapproachingprecipice.TheBMWroaredahead,stillaccelerating.Iracedafterhim.

Thefrontwheelhittheconcretecurbattheledgeandstopped.Thebackwheelflewupintheair;butfortheweightofthatbigengine,themotorcyclewouldhavesomersaultedover.Insteaditwastheriderwhosailedpastthehandlebars,hishowlnowascream.Heflewinanarc,shootingoverthe ledge and then falling until his motion was arrested by a tree trunk. I heard awhump, aninvoluntarygruntastheairinhislungswasevicted.Hismomentumsnappedhisneckforwardandsmashedhisfaceintothetree.Hetumbleddownandrolledanothertenfeet.

TheBMW,afterstandingonitsnose,fellbacktothegroundandontoitsside;theenginestalledbutthebackwheelkeptspinning.Ihadneverheardsuchsilence.

I CLAMBERED DOWN. I got to him first. Id wanted this to happen, but now I felt terrible that it had.Amazingly,hewasconscious,flatonhisback,blinking,stunned,asbloodtrickledintohiseyesandpouredoutofhisnostrilsand lips.Therewasnomorearmy inhim.Hisexpressionwas thatofachildwhosereachhadexceededitsgraspwithdisastrousresults.

Hisfootlaytwistedunderhiminafashionthatmademewanttothrowup.Hemoaned,clutchingathisupperbelly.Hisfacewasabloodymess.Itwasagrotesquesight.

Neither his face nor his foot seemed to concernhimasmuch as his belly. “Please,” he said.Hisbreathwasshortandheclawedathisbelt.

Hiseyesfoundme.

“Please.Getitout.”

ForamomentIdforgottenwhathehaddonetoZemuiorRosinaandGenet,orwhathe'ddonetoGhosh.AllIcouldseewashissuffering,andIfeltpity.

IlookeduptoseeRosina,herlipswollenandsplit,afronttoothmissing.

“Please…,”hesaidagain,clutchingathischest.“Getthisout.FortheloveofSt.Gabriel,getthisout.”

“I'msorry,”Isaid.

Hekeptrootingineffectively,desperately,athisbelly,andnowIcouldseewhy.Thepistolbuttwasdiggingintohim—ithadjustaboutdisappearedunderhisribsontheleftside.

“Watchout!”Rosinayelled.“He'stryingtogethisgun.”

“No,”Itriedtosay,“thegunhandlehassmashedinhislowerribs.”Ididhearmyselfsaytohim,“Holdon.I'llgetitout!”Iwrappedmyhandsaroundthehandleofthatgunandpulledwithallmystrength.Hescreamed.Itwouldnotbudge.Ichangedmygrip.

IfeltamulekickinmyhandbeforeIheardtheshot.

Thentheguncamesliding free inmyhand,as if ithadneverbeenwedgedtherebuthadsimplybeensittingonhisbellybutton.

Ismelledburnedclothingandcordite.Isawaredpitinhisbelly.Isawlifeslipoutofhiseyesaseasilyasadewdroprollsoffarosepetal.

Ifelthispulse.ItwasavarietyGhoshhadnevershownme:theabsentpulse.

ROSINASENTGENETtofetchGebrew.

Hecamerunning.Hehadn'theardtheshot.Thebungalowwasfarenoughremovedandthegunsomuffledbytheman'sbellythatthesoundhadnotcarried.

“Hurry.Someonemightcomeforhim,”Rosinasaid.“Butfirstwemustmovethemotorcycle.”Withallfiveofusheaving,werightedtheBMWandmanagedtogetittothetoolshed,justpastthecurveatthebottomofourdriveway.Otherthanadingonthetank,thebikelookednoworseforwear.Inthetoolshedwerearrangedthecordsoffirewood,thestacksofBibles,thesawhorse,incubator,andotherjunkkeptthere,sothatthebikewashiddenfromsight.

Returning to the body, we had little to say to one another. Gebrew and Shiva fetched thewheelbarrow, andwith Rosina andGenet's help, they fed the body into its rusty cavity. I leanedagainstatree,lookingon.Helayinthewheelbarrowinthekindofunnaturalpostureonlythedeadachieve.NowwithRosinaleadingus,wepushedhimthroughthetreesontheperimetertrail,justinside of Missing's wall, until we reached the Drowning Soil. The hospital's old septic tank waslocatedhere, deepunderground, and for years it had overflowedbefore itwas taken out of use.USAIDconcrete,Rockefellerfunds,andaGreekcontractornamedAchilleshadbuiltanewone.Buttheold tank'seffluenthaddigestedthe land.Adownygrowthofmossservedtodeceivetheeye;anythingheavier thanapebblewouldsink.Theodor,presentatall times,kept trespassersaway.Matronhadbarbedwirestrungaroundit,andthesigninAmharicsaidDROWNINGSOIL,whichwastheclosesttranslationfor“quicksand.”

The smell was powerful. Pushing down the fence post so that the barbed wire was flat on theground,RosinaandGebrewgotthewheelbarrowasfarforwardastheydared.IglaredatShiva.Hewasimpasive,lookingon.Hecouldhavebeenwatchingshoeshineboysatwork—itwastheoppositeofwhat I felt. Theywere about to pitch thebody forwardwhen I said, “No!” I grabbedRosina'shand,forcinghertosetthewheelbarrowdown.Iwasshaking,crying.“Wecan'tdothis.Itiswrong.Rosina…OhmyGod,whathaveIdone—”

Rosinaslappedmehard.Shivaputhishandonmyshoulder,moretorestrainmeperhapsthantooffersupport.RosinaandGebrewtookthehandlesagain,andtheytippedthedeadmanout.

Themossygroundsaggedlikeamattress.Thefaceonthatbodynolongerbelongedtothemanwhohadterrorizedus;itwasapatheticface,ahumanface,notthatofamonster.

When thebody finallydisappeared,Rosinaspat in itsdirection.She turned tome, theangerandbloodlustcontortingherface.“What'swrongwithyou?Don'tyouknowhewouldhavekilledusallfor the funof it?Theonly reasonhedidn't ishewasevenhungrier to stealZemui'smotorcycle.Don'tfeelanythingbutprideforwhatyoudid.”

WEWALKEDBACKinsilence.Whenwewerehome,insidethekitchen,Rosinaturnedtous,herhandsonher hips. “No one but us knows what happened,” she said. “No one can know. Not Hema. NotGhosh.NotMatron.Nooneatall.Shiva,youunderstand?Genet?Gebrew?”

Sheturnedtome.“Andyou?Marion?”

I lookedatmynanny,her facebloodiedand themissing toothmakingher look likea stranger. Isteeledmyselfformoreharshwordsfromher.Instead,shecameoverandheldmeinherarms.Itwasthehugawomangiveseitherhersonorherhero.Iheldhertight.Herbreathwashotinmyearasshesaid,“Youaresobrave.”Thiswasmyconsolation:allwaswellbetweenmeandRosina.Genetcameoverandputherarmsaroundme.

If thiswaswhatbravefelt like—numb,dumb,witheyesthatcouldseenofartherthanmybloodyfingers,andaheartthatracedandpinedforthegirlwhohuggedme—thenIsupposeIwasbrave.

CHAPTER27AnsweringMedicine

HANGINGSEEMEDTOBETHEFATEofanyonewho'dbeenclosetoGeneralMebratu.WhatsparedGhoshthus farwas thathewasa citizenof India.Thatand theprayersofhis familyandhis legionsoffriends.Hisimprisonmentdidmorethansuspendeverythinginmyworld;ittookawayanymeaninglifeoncehadforme.

Itwas then,aswedespaired, that I thoughtofThomasStone.Before thecoup, Idgo formonthswithoutthinkingofhim.Havingnopictureofhim,andnoknowledgethathehadauthoredafamoustextbook(Hema,Ilearnedlater,hadgivenawayorremovedeveryextantcopyofAShortPracticeatMissing),ThomasStoneseemedunrealtome,aghost,anidea.Itdidn'tseempossiblethatImighthave been fathered by someone as white-skinned as Matron. An Indian mother was easier toimagine.

Butnow,astimestoodstill,thismanwhosefaceIcouldn'tpicturewasonmymind.Iwashisson.Thiswasmymomentofgreatestneed.Whenthearmymancametostealthemotorcycleandcouldhavekilledus,wherewasStone?WhenImurderedtheintruder—thatwasstillhowIsawit—wherewas Stone? When that death mask loomed in front of my eyelids at night, or when cold handsclutched atme from the shadows, where was Stone? Above all, when I needed to free the onlyfatherIeverhad,wherewasStone?

Inthoseawfuldayswhichsoonstretchedouttotwoweeks,aswewentbackandforthfromhouseto jail, to Indian Embassy, to ForeignMinistry, I was convinced that had I been a better son toGhosh,ifI'dbeenworthyofhim,Imighthavesparedhimhispresenttorture.

Perhapsitwasn'ttoolate.

Icouldchange.Butwhatformshouldthischangetake?

Iwaitedforasign.

Itcameonablusterymorningwhenwordof freshhangings in theMerkatoreachedus. Isetouthurriedlyforthegatefornoparticularreason:whereverIwas,Iwasreadytobesomewhereelse.On my way there, a mysterious sweet, fruity odor reached my nostrils. Simultaneously, a greenCitroën,floatingonitsshocks,itsbacktireshiddenbyskirtlikefenders,wheezedintotheporticoofCasualty.Aportlymanslumpedinthebackseatwascarriedoutbytwoyoungermen,andatoncethescentgotstronger.Hehadthecafé-au-laitskinandjowlyfeaturesoftheroyalfamily,asifhedbeenraisedonclottedcreamandscones inplaceof injeraandwot.Tomehe lookedasleep.Hisbreathingwas deep, loud, and sighing, like an overworked locomotive.With every exhalation hegaveoffthatsweetemanation—itevenhadacolor:red.

I knew I'd encountered this odorbefore.Where?How? I stood thinkingoutsideCasualty as theycarriedhimin,tryingtosolvethispuzzle.IrealizedIwasengagedinthekindofreflection,thekindof study of the world, which I so admired in Ghosh. I remembered how he'd conducted thatexperiment with blind man's buff—literally a blinded experiment—to validate my ability to findGenetbyherscent.

LaterDr.Bachellitoldmethemanhaddiabeticcoma—thefruityodorwascharacteristic.IwenttoGhosh'soffice—hisoldbungalow—andreadfromhistextbooksabouttheketonesthatbuiltupinthe blood and caused that scent.Which ledme to read about insulin. Then about the pancreas,diabetes…Onethingledtoanother.ItwasperhapstheonlytimeinthetwoweekssinceGhoshhadgone to prison that I'd been able to think of anything else. I expected Ghosh's big books to beunreadable. But I found that the bricks and mortar of medicine (unlike, say, engineering) werewords.Youneededonlywordsstrung together todescribea structure, toexplainhow itworked,andtoexplainwhatwentwrong.Thewordswereunfamiliar,butIcouldlookthemupinthemedicaldictionary,writethemdownforfutureuse.

Hardly two days later, I encountered the scent again atMissing's gate. This time an oldwomanstretchedoutonthebenchofagharry,proppedtherebyherrelatives,wasthesource.Shehadthesame sighing, breathing, and not even the horse's strong scent could conceal the fruity odor.“Diabeticacidosis,”IsaidtoAdam,andhesaiditwaspossible.ThebloodandurinetestsconfirmedthatIwasright.

Somehow, lifewentonatMissing.Whetherwehadonedoctoror four, thepatientskeptcoming.

Thesimplethings—treatingdehydrationininfants,treatingfevers,conductingnormaldeliveries—wereroutinelymanaged.ButanythingsurgicalhadtobeturnedawayIhungaroundCasualtywithAdam,orelseIhidinGhosh'soldbungalowbrowsingthroughhistextbooks.Timedidn'tspeedup,nordidmy fear forGhoshdiminishonebit,butat last I felt Ihad foundsomething thatwas theequivalentofShiva'sdrawingorhisdancing,apassionthatwouldkeepdisturbingthoughtsatbay.What Iwas doing feltmore serious thanShiva's pursuits;mine felt like an ancient alchemy thatcouldcausetheprisongatesinKercheletospringopen.

DuringthatawfulperiodwithGhoshinjail,Almazholdingvigiloutsideprison,andtheEmperorsodistrustfulofeveryonethatLuluhadtosniffeverymorselofHisMajesty'sfood,myolfactorybrain,theferalintelligence,cameawake.Ithadalwaysknownodors,thevarietyofthem,butnowitwasfinding labels for the things it registered. Themusty ammoniacal reek of liver failure camewithyelloweyesandintherainyseason;thefreshlybakedbreadscentoftyphoidfeverwasyear-roundandthentheeyeswereanxious,porcelainwhite.Thesewerbreathof lungabscess,thegrapelikeodorofaPseudomonas-infectedburn,thestaleurinescentofkidneyfailure,theoldbeersmellofscrofula—thelistwashuge.

One night after supper,Matron dozed on the sofawhile Shiva drew intently at the dining table.Hema,whowaspacingtheroom,stoppedbymyarmchair.ThiswasGhosh'sspot.Ihadmyfeetupand books piled next to me. I think she understood that I was preserving his space. Over myshoulder she saw the thick gynecology textbook of hers that I'd opened, purely by chance, to apictureofawoman'svulvadistortedbyagiantBartholin'scyst.ImadenoattempttohidewhatIwasdoing.IsensedHemastruggletofindanappropriateresponse.Sheputherhandonmyhairandthenthehandslippeddowntomyear,andIthoughtshewasgoingtotwistmypinna(that'swhatI learnedthefleshypartoftheearwascalled).I felther indecision.Shecaressedmypinnaandstrokedmyshoulder.

WhenshewalkedawayIfelttheweightofwhatsheleftunsaid.Iwantedtocallafterher,Ma!Youhaveitallwrong.Butjustasshekeptherthoughtstoherself,Iwaslearningtodothesame.Thiswaswhatgrowingupwasabout:hidethecorpse,don'tbareyourheart,domakeassumptionsaboutthemotivesofothers.They'recertainlydoingallthesethingstoyou.

I'msureHemabelievedthataprurientinterestinawoman'sanatomytookmetothatpageinthetextbook.Andperhapsitdid,butthatwasn'talltherewastoit.WouldshebelievemeifIsaidthatthosemusty oldbookswith their pen-and-inkdrawings, their grainyphotographs of peoplepartscontorted and rendered grotesque by disease, held out a special promise?Kelly's Obstetrics andJeffcoate'sGynecology,andFrench'sIndexofDifferentialDiagnosis(atleastinmychildishwayofthinking),weremapsofMissing,guidestotheterritoryintowhichwewereborn.Wherebutinsuchbooks, where but in medicine, might our conjoined, matricidal, patrifugal, twisted fate beexplained?WhereelsecouldIunderstandtheurgeinme(wasithomicidal?Idlieawakeatnightwondering)thatdidawaywiththearmyman,andthenthesimultaneousurgetokeepitconcealedandtoconfess?Maybetherewereanswersingreatliterature.ButIdiscoveredinGhosh'sabsence,in thedepthsofmysorrow, that theanswer,allanswers, theexplanation forgoodandevil, lay inmedicine.Ibelievedthat.IwassurethatonlyifIbelievedwouldGhoshbefreed.

ONTHETHIRDWEEKofGhosh'sabduction,Iwalkedtothefrontgateinthemorning,justasSt.Gabriel'ssoundedthehour,whichwasGebrew'scommandtoallowentrance.Thenarrowpedestrianopeningpermitted justonepersonatatimetocomethrough.WhatpreventedchaosandastampedewasthesightofGebrewinhispriest'sgarb.

Two men jostled each other, high stepping over the frame of the gate like hurdlers. “Behaveyourselves,forGod'ssake,”Gebrewadmonished.Nextcameawomanwhosteppedovergingerly,asifgettingoutofaboatandontothedock.AsthepatientstookturnstopecklikehensaroundthefourpointsofGebrew'shandheldcross—onceforthecrucifiedChrist,thenforMary,thenonceforallthearchangelsandthesaints,andthenforthefourlivingcreaturesoftheBookofRevelation—andwaitedforGebrewtotouchittotheirforehead,orderwasimposed.ThesevisitorstoMissingfearedillnessanddeath,buttheirfearofdamnationwasgreater.

Istudiedthefaces,eachoneanenigma,notwoalike.IhopedthatthenextfacewouldbeGhosh's.

I imagined the day my “real” father—Thomas Stone—would step through the gate. I imaginedmyselfstandinghere. I'dbeadoctorby then,andImightbe inmygreenscrubs, takingabreakbetween surgeries, or in my white coat with a shirt and tie beneath. Even though I had nophotographormemoryofStonetogoby,Idknowitwashimrightaway

IknewwhatI'dsaytohim:You'remuchtoolate.Wewentaheadwithourliveswithoutyou.

CHAPTER28TheGoodDoctor

IAWOKEWHILEITWASNOTYETDAYBREAK.IranasfastasIcouldinthedarktotheautoclaveroom.Thiswasthethoughtthatwokemeup:What ifSisterMaryJosephPraisecould intercedeandfreeGhosh?My“father”wouldnevercome,butwhatifmybirthmotherwasjustwaitingtobeasked?Ihopedshewouldn'tholdmylongabsencefromherdeskchairagainstme.

Seated,staringupatthatprintoftheEcstasyofSt.Teresa,seeingonlyfaintoutlinesasIhadn'tputonthelight,IfeltasifIwereinaconfessional,butwithnodesiretoconfess.Iwassilentfortenminutesorso.

“You know for the longest time I assumed that all babies came in twos,” I said. I was makingconversation. I didn'twant to get toGhosh or the favor I sought right away. “Koochooloo's pupscameinfoursandsixes.AtMuluFarmwesawasowwithtwicethatnumber.

“Weareidenticaltwins,butthetruthiswearen'texactlyidentical.No,notthewayaone-birrnoteisidenticalwithanotherbirrnoteinallbuttheserialnumber.Shivaisactuallymymirrorimage.

“I'mright-handed,andShiva'sleft-handed.Theswirlonthebackofmyheadisonmyleft.Shiva'sisontheright.”

Myhandwenttomynose,againsomethingIwasn'ttellingher.Amonthbeforethecoup,Ihadaconfrontation with Walid, who'd been teasing me over my name (such an easy target). I foundmyselfflattenedbyaheadbutt—atesta—andthefightwentoutofme.Testa—Italianfor“head”—someclaim isanancientEthiopianmartialart,but if so, therearenodojos,nobelts, just lotsofbrokennoses.Theonlydefenseagainstthe“bigknuckle”istoloweryourhead.WalidusedhistestawhenIwasn'texpectingit.

Tomysurprise,Shivahelpedmeup.Shivawasso tuned to thedistressofanimalsandpregnantwomen, yet he could be blissfully unaware of the pain of other humans, especially if hewas thecause. I watched in astonishment as Shiva confronted Walid. Walid's answer was another testa.Theirfrontalbonesmetwithasickeningclash.WhenIcouldbeartolook,IsawShivastandingasifnothinghadhappened.Thejuniorboyscamerunninglikevulturesaroundcarrion,becausethefallofabullymakesbignews.Walidwassupineontheground.Hecametohisfeetandtrieditagain.ThedullthudoftheirheadsleftmeinmortalfearforShiva.ButShivahardlyblinkedwhileWalidwasoutcoldwithabiggashonhisskull.Whenheeventuallyreturnedtoschool,hewasasubduedfigure.

ThatnightShivaallowedmetoexplorehishead.Unlikeme,hehadagentlepeakatthevertex,andhis frontalboneswerevery thickandashardassteel.My topographywasdifferent. IhadaskedGhoshwhythismightbe,andhepostulatedthattheinstrumentsusedonShivaatbirthmighthavecausedthebonesofhisheadtoheal in this“exuberant”manner.Orelse itmighthavehadtodowiththefactthatwewereconjoined.Iwastooproudtoaskwhatexactlythatmeant.

A folio-sizebook in theBritishCouncilLibraryhadpicturesofChangandEngofSiam, themostfamousSiamesetwins.AfewpageslaterwasaportraitoftheIndianLaloo,whotouredtheworldasacircusfreak.Laloohada“parasitictwinemergingfromhischest.”Laloostoodinaloincloth,andfromhisbarechestsproutedtwobuttocksandapairoflegs.Tomeitlookedasiftheparasitictwinwasn't“emerging”fromLaloo,butclimbingbackintohim.

WhenIcouldungluemyeyesfromthepictures,everywordinthattextwasarevelationtome.Ilearnedthatwhentwoembryosjusthappenedtogrowinthemotheratthesametime,theresultwasfraternaltwins—theydidn'tlookalikeandtheycouldbeboyandgirl.Butifasingleembryoinamother happened to split very early on in its growth into two separate halves, the result wasidenticaltwinslikemeandShiva.Conjoinedtwins,then,wereidenticaltwinswheretheearlysplitofthefertilizedeggintotwohalveswasincomplete,sothetwohalvesremainedstucktoeachother.TheresultcouldbelikeChangandEng,twoindividualsconnectedatthebellyorsomeotherspot.Itcouldalsoresultinunequalparts,likeLalooandhisparasitictwin.

“DidyouknowthatShivaandIwerecraniophagus?Connectedatthehead?”IsaidtoSisterMaryJosephPraise.“Theycutthatconnectionatbirth—theyhadto.Itwasbleeding.”

Iwassilentforalongwhile,andIhopedsheunderstoodthatIwasbeingrespectful.Itwasselfishfor me to talk about our births when they coincided with her death. We had another long and

awkwardsilence.

“CanyoupleasegetGhoshoutofjail?”

There,Isaidit.

Iwaitedforareply.Intheensuingquiet,Ifeltguiltandshamewashoverme.Ihadn'ttoldherthatIdrippedoutthepageonLalooandleftthelibrarywithit;IdsaidnothingaboutkillingthearmymanandhowIfearedaterribleretributionsomeday.

Therewas somethingelse Idheldback, something Iunderstoodonlyafter seeing thepicturesofChangandEng,andofLaloo:thefleshytubebetweenShivaandmehadbeencutanditwaslonggone…but itwasn't gone—it still connected us. That picture of Laloo captured how I felt, as ifpiecesofmewerestillstucktoShivaandpartsofhimwereinsideme.IwasconnectedtoShivaforbetterorworse.Thetubewasstillthere.

Whatwould ithavebeen like ifShivaMarionwalkedaroundwithheads fused,or—imagine this—sharingone trunkwith twonecks?Would Ihavewanted tomakemyway—ourway—through theworldinthatfashion?OrwouldIhavewanteddoctorstotryandseparateusatallcosts?

Butnoonehadgivenusthatchoice.Theydseparatedus,slicedthroughthestalkthatmadeusone.Who'stosaythatShiva'sbeingsodifferent,hiscircumscribed,self-containedinnerworldthataskednothing of others, didn't come from that separation, or thatmy restlessness, my sense of beingincomplete,didn'toriginateatthatmoment?Andintheend,wewerestillone,boundtoeachotherwhetherwelikeditornot.

I lefttheautoclaveroomabruptly,withoutevenagood-bye.HowcouldIexpectSistertohelpmewhenIwasholdingbacksomuch?

Ididn'tdeserveherintercession.

SoIwasastonishedwhen,anhourlater,itcame.

IttooktheformofacrypticnoteonaRussianhospitalprescriptionpad.ItcametoGebrewfromTeshome,hiscounterpartattheRussianhospitalgates.TeshomesaiditwasfromaRussiandoctorwhohadmadeTeshomesweartokeephisidentityasecret.Ononesidethedoctorhadscribbled:“Ghosh is fine. Absolutely no danger.” On the back Ghosh had scrawled: “Boys, SCREW YOURCOURAGETOTHESTICKINGPLACE!ThankAlmazandnoneedtowait.Matronpleasecallinallfavors.Hopelovelybriderenewsyearlycontract.XXXG.”

Iwent back to the autoclave room. I stoodbehind the chair like a penitent and I thankedSisterMaryJosephPraise.Itoldherall.Iheldbacknothing.Iaskedforherforgiveness—andforhertocontinuetohelpusfreeGhosh.

I SAW ALMAZ ANEW, sawherquiet strengthanddetermination in thenightlyvigil shehadheldoutsideKerchelePrison.Whatevershelackedineducationshemadeupforincharacterandinloyalty.

ButIdlostallrespectfortheEmperor.EvenAlmaz,alwaysastaunchroyalist,hadacrisisoffaith.

NoonereallybelievedthatGhoshwasapartytothecoup.Theproblemwas—anditwasthesameforhundredsofotherswhodbeenroundedup—HisMajestyHaileSelassiemadeallthedecisions.HisMajestywouldn'tdelegateandHisMajestyfeltnohaste.

EveryafternoonwewenttoKercheletodelivertheonemealwewereallowedtobring,andtopickupthecontainerbearingthepreviousday'smeal.Therelativesoutsidetheprisonwereourfamilynow.Itwasalsothemost fertileplacetogathernewinformationandplausiblerumors.WeheardthattheEmperortookamorningwalkinthepalacegarden,duringwhichtheMinisterofSecurity,theMinisterofState,andtheMinisterofthePencameouttohimonebyone.Theywalkedthreepacesbehindhimandreportedonrumorsandrealeventsoftheprevioustwenty-fourhours.Eachmanworriedwhethertheonewhowentbeforehimhadsetatrapbymentioningsomethingwhichhethenfailedtomention.Lulu,aroyaldiviner,peedoncertainpeople'sshoes,andtherumormillswereundecidedifthatwasanindicationthatyouweretobetrustedoryouwereundersuspicion—thiswasthesortofthingonelearnedbyvisitingKerchele.

Thenextday,justtwenty-fourhoursaftermyvisittoSisterMaryJosephPraise,wewereallowedtoseeGhosh.

The prison yardwith its lawn and giant shade trees looked like a picnic spot. Under that greencanopy,theprisonersstoodlikeleaflesssaplings.

IspottedGhoshatonce.ShivaandIflungourselvesintohisarms.Itdidn'tregistertillwewereinhisembracethathisheadhadbeenshavedorthathis facehadbecomegaunt.Whatdid registerwasthatmycheststoppedachingforthefirsttimeinoveramonth.Thescentonhisclothes,onhisperson,wasacoarse,communalodorthatmademesad,because itspokeofhisdegradation.WestoodasidetoallowHemaandMatrontogetnearhim,butIkeptahandonhim,frightenedthathemightvanish.Somemenareimprovedbylosingweight,butGhosh,withouthisplumpcheeksandjowls,lookeddiminished.

Almaz stoodback,her faceall buthiddenby the tail of hershama,waiting.Ghosh freedhimselffromHemaandMatron,andhewalkedovertoher.Sheboweddeeply,thenbentasiftotouchhisfeet,butGhoshgrabbedherarmsbeforeshecould,andhepulledherupandkissedherhands.Heembracedher.Hesaidhedbeensohappytoseeherstandingandwavingwhentheywouldtakehimbackandforthinthecoveredjeeps,eventhoughheknewshedidn'tseehim.Almaz,whoseteethIdnevernoticedbefore,grinnedfromeartoear,whiletearsrandownherface.

“Theonlysufferingformewasworryingaboutallofyou.Yousee,Ididn'tknowifthey'darrestedHemaaswell.OrmaybeevenMatron.WhenIsawAlmazstandingintheprisonyard,holdingthatpictureof the family inherhands in that frame, Iunderstood shewas sayingyouwereall right.Almaz,youputmyheartatease.”

NoneofusknewtillthenthatAlmaz'svigilhadincludedthefamilypicture,andthatwheneveracarcameorlefttheprison,she'dstandupandholdthatpictureupandsmile.

TheminutesweretickingbyandwepressedGhoshtotellusall.Idon'tthinkhewantedtoalarmus,buthecouldn'tlie.“Thefirstnightwastheworst.Iwasputinthatcage,”hesaid,pointingtoagrubby,low-slungshackthatlookedlikeastoreroom.“It'satinyspace.Youcan'tstandup.That'swhere they put common criminals, murderers, along with vagrant boys, pickpockets. The air isterrible,andatnight,theylockthedoorandthenthere'snoairatall.Thisonefellow,abrute,rulestheplace,andhedecideswhosleepswhere.Theonlyplacewhereyoucangetalittleairisbythedoor,andinreturnformywristwatch,heletmesleepthere.IfIspentanothernightthereIthoughtI'd have died. No sheets, no blankets, sleeping on the cold ground. When the sun rose, I wasscratchingfromlice.

“Amajorcamedirectlyfromthepalacewithinstructionstotakemetothemilitaryhospitalandgivemeeverything Ineeded tocare forGeneralMebratu.TheEmperordidn'thavemuch faith in thedoctorswhowerecaringforhim.WhenthismajorsawwhereI'dspentthenight,andsawthatmyfacewasswollen,andthatIwaslimping,hewasfurious.HetookmetothemilitaryhospitalwhereIcouldshower,getdeloused,andgetafreshsetofclothes.

“Atthemilitaryhospital,theyshowedmetheGeneral'sX-rays,thentookmetohim.WhodoIseetherebutSlava—Dr.Yaroslav fromtheRussianhospital.Slavawasshakingbadlyandnot lookinggood.AsforMebratu,hewasindeepsleep,orelsehewasunconscious.SlavasaidtheEthiopiandoctorswouldn'tgoneartheGeneral.Theywereterrifiedthatifhediedthey'dsuffer,andiftheysaved him they'd be suspected of being sympathizers. ‘Slava,’ I said, ‘tellme he is sedated, andwasn't thiswaybefore you sawhim.’Slava said theGeneralhadbeenwideawake, speaking,noweakness in hands and legswhenhe came in. ‘Iwas against sedation,’ Slava said.All this time,there was another Russian doctor with Slava, a youngish woman—Dr. Yekaterina. She said,‘Sedation is very good. He has head injury. We have to operate.’ I said, ‘Head injuries are onlyimportantbecause theheadcontains thebrain.Thatbullet isnotnear thebrain.’ ‘What youcallthis,’shesayspointingtohiseye.‘Comrade,’Isaidtoher,‘Icallithisorbit.’Shedidn'tthinkmuchofme,andIdidn't likethewayshewasdisrespectfulofSlava.Slavamaybeanalcoholic,buthewasapioneerinorthopedicsbeforetheybanishedhimtoEthiopia.Slavamouthstomefrombehindher, ‘KGB!’ I called in the major. ‘What are your instructions as far as my authority?’ He said,‘Whateveryouneed.Youareincharge.ThosearemydirectordersfromHisMajesty.’‘Good,’Isaid.‘TakethisdoctorbacktoBalchaHospital.Don'tlethercomeback.Ineedmedicinalbrandy,somesmellingsalts,andlet'sputtwobedsinthisroomformeandSlava.’IdosedGeneralMebratuwitheveryantibiotic therewas,andgaveSlava thebrandyandhe stoppedshaking.ThenSlavaand IdebridedtheGeneral'seye,rightatthebedside,cutawaywhatwashangingwithouttryingtodotoomuchmore.TheGeneralneverstirred.Ihadnoplanstotakethebulletout.

“Forthenexttwonights,IhadSlavaforcompany,andIslept inaregularbed.Itwasthreedaysbefore that Communist sedation wore off. ‘Slava, was that dose of sedative for a horse, by anychance?’Iasked.‘No,butitwasgivenbyanagnamedYekaterina!’Slavasaid.

“WhenGeneralMebratuwokeup,otherthanaslightheadacheandanasalvoice,hewasingoodshape.Theywouldn'tletmestaythereanymore,andtheysentSlavaoff.That'swhenIscribbledthenote.WhenIcamebackheretheyputmeinoneofthepropercellswithsomedecentchaps.They

broughtmebackandforthonceortwiceaday,todressthewound,butIwasn'tallowedmorethanafewwordswiththeGeneral.”

I'dalreadyspottedtwogiantratsemerginginbroaddaylightfromagutterbetweentwobuildings.Ghoshwashidingthingsfromus,butthenwewerehidingsomethingfromhim.

Fromthatdayon,wewereallowedtwice-weeklyvisits.Nowtheonlyquestionwaswhenhewouldbereleased.

Firstone, thenanotherofGhosh'sVIPpatientscameby thehouse topickupsomecomfort fromhomethatGhoshsought—aparticularpen,morebooks,apaperinacertainstack.TheydbringwiththemaLati-natescriptinGhosh'shandwriting,aprescriptionforacompoundmixture,andI'dleadthemtoAdam,thecompounder.

In Ghosh's absence I understood what kind of doctor he was. These royals, or ministers ordiplomats,weren'tseriouslyill,nottomyeyesanyway.Theydidn'thavethepowertogethimoutofjail,buttheyhadthepowertogetintoprisontoseeGhosh.He,bypullingdownthelowereyelidand looking at the color of the conjunctivae, by asking them to protrude the tongue, and all thewhile with his finger on the pulse, managed to diagnose and reassure them. The moderndesignation“familypractitioner”doesn'tquitecoverallthethingshewas.

THREE WEEKS AFTER we first saw Ghosh, General Mebratu was put on trial, a show for internationalobservers. An underground newspaper carried reports of the trial, as did a few foreign papers.General Mebratu, proud and far from penitent, wouldn't renounce what he'd done. His bearingmadeagreatimpressiononpeoplewhowereallowedtoattend.Fromthewitnessboxhepreachedhismessage: land reform, political reform, and the end of entitlements that reducedpeasants toslaves.Thosewhohad fought toputdownMebratuscoupnowwonderedwhy theyhadopposedhim.WeheardthatacoreofjuniorofficersplottedtospringtheGeneralfromprison,butMebratuvetoed this. The death of his troopsweighed on him. The court sentenced him to hang.His lastwordsinthecourtroomwere“Igototellotherstheseedweplantedhastakenroot.”

ON THE EVENING of the forty-ninth day ofGhosh's captivity, a taxi drove up our driveway and swungaroundtheback.IheardAlmazyell,andItriedtoimaginewhatnewcalamitywewerefacing.

Gettingoutof thetaxi,surveyingourquartersas ifhe'dneverseenthembefore,wasourGhosh.Gebrew,who'd ridden on the running board of the taxi from the gate, jumped off, clappingwithglee,hoppinginplace.GenetandRosinacameoutfromtheirquarters.WedancedaroundGhosh.Theairwasfilledwithshrieksandwithlululululu—thesoundofAlmaz'sjoy.Koochooloowasthere,barking,wagginghertail,andhowling,thetwonamelessdogsstandingatadistancefollowinghercue.

Itwasmidnightwhenwewenttobed,ShivaandmecrowdedinwithGhoshandHema.Itwasfarfromcomfortable,andyetIneversleptbetter.IwokeonceandheardthesoundofGhosh'sheavysnoring:itwasthemostreassuringsoundonearth.

WE AWOKE EARLY the next morning, our mood still celebratory. Unbeknownst to us, at that momentGeneralMebratu,veteranofKoreaand theCongo,graduateofSandhurstandFortLeavenworth,wastakentohisexecution.

TheyhunghiminaclearingintheMerkato,perhapsbecauseitwasintheMerkatothatthestudentprocession and the idea of the coup had found itsmost vocal support. The executioner,we laterlearned,wastheEmperor'saide-de-camp,amanGeneralMebratuhadknownforyears.“Ifyoueverloved a soldier, put that knot carefully,” General Mebratu was reported to have said. When thenoosewasinposition,andjustasthetruckwasabouttopullaway,theGeneraltookarunningjumpoffthebackofthetruck,sailingoffintomartyrdom.

Weheardaboutitbylatemorning.Thatnightinthestonevillas,thebarracks,andinchikkahouses,juniorofficerswhograduatedfromtheHoletaMilitaryAcademy,ortheHararMilitaryAcademy,orthe Air Force Academy in Debre Zeit, went to bed plotting to finish what GeneralMebratu hadstarted.

With every passing day,GeneralMebratu s stature grewuntil hewas unofficially canonized.Hislikeness appeared in anonymous leaflets, drawn in the cartoon style of the ancientEthiopic iconpainters,withanabundanceof yellow,green, and red; theydepictedablackChrist flankedbyablackJohntheBaptist,andourownGeneralMebratu.AllthreehadyellowhalosaroundtheirheadsandtheRiverJordanrunningovertheirfeet.Thetextread,ForthisisHethatwasspokenofbytheprophetEsaias,saying:Thevoiceofonecryinginthewilderness.PrepareyethewayoftheLord,makeHispathsstraight.

CHAPTER29AbuKassem'sSlippers

TWO DAYS AFTER theGeneral's execution, the hospital staff, led by Adam andW.W. Gonad, had awelcome-backpartyforGhosh.Theyboughtacow,hiredatentandacook.

Adamslitthebeast'sthroat.Anovereagerorderlywithayearningforgored-gored—rawbeef—cutathinandstillquiveringsteakfromtheflankwhiletheanimalstoodonglasslegs.Theystrungthecowfromatree,madetheircuts,andcarriedthemeattoanoutdoortabletobeprocessed.

WhenIsawanarmyjeepcomeupourdriveway,mybloodturnedcold.Thecooksstoodstillaswewatchedauniformedofficergo into ourbungalow. I sleepwalked toward thehouse. Iwas at thefrontdoorwhentheofficersteppedout,GhoshandHemawithhim.Shivawasbymyside.

“Boys,”Ghoshsaid.“Themotorcycle.Doyouknowwhocametotakeit?”Ghoshwascalm,unawareofanyreasontobealarmed.

Myfirstresponsewasrelief—theyhadn'tcomeforGhosh!Then,whenitsunkinwhythemanwashere,camepanic.Thefiveofushadworkedoutthestory:Asoldiercamewiththekey.Hedrovethemotorcycleaway.Wehadnowordswithhim.We'drepeatedthestorytoHemathedaythesoldierwentmissing.AspreoccupiedasshewaswithGhosh'sarrest,she'dshruggeditoff.

IwasabouttospeakwhenIgotagoodlookattheofficer'sface.

Itwastheintruder,thearmyman,theonewhocametotakethemotorcycle.

It was his face. The same forehead and teeth, but a body that was not as lean and gangly. Thespotless, pressed uniform, the beret tucked under his shoulder lapel, gave him themanner of aprofessionalsoldier,somethingwhichtheintruderhadlacked.Ifeltmyfaceturningcolors.

RosinaandGenetcamewalkingrapidlyaroundthecornerofthehouse.Wordhadgottenout.Therewasacrowdaroundus.

“Asoldiercamewithakeyandhedroveitaway,”Shivasaid.

Inodded.“Yes.”

Theofficersmiled.Heleanedforwardtomeandsaidpolitely,inEnglish,“Isthereanythingelseyouremember?Somethingyouaren'ttellingme?”

Ghoshinterrupted,saying,“Ah,here'sRosina.”InAmharic,Ghoshsaid,“Rosina,thisofficerwantstoknowaboutZemui'smotorcycle.”

Rosinamadeadeepbow.Iwasremindedofherpolitenesstothethief,andhowherchoiceofwordsthenhadbeeninflammatory.Ihopedshe'dbeprudent.

“Yes,sir.Iwaswiththeboyswhenhecame—”Shestoppedandbroughttheedgeofhershama tohermouth,hereyespopping.“Excuseme,sir.Theman…helookedverymuchlikeyou.WhenIsawyourface…forgiveme,”andshemadealittlebowagain.“Hewasn't…hewasn'taspoliteasyou.Dressed…notlikeyou.”

“Wehavethesamemother,”theofficersaid,withawrysmile.“It'strue,helookslikeme.Whatwashewearing?”

“Justthearmyjacket.Noshirt.Awhitesingletunderneath.Boots,trousers,”Rosinasaid.

“Didhelookallrighttoyou?”

“Hehadhisguntuckedhere,”shesaid,pointingtohermidriff,“insteadofinhis…”

“Holster?”thebrotheroffered.

“Yes.Andhelooked…hiseyesred.Helookedasifhemightbe…”

“Drunk?”thebrothersaidsoftly.“Didyouaskhimwhyhewantedthemotorcycle?”

“Please,sir.Hehadthatgun,”shesaid.“Heseemedveryangry.Hehadthekey.”

“Whatdidhesaytoyou?”

“He…saidmanythings.Hesaidhe'stakingthemotorcycle.Isaidnothing.”She'ddepartedfromthescriptwehadrehearsed,butitseemedtobeworking.

“Why?Whathashappened?Whathappenedtothemotorcycle?”ShivasaidinEnglish,hisdeadpanexpressionrevealingnothing.IwasastonishedatShiva'snerve.

“Well,that'swhatIdon'tknow,”theofficersaid.HisEnglishwasexcellentandhismannersoftened.“Hewasn'tsupposedtotakethemotorcycle.Thearmywouldn'thavelethimkeepit,anyway”Hepausedasifconsideringwhethertosaymore.Whenhecontinued,itwastoGhoshandHemathathedirectedhisremarks.“Hehasn'tbeenseensincehecamehere.I'mpostedinDireDawa,andIonlyfoundouthewasAWOLtwoweeksago.Hetoldawomanhekeptthathewasgoingtopickupamotorcycle.”HeturnedtomeandShiva.“Soyousawhimdriveaway?”

“Iheardthesound,”Isaid.

Henodded.“Doctor,doyoumindifItakeaquicklookaround…”

“Byallmeans,”Ghoshsaid.

Ifelttheskypressingdownonmeastheofficerandhisdriverwenttothebackofthehouse,andthenwalked down the gravel driveway.Hadwe come this far,withGhosh free, only to have thearmymansendusbacktohell?Genetglaredatme,whileRosinasquatted,applyingaeucalyptussticktoherteeth.Thetwomenwalkedtotheledge,thenturnedinthedirectionoftheroundaboutand disappeared from view. If on their return they went to the toolshed, we were doomed. Themotorcyclewaswellhidden,butnottoonewhowasintentonfindingit.

Afteraneternitytheyreturned.

“Thankyou,Doctor,”theofficersaid,extendinghishandtoGhosh.“I feartheworst.ThedaytheEmperor returned, some of our soldiers got their hands on a lot of money. My brother hadsomethingtodowiththat.It'sperhapsagoodthinghedisappeared.”

Oncethejeepwasoutofsight,Ghoshstudiedusforamoment.Hesensedsomethingamiss,buthedidn'taskanyquestions.WhenHemaandGhoshsteppedbackinside,IwenttothecornerofthehouseandIthrewup.GenetandShivafollowedme.Iwavedthemoff.Thegastrointestinalsystemhasitsownbrain,itsownconscience.

Insidethetentthefoldingchairswobbledonthesoftgrass.Soonthetablessaggedwithbeakersoftejandplatesoffood.Thekitfo—coarselygroundrawmeatmixedwithkibe(aspicedandclarifiedbutter)—wasmy favoritedish.Weneverserved thisathome,but from the time Iwasababy, I'deatenkitfoinRosina'squarters,orinGebrew'sshack.OnthisdayIhadnoappetite.Theinjerawasstackedonthetablelikenapkins.Thegored-goredwasthedisheveryonewentafter:cubesofrawmeat,whichyoudippedinafieryredpeppersauce.Thedisheskeptcoming:meatballs,meatcurry,lentil curry, tongue, and kidney.What had been grazing under a tree thatmorning had, in shortorder,reachedthetable.

Ghoshsatonadaisinanarmchair.Onebyonethenurses,nursingstudents,andtheotherMissingemployeescametoshakehishandandtopraisethesaintsforallowinghimtosurvivehisordeal.

Rosinadidn't comeout,but I foundGenet inacornerof the tent. I satbyher.Dressed inblack,pushingfoodaroundonherplate,shelookedlikeadouranddistantcousinoftheGenetIknew—shedhardlyleftthehousesinceZemui'sdeath.Whenanorderlycameandgreetedher,kissedheronhercheeks,shebarelyacknowledgedhim.

“Whenwillyougobacktoschool?”Isaid.“Whenwillyoustarteatingwithusagain?”

“Theykilledmyfather.Didyouforget?Idon'tcareaboutschool.”Thenshehissedatme,“Tellthetruth.YoutoldGhosh,didn'tyou?”

“Ididnot!”

“Butyouwerethinkingoftellinghim,weren'tyou?Tellthetruth!”

She hadme there.When I felt Ghosh's arms aroundme for the first time in that prison yard, aconfessionjumpedtomylips.Ihadtosuckitbackandswallow.

“Sincewhendidthinkingbecomeacrime?…Don'tlookatmethatway,”Isaid.

Shetookherplateandsatfarawayfromme.EvenifIdidn'thavegreatfaithinmyself,Iwantedhertohavemorefaithinme.Ithurtthatshenolongersawmeastheherowhoshottheintruder.

BY THE LATE AFTERNOON the tent came down, and now visitors from outside Missing arrived as wordspreadthatGhoshwasfree.ForEvangelineandMrs.Reddythemomentwasbittersweetbecause,thoughGhoshwasback,GeneralMebratuwasgoneforever.Evangelinekeptsaying,“Soyoung.Soyoungtobenomore,”dabbingathereyes,whileMrs.Reddycomfortedher,pullingEvangeline'shead into her considerable bosom.The twobrought a giant pot of chickenbiriyani and the fierymangopicklethatwasGhosh'sfavorite.“It'syoursecondhoneymoon,sweetie,”EvangelinesaidtoGhosh. She winked at Hema. Adid, their old friend, came carrying three live chickens ropedtogether by their feet, handing them over to Almaz. He brushed feathers off his spotless whitepolyestershirt,whichheworeovera flowing,plaidma'awis thatextendedtohissandals.BehindhimcameBabu,whowasGeneralMebratu's usual bridgepartner, bearing abottle of Pinch, theGeneral's favorite.Bynightfall, therewas talkofpullingout thecards forold time'ssake.AtanymomentIexpectedZemuitodriveupwithGeneralMebratu.

The house got stuffy. I opened windows back and front. At one point Ghosh retreated to thebedroom to shedhis sweater andHemawentwithhim. I followedand stood in thedoorway.Hewent to thebathroom tobrushhis teeth. Itwasas ifhecouldn'tgetover thenoveltyof runningwater.Hemastoodoutsidethebathroomlookingathisreflectioninthevanity.

“I'vebeenthinking…,” IheardGhoshsay.“We'vehadagood innings.Maybeweshould leave…beforethenextcoup.”

“What?BacktoIndia?”Hemasaid.

“No…thentheboyswouldhavetolearnHindiorTamilasacompulsorysecondlanguage.It'stoolateforthat.Don'tforgetwhyweleftinthefirstplace.”

Theydidn'tknowIwaslistening.

“LotsofIndianteachershavegonefromheretoZambia,”Hemasaid.

“OrAmerica?TothecountyofCook?”hesaidandlaughed.

“Persia?Theysaytherearehugeneeds,justlikethisplace.Buttheyhavetonsofmoneytospend.”

Zambia?Persia?Were they joking?Thiswasmycountry theywere talkingabout, the landofmybirth. True, its potential for violence andmayhem had been proved. But it was still home. Howmuchworsewoulditbetobetorturedinalandthatwasn'tyourown?

We'vehadagoodinnings.

Ghosh's words felt like a kick to my solar plexus: this was my country, but I realized it wasn'tHema's or Ghosh's. Theyweren't born here.Was this for them a job only good for as long as itlasted?Islippedaway.

Isteppedouttothelawn.Iremembertheairthatnight,andhowitwassobriskthatitcouldrevivethedead.Thefragranceofeucalyptusstokingahomefire,thesmellofwetgrass,ofdungfuel,oftobacco,ofswampair,andtheperfumeofhundredsofroses—thiswasthescentofMissing.No,itwasthescentofacontinent.

Call me unwanted, call my birth a disaster, call me the bastard child of a disgraced nun and adisappearedfather,callmeacold-bloodedkillerwholiestothebrotherofthemanIkilled,butthatloamysoil thatnurturedMatron'sroseswasinmyflesh.IsaidEthyo-pya, likeanative.Letthoseborn in other lands speak ofEee-theee-op-eee-ya, as if it were a compound name like Sharm elSheikh,orDaresSalaamorRiodeJaneiro.TheEntotoMountainsdisappearingindarknessframedmyhorizon;ifIleft,thosemountainswouldsinkbacktotheground,descendintonothingness;themountainsneededmetogazeattheirtree-filledslopes, justasIneededthemtobecertainIwasalive.Thecanopyofstarsatnight;that,too,wasmybirthright.Acelestialgardenersowedmeskelseeds so thatwhen the rainy seasonended, thedaisiesbloomed inwelcome.Even theDrowningSoil,thefoul-smellingquicksandbehindMissing,whichhadswallowedahorse,adog,aman,andGodknowswhatelse—Iclaimedthataswell.

Lightanddark.

TheGeneralandtheEmperor.

Goodandevil.

Allpossibilitiesresidedwithinme,andtheyrequiredmetobehere.IfIleft,whatwouldbeleftofme?

BYELEVENO'CLOCK,Ghoshexcusedhimselffromthecompanyinthelivingroomandcamebackwithustoourroom.Hemafollowed.

Shivasaid,“Wehaven'tsleptinthisbedsinceyouleft.”

Ghoshwastouched.Helayinthecenter,andwehuddledoneitherside.Hemasatatthefootofourbed.

“Inprison,lightswereoutbyeighto'clock.We'deachtellastory.Thatwasourentertainment.Itoldstoriesfromthebookswereadtoyouinthisroom.Oneofmycellmates,amerchant,Tawfiq—hewouldtelltheAbuKassemstory.”

ItwasatalewellknowntochildrenalloverAfrica:AbuKassem,amiserlyBaghdadmerchant,hadheldontohisbattered,muchrepairedpairofslipperseventhoughtheywereobjectsofderision.Atlast, evenhe couldn't stomach the sight of them.Buthis every attempt toget rid of his slippersendedindisaster:whenhetossedthemoutofhiswindowthey landedontheheadofapregnantwomanwhomiscarried,andAbuKassemwasthrowninjail;whenhedroppedtheminthecanal,theslipperschokedoffthemaindrainandcausedflooding,andoffAbuKassemwenttojail…

“OnenightwhenTawfiq finished, another prisoner, a quiet, dignified oldman, said, AbuKassemmightaswellbuildaspecialroomforhisslippers.Whytrytolosethem?He'llneverescape.’Theoldmanlaughed,andheseemedhappywhenhesaidthat.Thatnighttheoldmandiedinhissleep.

“Thenextnight,outofrespectfortheoldman,welayinsilence.Nostory.Icouldhearmencryinginthedark.Thiswasalwaysthelowpointforme.Ah,boys…Idpretendyoubothwereagainstme,justlikethis,andIwouldimagineHema'sfacebeforeme.

“Thefollowingnight,wecouldn'twaittotalkaboutAbuKassem.Weallsawitthesameway.Theoldmanwasright.Theslippersinthestorymeanthateverythingyouseeanddoandtouch,everyseed you sow, or don't sow, becomes part of your destiny … I met Hema in the septic ward atGovernmentGeneralHospitalinIndia,inMadras,andthatbroughtmetothiscontinent.Becauseofthat, I got the biggest gift ofmy life—to be a father to you two. Because of that, I operated onGeneralMebratu,whobecamemy friend.Becausehewasmy friend, Iwent toprison.Because Iwasadoctor,Ihelpedtosavehim,andtheyletmeout.BecauseIsavedhim,theycouldhanghim…YouseewhatIamsaying?”

Ididn't,buthespokewithsuchpassionIwasn'tabouttostophim.

“Ineverknewmy father,andso I thoughthewas irrelevant tome.Mysister felthisabsencesostrongly that it made her sour, and so no matter what she has, or will ever have, it won't beenough.”Hesighed.“Imadeupforhisabsencebyhoardingknowledge,skills,seekingpraise.WhatIfinallyunderstoodinKercheleisthatneithermysisternorIrealizedthatmyfather'sabsence isourslippers.Inordertostarttogetridofyourslippers,youhavetoadmittheyareyours,andifyoudo,thentheywillgetridofthemselves.”

AlltheseyearsandIhadn'tknownthisaboutGhosh,abouthisfatherdyingwhenhewasyoung.Hewaslikeus,fatherless,butatleastwehadhim.Perhapshe'dbeenworseoffthanwewere.

Ghoshsighed.“IhopeonedayyouseethisasclearlyasIdidinKerchele.Thekeytoyourhappinessistoownyourslippers,ownwhoyouare,ownhowyoulook,ownyourfamily,ownthetalentsyouhave, and own the ones you don't. If you keep saying your slippers aren't yours, then you'll diesearching,you'lldiebitter,alwaysfeelingyouwerepromisedmore.Notonlyouractions,butalsoouromissions,becomeourdestiny“

AFTER GHOSH LEFT, Iwondered if thearmymanwasmypairof slippers. If so, they'dcomebackoncealreadyintheformofhisbrother.Whatformwouldtheytakenext?

Justwhenmythoughtswerecominginillogicalsequences,apreludetosleep,Ifeltsomeoneliftingupthemosquitonet.IntheinstantthatIsawher,shewasalreadysittingonmychest,pinningmyarmsdown.

I could have thrownher off. But I didn't. I liked her body onmine and I liked the faint scent ofcharcoalandthefrankincensethatpermeatedherclothes.Maybeshedcometomakeuptomeforbeingsorudebefore.Shecould‘veclimbedinthroughoneoftheopenwindows.

Inthelightfromthehallway,Icouldseethefixedsmileonherface.

“So,Marion?DidyoutellGhoshaboutthethief?”

“Ifyouwerehidinghere,youalreadyknow.”

Shiva,awakenow,lookedatthetwoofus,thenrolledover,andclosedhiseyes.

“Youalmosttoldthatofficer,hisbrother.”

“Ididn't.Iwasjustsurprised…,”Isaid.

“WethinkyoutoldGhoshandHema.”

“Ofcoursenot.Iwouldn't.”

“Whywouldn'tyou?”

“Youknowwhy.Ifitgetsout,they'llhangme.”

“No,theywillhangmeandmymotherforsure.You'llbetoblame.”

“Idreamabouthisface.”

“Ido,too.AndIkillhimeverynight.IwishI'dshothim.”

“Itwasanaccident.”

“IfI'dkilledhim,Iwouldn'tcallitanaccident.IfI'dkilledhim,we'dhavenoworries.”

“Easyforyoutosaybecauseyoudidn'tkillhim.”

“Mymotherthinksyou'lltell.We'reworriedaboutyou.”

“What?Well,youtellRosinanottoworry.”

“It'llslipoutonedayandgetusallkilled.”

“Okay,stop.IfyouknowI'lltell,whytalktome?Getoffmenow.”

Shesliddownsothatherbodywasspread-eagledovermine.Herfacehoveredoverme,andforonesecondIthoughtshewasgoingtokissme,whichwouldhavebeenverystrangeinthecontextofourexchange. Istudiedhereyessoclosetomine,theblemish intheright iris,herbreathonmyface,sweet,pleasant.Icouldseethedangerousbeautyshewasgoingtoturninto.Ithoughtofthelasttimewewerethisclose.Inthepantry.

Herpupilsdilated,hereyelidssaggeddownovertheirises.

Ifeltsomethingwarmwhereherthighswereontopofmine,aspreadingheat.

Ifeltfluidsoakmypajamas.Theairunderthemosquitonetfilledwiththescentoffreshurine.Nowhereyesrolledup,showingonlythewhites,andshethrewherheadback.Sheshivered.Herneckwasarched,thestrapmusclestaut.Shelookeddownonelasttime.“That'ssoyoudon'teverforgetyourpromise.”ShejumpedoffandwasgonebeforeIcouldthinkofreacting.Irearedupnow,readytochaseafterher,totearhertopieces.

Shivaheldmeback,whetherfromhisdesiretobeapeacemakerortoprotecther,Icouldn'tsay.Hiseyesweredowncastandtheymanagednottolookatme.IstoodshakingwithangerasShivastrippedthebed.Mypajamabottomwassoaked;Shivahadbeenspared.InthebathroomShivaranthetubandIgotin.Shivasatonthecommode,quietbutkeepingmecompany.Wedidnotexhangeaword.BackinthebedroomIwasputtingonfreshpajamaswhenGhoshcamein.

“Isawyourlight.Whathappened?”

“Anaccident,”Isaid.

Shiva said nothing. The scentwas unmistakable. I was ashamed. I could've told onGenet, but Ididn't.Iopenedthewindowforafewminutesandthenclosedit.

Ghoshwipeddownthemattress.Hehelpedusflipitover.Hebroughtfreshsheets,madethebedforus.Icouldtellthathewasdistressed.

“Gobacktotheguests,”Isaid.“We'reallright.Really.”

“Myboys,myboys,”hesaid,sittingontheedgeofthemattress.IknowhethoughtIhadwetthebed.“Ican'timaginewhatyouhavebeenthrough.”

Thatwastrue.Hecouldn'timagine.Andweprobablywouldn'tknowwhathe'dbeenthrougheither.

Hesighed.“I'llneverleaveyouagain.”

Ifeltatwingeinmychestatthosewords,adesiretomakehimtakethemback.He'dspokenasifitwereallinhishandstodecide.Asifhehadforgottenaboutfateandslippers.

CHAPTER30WordforWords

SIXTYDAYSHADPASSEDsinceZemui'sdeath,andGenetwasstillconfinedtothehouse.Rosina,sinisterwithhermissingtooth,wasunsmilingandpricklylikeanAbyssinianboar.

“Enough,”GebrewtoldherontheFeastofSt.Gabriel.“I'llmeltacrosstogetyouasilvertooth.It'stimetosmileandtofindwhite inyourclothing.Godwishesit.YouaremakingHisworldgloomy.EvenZemui'slegalwifehasgivenupmourning.”

“Youcall thatharlothiswife?” she screamedatGebrew. “Thatwoman's legs swingopenwhenabreezecomesthroughthedoor.Don't talk tomeabouther.”ThenextdayRosinaboiledupabigbasin of black dye and into this she tossed all her remaining clothes aswell as a goodmany ofGenet'sschoolclothes.

WhenHematriedtogetGenettogobacktoLT&C,Rosinarebuffedher.“She'sstillinmourning.”

Twodayslater,onaSaturday,IheardalululuofcelebrationfromRosina'squartersasIwascomingintothekitchen.Iknocked.Rosinaopeneditjustacrack,peeringoutatmewithahunter'seye,abladeinherhand.

“Iseverythingallright?”

“Fine,thankyou,”shesaidandclosedthedoor,butnotbeforeIsawGenet,atowelpressedtoherface,andbloodyragsonthefloor.

Icouldn'tkeepthisknowledgetomyself.ItoldHemaandnowsheknockedontheirdoor.

Rosinahesitated.“Comeinifyoumust,”shesaid,hermannersurly.“We'realldone.”

The roomwas redolent of cloisteredwomen. And frankincense and something else—the scent offreshblood.Itwasdifficulttobreathe.Thenakedbulbhangingfromtheceilingwasoff.“Closethedoor,”Rosinasnappedatme.

“Leaveitopen,Marion,”Hemasaid.“Andturnonthelight.”

Arazorblade,aspiritlamp,andabloodyclothwerebyGenet'sbed.

Genetsatdemure,herhandspressedtobothsidesofherface,herelbowsrestingonherknees.Thepostureofathinker,butfortheragsineachhand.

HemapulledGenet'sfingersawaytorevealtwodeepverticalcuts,likethenumber11,justpasttheouterendofeacheyebrow.Atotaloffourcuts.Thebloodthatwelleduplookedasdarkastar.

“Whodidthis?”Hemasaid,coveringthewoundandapplyingpressure.

Thetwooccupantsweresilent.Rosina'seyeswerelockedonthefarwall,asmirkonherface.

“Isaid,whodidthis?”Hema'svoicewassharperthantherazorthatmadethecuts.

GenetrepliedinEnglish.“Iwantedhertodoit,Ma.”

Rosina said something sharp toGenet inTigrinya. I knew that short guttural phrasemeantShutyourmouth.

Genetignoredher.“Thisisthesignofmypeople,”shewenton,“myfather'stribe.Ifmyfatherwerealivehewouldhavebeensoproud.”

Hemaopenedhermouthas if consideringwhat tosay.Her facesoftenedabit. “Your father isn'talive,child.BythegraceofGod,youare.”

Rosinafrowned,notlikingthismuchofanexchangeinEnglish.

“Comewithme.Letmetakecareofthat,”Hemasaidmoregently.

IkneltbesideGenet.“Comewithus,please?”

Genetglancednervouslyathermother, thenhissed,“You'llonlymake itharder forme. Iwantedthesemarksasmuchasshedid.Please,pleasego.”

GHOSHCOUNSELEDPATIENCE.“Sheisn'tourdaughter.”

“You'rewrong,Ghosh.Sheateatourtable.Wesendhertoschoolatourexpense.Whensomethingbadishappeningtoher,wecan'tsay,‘Sheisn'tourdaughter.’”

I was stunned to hear what Hema said. It was noble. But if Hema sawGenet asmy sister, thisintroducedcomplicationsasfarasmyfeelingsforGenet…

Ghoshsaidsoothingly,“It'sjusttokeepawaythebuda,theevileye.LikethepottuontheforeheadinIndia,darling.”

“Mypottucomesoff,darling.Nobloodisshed.”

A WEEK LATER,whenHema andGhosh came home fromwork, they heardRosina'swailing soliloquy,loudasever,nodifferentthanwhentheydleftforworkthatmorning.Shebemoanedfate,God,theEmperor,andchastisedZemuiforleavingher.

“That'sit,”Hemasaid.“Thepoorchildwillgomad.Arewegoingtostandbywhilethathappens?”

HemagatheredAlmaz,Gebrew,W.W.,Ghosh,Shiva,andme.EnmassewewenttoRosina'sdoorandpusheditopen.HemagrabbedGenetbythearmandbroughtherintoourhouse,leavingtherestofustopacifyRosinawhoscreamedtotheworldthatherdaughterwasbeingabducted.

BEHINDTHECLOSEDDOORofHema'sbedroom,wecouldhearthesoundsofGenetinthetub.HemacameouttogetmilkandaskedAlmaztosliceuppapayaandpourlemonandsugaroverit.SoonAlmazdisappearedintothebedroomandstayedthere.

Anhourlater,HemaandGenetemergedarminarm.Genetwasinasequinedyellowblouseandaglitteringgreenskirt—partsofHema'sBharatnatyamdanceoutfit.Herhairwaspulledbackoffherforehead,andHemahaddarkenedhereyeswithakohlpencil.Genetstoodregal,happy,herheadhigh,hercarriagethatofaqueenwho'dbeenunshackledandrestoredtoherthrone.Shewasmyqueen, theoneIwantedbymyside. Iwassoproud,sodrawntoher.Howcouldsheeverbemysisterwhenshewasalreadysomethingelse tome?Hema'sglitteringgreensarimatchedGenet'scolors.WealmostmissedthesightofAlmaz,duckingawaytothekitchen,hereyesdarkened,herlipsred,blushonhercheeks,andhugedanglingearringsframingthatstrongface.

Thefiveofuspiledintothecar,GenetinthebackseatbetweenmeandShiva.AttheMerkatoHemagotanewsetofclothesforGenet.ItwasChristmasandDiwaliandMeskelallrolledintoone.

We finishedupatEnrico's.Genetsatacross fromme,smilingatmeasshe lickedher icecream.Hesitantly at first, but then gathering speed, she chattered away. If she'd been brainwashed asHemasaid,herbrainwasdryingout.

Ipickedmymoment,havingscoutedtheobstaclesunderthetable.Ilovedhersomuch,butIhadn'tforgottentheindignityofhervisittomybednottwoweeksbefore,andthewetpresentsheleftme.Ilovedtheimageofherhoveringoverme,amomentofsuchrarebeauty.ButIwantedtoerasethewetpart.

Ikickedhershinsavagelywithmytoecap.Shemanagednottomakeasound,butthepainshowedinherfaceandinthetearsthatsprungtohereyes.“What'sthematter?”Ghoshsaid.

Shemanagedtosay,“Iatemyicecreamtoofast.”

“Ah! Ice-cream headache. Strange phenomenon. You know, that is somethingwe ought to study,don't you think,Hema? Is it amigraine equivalent? Is everyone susceptible?What is its averageduration?Aretherecomplications?”

“Darling,”Hemasaid,kissinghimonthecheek,suchararedisplayofaffectioninapublicplace,“of all the things you'vewanted to study, you've finally foundone I'd love to studywith you. I'massumingitwillinvolvelotsoficecream?”

Inthecar,Genetshowedmethebigweltonhershin.“Areyoudone?”shesaid,quietly.

“No,thatwasjustawarm-up.Ihavetorepayyouinkind.”

“You'll ruin my new clothes,” she said coyly, leaning against me. The scars at the ends of botheyebrows were still angry at the edges. Hema saw them as barbaric, but I thought they lookedbeautiful.IputmyarmaroundGenet.Shivalookedon,curiousastowhatIwoulddonext.Thoseslashesnexttohereyesmadeherlookpreternaturallywise,becausetheywereatthespotwherepeopledevelopedwrinkleswhentheyaged.Shegrinned,andthenumber11swereexaggerated.Ifeltmyheartracing,powerless.Whowasthisbeauty?Notmylittlesister.Notevenmybestfriend.Sometimesmyopponent.Butalwaystheloveofmylife.

“So,”shesaidagain,“seriously,areyoudonewithyourrevenge?”

Isighed.“Yes,I'mdone.”

“Good,”shesaid.She tookmy little fingerandbent itbackandwouldhavesnapped it if Ididn'tsnatchitaway.

GENETSLEPT INABEDmadeupforherinourlivingroom.Thenextmorning,beforewewenttoschool,Hema sent forRosina. Shiva,Genet, and I snuck into the corridor to listen. I peeked, and I sawRosinastandingbeforeHemathewayshe'dstoodbeforethearmyman.

“Iexpecttoseeyoubackinthekitchen,helpingAlmaz.Andfromnowon,inthedaytime,thedoorandwindowtoyourquartersstayopen.Letsomelightandairinthere.”

IfRosinawasgoingtomakeclaimsonherdaughter,thiswasthemoment.

Weheldourbreath.

Shedidn'tsayaword.Shemadeacurtbow,andleft.

WEFELLBACKintoourschoolroutine:loadsofhomework,thenHemawork,whichincludedpenmanship,currentaffairsdiscussions,vocabulary,andbookreports.CricketformeandShiva,anddanceforShivaandGenet.ManyaneveningGoshbowledtousonamakeshiftpitchonourfrontlawn.Foralargemanhehadadelicatetouchwiththebatandtaughtushowtosweep,todrive,andtosquare-cut.

Shiva was, as of that year, exempt from school assignments, the result of Hema and GhoshnegotiatingwithhisteachersatLoomisTown&Country.Bothsideswererelieved.Shivadidn'thavetowriteanessayonthebattleofHastingsifhesawnopointtoit.LoomisTown&CountrywouldcollectShiva'sfeesandlethimattendclass,sincehewasn'tdisruptive.Shivadidn'tmindtheritualofschool.TheteachersknewusandtheyunderstoodShivaaswellasonecouldunderstandShiva.But just like Mr. Bailey, newly arrived from Bristol, some teachers had to discover Shiva forthemselves.Baileywastheonlyteacher inLT&C'shistorytohaveadegree,andthereforehefeltobligedtosetaveryhighstandard.Two-thirdsofusfailedthefirstmathtest.“Oneofyouscoredaperfect one hundred. But he or she didn't write a name on the paper. The rest of you weremiserable.Sixty-sixpercentofyou failed,”heexclaimed.“Whatdoyou thinkabout thatnumber?Sixty-six!”

For Shiva, rhetorical questions were a trap. He never asked a question to which he knew theanswer.Shivaraisedhishand.Icringedinmyseat.Mr.Bailey'seyebrowwentup,asifachairinthecornerwhichhe'dmanagedtoignoreforafewmonthshadsuddenlydevelopeddelusionsthatitwasalive.

“Youhavesomethingtosay?”

“Sixty-sixismysecond-favoritenumber,”Shivasaid.

“Pray,whyisityoursecondfavorite?”saidBailey.

“Becauseifyoutakethenumbersyoucandivideintosixty-six,includingsixty-six,andaddthemup,whatyouhaveisasquare.”

Mr.Baileycouldn'tresist.Hewrotedown1,2,3,6,11,22,33,and66—allthenumbersthatwentinto66—andthenhetotaled.Whathegotwas144,atwhichpointbothheandShivasaid,“Twelvesquared!”

“That's what makes sixty-six special,” Shiva said. “It's also true of three, twenty-two, sixty-six,seventy—theirdivisorsadduptoasquare.”

“Pray, tell uswhat's your favorite number,” Bailey said, no sarcasm in his voice anymore, “since

sixty-sixisyoursecondfavorite?”

Shivajumpeduptotheboard,uninvited,andwrote:10,213,223.

Baileystudiedthisforalongwhile,turningabitred.Thenhethrewuphishandsinagesturethatstruckmeasveryladylike.“Andpray,whywouldthisnumberinterestus?”

“Thefirstfournumbersareyourlicenseplate.”FromMr.Bailey'sexpression,Ididn'tthinkhewasaware of this. “That's a coincidence,” Shiva went on. “This number,” Shiva said, tapping on theboardwiththechalk,gettingasexcitedasShivaallowedhimselftoget,“istheonlynumberthatdescribes itself when you read it. ‘One zero, two ones, three twos, and two threes!” Then mybrother laughed indelight,a soundso rare thatourclasswas stunned.Hebrushedchalkoffhishands,satdown,andhewasdone.

Itwastheonlybitofmathematicsthatstayedwithmefromthatyear.Asforthestudentwhoscoredonehundredpercent?—whoeveritwashaddrawnapictureofVeronicaonthetestpaperinlieuofaname.

I mulled over our fates, especially the good fortune that let him skip homework. I suppose Iunderstood.SinceShivacouldn't do orwouldn't dowhatwas required of him, hewas no longerrequiredtodoit.SinceIcould,Ihadto.

ShivawenttoVersionClinicwheneverourschoolscheduleallowed.He'dmanagedtomakehiswayintooneofHema'ssurgeries,aCesareansection,andnowhewashooked.Gray'sAnatomybecamehisBible,andhedrewatafreneticpace,pagesofhisdrawingslitteringourroom.HissubjectwasnolongerjustBMWpartsorVeronicabutsketchesshowingthevulvaanduterusanduterinebloodvessels.Tocontrol theproliferationofpaper,Hema insistedhedraw inexercisebooks,whichhedid,fillingpageafterpage.YourarelysawShivawithouthisGray'sinhishand.

Perhaps as a reaction to Shiva, I'd seek out Ghosh after school. I knew his haunts: OperatingTheater 3, Casualty, the post-op ward. My clinical education was gathering speed. Sometimes Iassistedhimwiththevasectomieswhichhedidinhisoldbungalow.

GENETANDISATDOWNoneevening,practicingourpenmanshipbycopyingoutapageofaphorismsfromBickham's before beginning our homework. I looked up andwas startled to see hot tears in hereyes.“If‘Virtueisitsownreward,’“shesaidsuddenly,“thenmyfathershouldbealive,no?Andif‘Truth needs no disguise,’ why do we have to pretend that His Majesty isn't short or that hisaffectionforhisuglydogisnormal?YouknowhehasaservantwhoseonlyjobistocarryaroundthirtypillowsofdifferentsizestoplaceatHisMajesty'sfeet,sothatwhateverthronehesitsonhisfeetdon'tdangleintheair?”

“Comeon,Genet.Don'ttalkthatway,”Isaid.“Unlessyouwanttohaveyourneckstretched.”Evenbefore thecoup, itwasheresy to speakagainstHisMajesty.Peoplewent to thegallows for less.Afterthecoup,youhadtobetentimesmorecareful.

“Idon'tcare.Ihatehim.Youcantellanyoneyouwant.”Shestormedoff.

WHENTHESCHOOLTERMdrewtoaclose,Rosinadroppedabombshell.Sheaskedforleavetoreturntothenorthofthecountry,toAsmara,theheartofEritrea.ShewantedtotakeGenetwithhertomeetherfamilyandtomeetZemui'sparents.Hemafearedshewouldn'treturn,andsosherecruitedAlmazandGebrewtotrytotalkRosinaoutofit,orhavehergoalone,butRosinawasadamant.Intheend,Genetsolvedtheproblem.“Nomatterwhat,”shetoldHema,“I'llbeback.ButIdowanttoseemyrelatives.”

Whentheirtaxitothebusdepotpulledaway,Genetwavedhappily;she'dbeensoexcitedaboutthethree-day journey, and she could talk of nothing else. But for me (and for Hema) it washeartbreaking.Thatverynight,thewindpickedup,theleaveswereswishingandrustling,andbymorningasquallarrived,heraldingthelongrains.

NOW THAT I WAS about to turn thirteen, I was aware that for Matron, Bachelli, and Ghosh, and forMissingHospital,therainyseasonmeantthecroup,diphtheria,andmeaslesseason.Therewasnoletupinthework.

Onemorning,asIwentdowntothegate,umbrellainhand,IsawawomancomingupthehilltoMissing, rivulets ofwaterpouringoff herumbrella.She looked frightened. I recognizedher; she

workedinoneofthebarsinthecinder-blockbuildingsoppositeMissing.SomemorningsIsawherlookingmuchasshedidnow,aplainandpleasantface,wearingahomelycottonskirtandtop.Idalso seen her at night, her hair teased out, wearing heels, jewelry, elegant clothes, and lookingglamorous.

She asked me for directions. Her name was Tsige, I learned later. I heard the muted, glottic,honking cough coming from the infant slung to her back in a shama, papoose fashion. It was asoundlikethecryofagander,andforthatreason,IbypassedCasualtyandtookTsigedirectlytothecrouproom.Thecrouproomwasatother timesthediarrhea/dehydrationroom.A labbenchranalongthefourwalls, itssurfacecoveredwithredrubbersheets.Acurtainrodatheadheightcircled the room and intravenous bottles were suspended from this. In a pinch, Missing couldresuscitateuptosixteenoreventwentyinfantspackedsidebysideonthatbench.

Thebaby'seyeswerescrewedshut,thefingerscurled,thetinytranslucentnailsleavingmarksinthepalm.Theriseandfallofthelittlechestseemedtoofastforafour-month-old.Thenursefoundascalpveinandhookedupanintravenousdrip.Ghosharrivedandquicklyexaminedthelittlefellow.He letme listenwithhis stethoscope: it seemed impossible for sucha tiny chest to be so full ofsqueaks,whistles,wheezes, and rattles.Over the left side, the heartbeatwas so rapid I couldn'timaginehowsuchapacecouldbesustained.“Youseethesebowedlegs,thelumpybossingoftheforehead?” Ghosh said. “And the hot-cross-bun pattern on the top of the skull? These are thestigmataofrickets.”

“Stigmata”inmyreligionclassatLT&Cmeantthenailwounds,thecutsfromthecrownofthorns,thegashmadeby the spear of Longinus inChrist's flesh.ButGhoshused theword tomean thefleshsignsofadisease.InthePiazzahehadoncepointedoutthestigmataofcongenitalsyphilisina listless boywhowas squatting on the sidewalk: “Saddle nose, cloudy eyes, peg-shaped incisorteeth…” I read about the other stigmata of syphilis:mulberrymolars, saber-shinned tibias, anddeafness.

Alltheinfantsinthecrouproomappearedrelatedbecausetheyallhadthestigmataofricketstoagreaterorlesserdegree.Theywerewizened,bug-eyed,withbigforeheads.

Ghoshputthechildinthecrudeoxygententfashionedoutofaplasticsheet.“Thecroupfollowingmeasles,ontopofmalnutrition,ontopofrickets,”hesaidtomeunderhisbreath.“It'sthecascadeofcatastrophes.”

Ghosh took Tsige aside, his Amharic surprisingly fluent as he explained what was going on. Hecautionedhertokeepbreast-feeding“nomatterwhatyouhearfromanyoneelse.”WhenTsigesaidthechildwashardlysucking,hesaid,“Still,itwillcomforthimbecausehewillknowyouarethere.You'reagoodmother.This ishard.”Tsige tried tokissGhosh'shandwhenhe left,buthe'dhavenoneofit.

“I'lltrytocheckonthisbabylater,”Ghoshsaidonhiswayout.“Wehaveavasectomytonight.Dr.CooperfromtheAmericanEmbassyiscomingtolearn.Wouldyoubringoverasterilizedvasectomypackfromtheoperatingtheater?Andpluginthesterilizerinmyquarters?”

IstayedinthecrouproomwithTsige,becauseIsensedthatshehadnooneelse.Herinfantlookednobetter.IthoughtoftheshopsonChurchillRoadandhowI'dseentouristsstopthere,thinkingitwasaflowershoporflowermarket,onlytofindthatthe“flowers”werewreaths.Thentheynoticedtheshoe-box-sizecoffins,justforinfants.

Tears streamed down Tsige's face—she could see her babywas the sickest one there. The othermotherswithdrewas if shewerebad luck.Atonepoint Iheldherhand. I searched forwordsofcomfortbutrealizedIdidn'tneedany.Whenherbabybegangruntingwitheachbreath,Tsigecriedonmyshoulder.IwishedGenetwerewithme—whatevershewasdoinginAsmarasurelycouldn'tbe asmeaningful as this. Genet said shewanted to be a doctor—for a smart kid growing up atMissing,perhaps it seemed inevitable.AndyetGenethadanaversion to thehospitalandhadnointerest in followingGhoshorHemaaround.Even if shewere inAddis, I couldn't seehersittingherewithTsige.

AT THREE THAT AFTERNOON, Tsige's child died. It had been likewatching a slow drowning. The effort ofbreathingultimatelyprovedtoomuchforthattinychest.

Atoncethestaffnurseranoutintheraintothemainhospital,justasshe'dbeeninstructedtodo.Shegesturedformetofollow,butIstayedput.Aparent'sgriefneededascapegoat,andparentswereoccasionallymovedtoviolence,toexactingretributiononthosewho'dtriedtohelp.IknewIhadnothingtofearfromTsige.

Halfanhourlater,Tsigeheldtheshroudedbodyinherarms,readyforhisvoyagehome.Belatedly,the othermothersgatheredaroundTsige. They raised theirmouths to theheavens, the veins ontheir necks forming cords. Lulululululu, they cried, hoping their lament might weave someprotectionaroundtheirinfants.

IwalkedwithTsigetothegate.Theresheturnedtome,hereyesfullofpain.Weheldeachother'sgazeforwhatseemedlikealongtime.Shebowed,thencarriedherbundleaway.Ifeltsosadforher.Herbaby'ssufferinghadended,buthershadjustbegun.

DR.COOPERARRIVEDpromptlyateightthateveninginanembassystaffcar,justasthepatient,aPolishgentlemen,pulledupinhisKombi.

Ghoshhadlearnedthetechniqueofvasectomyasanintern,andhe'dlearneddirectlyfromJhaverinIndia,whom he spoke of as “themaestro ofmale nut clippingwho is personally responsible formillions of people not being here.” The operationwas a novelty in Ethiopia, and now expatriatemen, particularly Catholics, came to Ghosh in increasing numbers for an operation that wasuncommonorunavailableintheircountries.

“I have a proposition for you Dr. Cooper. I shall teach you the vasectomy, and once you areproficient,youcanpaymebackbydoingavasectomyonaVIPpatient.”

“DoIknowhim?”Cooperasked.

“Youaretalkingtohim,”Ghoshsaid.“SoyouseeIhaveavestedinterestinseeingyouaresuperblytrained.My assistant,Marion, will helpme judge your skills.Marion, not a word to Hema—youeither,Cooper—aboutmyplans,please.”

CooperhadastiffbrushcutandoverlappingsquareteeththatlookedlikeChiclets.HisAmericanaccentwassharp,jarringtotheear,butoffsetbythewayhedrawledouthiswords,byhisrelaxed,affablemanner,asifhe'dneverhadanunpleasantmomentinhislifeanddidnotexpectto.

“Seeone,doone,teachone.Raaaiyt,oldbuddy?”Coopersaid.

“Indeed,yes,”Ghoshsaid.“Itiseasytodo,butharderthanitlooks.Somepreliminaries,Dr.Cooper.Itellthepatienttouseanenemathenightbefore,becausenothingmakesthemmoretensethanbeingconstipated.WarmmilkandhoneymixedtogetherandputintoanenemabagheldshoulderhighiswhatIrecommend.”

“Doesitwork?”

“Doesitwork?Letmeputitthisway:ifthepatienthappenstobedrinkingawhiskeyandsoda,it'llsucktheglassrightoutofhishand.”

“Gotcha,”saidCooper.

“Ialsoaskthepatienttotakeawarmbathbeforehand.Itrelaxeshim.”Headdedsottovoce,“Anditimprovesmyolfactoryexperience,youknow?”

Thepatienthadn'tsaidawordthusfar.Hewas,Ghoshhadtoldme,aconsultanttotheEconomicCommissionforAfrica,anexpertonpopulationcontrolwhohappenedtobethefatheroffivegirls.Hedidn'tmindalltheattention.

“Wecan't finish ifwedon'tstart,sowebetterstart,yes?Marion, theheaterplease?” I'dalreadyturned on the electric heater under the table. “Here is the first caveat. If you don't want thescrotumtoshrivelup,andtheballstoretracttothearmpit,theroomhastobereallywarm.Now,thesecondcaveatisrelaxation.Veryimportant.Abarbiturateornarcoticmighthelp.Irecommendan ounce of JohnnyWalker Red or Black. I'm not particular. Awonderful relaxant. And yes, youmightgiveonetothepatient,too.”

Cooper'slaughrolledleisurelyoutofhismouth,likethegreatbanksofcloudsthatspilledovertheEntotoMountains.

IhopedCooperwaspayingattention.I'dseenitbefore:whenthepatient'sprivatepartswerefirstexposed,evenwhentheroomwaswarm, thescrotalskin—thedartosmuscle—wouldwrinkleandshrink,andthecremastermusclewouldtugthetestisup.Then,afteragoodswallowofwhiskey(bythepatient),whichwasservedonlyatthispointandnotbefore,thesacunfurled.

Bothsurgeonsweregloved,andGhoshcleanedtheareathoroughlyandthendrapedsteriletowelstoframethefield.“Anothertip,Dr.Cooper.Eventhoughit'sasimpleoperation,mustn'tallowany

bleeding.Doyouknowwhatabrinjallookslike,Dr.Cooper?”

“Idon'tbelieveIdo,nosir,”Coopersaid.

“Aubergine?…Melanzana?…Eggplant?”

Cooperrecognizedthelastword.

“Well, if you don'tmeticulously control bleeding, you'll have an eggplant.Or two.And you knowwhatwecall thatcomplication,Cooper.Wecall it thebloody-brinjal-and-bugger-all.Which isalsowhattheyfedusforfiveyearsinmymedical-schoolhostel.”

IservedthepatienthisJohnnyWalker,whichhedownedinonegulp.

IlovedassistingGhosh.EversincehetreatedmeasifIwereoldenoughtolearnandunderstand,Itookmyroleveryseriously.IwasthrilledtohaveCoopertherewatching.

Ghosh,onthepatient'sright,rootedwithhisthumbandindexfingeratthetoprightofthescrotum,just where it joined the body. “You feel all the wiry things—lymph vessels, arteries, nerves, andwhatnot?Well, thevasdeferens is in that lot,andwithpracticeyoucan tell itapart fromall theotherwires.Ithasthelargestwall-to-lumenratioofanytubularstructureinthebody,believeitornot.Hereitis.Awhiplikestructure.Putyourfingerbehindmine.”

Cooperrootedaround,andsaid,“Gotit.Thevas.Yup.”

“Now,pushthevasforwardfromthebackwiththetipofyourindexfinger,fixitlikethisagainstthepulpofyourfingersothatitdoesn'tslipaway.”

Ghosh'sinstructionstoCooperweresimilartowhathesaidtomewhenIassistedhim.Helovedtoteach,andinCooper,hehadthekindofstudenthedeserved.IfhedazzledCooperwithhispolisheddelivery, itwasbecausehe'dpracticed itonme.Practicingmedicineand teachingmedicinewerecompletelyconnectedforGhosh.Whentherewasnoonetoinstruct,hesuffered.Butthatwasrare.Hewouldhappilyteachaprobationer,orevenafamilymember—whoeverhappenedtobearound.

“IuseAdrenalinwithmy localanesthetic tokeep thebleedingminimal.Anddon'tbestingy.”Heemptiedafive-ccsyringeoflocalintothetissuethathisindexfingerpushedforward.“Anylessthanthatandhe'llhavepainandtheballswillgo to thearmpit.You'llhave tocallachestsurgeontobringthemdown.Now…seehowmyindexfingerstillhasthevasstretchedoverit?Imakeatinycutinthescrotalskin.Ikeeppushingonthevas,pushingitforward…and…there!WhenIcanseeitinthewound,IuseanAllistograbthevas.”

Hepulledoutashortlengthofpale,white,wormliketissue.“Iputamosquitocliphereandhere…and then I cut between the clips. I remove a two-centimeter segment. Ideally you'd send it topathology. That way if his wife gets pregnant a year from now, you can show the patient thepathologyreportandhe'llknowit'snotbecauseyoudidn'tdoyourjobbutbecauseathirdpartydidhisjobbetter.Idon'tsendittopathologyforthesimplereasonthatwedon'thaveapathologist.Butforawhile,therewasapathologistattheAmericanEmbassyclinicinBeirut.I'ddothevasectomiesfortheAmericanstaffandsendhimtheselittlepiecesIcutout.ThemandidthepathologyforalltheAmericanembassiesinEastandWestAfrica.Hekeptsendingbackreportsthatmyspecimenswereinadequate:thoughhethoughthesawsomeuroepi-thelialtissue,hecouldn'tbecertainitwasthevas. ‘It's thevas,’ Iwrote tohimeach time. ‘Whatotheruroepithelial tissuecould Ihavecutout?Callitthevas.’Buthekeptcomplaining:‘Cannotbecertain.Notenoughtissue.’Itwasstartingtoannoyme,youknow?Sofinally,Isenthimapairofsheep'sballs.Iputtheminformalinandsentthemoff inthesamediplomaticpouch.Withanote: ‘Isthisenoughtissue?’Neverhadaproblemwithhimafterthat.”

Cooperhee-hawed,hismasksuckinginandout.

“Now,I tieoff thecutendswithcatgut.AndthenI tell thepatient, ‘Nocommunicationwithwifeallowedforthenextninetydays.’“

Ghoshturnedto facethepatient,andrepeatedthesentence.Thepatientnodded.“Okay,youcancommunicate,say‘Goodmorning,darling,’andallthat,butnosexforthreemonths.”Thepatientgrinned.“Okay,youcanhavesex,butyoumustwearacondom.”

“Iuseinterruptus,”thepatientsaid,speakingforthefirsttimeinaheavyEastEuropeanaccent.

“You usewhat? Interruptus? Pull and pray? Good God,man!Nowonder you have five kids! It'snobleofyoutotrytogetoffthetrainatanearlierstation,butit'sunreliable.Nosir.Interruptthe

interruptus, man, unless you want to reach your half dozen this year.” The patient lookedembarrassed.“Youknowwhatwecallyoungmenwhousecoitusinterruptus?”Ghoshsaid.

Thepopulationexpertshookhishead.

“WecallthemFather!Daddy.Pater.Pappa.Père.Nosir,Ihavedonetheinterruptingforyou.Givemethreemonthsandyoucantellyourmissusthatsheisnottoworrybecauseyouwillbeshootingblanks, and there will be nomore interruptions and youwill be staying for dessert, coffee, andcigars.”

CHAPTER31TheDominionoftheFlesh

WITH GENET AND ROSINA AWAY, our quarters felt empty. I missed Genet terribly. Hema and I bothworriedthatwedneverseeheragain.She'dpromisedtocall,andwrite,butthreeweekshadgonebyandwedyettohearfromher.Thatyear,1968,wehadtorrentialrains;theBlueNileandAwashhadspilledtheirbanks,causingflooding.ThebabblingbrookbehindMissinglookedlikeariver.InAddis, thepopulacewasbottledup indoors so that a lull in the rain released the scentof stifledhumanity, dung fires, and clothes that refused todry. The ivy racedup thedrainpipes and foundchinksinwalls,whilethetadpoleshurriedintocroakingfrogsbeforetheirlimbswerefullyformed.NochildIknewwasevertemptedtoturnitsfacetotheskyandcatchraindropsonthetongue,notwhenyoulivedandbreathedwater.

Now thatShivaand Iwere teenagers, lookingahead toour fourteenthbirthday, I keptexpectingsomethingtofeeldifferent.Itriedtostaybusy,butallIcouldthinkaboutwasGenetandwhatshemightbeuptoinAsmara.Ihopedshewashomebound,miserable,andmissingme.WithoutGenetasawitness,nothingIdidwasmeaningful.

LATEONATUESDAYEVENING,IwatchedGhoshinOperatingTheater3asheremovedagallbladder.Whenhewasdone,weswungbythesurgicalwardtoseeEtien,adiplomatfromIvoryCoast,amanweknewsocially,who'dsuddenlydevelopedabowelobstruction.Insurgery,Ghoshhadfoundanobstructingrectal cancerwhichhewas forced to resect. Itwasabig and challengingoperation, and I knewGhoshwashopeful foracure.Buthewasforcedtocreateacolostomyonthebellywall.“Etien'svery depressed,”Ghosh said. “Not about the cancer, but over his colostomy.He can't accept theideaofwastecomingoutfromanopeninginhisabdomen.”

Etienhadthesheetoverhishead.WhenGhoshexaminedhim,andthensaidthecolostomylookedbeautiful, tearswelledup inEtien'sbigeyes.Hewouldn't lookdownthere.Allhesaidwas“Whowillmarrymenow?”

Ghoshwassurprisingly firm. “Etien, that'snot thepartofyourbody Icutoff, themarryingpart.You'll findawomanwholovesyou,andyou'llexplainittoher.Ifshelovesyouforyourself,you'llboth be glad that you are alive.” Ghosh's facial expression brooked no argument, but then hesoftened. “Etien, imagine if all humanswere bornwith their anus on the belly and that'swhereeveryone'swasteemerged.Then imagine if someonesaid theyweregoing tooperateonyouandrerouteyourbowelsoitopenedbehindyou,betweenyourbuttockcheeks,somewherewhereyoucouldn'tseeitexceptinamirror,andwhereyoucouldhardlyreachitoreasilykeepitclean…”Ittookafewseconds,butthenEtiensmiled.Hedabbedhiseyes.Heventuredaglancedownathiscolostomy.Itwasasmallstepintherightdirection.

Ghoshhadonemorepatienttosee.HetoldmetogoonhomesoIwouldn'tbelatefordinner.

TherainbegantocomedownhardandIhadnoumbrella.Iwalkedundertheshelteredwalkwaysconnecting the theater to Casualty andCasualty to themaleward.Where thewalkway ended, Idashedacrossashortgap,leapingoverapuddletoarriveatthenurses’quarters.Irarelyexploredthisfemalewarren.It lookeddeserted.IfIwentupthelongouterbalconyanddownthestairsattheotherend…well,I'dstillgetsoaked,butI'dbefiftyyardsclosertohomebeforeIhadtodashout into the rain. I hopedAdam'swife, the keeper of the virgins,with that big cross aroundherneck,didn'tseeme,becauseshewouldchasemeout.

Upstairs,thedoorsoftheindividualnurses’roomsopenedontothesharedveranda.Theymusthaveallbeeninthediningroom,otherwisetheywouldhavebeenlinedupagainsttheverandarailing,teasingouttheirhair,paintingtheirnails,sewing,andchatting.

Iheardmusicfromthecornerroomthathadoncebeenmymother's.I'dbeenuphereafewtimes,butjustlikehergrave,thiswasn'taplacewhereIfeltherpresence.Thestrangenessofthemusic,thebeat,werewhatpulledmecloser.Guitarsanddrums inadriving rhythmrepeatedamusicalrefrainfirstinoneregister,thenanother.OflatesomeEthiopianmusicadoptedaWesternsound,with horns, snare drums, and a repeating electric guitar riff that took the place of the muffledstringsofthekrarandthehandclapping.Butthiswasn'tEthiopianmusic,andnotjustbecausethewordswereEnglish(albeitanEnglishIcouldn'tquiteunderstand).Thiswasradicallydifferent,likeanewcolorintherainbow.

Thedoorwasopenacrack.

Shestoodbarefoot inthecenteroftheroom,herbacktome.Awhiteslipexposedhershouldersandendedatthebackofherknees.Herheadwentfromsidetoside,andher long,straighthair,conkedwithchemicals, followedas ifwelded toherskull.Herhipsweredrivenby thebass line,whileherupraisedrighthandkeptthemelody.Herlefthandmusthavebeenpressedtoherbelly,becausetheelbowjuttedoutlikethehandleofateacup.Themusichadenteredher;itlubricatedherjoints,softenedherbonesandfleshtoproducethisgyrating,fluid,andsensualmovement.

Sheturned.Hereyeswereclosedandherfacewastiltedup.Thelowerlipwastwisted,asifithadbeensplitandhadhealedoutofalignment.

I knew that lip, that faintly pockmarked face, though now the pocks textured the skin andexaggeratedhercheekbones.ItwasthebodyIdidn'trecognize.She'dbeenastudentprobationerforever,untilMatron,takingpityonher,gaveheranewtitle,StaffProbationer,whichtransformedher.Frombeingonthelong-termplan,aperpetualstudent,shebecameaninstructorforincomingprobationers. Intheclassroom,withtextbooksthatsheknewbyheart,shecouldbothdrivefactsinto the probationers’ heads and demonstrate that it was possible to keep them there, by themannerinwhichsheregurgitatedhermaterial,neverlookingatthetext.

Normallysheworeherhairpulledoffherforeheadandneckandgatheredintoatopbunsotightthat it archedher eyebrows.When she crowned thiswith thewingednurse's cap, it lookedas ifshe'dinvertedanice-creamconeonherhead.

Otherthanherprecarioushairdo,I'dalwaysthoughtoftheStaffProbationerasplain.Atschool,Iknewgirlswhowereneitheruglynorbeautifulbutwhosawthemselvesonewayortheother,andthatconvictionmadeitcometrue.HeidiEnqvistwasgorgeous,butalasnotinherowneyes,andsoshelackedthemysteryandallureofRitaVartanian,whodespiteheroverbiteandprominentnosemanagedtomakeHeidienvious.

TheprobationerwasoftheHeidimold.Ithinkthat'swhyshemadeherselfawillingprisonerofastiff,starcheduniformandadoptedanunsmilingexpressiontogowithit.Theonlyidentityshehadwas that of being in the nursing profession; in her own eyes, and in the light of theworld, shethoughtshewasnobody. Idalways felt theprobationer'sdiscomfortaroundus.But thenshewasshyaroundeverybody.

ButIcouldseenowthattherewasmoretoherthannursing.Theuniformconcealedabodyfullofcurves, likethe figuresShivausedtodraw,andthebodymoved inwaysthatwouldhavemadeaharemdancerjealous.

Hereyeswereclosed.Wereshetoseemeshe'dbestartled,embarrassed,andprobablyfurious.Iwasabouttostepbackwhen,tomysurprise,shesteppedforwardandpulledmeinbymyhand,asif a phrase in the songwasmy cue. She kicked the door shut. Themusicwas louder andmoreintenseinsidetheroom.

She had me taking little steps in time to the beat, moving my body this way and that. I wasembarrassedat first. Iwantedto laughorsaysomethingclever, thewayanadultwould.Butherexpressionandthethrobbingbeatmademefeelanythingbutdancingwouldhavebeenliketalkinginchurch.Mystepsbecameeffortless.Iimitatedher,myshouldersmovingintheoppositedirectionfrommyhips.Myhandsdrewfiguresintheair.Thetrickwasnottothink.Mybodyfeltsegmented,and each segment answered the call of a particular instrument. The pattern of our steps feltinevitable.

JustwhenImasteredthat,shepulledmetoher,mycheekagainstherneck,mychestagainstherbreasts, separated from themby the thinnestofmaterials. I'dneverdancedbefore, certainlynotlikethis. Ibreathedinherperfumeandhersweat.Shesqueezed,takingmybreathaway,as if tomakeourtwobodiesone.Sheguidedmyarmsothatitwasaroundher,myhandoverhersacrum,andIheldherclose.Weneverstoppedmoving.Sheled.

Ianticipatedhereverystep,cluelessastowherethatknowledgecamefrom.Wespun,thensurgedthisway, then that, likeoneorganism. I thoughtofGenet.Emboldened, I ledandshe followed. Ipressedagainstthesoftfleshwhereherlegscametogetheronlybecauseshepressed,too,grindingherhipsintome.Bloodsurgedtomyface,tomyarms,intomystomach,mygroin.Theworldhadfallenaway.Iwasinanelaboratedialoguewithher.

Themusicwouldn'tstop,andIneverwantedittostop,andjustwhenIthoughtthat,itfaded.TheAmericanannouncer'slazydrawlwassounlikethecrispformaltonesoftheBBC.“Well,well,”hesaid.“My,my.Umm,hmmm,”as ifhedseenuscarryingon.“Haveyoueverheardanythingquitelikethat?ThisistheRockofEastAfrica.EastAfrica'sBig14.ArmedForcesRadioService,Asmara.”Itwasn't a station that I knewexisted. I knewof a hugeAmericanmilitarypresence, a listening

post,I'dhearditcalled,justoutsideofAsmarainKagnew.Whoknewtheyhadsomethingwecouldlistento?

Wewerestillpressedtogether,holdingtheworldatbay.Shegazedintomyeyes,Ididn'tknowifshewasabouttocryorlaugh.AllIknewwasthatI'dhavecriedwithher,orlaughedorgotdownonallfoursandpretendedtobeKoochoolooifsheasked.

“You'resobeautiful,”Isaid,surprisingmyself.

Shegasped.Mywordsseemtoripplethroughher.HadIsaidthewrongthing?Herlipsquivered;hereyesshone.Shewasexpressingjoy.I'dsaidtherightthing.

Sheloweredherface,broughtthatlipwiththepuckeredscarandthebulgesoneithersideclosetomine.Hermouthoverlappedmine,formingaseal.Thesilliestimageenteredmymind,anditwasthatofconnectingonegardenhose toanother.What flowedacrosswasn'twater,buther tongue.Thistime,unlikeinthepantrywithGenet,Ireceivedhertongueeagerly.Itwassoveryexciting.Iputmyhandbehindherhead.Ipressedmybodytoher,feelingeveryatominmecometoapoint.

Ipulledawayonceto lookatherandsay,“You'resobeautiful,”becauseitwasamagicalphrase,oneIknewIshoulduseoften,butonly if Ibelievedittobetrue.Idon'tknowhowlongwewerecoupledbyourmouths,butitcamemostnaturally,asifIweresatisfyingahunger.Ididn'trealizethispotentialexistedinme.Itcarriedmeforward.Whateverwasnext,Ididn'tknow,butmybodyknew.Itrustedmybody.Iwasready.

Suddenly,shesteppedaway.Sheheldmeatarm'slength.Shesatontheedgeofthebed.Shewascrying.Somethinghadhappenedaboutwhichmybodyhadfailedto informme.Orperhapstherewasarule,anetiquette,thatI'dfailedtoobserve.Ieyedthedoor,measuringmyescape.

“Canyoueverforgiveme?”shesaid.“Yourmothershouldn'thavedied.MaybeifItoldsomeoneshewassick,theycould'vehelpedher.”

Thiswasastonishing.Icouldfeelthehaironthebackofmyneckrise.I'dentirelyforgottenthiswasmymother'sroom.Icouldn'tpictureSisterMaryJosephPraiseinhere,certainlynotwithaposterof Venice on thewall, and on anotherwall a black-and-white poster of awhite singer, his pelvisthrustforwardatthemicrophonestandwhichhedpulledtowardhim,hisfacecontortedwiththeeffortofsinging.IlookedbacktotheStaffProbationer.

“Ididn'tknowhowsickshewas.”Shehiccupedthroughhertears,justlikeababy.

“It'sallright,”Isaid,feelingasifsomeoneelsegavemethosewords.

“Sayyouforgiveme.”

“Iwillifyoustopcrying.Please.”

“Sayit.”

“Iforgiveyou.”

Sheonlycriedlouder.Someonewouldhear.Ididn'tthinkIwassupposedtobeinthisroom.AndIcertainlywasn'tsupposedtomakehercry.

“Isaidit!IsaidIforgiveyou.Whyareyoustillcrying?”

“ButIalmostletyouandyourbrotherdie.Iwassupposedtohelpyoubreathewhenyoucameout.Iwassupposedtoresuscitateyou.ButIforgot.”

WHENIFIRSTCAMEtothisroom,Iwasadrift,feelingasifapartofmewasmissing,allbecauseGenetwasaway.ThenI'dforgottenallthatandfoundhappiness,no,ecstasy,inthedance,ahintofwhatIwantedwithGenet.AndnowIwasadriftagain,andconfused.Paradisehadseemedsoclose,andnowIwasclawingthroughfog.Shegrabbedmyhandandpulledmetoher,tothebed.

“Youcandoanythingyouwanttome.Anytime,”shesaid,tiltingherheadback,lookingupatmeasIstoodoverher.

Whatdidshemean?

“Dowhat?”Isaid.

Anything.

Sheletmegoandshefellbackonherbed.Shewasspread-eagled.Shewasready.ForwhateverImightwanttodo.

Yes,therewassomethingIwantedtodo.IfIweregivenfreerein,dominionoverherbody,IknewI'ddiscoveritbyinstinct.Ihadageneralidea.Iwasnearlyfourteenafterall.

ShewasgivingmelicenseandstillIwaited.

Sherolledoverontoherbelly,showingmeherbuttocksandpeeringatmeoverhershoulder.Hereyelidswerepuffy,herexpressiondreamyandfarawayShespunonehundredeightydegreessoherheadfacedme.Sheproppedherselfuponherelbows.Herbreastshungdown,thenipplesbarelyconcealed.Shefollowedmygazetohercleavage.

Iheardvoicesandfootstepsoutside.Theothernursesandprobationerswerebackfromdinner.

I didn't want to leave. But the world had intruded. My hesitation doomed me. That and heruninvitedconfession.

“Iwanttodancewithyouagain,”Isaid,inawhisper.

“Youcan…,”shewhispered,butasifthatwerethewronganswer.

“Idowanttodo…anythingwithyou.”

“Yes!That'swhatIwant,too.”Shewaskneelingonthebednow,brightening,smilingthroughhertears.“Come,”shesaid,armsextended,beckoning.

“Butnothingrightnow.I'llbebackanotherday.”Iputmyhandonthedoorknob.

“But…howaboutanythingnow?”shesaid,loudenoughfortheworldtohear.

Islippedoutquickly,hopingthatifanyonesawme,they'dthinkitperfectlynormalformetovisit.

Therainhadn'tletup.Iletitbeatonmyhead.Ididn'tmind.Rainwasfamiliar.Butthisbalancingontheedgeoffeelingssopowerfultheyseemedcapableofmakingmefly,thiswasarevelation.BythetimeIreachedourquartersIwassoaked.WhenIsawthedoortoRosinaandGenet'sroom,Ilongedforthepadlocknottobethere.Istoodstaringatthatcloseddoor.

Itwasatthatmoment,withraindropssmackingmeonthefontanel,thatIcametothedecisionthatImustmarryGenet.Yes,thatwasmydestiny.WhatI feltwiththeprobationer,IneverwantedtofeelwithanyonebutGenet.Thereweretoomanytemptationsoutthere,greatforcesreadytoshakemefreeofmyavowedintent.Iwantedtosuccumbtotemptation.Butwithjustonewoman,andthatwasGenet.

IfImarriedher,I'dsolveeverything.ItwouldkeepRosinafrompullingaway,itwouldmakeHema,Ghosh,andRosinahappy,andthey'dhavebothofusastheirchildren.Icouldseeushavingkidsofourown.We'dteardowntheservant'squartersandbuildthetwintothemainhouse,withalinkingcorridor, sowecouldallbeunder thesameroof;we'dhavea room,ormaybea suite, forShiva.He'dbehappytohaveGenetasasister-in-law.SinceShivawasn'tonetolookback,tocelebratethepast,itwasallthemoreimportantformetopreservethefamily,keepusasone.

I STEPPED INTO THE HOUSE, dripping water on the floor. In the bathroom I stripped naked and studiedmyselfinthemirror,lookingtoseewhattheprobationersaw.Iwastallformyage,nearlysixfeet,andmyskinwasfair.IcouldperhapshavepassedforsomeoneofMediterraneanancestry;myiriseswere brown—I never saw the hint of blue I could see in Shiva's. My expression seemed undulyearnest,particularlywhenmyhairwasdamp.Onceitdried,thecurlswouldreturnandwouldhavealifeoftheirown,refusingtobecorralled.Thisiswhatitmeanstoarriveatmanhood,Ithought,handsonmyhips,turningtoadmiremyflanks,mybuttocks.

I dressed and returned to the kitchen, breathing in the scents steaming out of the pots andsnatching a piece ofmeat beforeAlmaz could slapmy hand away. She scoldedme, but itwas asweetsound,aswasthemusicfromthelivingroomwiththeheavybeatofatabla,andthethumpand thud ofHema andShiva dancing, ofHema calling out instructions. I heard the rattle of theloosebumperontheVolkswagenasGhoshcameupthedriveway.Ifeltecstatic,asifIwasattheepicenterofourfamily,missingonlyGenetandRosinawhosurelywouldcomeback,andthenourfamilywouldbewhole.

Ipushedoutofmymindwhattheprobationersaidaboutwhatsheddone—orhadn'tdone—formymother.Therewasn'tanypointindwellinginthepainofthepast,notwhenthefuturecouldholdsuchpleasure.Andasformyfather?No,hewouldn'teverwalkthroughthosegates; Inowknewthat.WhateverThomasStonehad,whereverhewasatthismoment,hehadnoideawhathe'dgivenupintheexchange.

CHAPTER32ATimetoSow

GENET AND ROSINA RETURNED two days before school began; they arrived with the clamor andexcitementoftheIndiancircuscomingtotheMerkato.Theirtaxifromthebusstationsaggedonitssprings,theroofcarrierandtrunksoladenwithgoods.

The first thing I noticedwasRosina's gold tooth and the grin thatwentwith it.Genet, too,wastransformed, radiant,wearing a traditional cotton skirt and tight bodice,with amatching shamaaroundhershoulders.SheshriekedwithhappinessassheleapedouttohugHema,almostknockingherover.Then she rushed toGhosh, thenShiva, thenAlmazandme,and thenback intoHema'sarms.WhenRosinahuggedme, itwas lovingandaffectionate;buther lengthyembraceofShivamademefeelastabofenvy.HerabsenceallowedmetonowseeclearlywhatI'doverlookedbefore—thatshefavoredShiva.Wasthisaresultofherseeingmeinthepantrywithhernakeddaughter?OrhadshealwayshadasoftspotforShiva?AndwasItheonlyonetonotice?

Theywerealltalkingoveroneanothernow.Rosina,onearmstillaroundShiva,allowedGebrewtoadmirehergoldtooth.

“Genet, darling, your hair!” Hema said, because it was braided into tight cornrows, like hermother's,eachbraidspringingfreeatthebackofherheadwhereitwastiedaroundashinydisk.“Youcutit?”

“Iknow!Don'tyouloveit?Andseemyhands,”shesaid.Herpalmswereorangewithhenna.

“Butit'sso…short.Andyoupiercedyourears,darling!”Hemasaid.Bluehoopshungdownfromher lobes. “MyGod, girl,” she said, holdingGenet by the shoulders, “Look at you! You've growntallerand…fuller.”

“Yourtitsarebigger,”Shivasaid.

“Shiva!”HemaandGhoshsaidatthesametime.

“Sorry,”hesaid,surprisedbytheirreaction.“Imeantherbreastsarebigger,”hesaid.

“Shiva!Thatisn'tthesortofthingyousaytoawoman,”Hemasaid.

“Ican'tsayittoaman,”Shivasaid,lookingimpatient.

“It'sallright,Ma,”Genetsaid.“Andit'strue.I'maB,ormaybeevenaC!”shesaidlookingdownproudlyatherbreasts,whichpointeduplikestargazers.

Rosinacouldtellwhatwasbeingdiscussed.“Staizitto!”shesaidtoGenet,herfingeronher lips,whichmadeGenetlaugh.

“Madam,”RosinasaidtoHemainAmharic,“I'vehadmyhandsfullwiththisgirl.Alltheboysarechasingher.Doesshehave thesense todiscourage them?No.And lookhowshedresses!” Iwasdistressedtohearatraceofprideinhercomplaint.

Genet said, “I just love the clothes in Asmara. Oh! I brought postcards.Dov’è la mia borsetta,Mama?Iwant toshowyou.Oh, it's in the taxi…Holdon.”Shewentheadfirst throughtheopenwindowofthetaxi,treatingustoaviewofherpanties.RosinascreamedatherinTigrinya,tonoavail.

Genetthrustpostcardsatus.“Oh,Asmara,youcan'timaginewhatabeautifulcitytheItaliansbuiltsolongago.See?”Itwasn'tsomethingtobragabout:beingcolonizedforsolongbeforeEthiopia.Thestrange,colorfulbuildingswereallangles,likesomethingoutofageometryset.

HEMAANDGHOSHsoondriftedbackintothehouse.ThetaxidriverhelpedGebrewunloadwoodenstoolsand a newbed intoRosina's quarters. Thebedwasmade of hand-carveddarkwood, a gift fromRosina'sbrotherinAsmara,welearned.

Isatonthenewbed,gazingatGenet.Itfeltasifshe'dbeenawayforyears.Iwastongue-tied.“Sohow was your winter, Marion?” If I was unsure of myself in front of her, she didn't know themeaningofshy.

I'dsavedupthingstotellher.Ievenhadascript.Butthistallbeautifulgirl—thiswoman,Ishouldsay—sittingnexttome,soEritreanandsoenamoredofthingsItalian,messedupmyspeech.ThepatientsI'dseen,thebooksI'dread…noneofthiscouldcompetewithAsmara.

“Oh,nothingreally,”Isaid.“Youknowhowitishereinthelongrains.”

“That'sit?Nothing?Nomovies,noadventures?And…girlfriends?”

I was still smarting from Rosina's description of the boys chasing Genet in Asmara. It was abetrayal.SurelyGenethadaroleinthat:Whatboywouldbotheryouifyoutoldhimtogetlost?

“Well,”Isaid,“Idon'tknowaboutgirlfriends,but…”

Reluctantlyatfirst,Itoldheraboutmyvisittomymother'soldroom,butIrecastmytimewiththeprobationer as something casual, portraying myself as the indifferent participant. However, thefurtherIgotintothestory,thelessIwasabletosustainthattone.

Genet'seyesbecameasroundasthehoopsonherears.

“Soyoudiditwithher?”shesaid.

“No!”Isaid.

Sheseemeddisappointed,whenIwouldhaveexpectedhertobejealous.

“ForGod'ssake,Marion,whynot?”

Ishookmyhead.“Ididn'tbecause…”

“Becausewhat?Spititout,”shesaid,pokingmyside,asiftohelpthewordscomeout.“Whoareyouwaitingfor?TheQueenofEngland?She'smarriedyouknow.”

“Ididn'tdoit,because…Iknewitwouldbewonderful,morethanwonderful.Iknewitwouldbefantastic—”

“Whatkindofexplanationisthat?”shesaid,rollinghereyesinfrustration.

“But…IknewIwantedmyfirsttimetobewithyou.”

There,Isaidit.

Genetlookedatmeforthelongesttime,hermouthopen.Ifeltvulnerable.Iheldmybreathhopingwhatcameoutofhermouthnextwouldn'tbemockeryoramusement.Ridiculewoulddestroyme.

Sheleanedover,hereyessoft,herexpressionlovingandtender,andshetookmychininbothherhandsandshookitsidetosideasifIwerealittlebaby.

“Macheminchia?”Rosinaasked,herhandsonherhips,rudelyinterruptingus.Ihadn'tnoticedhercomebackintotheroom.

Genetburstout laughing.Rosinadidn't find itamusing,butGenetwas losingherbreath,keelingover.Rosinaglaredather, thengaveup,muttering toherself.Thishysterical laughterofGenet'swassomethingnew.

Whenshecouldspeak,Genetexplained.“Macheminchia?’means ‘Whatthefuck?’which IkeptsayinginAsmara.Ilearneditfrommycousins.MymotherthreatenedtoslapmeeverytimeIsaidit.Andnowshesaysit,canyoubelieveit?…So,Marion—cheminchia,eh?”

WE HAD DINNER together in the bungalow, Genet seatedwith us, while Rosina and Almaz ate in thekitchen.

IthadbecomemypracticetotakeovertheGrundigoncewedeaten.OftenIlistenedtotheRockofAfrica tillmidnightwhen itwent off the air. Themusic spoke towhat Iwas feeling; in the tightstructureofatwelve-barbluesorinDylan'shauntingballads,orderwasimposed.Shivasatwithmemostevenings.Themusicspoketohim,too.

NowtheDJcameon,“RockofEastAfrica,AFRSAsmara,whereeveryoneisamileandahalfhigh.ThisisaBoone'sFarmSaturdayhereatthebase.ThefirstshipmentofBoone'sFarmwinecameinlastnight,and folks, ifyoumissed it, Ihate to tellyou,but it'sallgone,andsoaresomepeoplehere.Nowlet'slistentoBobbyVinton,‘MyHeartBelongsOnlytoYou.’“

IwaspleasedtofindGenetknewnothingofthisradiostation.ThecousinsinAsmaracouldn'tbethatcooliftheynevertunedintothisshow.

Thenextsongbeganwithoutanyintroduction.Ijumpedup.“Thisisit!”IsaidtoGenet.“ThisisthetuneIwastellingyouabout.”

Inalltheeveningsoflisteningtotheradio,hereforthefirsttimewasthesongthatI'dheardintheprobationer'sroom.

Iwasshimmyingandtwistingtothemusic,blindtoHema'sshockedexpressionandthestaresofGhoshandGenet.Icrankedthevolumeup;RosinaandAlmazcameoutofthekitchen.TheymusthavethoughtIwasmad.Thiswasoutofcharacterforme,butIcouldn'tstopmyself,orIchosenotto,andsomethingtoldmethiswasthedayforit.

NowShivastoodupandjoinedme,andhisdancingwassmooth,silky,andsopolished,asifallhislessonswithHemahadbeenawayofbiding timetillheheard thissong.Thatwasall it took forGenettojumpin.IpulledHemaupfromherchair,andsoonshemovedintimetothemusic.Ghoshneedednourging.ItriedtopullRosinain,butsheandAlmazfledtothekitchen.Thefiveofusinthatlivingroomdancedtilltheverylastnotehadsounded.

ChuckBerry.

Thatwasthenameoftheartist.Thesongwas“SweetLittleSixteen”—sotheannouncersaid.

Whenitwastimeforbed,GenetsaidshewasgoingbacktoRosina'squarters.Hemalookedhurt.“I'llkeepmymothercompany,”Genetsaid.“Ihavemyownbednow.ThereweresixofusonthefloorinAsmara.Havingabedformyselfwillbearealluxury.”

Thenextday in thePiazza, I found theChuckBerry 45 ina recordshop. I realized from thedustjacketthat“SweetLittleSixteen”wasanumberonehit—butin1958!Iwascrushed.TherestoftheworldhadheardthissongmorethanadecadebeforeIknewitexisted.WhenIthoughtofhowIhaddanced to it thepreviousnight, it felt like thedanceof an ignoramus, like theaweof apeasantseeingtheneonbeermugontopoftheOlivettiBuilding.

ON THE EVE of the new school year, Hema andGhosh took uswith them to the Greek club for theannualgalatocelebratetheendof“winter.”Genetsurprisedmebysayingshedstaybackandgether school clothes ready; she, Rosina, Gebrew, and Almaz planned a cozy dinner in Rosina'squarters.

The big band was made up of moonlighting musicians from the army, air force, and ImperialBodyguardorchestras.Theycouldplay“Stardust,”“BegintheBeguine,”and“TuxedoJunction”intheirsleep.ChuckBerrywasn'tintheirrepertoire.

Theexpatriatecommunitybackfromvacations,wasoutinforce,lookingtanned.IsawMr.andMrs.G——,whoweren'treallymarried,andthewordwasthey'dabandonedtheirspousesandchildreninPortugaltobewitheachother;Mr.J——,adashingGoanbachelorwhowas jailedbrieflyforafinancial shenanigan,was in full form.Thenewlyarrivingexpatswouldquickly learn their roles;they'd find that their for-eignness trumped their training or talent—it was their most importantasset.Soonthey'dberegulars,smilinganddancingatthisannualevent.

I'dalwaysthoughttheexpatriatesrepresentedthebestofcultureandstyleofthe“civilized”world.But Icouldseenowthat theywereso far fromBroadwayor theWestEndorLaScala, that theyprobablywereadecadebehindthetimes,justasI'dbeenwithChuckBerry.Iwatchedtheruddy,sweaty faces on the dance floor, the childlike brightness in their eyes; it made me sad andimpatient.

ShivadancedfirstwithHema,thenwithwomenheknewfromHemaandGhosh'sbridgecircle,andthenwithanyonewholookedkeentodance.SuddenlyIdidn'twanttobethereany longer; I leftearly,tellingHemaandGhoshI'dtakeataxihome.

IthoughtoftheprobationerasIwalkedupthehilltoourquarters.I'dbeenavoidingher.Whenherstudentswerewithher,shemadenosignofrecognition.WhenshesawmewithShiva,shegreetedus without comment. The first time I ran into her alone, she stopped me, and said, “Are you

Marion?”FromhereyesIknewthatnothinghadchanged,andthatherdoorwasstillopentome.“No,”Ihadsaid.“I'mShiva.”Sheneveraskedagain.

IheardthemurmuroftheradioinRosina'squarters,buttheirdoorwasclosedandinanycaseIwasn'tlookingforcompany.

Iwenttobedalone,wenttobedwithmythoughts—Ifeltolderthanmythirteenyears.

IwokewhenShivacamehome.Iwatchedhiminthemirror.HewastallerthanIsawmyself,andhehadthenarrowhipsandthelighttreadofadancer.Heslippedoffhiscoatandshirt.Hishairwaspartedandcombedtoonesidewhenheleftthehouse,butnowitwasanunrulymassofthickcurls.Hislipswerefull,almostwomanly,andtherewasadreamy,propheticqualitytohisface.Whenhewasdowntohisunderwear,hestudiedhimselfinthemirror.Heheldonearmup,andtheotherout.Hewasimaginingadancewithawoman.Hemadeagracefulturnanddip.

“Youhadagoodtime?”Isaid.

Itstoppedhiminhistracks.Hisarmsremainedwheretheywere.He lookedatmeinthemirror,whichgavemegoosebumps.“Agoodtimewashadbyoneandall,”hesaidinahoarsevoicethatIdidn'trecognize.

CHAPTER33AFormofMadness

THETAXIDROPPEDSHIVAandmeacrossfromMissing'sgate,infrontofthecinder-blockbuildings,justasthestreetlightscameon.Atsixteen,Iwascaptain,openingbatsman,andwicket-keeperforourcricketelevenandShivawasamiddle-orderbatsman.Asopener,myfortéwaswhalingawayattheballandtryingtoweatherthefirstsalvowhiledemoralizingthebowlers,whileShiva'sstrengthwastodoggedlydefendhiswicket,anchoringtheteam,evenifhescoredfewruns.Afterpracticeitwasalwaysdarkwhenwecamehome.

Isawawomanframedbythebeadcurtainsandsilhouettedagainstthelightofthebar,attheendofthebuildingclosesttoAli'ssouk.

“Hi!Wait forme,”shecalledout.Hertightskirtandheelsrestrictedhertomincingstepsasshecrossedtheplankthat fordedthegutter.Shehuggedherselfagainstthecold,smilingsothathereyeswerereducedtoslits.

“My,youhavegrownsotall!Doyourememberme?”shesaid,lookinguncertainlyfrommetoShiva.Ajasminescentreachedmynostrils.

Afterherbabydied, I'd seenTsigemany,many timesbutonlyatwavingdistance.Shehadwornblackforayear.ThatrainymorningwhenshebroughtherbabytoMissing,Tsigehadlookedquiteplain.Herswasasimple,guilelessface,butnowwitheyeliner,lipstick,hairinwavesdowntohershoulders,shewasstriking.

Wetouchedcheekslikerelatives,firstoneside,thentheother,thenbacktothefirstsideagain.“Uh…thisis…mayIpresentmybrother,”Isaid.

“Youworkhere?”Shivasaid.Shivawasnevertongue-tiedaroundwomen.

“Notanymore,”shesaid.“Iownitnow.Iinviteyoutopleasecomein.”

“No…but…thankyou,”Istammered.“Ourmotherisexpectingus.”

“No,she'snot,”saidShiva.

“Ihopeyouwon'tmindifIcomeanotherday,”Isaid.

“Wheneveryouwant,youarewelcome.Bothofyou.”

Westoodinawkwardsilence.Shestillhadmyhand.

“Listen.Iknowitwasalongtimeago,butIneverthankedyou.EverytimeIseeyouIwanttotalktoyou,butIdon'twanttoembarrassyou,andIfeltashamed…Today,whenIsawyouthisclose,IthoughtI'ddoit.”

“Oh no,” I said, “it's I whoworried that youwere angry withme—with us.Maybe you blamedMissingfor…”

“No,no,no.I'mtoblame.”Thelightdimmedinhereyes.“That'swhathappenswhenyoulistentothesestupidoldwomen.‘Givehimthis,’‘Dothat,’theytoldme.ThatmorningIlookedatmypoorbaby,andIrealizedallthosehabeshamedicineshadhurthim.WhenyourfatherexaminedTeferi,IknewhecouldhavehelpedifIhadcomedaysearlier.I'dmadeahorriblemistakebywaiting.But…”

Iremainedsilent,rememberinghersadnessandhowshehadcriedonmyshoulder.

“I hope God forgives me. I hope He gives me another chance.” She spoke earnestly, her facereflecting her feelings, hiding nothing. “But listen, what I came to tell you is,may God and thesaintswatchover youandbless you forall the timeyou spentwithus.Suchagooddoctor yourfatheris.Areyougoingtobedoctors?”

“Yes,” Shiva and I said easily, speaking in unison. It was about the only thing I could say withconfidencethesedays,anditwasabouttheonlythingShivaandIseemedtoagreeon.

Thelightcamebacktoherface.

ASWEWALKEDtoourbungalow,Shivasaid,“Whydidn'twegoinside?Sheprobablylivesattheback.Shewouldhaveletyousleepwithher.”

“What makes you think I have to sleep with every woman I see?” I'd turned on him with morevenomthanwasneeded.“Idon'twanttosleepwithher.Besides,she'snotthatkindofwoman,”Isaid.

“Maybenotanymore.Butsheknowshow.”

“I'vehadmychances,youknow.It'sachoice.”Itoldhimabouttheprobationer,asiftoprovemypoint.

Shivahadnothingtosaytothat,andwewalkedinsilence.Hewasgettingundermyskin.Ididn'twanttothinkaboutTsigeinthatway;Ididn'twanttopicturehersweetfaceandhowshehadtomakeherliving.Itwaspainfultoimagine,andsoIchosenotto.ButShivahadnosuchqualms.

Shiva said, “One daywe'll have sexwithwomen. I think today is as good as any other day.”Helookedupasiftoascertainthatthearrangementofthestarswasauspicious.

Istoppedhimandgrabbedhisshirt. I triedto findreasons formyobjection.Whatcameoutwaslame.

“AreyouforgettingHemaandGhosh?Youthinkit'ssomethingthatwillmakethemhappy?Peoplelookuptothem.Wemustn'tdoanythingtoembarrassthem.”

“Ithinkit'sinevitable,”Shivasaid.“Theydoit,too.I'msurethey—”

“Stop!”Isaid.Whatadisturbingthought.ButnotsoforShiva.

THEVERYMONTHweturnedsixteen,myvoicecrackedwhenIdidn'twantitto.IhadblackheadspushingoutasifIhadswallowedasackofmustardseeds.TheclothesHemaboughtmegrewtightorshortinthreeorfourmonths.Hairappearedinstrangeplaces.Thoughtsoftheoppositesex,mainlyofGenet, made it difficult for me to concentrate. It reassured me to see these physical changesmirroredinShiva,butafterourconversationaboutTsige,Icouldn'ttalkwithhimaboutthedesireIwasfeelingortherestraintthathadtocomewithit.Shivafeltnosuchneedforrestraint.

“Prison,”I'dheardGhoshlaughinglytellAdid,“isthebestthingforamarriage.Ifyoucan'tsendyour spouse, thengo yourself. Itworkswonders.”Now that I knewwhat theywereup to, Iwasdeeplyembarrassed,evenshocked.

Despiteourknowledgeofthehumanbodyinthecontextofdisease,ShivaandIwerenaïveforthelongesttimeaboutsexualmatters—orperhapsitwasjustme.LittledidIknowthatourEthiopianpeers both at our school and at the government schools had long agogone through their sexualinitiationwithabargirlorahousemaid.Theyneversufferedmyyearsoffoggyconfusion,tryingtoimaginewhatwasunimaginable.

IrememberastorymyclassmateGabytoldmewhenIwastwelveorthirteen,astorywhichhe'dheardfromacousinwhohademigratedtoAmerica,astorywhichweallbelievedforthe longesttime.“WhenyoulandinNewYork,”thecousinhadsaid,“abeautifulblondwomanwillengageyouin conversation at the airport. Her perfume will drive you mad. Big breasts, miniskirt. She willintroduceyoutoherbrother.They'llofferyouarideintotownintheirconvertible,and,ofcourse,not tobe rude, youaccept.As youaredriving, themanwill say, ‘Let's justdropbymyhouse inMalibuandhaveamartinibeforewegetyoutoManhattan.’Youpullintotheirmansion.Ahouselikeyou'veneverseen.Assoonasyouareinside,themanwillpulloutagunandpointitatyou,andsay‘Screwmysisteroryouwilldie.’“

SomanynightsIlayawakedreamingofthishorrible,twisted,beautifulfate,wishingIcouldgotoAmericaonlyforthisreason.Brother,putawaythegun,Iwillscrewyoursisterforfree,becamealine Gaby and I and our little gang said to one another, our secret phrase that signaled ourfellowshipinadolescenthorniness,oursimmeringsexualheat.Evenafterwerealizedthestorywasabsurd,afairytale,itstilldelightedus,andwelovedtorepeatthatrefrain.

AfewweeksafterShivaandIhadseenTsigeoutsideherbar,IencounteredtheStaffProbationerwalkingdowntoMissing'sgate.Therewasnoescapingher.Seeingheralwaysprovokedanxiety.

Shewaswithherbroodofprobationers.Sheusuallyignoredmeinthatsituation.Butonthisdayshesmiledandbloodrushedtoherface.Ismiledbacksoasnotberude.Shewinkedandcametomeasherstudentswalkedon.“Thankyouforlastnight.Ihopetheblooddidn'tscareyou.Didthatsurpriseyou?Iwaitedforyoualltheseyears.Itwasworthit.”Shebrushedagainstme.“Whenare

youcomingnext?I'llbecountingthedays.”

Sheswungeverybitoffleshthatwouldswingassheshimmiedafterherstudents,asifChuckBerrywere strutting behind her, playing his guitar. She called over her shoulder, loud enough for thewholeworldtohear,“Nexttimepleasedon'trunoffafterwardlikethat,okay?”

I racedhome.Of late, particularly onweekends,Shivawent off onhis ownand I hadn't given itmuchthought.Ineverimaginedthisiswhathe'dbeenupto.

Shiva,Genet, andHemawereat thedinner table,Rosina serving.Ghoshhadgone towashup. IhauledShivaofftoourroom.

“Shethinksitwasme!”IwishedI'dnevertoldhimaboutmydancingwiththeprobationer.“Whydidn'tyouaskme?Iwouldhaveforbiddenyoutogo.Ididforbidyoutogo.Whatdidyoutellher?Didyoupretendtobeme?”

Shivawaspuzzledbymyanger.“No.Iwasme.Ijustknockedonherdoor.Isaidnothing.Shedidalltherest.”

“MyGod!Justlikethat?Youbrokeyourvirginityandhers?”

“Itwasmyfirsttimewithher.Andwhatmakesyousosureabouther,eh,olderbrother?”Hiswordswere likeapunch inmygut. I'dneverheardShiva speak sarcastically tome, and it felt cutting,ugly.HewentonasIstoodspeechless.“It'snotmyfirsttime,anyway.I'vebeengoingtothePiazzaeverySunday.”

“What?Howmanytimeshaveyougone?”

“Twenty-onetimes.”

Icouldn'tspeak.Iwasstunned,embarrassed,disgusted,andterriblyenvious.

“Thesamewoman?”

“No,twenty-onedifferentwomen.Twenty-twoifyoucounttheprobationer.”Hewasstandingthere,chinpointingatme,onearmlanguidlysetagainstthewall.

WhenIfoundavoiceIsaid,“WellwouldyoumindnotgoingbacktotheStaffProbationer?”

“Why?Willyouvisither?”

InolongerfeltIhadanyauthorityoverhim,nocredibleexperiencewithwhichtoadvisehim.Ifeltverytired.“Nevermind.Butdomeafavor;tellherwhoyouareifyougoback.Andstayaroundandholdherandwhispersweetthingsinherearwhenyouaredone.Tellhershe'sbeautiful.”

“Whisperwhat?Why?”

“Forgetit.”

“Marion, all women are beautiful,” Shiva said. I looked up and realized that he spoke withconvictionandnotatraceofsarcasm.Hewasn'tembarrassed,orangrythatIhauledhimoff,ortheleast bit upset.My conceitwas that I thought I knewmy brother. Yet all I really knewwere hisrituals.HelovedhisGraysAnatomyandcarrieditaroundsomuch,ithadpaleindentationsonthecoverfromhisfingers.WhenGhoshgotShivaaneweditionofGrays,mybrotherwasinsulted,asifGhoshhadbroughthimastraypuppytoreplacehisbelovedKoochooloo,whowasonherlastlegs.IknewShiva'srituals,butnotthelogicbehindthem.Shivadidfindwomenbeautiful—I'dseenthatfromthefirsttimewevisitedtheVersionClinic.HenevermissedaclinicandultimatelyworeHemadownuntilshetaughthimhowtoturnbabies.TherewasnothingprurientabouthisinterestintheVersionClinic or in obstetrics and gynecology. If the clinic day happened to fall on a holiday, orHemadecidedtonothaveitforsomereason,Shivawouldstillbethere,seatedonthestepsofthelockedbuilding.HereIwastellinghimtobenicetotheprobationer,buthecouldarguethathedgiventheprobationerjustwhatshe'dwantedwhileI'dbeenanythingbutnicetoher.Meanwhile,Iwassavingmyselfforonewoman.Myabstinencefeltnoblebecauseitwassoverydifficult.IburnedwithmycelibacyandIwantedittoimpressGenet.Howcoulditnot?

Ithadbeenclear tomeever since that sunnySaturday three yearsbeforewhenGenet returnedfromherholidayinAsmarathatpubertyforherwasallbutcomplete.Hergrowthspurtthatwintermadeeverythinglonger:legs,fingers,evenlashes.Hereyelidsturnedsleepylooking,andhereyesseemedevenmorewidelyspaced.AfterherreturnfromAsmara,she'dbeguntodrivethehousehold

mad.AccordingtoNelsonTextbookofPediatrics,breastbudsandpubichairwerethefirstsignsofpubertyingirls.HowstrangethatNelsonoverlookedthefirstsignInoted,namely,aheady,maturescentthatbeckonedlikeaSiren.Whensheworeperfume,thetwoscentswouldmingle,andwhatemerged made me dizzy. All I could imagine was tearing off her clothes and drinking from thesource.

Genet'schangesgalvanizedRosina—Icouldseethatclearly.HemaandRosinawereallies,unitedbytheir desire to protect Genet from the predators, the boys. But the two mothers were neverprotectiveenough formytastes,andtheysabotagedtheirowneffortsbybuyingher thekindsofclothesandaccessoriesthatmadehermoreattractivetotheoppositesex.Thehounds—judgingbyhowI felt—couldn'thelpsniffingatourdoorstep,andwhat'smore,Genet,byherownadmission,wasinheat.

THATTERM,onaThursday,Genetsentwordthatshewouldn'tberidingbacktoschoolinourtaxi.Shesaidshe'dcomehomeonherown.AsShivaandIwalkedthelastfiftyyardsupourdriveway,asleekblackMercedes-BenzdroppedGenetoff.

Shivawentonintothehouse,butIwaited.

“I don't like you coming back with Rudy,” I said to her. It was such an understatement—thatluxurious car made me feel so inadequate and it made my blood boil. Rudy's father had theporcelainandbathroomfixturemonopolyinAddis.Therewereperhapstwootherkidsintheschoolwhodrovetheirowncars.WhatrankledmostwasthatRudyhadoncebeenoneofmybestfriends.

“Yousoundlikemymother,”Genetsaid,oblivioustomydistress.

“Rudyisthecrownprinceofthetoilets.Hejustwantstosleepwithyou.”

“Don'tyou?”shesaidlookingatmecoyly,tiltingherhead.

“Yes.ButIwanttosleeponlywithyou.AndIloveyou.Soit'sdifferent.”

Forallmyshynessaroundwomen,Ididn'thaveaproblemtellingGenethowIfelt.Perhapsitwasamistake to showmyhandsoeasily. Itgavea shallowwomangreatpoweroveryou,butmy faithinsisted she couldn't be shallow, that such love, such commitment fromme,would empowerher,freeher.

“Willyoudoitwithme?”sheasked.

“OfcourseIwill.Idreamofiteverynight.Weonlyhavetowaitthreemoreyears,Genet,andwecangetmarried.Andthenwewillloseourvirginityinthisplace,”Isaidpullingoutamuch-foldedpicture Ihad tornoutofNationalGeographic. It showed theLakePalace inUdaipur, agleamingwhitehotelinthemiddleofapristinebluelake.“IwanttomarryinIndia,”Isaid.Ihadvisionsofme,thegroom,ridinginonanelephant,asymbolofthedesireandthefrustrationIhadrepressed—onlyanelephant(orajumbojet)woulddo.AndbeautifulGenet,bejew-eledanddressedinagoldsari, jasmine all around… I could see every detail. I even had the perfumepicked out for her—MotiyaBelamadefromjasmineflowers.“Andthisisthehoneymoonsuite.”Theflipsideshowedaroomwithagiantfour-posterbed,withhugeFrenchdoorsbeyondthatopenedoutontothelake.“Noticethebathroomwithaclaw-foottubandabidet.”Thecrownprinceoftoiletscouldnevertopthat.

Genetwas surprised and touchedby the photographs and the fact that Iwould be carrying thatpageinmywallet.Mytigressfixedhergazeonmewithnewinterest.

“Marion,you'vereallythoughtaboutthis,haven'tyou?”

Idescribedthewhitesilksheetsonthebed,howthesheercottoncurtainswouldencloseitinthedaytime,butatnight, they'dbeopen,aswould thedoors to theveranda.“I'llcover thebedwithrosepetals,andwhenIundressyou,I'mgoingtolickandkisseveryinchofyourbody,startingwithyourtoes…”

Shemoaned.Sheputa fingeronmy lips,hereyeballs rollingback inherhead, showingmeherthroat.“MyGod,youbetterstopbeforeIgocrazy.”Shesighed.“But listen,Marion,what if I tellyou that Idon'twant togetmarried? Idon'twant towait. Iwant tobedeflowered.Now.Not inthreeyears.”

“ButwhataboutHema?Oryourmother?”

“Idon'twantthemtodeflowerme.Iwantyou.”

“That'snot—”

Apealoflaughter,forwhichIforgaveherbecauseitliftedmyspirits.“Iknowwhatyoumean,silly.WhatifIdon'thaveyourstrengthtoresist?SomedaysIjustwanttodoit.Don'tyou?Justtogetitoverwith!Justtoknow.”Shesighed.“Ifyouwon'tdoit,maybeIshouldaskShiva?OrRudy?”

“Notthattoiletprince.AndShiva…well,Shivaisnolongeravirgin.He'sdoneitalready.Besides,Ithoughtyoulovedme.”

“What?”Sheclappedherhandsindelight,andlookedaroundforShiva.“Shiva?”Shewasalmostjumpingforjoy.She'dsidesteppedthequestionofherloveforme.Shewastooshytoprofessit,Itoldmyself.“Oh,Shiva,Shiva!Wemustgetallthedetailsfromhim.Shiva,nolongeravirgin,yousay?WhatareyouandIwaitingfor,then?”

“I'mwaitingforyouand—”

“Oh,stop.Yousoundlikeastupidromancenovel.Yousoundlikeagirl,forGod'ssake!Ifyouwantfirst shotyoubettermove fast,Marion.”Sheseemedserious,no traceofhumor inher face.Shescaredmewhenshespokethatway.“Otherwise,Ihavesomeothersinmind.YourfriendGaby,oreventhetoiletprince,thoughhisbreathstinksofcheese.”Sheburstoutlaughingagain,enjoyingmydistressbutalsoshowingmethatshewasjustjoking,thankGod.

Icouldn't takemuchmore teasing; itwashard tohearhermention thenamesofothersuitors. Ispiedthestackofwomen'sfashionmagazinesinherhands.“What'shappenedtoyou?”Idemanded.Iwasangrynow.IrememberedthegirlwhohadmasteredBickham'sPenmanship,andwho,afterZemui'sdeath,hadreadbooksvoraciously,anythingthatHemafedher.“Youusedtobe…serious,”Isaid.NowherbestfriendsweretwobeautifulArmeniansisters.Thethreeofthemwentshoppingtogetherintheafternoonsortothemovieswheretheyobservedactorswhosedressandbehaviortheyheldtobethegoldstandard.Theykeptalltheboysguessing.Genet'sgradeshadoncebeensogoodthatsheskippedagradeandjoinedourclass.Butoflatesherarelystudied,andhergradeswereaverage.“What'sgoingon,Genet?Don'tyouwanttobeadoctor?”

“Yes,Doctor,Iwanttobeadoctor,”shesaidcomingveryclosetome.“Doctor,Iwantyoutogivemeacheckup.”Sheheldherarmsapart,thebookbaginonehand,thefashionmagazinesinherotherhand.Shebroughtherbodyclose tomineand thrustherhips intome. “Ihurtdownhere,Doctor.”

Rosinajumpedoutofthefrontdoorofourquarterslikeajack-in-the-box.Hersuddenappearancewasstartling,andIadmititwascomical,butIdidn'tthinkthatthewayGenetburstoutlaughingwouldpleaseRosina.

Ina torrentofTigrinya,with italinya thrown in,RosinascreamedatGenetanddescendedonus.Genet danced aroundme to stay out of Rosina's reach, finding evenmore humor in hermotherchasingher.IunderstoodRosina'swordshereandthereandguessedwhatshewassaying:Whereareyourbrainsandwhatdoyouthinkyouweredoingjustnow?Whoisthatboywiththecaranddoyouknowheonlywantsonething?WhyareyoupressingagainstMarionasifyouareabargirl?EachquestionprovokedfreshlaughterfromGenet.

Rosinaglaredatme,asifIshouldanswerforherdaughter.Thiswasthesecondtimeshe'dcaughtGenetandmeinacompromisingposition.SheswitchedtoAmharicasshegrilledme.“You!Whydidn'tshecomebackwithyouandShiva?Andwhatwereyoutwodoingjustnow?”

“We'regoingtobedoctors,don'tyouknow,Mother?”GenetshoutedinAmharic,tearsinhereyes,barelyabletospeak.“Iwasteachinghimhowtoexamineawoman!”

Rosina'sshocked facewasGenet's reward,andshe found thissohysterical thatshedroppedhermagazinesandherbookbag,clutchedatherstomach,andstaggeredawayinthedirectionoftheirquarters.Thetwoofuswatchedhersashayaway,holdinghersides.Rosinaturnedtome,hidingherdarkconfusionbyputtingonthesternlookshe'dusewhenShivaorIhadbeennaughty.Butitfeltartificial,moresonowbecause,atsix feetandone inch, I toweredovermynanny.“Whatdoyouhavetosayforyourself,Marion?”

Ihungmyhead,tooktwoshufflingstepstowardher.“Iwanttosay…,”Isaid,andthenIgrabbedRosina, liftedherup in theair,whirledheraboutwhileshebeatonmyshoulders.“Iwant tosaythatIamsohappytoseeyou.AndIwanttomarryyourdaughter!”

“Putmedown.Putmedown!”

Iputherdown,andshetriedtoslapme,butIjumpedaway.

“You're crazy, you know that?”Rosina said, trying to adjust her blouse, smoothing out her skirt,determinednottosmileatallcosts.“Theevilspiritshavegottenintoallyouchildren.”ShepickedupthebookbagandthemagazinesandretreatedafterGenet,shoutingforherandmetohear,“Youtwojustwait,I'mgoingtogetastickandlineyouevilchildrenupandbeatthatdeviloutofyou.”

“Rosina,whytalktoyourfutureson-in-lawthatway?”Icalledafterher.

Shemadetoturnbackandcomeafterme,butIdodgedaway.

“Madness!Lunacy!”shesaidandstalkedoff,talkingtoherself.

IlookeduptoseeShivastandinginthebigpicturewindow,lookingout.Thewindintheeucalyptustreesstirredupthekindofdryrustlingsoundthatcouldfoolyouintothinkingitwasarainsquall.Buttheskywascloudless.ThroughtheglassIcouldseeShivastudyingme,hisfaceflushed.Oureyes met, and his expression suggested he'd been laughing, that he probably saw and heardeverything. I admiredhis pose, onehand inhis pocket, knees locked, hisweight onone leg—mybrotherwaselegantevenintheactofstandinginplace;itwasaqualityhesharedwithGenet.Herarelysmiled,andtherewas,inthetautnessofhisupperlip,thehintofaleer.Igrinned,holdingnothingback. I feltgood,pleasedwithmyself.Mybrothercouldreadmymind.Mybrother lovedme,helovedGenet,andIlovedthemboth.Yes,Rosinawasright,madnessallaroundatMissing,butonlyamadmanwouldwanttobeanywhereelse.

CHAPTER34ATimetoReap

THEMADNESSOFTHATEVENINGcameatamostinopportunetime.ItwasmylastyearatLT&CandIwashell-bentondoingwellintheschoolfinals.Mymotivationwassimple:amagnificent,ivory-coloredhospital,fivetimesaslargeasMissing,hadbeenbuiltonariselookingdownatChurchillRoadandthepostofficeandtheLycéeFrançais.Itwastobetheteachinghospitalofanewmedicalschooltobe staffed with the help of the British Council, Swiss aid, and USAID. The teachers weredistinguishedphysiciansfromthesecountrieswhohadrecentlyretiredfromlongacademiccareersandacceptedshortassignmentstoAddis.

SowhileRosinawentafterGenet,hauling themagazinesand textbooksGenethaddropped, andcertaintocontinueherfight,Iwastednotime.Iwentinside,washedup,andthenspreadmybooksout on the dining table. Hema andGhoshwere playing bridgewith a few others at Ghosh's oldbungalow.

IateasIstudied.Everyminutecounted,asfarasIwasconcerned.Idmappedouthowmanydaysandhoursandminutesremainedbeforetheschool-leavingexam.IfIwantedtosleep,playcricket,andgetintomedicalschool,Ihadnotimetowaste.

Genet arrived an hour later to studywithme. I tried not to look up. Soon, Shiva joinedus.Hedbrought Jeffcoates Principles of Gynaecology to the table, and it bristled with bookmarks. Shivadidn't readbooksasmuchashedisassembledanddigested them,made themappendagesofhisbody.

ForGenetandmetoget intomedicalschoolwehadtogettopgrades intheschool finals.GenetprofessedtobejustasenamoredwithmedicineasIwas,butshewasoftenlatejoiningmeatthestudy table, and she packed it in earlier than I did. Sometimes she didn't come at all. On twoweeknightsItookataxitoMr.Mammen'shouse,fortuitioninmathandorganicchemistry.Genetcameonce,bristledatMammen'sironcladdiscipline,andwouldn'tgoback,whileIfoundhishelptobepriceless.Onweekends I retreated toGhosh'soldquarters to study, leavingGhoshandHemafree to turn the radio on or entertain without worrying about disturbing me. Genet could havejoinedmeatGhosh'squarters,butsherarelydid.

Shiva didn't have any of our worries. He'd been lobbying to drop out of school altogether. Hewantedto functionasHema'sassistant—degreesanddiplomasdidnotmattertohim.Hemawasblunt: if hewanted toworkwithher,he'dhave to finishhis final year, even if hedidn't take theexams. Meanwhile, on his own he was learning everything he could about obstetrics andgynecology.IoverheardHematellGhoshthatShivaknewmorethantheaveragefinal-yearmedicalstudentwhenitcametoobstetricsandgynecology.

Shivahadappropriatedthetoolshedwherewe'dhiddenthemotorcycle.He'dlearnedtoweldfromFarinachi,andhekepthistorchandequipmentinthere.Amonthorsoearlier,I'dstuckmyheadinthetool-shedandwassurprisedtoseethebackwallwasvisible,withnosignofthemotorcycle,orthewoodstacks,gunnysacks,andBibleswe'dusedtoconcealit.

“Itookitapart,”Shivahadsaid,whenIasked.Hepointedtothebaseofhisheavyworktable—thesquare wooden plywood support concealed the engine block. The bike's frame he'd wrapped inoilclothandtarpandburiedunder the table.Therestof thebikewasstored incontainerswhichrangedfrommatchboxestostackedcrates,neatlyarrangedonmetalshelveshe'dweldedtogether.

“TELLMEABOUTIT,Shiva,”Genetwhisperedfrombehindherbook,ChemistrybyConcept.She'dlastedjusttenminutesbeforebreakingthesilenceandmyconcentration.

“Tellyouaboutwhat?”Shivasaid,notbotheringtolowerhisvoice.

“About your first time!What else?Why didn't you tellme before? I just heard fromMarion thatyou'renotavirgin.”

Shiva'sstory,whichI'dbeentooembarrassedandenvioustoaskaboutmyself,wasstunninginitssimplicity.

“IwenttothePiazza.DownthesidestreetnexttotheMassawaBakery,youknow,whereyouseetherooms,oneaftertheother?Awomanineachdoorway,different-coloredlights?”

“Howdidyoupick?”

“Ididn't.Iwenttothefirstdoor.Thatwasit,”hesaid,smiling,andturningbacktohiswork.

“No,itisn'tit!”Shesnatchedhisbookaway.“Whathappenednext?”

Ipretendedtobeannoyed,buteverycellinmybrainwasattentive.IwasgladthatGenetwasdoingthequestioning.

“Iaskedhowmuch.Shesaidthirty.IsaidIhadonlyten.Shesaidokay.Shetookoffherclothesandlayonthebed—”

“Allherclothes?”Iblurtedout.Shivalookedatme,surprised.

“Allbutherblouse,whichshepulledup.”

“Abra?Whatwasshewearing?”Genetwantedtoknow.

“A little sweater, I think. A half-sleeve thing. And a miniskirt. Bare legs and high heels. Nounderwear. No bra. She stepped out of her heels, dropped her skirt, lifted her blouse, and laydown.”

“Oh,God!Goon,”saidGenet.

“Itookallmyclothesoff.Iwasready.Itoldheritwasmyfirsttime.Shesaid,‘Godhelpus.’IsaidIdidn'tthinkweneededGod.Igotontopofher,shehelpedmestart—”

“Didithurther?Wereyou…”

“Erect.Yes.No,Idon'tthinkithurther.Youknowthevaginahaswallsthatareexpansible,theycanaccommodateababy'shead—”

“Okay,okay,”Genetsaid.“Thenwhat?”

“Shestartedtomove,showingmehowtillIunderstood.IdidthattillIexperiencedtheejaculatoryresponse.”

“What?”Genetsaid.

“Thecontractionofthevasandtheseminalvesiclesmixingwithpro-staticsecretions—”

“He came,” I explained. I'd learned the word from a scruffy little pamphlet authored by a T N.Raman, a writer of purple prose. My classmate Satish brought these pamphlets back from hisholidayinBombay.TN.RamanwasresponsibleformosteverythingIndianschoolboyslearned(ormisunderstood)aboutsex.

“Oh…andafterthat?”Genetsaid.

“Well,Igotup,gotdressed,andleft.”

“Didithurtyou?”Iasked.

“Nopain.”Fromhisunsmilingexpression,hecouldhavebeentalkingaboutgettinganicecreamatEnrico's.

“That'sit?”Genetasked.“Thenyoupaidher?”

“No,Ipaidherfirst.”

“Whatdidshesaywhenyouwereleaving?”

Shivathoughtaboutthat.“Shesaidshelikedmybody,andshelikedmyskin.Thatnexttimeshewouldgiveittome…doggystyle!”

“Whatdidshemean,‘doggystyle’?”

“Ididn'tknow.Isaid,‘Whywaittillnexttime?Showmenow.’“

“Youhadmoney?”

“That'swhatsheasked.‘Youhavemoney?’ButIdidn't.Sheletmedoitanyway.Fromthebackwas

whatshecalleddoggystyle.ThistimeIthinkshehadherown…explosion.”

“God,”Genetsaid,groaningandslidingdowninherchair,herfacesuffusedwithblood.“What'sthematterwithyou,Marion?Whereareyougoing?”

Ihadrisenfrommychair.ThescentcomingfromGenetwasoverpowering,theairshimmeringpinkwithit.

“What'sthematterwithme?”IwasnotasannoyedasIacted.“HowamIsupposedtostudyhere,tellme?Ican'tbelieveyouaskedmethat.”

ThematterwithmewasthatIwasterriblyaroused,hearingShiva'sstory,andnowseeingthesultrylook in Genet's eyes, her body in touching distance, smelling her in heat, and knowing shewaswilling.IfIdidn'tleave,Iwasgoingtohavemyownexplosioninmypants.Ihadtoleave.Ishovedmybiologynotesintomyjacket.

IfoundRosinastandingtooclosetothekitchendoorandnowpretendingsomespecialinterestinthestove.Evenifshewasn'teavesdroppingorlackedanysenseofsmell,shesurelysawthepinkcloudwaftingoutofthediningroom.Sheavoidedmyeyes.Motheranddaughtercouldn'tseemtoescape each other,withGenet determined to act outrageously, andRosina just as determined torespond, and itwas difficult to saywho initiated their battles. Rosinawasmy ally in one sense,becauseshekeptGenetsafeforme.Butitannoyedmetoseeherhoveringinthisway.

“I'mgoingtothesouk,”Isaidgruffly.

“Butyoujustsatdowntostudy,Marion.”

Iglaredather,daringhertostopme.

ITOOKMYTIMEwalkingdowntothefrontgate.IboughtaCokebutthengaveittoGebrew.Isatinhissentryhut. Ididn'twanttogohomeuntilmymindandmybodywerebacktobaseline.Gebrew'slongstoryaboutatroublesomenephewhelpedthecause.

Eventually,IbidGebrewgoodnight,andIheadedback.WhenIturnedupfromtheroundabouttotheroadleadingtoourbungalow,Isawthattherewasalightoninthetoolshed.Shivaworkedlatetheremanynights.

WheneverIcamethiswayinthedark,IfeltdreadasInearedthespotwherethearmymanwentairborne.TherewasacrackintheconcreteofthecurbthatcommemoratedthatmomentwhentheBMW'sfrontwheelhadbeenarrested.

The tree trunks creaked and groaned. The rustling of the leaves sounded ominous, like a handsiftingthroughcoins.Ifullyexpectedtoseethearmymanriseoutofthedarkness.Afteryearsofimagininghim,Iwouldfinditalmostareliefwhenheappeared.Shivahadnosuchqualmsbecausehe stayed in the toolshed late into the night. The passing years hadn't taken away fromme theweight of what had happened at this spot; but the fear had become familiar. I understoodwhatmadepeopleconfesstomurderyearsafterthefact;theybelievedthatitwastheonlywaytoceasetormentingthemselves.Ihurriedpastthatturnintheroad.

IheardmusicfromShiva'sradiointhetoolshed.

Iwasjustpastthetoolshed,almosttoourhouse,whenIsawafigurecomepurposefullydownthehill.Itwaspitch-dark,andnowIheardamutteringsound—itwastalkingtoitself.Myheartwasinmymouth,butwhatkeptmefrompanicwasthat itsounded likeawoman.OnlywhenthefigurewasalmostonmedidIseethatitwasRosina.Wherecouldshebeheadedatthishour?Shecameupveryclosetome,studyingmyfacethewaysheoftendidtobesureIwasnotShiva.Then,beforeIregisteredheranger,sheslappedme.Shewasalloverme,cuffingmeandpullingmedownbymyhairwithherlefthandwhilesheslappedmewithherright.

“Iwarnedyou!”shescreamed.

“Rosina!Whatareyoutalkingabout?”Isaid,cowering.

Thisonlyinfuriatedher.IsupposeIcouldeasilyhavestoppedher,orrun,butIwastooshockedtoreact.Sheslappedmeagain.

“FiveminutesI leaveyoualone,andthis iswhathappens!Soclever,youpretendingtogotothesouk,andshetothebathroom.”

WhenIaskedhertoexplain,sheswungatme,andthistimeIturnedsoherblowfoundthebackofmyhead.

“Iwaited,”shesaid.“Igaveyou thebenefitof thedoubt.Then Iwent looking foryou. I sawhercomingupthehill.Yousentheroutfirst,didn'tyou?Ifshegetspregnant,whathappens?”Rosinahissedinmyear.“Itmeansshe'llbeamaidlikeme.AllthatEnglishandstudyingbookswon'tmakeanydifferenceinherlife.”

“But,Rosina,Ididn't—”

“Don't lie tome,my child. Youwere never good at lying. I saw you two looking at each other. Ishouldhavekeptherhomerightthen.”

Istoodsilent,staringather.

“Youwant proof? Is that it?” she yelled. “She reached to herwaist anddrew something out andflungitatme.Apairofwomen'spanties.“Herblood…andyourseed.”Ipickedthegarmentoffmyface.InthedarkIcouldseenothing.ButIcouldsmellblood,thescentofGenet…andIcouldsmellsemen.Itwasmine.Irecognizedmystarchyscent.Nooneelsesharedthatodor.

Noonebutmytwinbrother.

IHADNOHEART,noenergy,todoanythingbuttocrawlintobed.Ifeltbattered.Ifeltalone.Shivacametobedmuchlater.Iwaitedtoseeifhewouldsayanything.AtsomepointhefellasleepwhileIlaythere awake. In Ethiopia there was a method of divining guilt called lebashai: a little boy wasdruggedandtakentothesceneofthecrimeandaskedtopointouttheguiltyparty.Unfortunately,ahallucinating youngster's pointing finger too often stopped in front of an innocentwhowas thenstonedtodeathordrowned.Lebashaiwasbannedintheempire,butitstillwentoninthevillages.ThatwashowIfelt:falselyaccusedbythepointingfinger,butunabletodefendmyself.

What Icoulddowasextractrevenge.Theguiltypartysleptnext tome. IcouldhavekilledShivathatnight.Ithoughtaboutit.Idecideditwouldsolvenothing.Myworldwasalreadydestroyed.Myarmsweredead.Mybrainwasnumb.Mylovehadbeenturnedintoamockeryoflove,intoshit.Ihadnoreason,nodesire,todoanythinganymore.

GENET DIDN'T GO to school the next day. Shiva left with Hema's reluctant permission to go withMr.FarinachitoAkaki,tothetextilefactorywhereoneofthegiantdyemachineshadseized.Farinachihadbeenaskedtomanufactureapart,andhewantedShivatocomeandseethegiantlooms.

Istayedinbed.WhenHemacametoseewhy,IsaidIdidn'tfeelwellandwouldn'tgotoschool.Shetookmypulse, looked atmy throat. Shewaspuzzled.When she tried to quizme, I said, “Nevermind,I'mgoing.”Thatwaseasierthanfacinganinterrogation.

I don't remember anything about that day in school. Ghosh and Hema had no idea what hadtranspired, but they knew something had happened. The door and window to Rosina's quarterswereclosed,andtheycouldhearRosinacarryingoninthereinaloudvoice.

ThateveningHemasaid therewere threeofRosina's relatives—awomanand twomen—visitingher. Hema pressedme as to what was going on. I couldn't believe that she didn't know or thatRosinadidn'ttellher.Itappearedthatnoonewastalkingaboutwhathappenedthepreviousnight.IwassureRosinawouldgo toHemaandaccusemeandIcouldn'tunderstandwhyso farshehadnot.HadHematalkedtoShiva,Isuspectshewouldhavefoundouteverything.Butnoonethoughttoaskhim.

Shivareturnedjustaswewerefinishingdinner,pleasedwithhisexcursiontoAkaki.NeitherGenetnorRosinawasatthetable.AlmazsaidthatmotheranddaughterwerehavingabigfightandthatRosina'srelativeshadcometomediate.

Hemarosetogoseewhatwashappening,butGhoshheldherback.“Whateveritis,ifyougetinthemiddleit'sonlygoingtogetmorecomplicated.”Shivasaidnothing,eatinghisfood.

Iwasn'tbeingnoblebykeepingquiet. Ididn'tthinkanyonewouldbelievemysideofthestory.Itwasup tomybrotherorGenet tosaveme if theywanted to. I studiedShiva's faceat thediningtable.Therewasnosignthathewasawareofthecalamityhe'dcaused.Noindicationatall.

Thatnight I toldShiva IwasmovingtoaroominGhosh'soldquarters. Iwasgoingtosleepandstudythere.Iwantedtobealonethere,Iannounced,notlookingathim.

Hesaidnothing.Itwouldbethefirsttimeinourlivesthatwedidnotoccupythesamebed.Ifthere

werefilamentsandcordsofyolkorfleshthatkeptourdividedeggstickingtogether,Iwastakingascalpeltothem.

Saturdaymorning,when I came over for breakfast, it seemed tome that Shiva hadn't slept anybetterthanIhad.Afterbreakfast,heleftforFarinachi's.

Iwasabout togobacktomyroomtostudywhenAlmazburst into thediningroom.“I thinkyoubettercome,madam,”shesaid,addressingHema.

Sheledthechargetotheservant'squarters;Hema,Ghosh,andIfollowed.

Rosinasatinacornerofthedarkenedroom,lookingsullen,defensiveyetanxious.Genetlayonherbed,herfacepale,sweatbeadingonherforehead,hereyesopen,butunfocusedanddull.Theroomheldaraw,sourodoroffever.

“What happened here?” Hema asked, but Rosina wouldn't answer or meet Hema's gaze. Almazturnedonthelight,andshemovedtoblockmyview,thenliftedtheblankettoshowHema.

Ghoshsaid,“Openthewindow,Marion,”andhemovedclosertolook.

“MyGod,”Hemasaid.Genetmoanedinpain.HemagrabbedRosina'sshoulders.“Didyou?Didyoujust…thispoorgirl?”Chokingwithfury,Hemashookher.ButRosinawouldn'tlookup.“Youstupidwoman!” Hema said. “Oh, God, God. Why?” Hema's eyes were those of a madwoman,uncomprehending,dangerous.IthoughtshemightstrangleRosina.Instead,shepushedheraway.“You've probably killed her, Rosina, do you know that?” Therewere tears coming downRosina'schin,butherexpressionremainedsurly.

GhoshscoopedGenet inhisarms,andshe letoutanunearthlymoanashe liftedheroff thebed.“Thecar,”Ghoshsaid,andAlmazranaheadtogetthedoor.Hemafollowed.IlingeredforasecondinthedoorwayonthethresholdofGenet'shome.Mynannysatjustthewayshehadwhenwecamein.Ithoughtofthedayshe'dtakenarazortoscarifyGenet'sfaceandhowherexpressionhadbeendefiant,proud.Butnow,Isawshameandfear.

AsIrantojointheminthecar,Hemaspunonherheelandthrustherfaceinmine.“Ithinkyouhadsomethingtodowiththis,Marion.I'mnotafool!”

Shegotinthecarandslammedthedoor.TheypulledawaywithAlmazcradlingGenetintheback,Ghoshdriving. I randownourdrive,cutbehindthe toolshedandacross the field,andcaughtupwiththemastheytookherintoCasualty.

Theypouredfluidsandantibiotics intoGenet'sveins.ThenHematookhertoOperatingTheater3

foramorecareful examination.WhenHemacameout, shewas shakenbutmorecomposed, andquietly furious. She didn't seem to care if I heard her report to Ghosh and Matron. “Can youimagineRosinapaidtosliceoff thechild'sclitoris?Not justclitorisbutalsothe labiaminoraandthensew theedges togetherwith sewing thread!GoodGod,canyou imagine thepain? I cut thesuturesout.Itishugelyinfected.Nowit'suptoGod.”

GenetwaswheeledtothesingleroomreservedforVIPs.IrememberedGhoshtellingmeitwastheroomthatGeneralMebratuhadoccupiedafteremergencysurgery,shortlyafterwewereborn.

I sat on a chair by her bed. At one point, Genet squeezed my hand, whether consciously orreflexivelyIcouldn'tbesure.Iheldit.

Hema sat across fromme in an armchair, her elbows on her knees, head in her hands.We hadnothingtosaytoeachother.IwasasangrywithHemaasshewaswithme.

Atonepoint,Hemaliftedherheadupandsaid,“Thepeoplewhodidthisshouldallgoto jail.”Itwasn'tthefirsttimeshe'dhadtorescueawomaninGenet'ssituation.Shewasprobablyoneoftheworld's experts in treating botched and infected female circumcisions. But now her face wasclampeddowninabitternessI'dneverseenbefore.

ItwaseveningwhenGenetopenedhereyes.Shesawme,andshetriedtosaysomething.Iaskedherifshewantedwater,andshenodded.Iguidedastrawtohermouth.Shelookedaroundtoseeiftherewasanyoneelseintheroom.

“I'msorry,Marion,”shewhispered,hereyesswimmingwithtears.

“Don'ttalk,”Isaid.“It'sallright.”Itwasn't,butthat'swhatcametomymouth.

“I…shouldhavewaited,”shesaid.

Whydidn'tyou,Iwantedtosay.Ididn'tgetanyofthepleasure,thehonorofbeingyourfirstlover,butI'mgettingalltheblame.

Shemoanedwhenshetriedtomove,lickingherlips.Igavehermorewater.

“Mymotherthinksitwasyou.”Hervoicewasweak.

Inodded,butsaidnothing.

“WhenItoldher itwasShiva,”Genetsaid,“sheslappedme.Shekickedmeandcalledmealiar.She didn't believeme. She thinks Shiva is a virgin.” She tried to laugh, but grimaced and thencoughed.Whenshecouldspeak,shesaid,“Listen,ImademymotherpromisenottotellHema.”

Icouldn'tresistasarcasticsnicker.“Well,don'tworry.ShewilltellHema.She'sprobablytellingherrightnow.”

“No.Shewon't,”Genetsaid.“Thatwasourdeal.”

“Whatdoyoumean?”

“Iagreedtoletherdothistome,ifshewouldn't…sayanything.She'stokeepquiet.NotawordtoHema.Notoneword.Andnomoreshoutingatyou.”

I slumped back on hearing this. Genet allowed a strange woman to cut her privates with anunsterilizedblade,anditwasalltoprotectme?SonowIwastoblameforthecircumcision?ItwassoabsurdthatIwantedtolaugh,butIfoundIcouldn't:theguilthadsettledonmeasifitknewthatwasitshomeanditwouldbewelcome.

Shivacameintheevening,hisfacepaleanddrawn.“Here,sithere,”Isaidbeforehecouldopenhismouth.Ididn'ttrustmyselfnearhimandIneededabreak.“StaywithhertillIcomeback.Holdherhand.ShegetsrestlesswhenIletgo.”TherewasnothingelseIcouldsaytohim,now.Iwasbeyondanger,andhewasbeyondsorrow.

GENET'SFEVERRAGEDforthreedays.Isatbyherbeddayandnight.Hema,Ghosh,andMatronwereinandoutallthetime.

Onthethirdday,Genetstoppedmakinganyurine.Ghoshwasveryworried,drawingbloodhimself,thenShivaor Iwould run to the lab,helpW.W. lineupour reagentsand tubesandmeasure thebloodureanitrogenlevel:high,andgettinghigher.

Genetwasnevercompletelyunconscious,justsleepy,confusedattimes,oftenmoaning,andatonepointhorriblythirsty.Shecalledforhermotheronce,butRosinawasn'tthere.AlmaztoldmeRosinawouldn't leaveherroom,whichwasprobablyagoodthing.TheatmosphereinthehospitalroomwastenseenoughwithouttheprospectofHemaattackingRosina.

On the sixth day, Genet's kidneys began to produce urine, and then they produced it in hugeamounts, filling up the catheter bag.Ghosh doubled and tripled her intravenous fluid rates, andencouraged her to drink to keep up with the loss. “Hopefully this means her kidneys arerecovering,”Ghoshsaid.“Theyjustaren'tabletoconcentratetheurinetoowell.”

Onemorning,whenIwokeupinthechairandsawherface,thetextureoftheskin,therelaxationaroundthebrow,Iknewshewasgoingtomakeit.Shewasskinnytobeginwith,andnowtheillnesshadconsumedher,burnedherdownto justbones.Hercolorwasreturning; theswordthathungoverherhadliftedaway.Myshouldersbegantounknot.

ThatafternoonIwenttomyroominGhosh'squarters,andIfellintoablacksleep.ItwasonlywhenIwokeupthatIturnedmyattentiontoShiva.Didheunderstandhowheshatteredmydreams?Didhe see how he hurt Genet, hurt us all? I wanted to get through to him. The trouble was that Icouldn'tthinkofanyotherwaythantopummelhimwithmyfistsuntilhefeltthesamedegreeofpainhehadcausedinme.Ihatedmybrother.Noonecouldstopme.

NoonebutGenet.

WhenshetoldmeaboutherdealwithRosina,howshehadagreedtobecircumcisedifRosinasaidnothingtoHema,Genethadn'tfinishedwhatshehadtosay.Laterthatfirstnight,shestruggledtoconsciousnesstoasksomethingofme.Shehadmademeswearto it.“Marion,”shesaid,“punishme,butnotShiva.Attackmeandcastmeaway,butleaveShivaalone.”

“Why?Ican'tdothat.Whysparehim?“

“Marion,ImadeShivadowhathedidwithmethatnight.Iaskedhim.”Herwordswerelikekidneypunches.“YouknowhowShivaisdifferent…howhethinksinanotherway?Believeme,ifIhadn'taskedhim,hewouldhavereadhisbookandIwouldn'tbehere.”

Reluctantly,onthatfirstnight,IhadgivenGenetmywordthatIwouldn'tconfrontShiva.Ididsomainlybecausethatnighthadlookedasifitmightwellhavebeenherlast.

InevertoldHemawhathadreallyhappened,leavinghertoimaginewhateveritwasshethoughtIhaddone.

Why,youmightask,did Ikeepmyword?Whydid Inotchangemymindwhen I saw thatGenetwouldsurvive?Whydidn'tItellHemathetruth?Yousee,I'dlearnedsomethingaboutmyselfandabout Genet during her battle to stay alive. I'd come so close to losing her, and it helped meunderstand thatdespiteeverything, Ididn'twanther todie. Imightnever forgiveher.But I stilllovedher.

WHENSHEWASDISCHARGEDfromthehospital,IcarriedGenetfromthecartothehouse.Nooneobjected,andiftheyhadIwouldhavestoodmyground.MyunceasingvigilatGenet'sbedsidehadearnedagrudgingacknowledgmentfromHema;shedidn'tdaredenyme.

As Icarriedherdaughter intoourhouse through thekitchen,Rosinawatched fromherdoorway.Genetneverlookedinthatdirection.Itwasasifhermotherandtheroominwhichshehadlivedherlifenolongerexisted.Rosinastoodthere,beseechingwithhereyes,pleadingforforgiveness.Butachild'sabilityforreprisalisinfinite,andcanlastalifetime.

IcarriedGenettoouroldroom,Shiva'sroom,whichwouldnowbehers.

TheplanwasthatShivaandIwouldsleepinGhosh'soldquarters,butseparately,heinthelivingroom.

Halfanhourlater,whenIwenttogetGenet'sclothesfromRosina'squarters,shehadlockedherselfinandwouldn'tanswerdespitemyknocking.Ipushedonthewoodinanger,andIcouldtellfromtheresistancethatshe'dbarricadedthedoororelseshewasleaningagainstit.Apeculiarsilenceblanketed the atmosphere. Iwent to thewindow.The shutterswerebolted, but now,withAlmazhelping,Ipulledontheflimsyslatstilltheysnappedoff.Thewardrobehadbeenusedtoblockthewindow. I scrambled onto the ledge and tried to shove thewardrobe asidewithmyhands, but Icouldn't.Icranedmynecktopeeraboveit.WhatIsawmademesetmybacktothewindowframe,putbothfeetonthewardrobe,andtoppleitwithoutathoughttoitscontents.Ithitthegroundwithaterrificcrash, thewoodsplintering, themirrorshattering,platessmashing. Itbroughteveryonerunning.

I could see clearlynow.Weall could see.Hema,Ghosh,Shivawerebehindme, andevenGenet,hearingthecommotion,haddraggedherselfthere.

ThereisamathematicalprecisiontothatsceneasIrememberit,buttherearenoanglesinCarr'sGeometry or any other text that quite describe the slant of that neck. And no pill in thepharmacopoeiathatmighterasethememory.Hangingfromarafter,herheadtiltedonherspine,hermouthopenandthetonguelookingasifithadbeenyankedoutofherthroat,wasRosina.

CHAPTER35OneFeverfromAnother

THEMOSSYSTONEWALLSandthemassivegateofEmpressMenenSchoolgaveitthelookofanancientfortress. In herwhite socks, light blue blouse, dark blue skirt, andwith no headbands, clips, orearrings,Genetwas just one of the girls, blending in.Her only adornmentwas the St. Bridget'scrosshanging fromherneck.Shedidn'twant tostandout.HeroldvivaciousselfhaddiedalongwiththecorpsewetookdownfromtherafterandburiedinGuleleCemetery.

MynewritualwastocomeonSaturdayeveningstoseeGenet.Shewas justupthehill fromthepalacewhereGeneralMebratu (withZemuiathis side) tookhostagesand tried tobringaboutaneworder.

Genet could have come home onweekends, but she saidMissing evoked painfulmemories. SheinsistedshewashappyatEmpressMenen.TheIndianteacherswerestrictbutverygood.Shelteredfromsocietyandfromus,sheworkedveryhard.

We entered university together for our premedical course, and the following year we enteredmedical school. Now out of uniform and in regular clothes, her dress and manner remainedreserved and subdued.Each time Iwent to visitGenet in theMekaneYesusHostel opposite theuniversity,I'dpraythatthiswouldbethedaywhenthelockeddoortoherheartopenedandImightseetracesoftheoldGenet.ShewasappreciativeforthetiffincarrieroffoodAlmazandHemasentforher,butthebarriersheputuparoundherselfremained.

Istilllovedher.

IwishedIdidn't.

We entered the Haile Selassie the First School of Medicine in 1974— only the third class to beadmitted.GenetandIwerepairedasdissectionpartnersonacadaver,whichwasfortunateforher.Anyoneelsewouldhavetakenoffenseatherfrequentabsencesandherfailingtocarryherload.Ididn'tthinkshewaslazy.Therewasnogoodreasonforthis;somethingwasbrewing,andforonceIhadnoclue.

OUR BASIC SCIENCE TEACHERSwereverygood,amixofBritishandSwissprofessorsanda fewEthiopianphysicians who graduated from the American University of Beirut and then took postgraduatetraining in England or America. There was one Indian: our own Ghosh. Ghosh had a title: notAssistantProfessor, orAssociateProfessor, orClinical Associate Professor (implying an honorary,unpaiddesignation),butProfessorofMedicineandAdjunctProfessorofSurgery.

Idon'tthinkanyofus,notevenHema,realizedtheextentofGhosh'sscholarshipduringhistwenty-eightyearsinEthiopia.ButSirIanHill,deanofthenewmedicalschool,certainlydid.Ghoshhadforty-one published papers and a textbook chapter to his name. An initial interest in sexuallytransmitted illness had givenway tomajor scholarship on relapsing fever, forwhich hewas theworld's expert, because the louse-borne variety of this disease was endemic to Ethiopia, andbecausenolivingpersonhadobservedthediseaseasclosely.

I learnedaboutrelapsing feverasaschoolboywhenAliof thesoukoppositeMissingbroughthisbrother, Saleem, to the hospital and asked me to intercede. Saleem burned with fever and wasdelirious.Ghosh said later thatSaleem's storywas typical:He'd arrived inAddisAbaba fromhisvillagewithhislife'sbelongingsinaclothstrungoverhisshoulder.Alifoundhisbrotheratoeholdin theseething, swarmingdocksof theMerkato,where,monsoonornot,hehauledsacksoff thetrucksandintothegodowns.Atnighthesleptcheekbyjowlwithtenothersinaflophouse.Intherainy season, there was little opportunity to wash clothes because they would take days to dry.Saleem's living conditionswere unfit for humans, but ideal for lice.While scratching his skin hemust have crushed a louse, its blood entering his body through the scratch. Coming from thevillage,hehadnoimmunitytothisurbandisease.

InCasualty,Saleemlayonthegroundtooweaktositorstand,semiconscious.Adam,ourone-eyedcompounder,bentoverthepatient,andwithoneswiftmovemadethediagnosis.

Years later Ghosh showed me the correspondence he had with the editor of theNew EnglandJournalofMedicine,whowasabout topublishGhosh'sseminalseriesofcasesofrelapsing fever.The editor felt “Adam's sign” was pretentious. Ghosh defended the honor of his uneducatedcompounderattheriskofnotbeingpublishedinthatprestigiousjournal.

DearDr.Giles,

… in Ethiopia we classify hernias as “below the knee” and “above the knee,” not “direct” or“indirect.” It's another order of magnitude, sir. Our casualty room often has as many as fivepatientsprostrateonthefloorwithfever.Theclinicianasks:Isthismalaria?Isittyphoid?Orisitrelapsingfever?Thereisnorashtohelpsortthisout(the“rosespots”oftyphoidareinvisibleinour population), though Iwill grant you that typhoid causes a bronchitis and a slow pulse, andpeoplewithmalariaoftenhavegiantspleens.Iwouldberemissinpublishingapaperonrelapsingfeverwithoutprovidingtheclinicianapracticalwaytomakethediagnosis,particularlyinsettingswherebloodandserumtestsarehardtocomeby.Theclinicianhasonlytograbthepatient'sthigh,squeezethequadricepsmuscle,squeezeithard:Patientswithrelapsingfeverwilljumpupbecauseoftheotherwisesilentmuscleinflammationandtendernessthatispartofthisdisease.Notonlyisthis a good diagnostic sign, but it can raise Lazarus. This signwas first noted byAdam, and isdeservingoftheeponym“Adam'ssign.”

IcouldtestifytoAdam'ssign—SaleemyelledandleapedtohisfeetwhenAdammashed.Theeditorwroteback.HewaspleasedwithalltheotherrevisionsbutAdam'ssignremainedastickingpoint.Ghoshheldhisground.

DearDr.Giles,

…thereisaChvostek'ssign,aBoas'ssign,aCourvoisier'ssign,aQuincke'ssign—nolimititseemstowhitemennamingthingsafterthemselves.Surely,theworldisreadyforaneponymhonoringahumblecompounderwhohasseenmorerelapsingfeverwithoneeyethanyouorIwilleverseewithtwo.

Ghosh,workinginanobscureAfricanhospital,farfromtheacademicmainstream,hadhisway.Thepaperwas published in the prestigious journal, and no doubt led to his being invited towrite achapter inHarrison's Principles of InternalMedicine, the bible of seniormedical students. Now,herehewas,aprofessor.Hemaboughtournewprofessortwobeautifulpin-stripedsuits,oneblackandtheotherblue.Alsoatweedcoatwithleatherelbowpatches,asiftoput“Professor”inquotes.The bow tiewas his idea. In all things, especiallywhen it cost little and did no harm to others,Ghoshwashisownman.Thebowtietoldtheworldhowpleasedhewastobealiveandhowmuchhecelebratedhisprofession,whichhecalled“myromanticandpassionatepursuit.”ThewayGhoshpracticedhisprofession,thewayhelivedhislife,itwasallthat.

CHAPTER36PrognosticSigns

LIFEISFULLOFSIGNS.Thetrickistoknowhowtoreadthem.Ghoshcalledthisheuristics,amethodforsolvingaproblemforwhichnoformulaexists.

Redskyinthemorning,sailorstakewarning.

PussomewhereandPusnowheremeansPusinthebelly.

Lowplateletsinawomanislupusuntilprovenotherwise.

Bewareofamanwithaglasseyeandabigliver…

Across the outpatient department, Ghosh would spot a breathless young woman, her cheeksflushed, contradictinghergeneralpallor.Hedsuspectnarrowingof themitral valveof theheart,thoughhe'dbehard-pressedtoexplainexactlywhy.Itwouldmakehimlistencarefullyforthesoft,rumblingmurmurofmitralstenosis,adevilishmurmurwhich,ashesaid,“you'llonlyhear ifyouknowit'sthere,”andthenitwasonlyaudiblewiththebellofthestethoscopelightlyappliedovertheapexoftheheartafterexercise.

I'ddevelopedmyownheuristics,mymixofreason, intuition, facialappearance,andscent.Thesewerethingsnotinanybook.Thearmysoldierwho'dtriedtostealthemotorcyclehadanodoratthemoment of his demise, and so, too, hadRosina, and the twoodorswere identical—they spoke ofsuddendeath.

ButIdidn'ttrustmynosewhenIshouldhave,whenitpickedupsignalsfromGhoshthatputmynervesonedge.Iwroteitoffasbeingafunctionofhisnewjobasaprofessor,asideeffectofhisnewsuitsandnewenvironment.WhenIwasaroundhimitwaseasytobereassured.He'dalwaysbeenupbeat,ahappysoul.Butnowhewasevenmore jovial.He'dfoundhisbestself.Foramanwhopridedhimselfon“thethreeLs:Loving,Learning,andLegacy,”he'dexcelledinallthree.

OntheanniversaryofHemaandGhosh'smarriage, Iwokemyselfat 4:00a.m.tostudy.Twohourslater, Iwalkedover fromGhosh'soldbungalow to themainhouse.Shivahadmovedback toourboyhoodroom.Itwasstilldarkoutside.IplannedtocreepintoShiva'sroomtoseeifashirtIwasmissinghadbeenlaunderedandhunginhiscloset.IcameinasAlmazarrived.Ihuggedherandthenwaitedasshemadethesignofthecrossonmyforeheadandmurmuredaprayer.

Hemawasstillsleeping.Thehallwaybathroomdoorstoodopen,steamcomingout.Ghoshstoodinfrontofthewashbasin,atowelaroundhiswaist,leaningheavilyonthesink.Itwasearlyforhim.Iwondered why he was using this bathroom. So as not to wake Hema? I could hear his laboredbreathingbeforeIsawhimand,certainly,beforehesawme.Theeffortofbathinghadwindedhim.Inhisreflection in themirror, Isawhisunguardedself. Isawterrible fatigue; Isawsadnessandapprehension.Thenhe sawme.By the timehe'd turnedaround, themaskof jovialitywhichhadfallenintothesinkhadbeenslappedbackon,notaseamshowing.

“What'swrong?”Iasked.Ifeltmystomachflutter.Thescentwasthere.IthadtobeconnectedtowhatIjustsaw.

“Not a thing. Scary, isn't it?”He paused to take a breath. “My beautifulwife is sleeping like anangel.Mysonsmakemesoproud…TonightI'mgoingtotakemywifedancingandI'llaskhertoextendourmarriagecontractforanotheryear.Theonlythingwrongisthatasinnerlikemedoesn'tdeservesuchblessings.”

Hemacameouttothehallway,shakingsleepfromherhair.Ghoshflashedmeananxiouslook.

Heturnedbacktothemirror,whistlingasheslappedoncologne.HiseyespleadedwithmenottoalarmHema.Theeffortofholdinghisarmsupmadehis“SaintsComeMarchingIn”fullofstaccatonotesandpauses.Igotmyshirtandleft.

Ihadanearlymorningclass,animportantone.ButIfollowedmyinstinct,myintuition—mynose.Idressed and then hidmyself behind Shiva's toolshed. Soon, the Volkswagen appeared out of themist,withjustGhoshinit.Ifollowedonfoot.

IgottoCasualtyintimetoseehimenterMatron'soffice.NotonlywasMatronthereatthisearlyhour,shewaswaiting.Istoodthereconsideringwhatthismeant,whenAdamappearedcarryinga

bottleofblood.Matron'sdooropenedforhim.Adamemergedmomentslaterempty-handed.Hewasstartledtoseeme,andhetriedtoclosethedoorbehindhim,butIhadafootthere.

Ghoshwasonaloungechair,hisfeetup,apillowbehindhishead,smiling.Bach's“Gloria”chorussoundedonMatron'sancientphonograph.Matronbentoverhisarm,tapingtheneedlethatcarriedbloodintohisveininplace.Theylookedup,thinkingperhapsitwasAdamreturningforsomething.

Ghosh'slipsmoved.

“Son,youknowI—”

“Don'tbothertolietome,”Isaid.

He looked toMatron, as if for a cue. She sighed. “This is fate, Ghosh. I always thoughtMarionshouldknow.”

I'll never forget the stillness, the hesitation, and a trace of something I'd never before seen onGhosh'sface:cunning.Thenitgaveintoresignationandafarawaylook.ForamomentIsawtheworld throughhiseyes,his intellect,his sweepingvision that took inHippocrates,Pavlov,Freud,andMarieCurie,thediscoveryofstreptomycinandpenicillin,Landsteiner'sbloodgroups;avisionthat recalled the septicwardwhere hewooedHema, and Theater 3 where hewas the reluctantsurgeon;avisionthatrecapitulatedourbirthandlookedtothefuture,lookedpasthislifetotheendof mine and beyond. And then and only then did it settle, gather, and focus, on the now, on amomentwhenthelovewassopalpablebetweenfatherandsonthatthethoughtthatitmightend,andthismemorybeitsonlylegacy,wasunacceptable.

“All right,Marion, you budding clinician.What do you think itmight be?”He loved the SocraticMethod.Onlythistime,hewasthepatient,anditwasmyheuristicIwouldinvoke.

I'd noticed his pallor before, but I'd refused to let it register. Now I remembered that I'd seenbruises on his arms and legs for the past few months—bruises for which he always hadexplanations.Wasitjustaweekagohehadthepapercutonhisfinger?Ithappenedinfrontofmyeyes,anditbledforawhile;whenIsawhimafewhourslater,thewoundwasstilloozing.HowhadImanagedtodismissthat?Iremembered,too,hishoursexposedtoradiationfromtheOldKoot,theancientX-raymachinewhich,despiteeveryone'sprotests,he'dcontinuedtouseuntilMissingfinallygot a new machine. The Koot was broken apart with hammers and the pieces hauled to theDrowningSoil.Thereitwouldkeepthearmymancompany,whilemakinghisbonesglow.

“A blood cancer? A leukemia?” I said, hating the sound of those uglywords onmy lips. Ghosh'sdiseasewasonlyborn,itonlycametolife,themomentInamedit,andnowitcouldn'tgoaway.

Hebeamed, turnedtoMatron,raisinghiseyebrows.“Canyoubelieve this,Matron?Myson, theclinician.”

Thenhisvoicelostitsebullience;hespokeinamannerinwhichpretensehadfallenofflikeleavesafterafrost.

“Whateverhappens,Marion,youmustn'tletHemaknow.Ihadmyslidessentoffabouttwoyearsago through Eli Harris to Dr. Maxwell Wintrobe in Salt Lake City Utah, USA. He's a fabuloushematolo-gist. I love his textbook. He personally wrote me back. What I have is like an activevolcano, rumbling and spitting. Not quite a leukemia, but brewing into one; it's called ‘myeloidmetaplasia,’ “ he said, pronouncing it carefully as if it were something delicate and exquisitelywrought.“Remembertheterm,Marion.It'saninterestingdisease.Istillhavemanyyearsleft,I'msure. The only troublesome symptom I have now is anemia. These blood transfusions aremy oilchanges. I'm going dancing tonight with Hema. It's our big day, you know. I wanted moregumption.”

“Whywon'tyouletMaknow?Whydidn'tyouletmeknow?”

Ghoshshookhishead.“Hemawillgocrazy…She'll,sheshouldn't,shecan't…Don't lookatmethatway,myson,I'mnotbeingnoble,Ipromiseyou.”

“ThenIdon'tunderstand.”

“Youdidn'tknowaboutmydiagnosistheselasttwoyears,didyou?Ifyouhadknown, itwould'vechangedyourrelationshipwithme.Don'tyouthink?”Hegrinned,andheruffledmyhair.“Youknowwhat'sgivenme thegreatestpleasure inmy life? It'sbeenourbungalow, thenormalcyof it, theordinarinessofmywaking,Almazrattlinginthekitchen,mywork.Myclasses,myroundswiththesenior students. Seeing you and Shiva at dinner, then going to sleepwithmywife.”He stopped

there,silent fora longtimeashethoughtofHema.“Iwantmydaystobethatway.Idon'twanteveryonetostopbeingnormal.YouknowwhatImean?Tohaveallthatruined.”Hesmiled.“Whenthingsgetmoresevere,ifitevercomestothat,I'lltellyourma.Ipromise.”

Helookedatmeintently.“You'llkeepthisasecret?Please?It'swhatyoucandoforme.Agift, ifyou like.Givemeasmanynormaldaysas Icanpossiblyhave.Andyoumustn't tellyourbrothereither.Thatmightbehardestforyou.Iknowyoutwohavehada…rift.ButyouunderstandShivabetterthananyone.Iknowyoucareenoughforhimtoprotecthimfromthisnewsgettingtohimprematurely.”

Igavehimmyword.

ABOUTTHENEXTFEWMONTHS,Irememberverylittle,exceptthatGhosh'swisdomwasrevealed.Ithadbeenablessingnottoknowforthelasttwoyears.NowthatIknew,therewasnoturningbacktimeorerasing that knowledge; it was as if he were back in jail again and, in a way, so was I. I readeverything I could about myeloid metaplasia (how I hated that term which he loved). His bonemarrowwasquietwhenIfirstlearnedofhisdiagnosis.Butthenthediseasebecamemoreactive,thevolcano started rumbling, oozing lava, spitting telltale tracesof sulfurousgaswhen thewindwasright.

IspentasmuchtimeasIcouldwithGhosh.Iwantedeverybitofwisdomhecouldimparttome.Allsonsshouldwritedowneverywordofwhattheirfathershavetosaytothem.Itried.Whydidittakeanillnessformetorecognizethevalueoftimewithhim?Itseemswehumansneverlearn.Andsowe relearn the lesson every generation and then want to write epistles. We proselytize to ourfriends and shake them by the shoulders and tell them, “Seize the day! What matters is thismoment!”Mostofuscan'tgobackandmakerestitution.Wecan'tdoathingaboutourshouldhavesand our could haves. But a few lucky men like Ghosh never have such worries; there was norestitutionheneededtomake,nomomenthefailedtoseize.

NowandthenGhoshwouldgrinandwinkatmeacrosstheroom.Hewasteachingmehowtodie,justashe'dtaughtmehowtolive.

SHIVAANDHEMAwentabouttheirdaysignorantofGhosh'scondition.Theywerecaughtupintheirownexcitement. Shiva had coaxed Hema into a major commitment to treating women withvesiculovaginal fistula, or “fistula” for short. Itwasn't a condition thatHema (oranygynecologicsurgeon)relishedseeingbecauseitwasdifficulttocure.

NowIcanexplainwhythatlittlegirlwhomwe'dseenwhenwewereyoungchildren—theonewhocamewalkingupthehillwithherfather,herheadbowedwithshame,dribblingurineateverystep,carryingaboutheranunspeakableodor—hadsuchaprofoundinfluenceonShiva'slife.

UnbeknownsttoShivaandme,Hemahadoperatedonherthreetimes.Therepairbrokedownthefirsttwotimes;thelastoneheld.WenevergottoseeherleaveMissing,butwehadHema'swordthatshewascuredandhadlefthappy.Thementalscars,though,wouldneverheal.Weunderstoodlittleatthetimeofwhatailedher;itwasn'tasubjectHemawouldspeakabouttous.Butnow,ShivaandIknew.Inalllikelihood,perhapsbeforeshewasateen,thegirlwasmarriedofftoamanwhocouldhavebeenasoldasherfather.Thepainfulconsummationofhermarriage(moretraumaticifcircumcision had left scar tissue at the entrance to the vagina for the husband to batter down)would have ter-rifed her. Shemay even have been too young to connect this act with becomingpregnant,butsoonshewasswollenwithchild.Whenlaborbegan,thebaby'sheadjammedagainstherpelvicbones,thepelvicinletalreadynarrowedbyrickets.InadevelopedcountryorabigcityshemighthavehadaCesareansectionassoonashercontractionsstarted.Butinaremotevillage,withoutthehelpofanyonebuthermother-in-law,shewouldsufferfordays,heruterustryingtodotheimpossible,butsucceedingonlyinrammingthebaby'sheadagainstthebladderandthecervix,crushingthosetissuesagainsttheunyieldingbonypelvis.Thebabysoondiedinsidethewombandthe mother's death would follow shortly, most often due to a ruptured uterus or infection andsepticemia.Itwastherarefamilywhomanagedtotransportthemothertoahealthcenter.Therethelifelessfetuscouldberemovedpiecemeal,byfirstcrushingtheskullandthenpullingtherestout.

During her convalescence from that dreadful labor, the dead and gangrenous tissues inside herbirthpassageeventuallysloughedoff,leavingherwithajaggedholebetweenbladderandvagina.Insteadofurinepassingfrombladdertourethratoemergejustundertheclitoris(andonlywhenshechosetovoid),thebladdernowconstantlyleakeditscontentsdirectlyintothevaginaanddown

herlegs.Shewasneverdry,herclothesalwayssoaked,andshedribbledallday.Thebladderanditsurinequicklybecameinfectedandfoul-smelling.Innotimeherlabia,herthighs,becamewetandmaceratedandoozedpus.Thismusthavebeenwhenherhusbandcastheroff,andherfathercametotherescue.

Fistulashavebeendescribedsinceantiquity.Butitwasn'ttill1849inMontgomery,Alabama,thatDr.MarionSims,mynamesake, first succeeded in repairinga vaginal fistula.His first patientswereAnarcha, Betsy, and Lucy, three slavewomenwho had been cast out by their families and theirowners because of this condition. Sims operated on them—willing subjects we are told—in anattempt to cure the fistula. Ether had just been discovered butwasn't inwidespread use, so hispatientswerewideawake.Simsclosedthegapingholebetweenbladderandvaginawithsilkandthoughthehadcuredthem.Butaweeklater,hefoundpinholeopeningsalongthelineofhisrepairthroughwhichurinewas leaking.Hekept trying.HeoperatedonAnarchasome thirty times.Helearnedfromeachfailure,modifiedhistechniqueuntilheultimatelygotitright.

WhenHemaoperatedonthegirlwedseen,sheusedtheprinciplesofrepairestablishedbyMarionSims.Shefirstputacatheterthroughtheurethraintothebladdertodiverttheurineawayfromthefistulatoallowthewet,maceratedtissuestodryandheal.Aweeklater,HemaoperatedvaginallyusingthebentpewterspoontheAlabamasurgeonhadfashioned—theSimsspeculum,wenowcallit—whichallowedforgoodexposureandmadevaginalsurgerypossible.Shehadtocarefullydissectout the edges of the fistula, trying to findwhat had once been discrete layers of bladder lining,bladderwall,thenvaginalwallandvaginallining.Onceshehadtrimmedtheedges,shemadeherrepair, layerby layer.Sims,aftermanyfailures,hada jeweler fashiona thinsilverwirewhichheusedtoclose thesurgicalwound.Silverelicited the least inflammatoryreaction fromthe tissues,inflammationbeingthereasonarepairwouldbreakdown.Hemausedchromiccatgut.

Atdinner,amonthafter Id learnedofGhosh'sblooddisorder,Hemasharedwithus thatsheandShiva had operated on fifteen successive fistula patientswith not one recurrence. “I owe this toShiva,”shesaid.“Heconvincedmetotakemoretimepreparingthewomenforsurgery.Sonow,weadmit the patients and feed them eggs, meat, milk, and vitamins for two weeks. We treat withantibioticstilltheurineisclearandusezincoxidepasteontheirthighsandvulva.ItwasShiva'sideatodewormthemandcorrectirondeficiencyanemiabeforesurgery.Weworkonstrengtheningtheir legs,getting themmoving.”She lookedatShivawithpride. “I amembarrassed to say,he'sseenandunderstoodtheirneedsbetterthanIhaveafteralltheseyears.Liketheideaofphysicaltherapy—”

“Can'tgetthemtowalkaftersurgeryiftheywon'twalkbefore,”Shivasaid.

Onfouroftheirpatientstheholeintothebladderwassolarge,soscarreddownandshrunkback,thatitwasimpossibletopulltheedgestogether.Inthesepatients,HemaandShivahadlearnedtoexposeanarrowbutthick“steak”offleshunderthelabiaand,whilekeepingitconnectedatoneendtoitsbloodsupply,tunnelitsfreeendupandpullitintothevaginaanduseitasalivepatchinthefistula.

“Matronhasadonorwhowantstosupportnothingbutfistulasurgery,”Shivasaid.“We'regettingone thousand American dollars every month.” I found it difficult to look at him, let alonecongratulatehim.

ISTOPPEDFRETTINGoverGenet.Whenshefailedtwoofthefourcoursesthefirstyearandhadtorepeatbothsemesters,IwastoodistractedbyGhosh'sillnesstocare.Shewasn'thavingagoodtimeandlivingitup.Insteadshe'd lostherdesire, lostsightofhertarget ifshe'deverhadone.All it tookwasoneweekofnotstudying,missingclass,togetimpossiblybehind,sohecticwasthepaceofthefirstyearofmedicalschool.

Halfwaythroughmysecondyear,IlearnedthatGenethadagainmissedafewanatomylabsessions.Ifeltobligedtocheckonher.

AtMekaneYesusHostel,thedoortoherroomwasopen.Hervisitor'sbackwastome;neitherofthem sawme at first.Genet shared the roomwith another girlwhowasn't there. The tiny roomwhichhadoncebeensoneatwasnowclutteredandmessy.Theroomheldabunkbedandasmalltablefortwo.Whenhewasalive,GenetactedasifZemuiannoyedher.Herbraveandloyalfatherhaddiedinahailofbullets,andnowshehadhispictureontheceiling,inchesfromherfacewhenshelayonthetopbunk.

Her visitor's coarse features andhisgruffmannermadehim standout. I knewhimas a studentfirebrand, organizing others for curricular reform, or collecting signatures to oust an unpopularwarden.ButhewasEritreanfirst,justlikeGenet.TheliberationofEritreawasalmostcertainlyhismost importantcause,but itwas theonehe'dhave tokeepsecret.Hewasspeaking toGenet in

Tigrinya, but I heard a few English words: “hegemony” and “proletariat.” He stopped inmidsentencewhenhesensedmeinthedoorway.Hisbovineeyesgavemealookthatsaid,Youwillneverbeoneofus.

IdeliberatelyspoketoGenetinAmharic,soherguestwouldseethatIspokeitbetterthanhedid.HemutteredsomethingtoherinTigrinyaandstalkedoff.

“Whoaretheseradicalfriendsofyours,Genet?”

“Whatradicals?I'mjusthangingaroundwithEritreans.”

“Thesecretpolicehaveinformersonthisfloor,”Isaid.“They'lllinkyouwiththeEritreanPeople'sLiberationFront.”

Sheshrugged.“DoyouknowtheEPLFismakinggreatgains,Marion?Youcan'tknowthat.It'snotintheEthiopianHerald.ButIdoubtyou'reheretodiscusspolitics?”

InthepastImighthavebeenwoundedbyhermanner.“Hemasayshello.AndGhoshsayshewantstoseeyoufordinneroneoftheseevenings…Genet,I'mworriedaboutyourdissections.Thereisnoonetodoyourlabsforyouthisyear.Ifyoudon'tshow,you'llfail,nomatterwhat.Comeon,Genet.”

Herface,sointerestedandanimatedwhentheothermanwasthere,hadnowbecomesullen.

“Thankyou,”shesaidicily.

IwantedbadlytotellherthatGhoshwasill,toshakeheroutofherself-absorption.AndyetIsattherefeelingthewitchcraftofherpresence.ItkeptmecomingafterheranditmademetellmyselfIstilllovedher,nomatterhowsheacted,evenwhenourlivesweresoclearlydriftingapart.

INMYFINALYEARofmedicalschool,duringmysurgeryrotations,Ghosh'svolcanoerupted.Icamehometo a look onHema's face that toldme she knew. I steeledmyself for her tirade.Shehuggedmeinstead.

Ghosh had thrown up blood, and also developed amajor nosebleed.He'd tried to conceal it butfailed.Hewasrestingcomfortablyinthebedroom.Ipeekedinonhim,thencameoutandsatwithHemaatthediningtable.Almaz,red-eyed,broughtmetea.

“IsupposeI'mgladhedidn'ttellme,”Hemasaid.Icouldseefromherswolleneyelidsthatshe'dspenttheafternooncrying.“Particularlywhenthere'snothingtodofor it. I'vebeenabletoenjoythebestofhim.Suchperfectdays,withoutknowinganyofthis.”Shefingeredthediamondringonherfinger,apresentthathe'dgivenherthelasttimetheyrenewedtheiryearlyvows.“HadIknown…maybewecouldhavetakenatriptoAmerica.Iaskedhimaboutthat.Hesaidhepreferredtobehere.Thefirstsightofmeeverymorning isallhewants!Ayoh,he issucharomanticchap,evennow.It'sfunny,butafewmonthsago,Iactuallyfeltthatthingsweresogoodthatsomethingbadhadtohappen.Thesignswereallinfrontofme.ButIwasn'tpayingattention.”

“Me,too,”Isaid.

I found Almazweeping in the kitchen, andGebrew, tears in his eyes, his tiny Bible in his hand,rockingandrecitingversestoconsoleher.Whentheysawme,Gebrewsaid,“Weshallfastforhim.Ourprayershavebeenlacking.”

Almaznodded,andthoughsheletmehugherandtrytoreassureher,shewasagitated.“Wehavenotbeenprayerful,”shesaid.“Thatiswhysuchathingcomesonus.”

IASKEDGEBREWifhedseenShiva,andhesaidShivahadbeengoneallday,butifhewasback,hemightbeinhisworkshop.Gebrewwalkeddownwithmetothetoolshed.

“Are you still wearing your scroll?” Gebrew asked, referring to the thin strip of sheep's hide onwhichhe'ddrawnaneye,aneight-pointedstar,aring,andaqueenandcopiedaverseinfinescript.Hehadrolledthescrolltightandeaseditintoanemptybulletcasing.Onthemetalhescratchedoutacrossandmyname.

“Yes, it's alwayswithme,” I said,whichwas sort of truebecause I carried thisphylactery inmybriefcase.

“IshouldhavemadeoneforDr.Ghoshandperhapsthiswouldnothappen.”

Imarveledatmyfaithfulfriend.TobecomeapriestinEthiopia,itwasenoughforthearchbishopin

AddisAbabatoblowhisbreathintoaclothbagwhichwasthencarriedtotheprovincesandopenedinachurchyard,allowingforthemassordinationofhundreds.Themoreprieststhemerrier,fromthestandpointoftheEthiopianOrthodoxChurch.

ButhavingthousandsandthousandsofpriestshaditsproblemsforGod-fearingpeoplelikeAlmaz.A small numberof thesemenweredrunkards and cadgers forwhompriesthoodwasameansofavoidingstarvationwhilesatisfyingtheirotherappetites.TheworstreprobatepriestwhoheldouthiscrossobligedAlmaztostopandkiss its fourpoints. Imetheroneday lookingdistressed,herclothesindisarray.Shetoldmeshe'dbeatenoffapriest'sadvanceswithherumbrella,andothershadcometoherassistanceandpummeled theman.“Marion,when I'mdying,go to theMerkatoandgetmetwopriests,”shesaidtomethen.“Thatway, justlikeChrist,Icandiewithathiefoneithersideofme.”

ButGebrewwasdifferent.AlmazwassureGodapprovedofGebrew.Hespenthourswithhisnoseburiedinhisprayerbooks,leaningonhismakaturia—hisprayingstick—beadsclickingthroughhisfingers. Even when he shed his priest garb to cut the grass, to run errands, to be Missing'swatchmanandgatekeeper,his turbanstayedonandhis lipsneverstoppedmoving.“PleasemakeGhoshascroll,”IsaidtoGebrew.“Havefaith.Maybeitisnottoolate.”

SHIVAHADJUSTCOMEBACK.Ihadn'tbeeninthattoolshedforages,andIwasunpreparedfortheextremeclutter.Partsofenginesandelectricalboxescoveredthefloor.Thenarrowestofpathsledtowherehis tankandweldingequipmentstoodalongwithscrapsofmetal.Shivahadshoredup thewallsandceilingoftheshedwithaweldedmetalscaffold,andfromthishistoolshungonwireholsters.Hewashiddenathisdeskbehindamountainofbooksandpapers.Imademywaythere.Hewassketching a design for a frame of some kind, an apparatus he saidwould allow better exposureduring fistula surgery. He put his pencil down and waited. Hed known nothing about what hadtranspiredinthebungalowearlier.ItoldhimthetruthaboutGhosh.

Helistenedbutsaidnothing.Thoughheturnedalittlepale,hisfaceotherwisegaveawayverylittle.He closed his eyes. He had climbed into his tree house and pulled up the ladder. He had noquestions.Iwaited.Noteventhisnewscouldbreakdownthewallsbetweenus,Isaw.

I needed him. I had carried Ghosh's secret alone, and now I was ready to spread the burden. Ineededhisstrengthforthedaysthatweretocome,butIdidn'twanttoadmitit.WhatwasShivathinking?Didhefeelanythingatall?Ileftafterawhile,disgustedthatthoseeyeswouldnotopen,convincedIcouldn'tcountonhim.

But Shiva surprised me. That night and for two more nights Shiva slept in the corridor outsideGhosh andHema's bedroomwith just a blanketwrapped under and over him. Itwas hisway ofexpressinghis loveforGhosh,ofstayingclose.GhoshwasmovedtotearsseeingShivacurleduptherethenextmorning.IfeltsomethingaroundmyheartbreakdownandshatterwhenHematoldme.Onthefourthnight,asGhosh'sconditionworsened, Idecidedto leaveGhosh'soldbungalowandreturntothebedIusedtosharewithShiva.IconvincedShivanottosleeponthefloorinthecorridor.Wesleptawkwardly,ontheedgesofthemattress,gettingupseveraltimesinthenighttocheckonGhosh.Bymorning,ourheadsweretouching.

SHIVAAND IHAD thesamebloodgroupasGhosh.WithAdam'shelp, I'dbeenstockpilingmybloodforthis moment. Now, Shiva gave his. But blood was no longer sufficient, and it had caused adangerousironoverload.Ghosh'splateletsweren'tworking;hewasoozingfromhisgumsaswellaslosingbloodinhisbowel.Hebecameprogressivelyweaker.

Ghoshdidn'twanttomovetothehospital.Soontheanemialefthimshortofbreath,andhecouldno longer lie flat.Wemoved him fromhismarital bed ofmore than twenty years to his favoritearmchairinthelivingroom,hislegsuponthefootstool.

Quietly,systematically,hesoughttimewitheveryoneheloved.HesentforBabu,Adid,Evangeline,andMrs. Reddy and the other bridge players; I heard them laughing and reminiscing, though itwasn't all laughter.His cricket team surprised himwhen they arrived dressed in theirwhites tohonortheircaptain.Theyregaledhimwithexaggeratedstoriesofhispastexploits.

Thenitreachedthepointthathewasbreathingoxygenthroughafacemaskthatsatlooselyoverhis chin. It was my turn to have the conversation with Ghosh. I'd been dreading the moment,resistingitsimplication.

“You'reavoidingme,Marion,”hesaid.“Wemuststart.Wecan'tfinishunlesswestart,right?”

Iwouldneverhavepredictedwhathe'dsaynext.

“I don't want you to feel responsible for the entire family. Hema is very capable. Matron, eventhoughsheisgettingold, istoughandresourceful.IamsayingthistoyoubecauseIwantyoutotakeyourmedicalcareertogreatheights.Don'tfeelboundbydutytoShivaorHemaorMatrontostayhere.OrtoGenet,”headded,frowningslightlyashementionedhername.Heleanedforwardtograbmyhand, tomake sure Iunderstoodhowserioushewas. “Iwanted togo toAmerica sobadly.All theseyears I've readHarrisons and the other textbooks…and the things they do, theteststheyorder…it'slikereadingfiction,youknow?Money'snoobject.Amenuwithoutprices.Butifyougetthere,itwon'tbefiction.It'llbetrue.”Hiseyesturneddreamyasheimaginedwhatitwaslike.

“Westoppedyoufromgoing,didn'twe?MeandShiva.Ourbirth?”

“Don'tbesilly.Canyouimaginemegivingupthis?”hesaidsweepinghishandto indicatefamily,Missing, thehomehe'dmadeoutofabungalow.“I'vebeenblessed.Mygeniuswastoknowlongago thatmoneyalonewouldn'tmakemehappy.Ormaybe that'smyexcuse fornot leavingyouahuge fortune! Icertainlycouldhavemademoremoney if thathadbeenmygoal.Butone thing Iwon'thaveisregrets.MyVIPpatientsoftenregretsomanythingsontheirdeathbeds.Theyregretthe bitterness they'll leave in people's hearts. They realize that nomoney, no church service, noeulogy,nofuneralprocessionnomatterhowelaborate,canremovethelegacyofameanspirit.

“Ofcourse,youandIhaveseencountlessdeathsamongthepoor.Theironlyregretsurelyisbeingborn poor, suffering from birth to death. You know, in the Book of Job, Job says to God, ‘Youshould'vetakenmestraightfromthewombtothetomb!Whythein-betweenpart,whylife,ifitwasjusttosuffer?’Somethinglikethat.Forthepoor,deathisatleasttheendofsuffering.”Helaughedasifhelikedwhathejustsaid.Hisfingersautomaticallywentuptohispajamapocket,thentothebackofhisearsearchingforapen,becausetheoldGhoshwouldhavejottedthatdown.Buttherewasnopenandnomoreneedtowriteanythingdown.

“Ihaven'tsuffered.Well,maybebriefly.OnlywhenmydarlingHemamademepursueherforyears.Thatwassuffering!”Thesmilesaiditwasakindofsufferinghewouldn'thavetradedforfameorfortune.

“Shivawill thrivewithHema.Hema needs him to keep her occupied.Hema's instinctwill be toretreattoIndia.She'llmakealotofnoiseaboutthat.Itwon'thappen.Shivawillrefuse.Soshe'llstayhereinAddis.WhatIamsayingisthatit'snotyourworry.Youunderstand?”

Inodded,withoutmuchconviction.

“Idohaveonesmallregret,”Ghoshsaid.“Butit'ssomethingyoucanhelpmewith.Ithastodowithyourfather.”

“You're the only father I've ever had,” I said quickly. “I wish Thomas Stone had this leukemiainsteadofyou.Iwouldn'tcareonebitifhedied!”

He waited before answering, swallowing hard. “Marion, it means everything to me that youconsidermeyourfather.Icouldn'tbeprouderofyou,ofwhoyou'vebecome.ButIbringupThomasStoneforselfishreasons.AsIsaid,it'soneofmyregrets.

“Yousee,Iwasascloseafriendtoyourfatherashewascapableofhaving.Youhavetopicturehowitwasthen,Marion.HewastheonlyothermalephysicianhereatMissing.Weweresodifferent,nothingincommon,orsoIthought,whenImethim.ButIfoundthathelovedmedicineinthesamesortofwaythatIlovemedicine.Hewasdedicated.Hispassionformedicine…itwasasifhecamefromanotherplanet,myplanet.Wehadaspecialbond.”

Hiseyesdriftedofftothewindow,perhapsrecallingthosetimes.Iwaited.Eventuallyheturnedtomeandsqueezedmyhand.

“Marion,yourfatherwasdeeplywoundedbysomething,Godknowswhat.Hisparentsdiedwhenhewasachild.Wenevertalkedaboutthingslikethat.Buthere,workingalongsideSisterMaryJosephPraise,allofusworkingtogether,hewassheltered.Hewasashappyassuchamancanbe.Ifeltprotectiveofhim.Heknewsurgerywell,buthehadnounderstandingoflife.”

“YoumeanhewaslikeShiva?”

Hepausedtoconsiderthis.“No.Verydifferent.Shiva'scontent!Lookathim.Shivahasnoneedfor

friendshiporsocialsupportorapproval—Shivalivesinthismoment.ThomasStonewasn'tlikethat;hehadall theneedstherestofushave.Buthewasscared.Hedeniedhimselfhisneeds,andhedeniedhimselfhispast.”

“Scaredofwhat?”Ifoundallthishardtoswallow.“Matrontoldmeoncethathethrewinstrumentswhenhegotupset.Shesaidhehadatemper,thathewasfearless.”

“Oh,fearlessinsurgery,Isuppose.Buteventhatmightnotbetrue.Agoodsurgeonmustbefearfulandhewasagoodsurgeon,thebest,neverfoolhardy,andappropriatelyfearful.Well…afewlapsesofjudgment,butthenhewashuman.Butwhenitcametorelationshipshewas…terrified.Hewasfrightenedthatifhegotclosetoanyonethey'dhurthim.Orperhapshe'dhurtthem.”

Iwas resisting this construction of Stone thatwas so different fromwhat I'dmade up all theseyears.Finally,Iasked,“Whatdoyouwantfromme?”

“Nowthatmytimeiscoming,Marion…IwanttoletThomasStoneknowthatwhateverhappenedIalwaysconsideredmyselfhisfriend.”

“Whydon'tyouwritetohim?”

“Ican't. Inevercould.Hemahasn't forgivenhim for leaving.Shewashappyhe left—shewantedyoutwofromthemomentyouwereborn.Butstill,shewouldn'tforgivehimforleaving.Andthen,onceheleft,shewasterrified—always—thathemightcomebackandclaimyou.Ihadtopromiseher,sweartoher,thatIwouldn'twritehimorcommunicatewithhiminanyform.”Helookedatme,andsaidwithquietpride,“Ikeptmyword,Marion.”

“Good.I'mglad.”

I'd harbored such curiosity about Thomas Stonewhen Iwas younger. I had fantasized about hisreturn.NowIresistedGhosh,andIwasn'tquitesurewhy.

Ghoshwenton,“ButIfullyexpectedStonetocontactme.Iwasdisappointedastheyearswentonthathedidn't.Marion,heisfilledwithshameandheassumesthatIhavenodesiretoseehim.ThatIhatehim.”

“Howdoyouknow?”

“I'venowayofknowingthisforsure.Isuspectthattothisdayheseeshimselfasanalbatross.Callitclinicalintuitionifyoulike.Thetruthisthatyouwerebetteroffwithusthanwithhim.Tryashemight,Idon'tknowthathecouldhavecreatedwhatwehavehere,afamily.SoIdon'twantyoutohatethatman.Thecrosshecarriesishuge.”

“Whytellmethisnow?”Isaid.“Istoppedthinkingabouthimafteryoucameoutfromjail.Hewasnevertherewhenweneededhim.WhyshouldIwastemytimethinkingabouthim?”

“Formysake.Itoldyou,thisisforme.Myoneregret.It'snotaboutyou.Butonlyyoucanhelpme.”

Isaidnothing.

“LetmeseeifIcanexplain…”Helookedupattheceilingforafewseconds.“Marion,there'llbesomethingincompleteaboutmylifeifIdon'tlethimknowthatIstillconsiderhimabrother.”Hiseyesbecamewet.“Andthatwhateverhisreasonsareforbeingsilentalltheseyears,Istill…lovehim.Ican'tseehim,Ican'ttellhimthis.Butyoucan.Iwon'tlivetoseeit,butthat'swhatIwant.DoitwithouthurtingHema'sfeelings.Doitforme.Completewhatisincomplete.”

“AreyougoingtotellShivathis?”

“IfItellShivathatit'smydyingwish,he'ddoit.ButShivamaynotknowhowtodoit,howto…healhim.Itrequiresmorethandeliveringamessage.”Hehesitated.“SpeakingofShiva:whatIalsoneedtotellyouaboutShivaisthatwhateverhedidtoyou,pleaseforgivehim.”

He stunnedme there.Had he planned to say that?Was it an afterthought? I didn't thinkGhoshknew thedepths ofmyhurt,mybitterness towardShiva, but I'd underestimatedhim.Still,whathappened between me and Shiva wasn't a subject I wanted to bring up with Ghosh; it was toopainful,toopersonal.

“I'll domy best about Thomas Stone. For you. But I can't believe this is what you want. You'reforgettingthisisthemanwhocausedmymother'sdeath…Anun'sdeath.Anunhegotpregnant.Andthenheabandonedhischildren.Andtothisdaynooneseemstoknowhowanyofithappened.”

Asmy voice rose and quavered,Ghosh said nothing, but looked atme steadily tillmy shoulderscollapsedandIgavein.Iddowhatheasked.

WHENTHEENDCAMEaweeklaterhewasstillinthatchair,allofuswithhim,meandShivaholdinghislefthand,Matronholdinghisright.Almaz,whohadbecomesoleanfromrigorousfasting,squattedbehindhischairwithherhandonhisshoulder;Hemasatonthearmofthechair,soGhosh'sheadcouldrestagainstherbody.Genetwasnottobefound.Shewasn'tinherhostelwhenGebrewwassentinacabtobringhertoMissing.GebrewstoodnexttoAlmaz,praying.

Ghosh's breathing was labored, but Hema gave him morphine—he'd taught her that, she said.Morphine“disconnectstheheadfromthebrain,”soalthoughthebreathlessnesswasunchanging,theanxietywouldbegone.

Heopenedhiseyesonce,startled.HelookedatHema,thenatus.Hesmiledandclosedhiseyes.Iliketothinkinthatlastgazehesawatableauofhisfamily,hisrealfleshandblood,becauseourbloodwasnowinhisveins.Iliketothinkinseeingushefelthishighestpurposewasserved.

Andthatishowhepassedfromthislifetothenext,withoutfanfare,withcharacteristicsimplicity,fearless,openinghiseyesthatlasttimetomakesurewewerefinebeforehewenton.

Whenhischeststoppedmoving,mysorrowwasmixedwithrelief:I'dbeenmatchingeverybreathofhiswithminefordays.IknowHemafeltthesamewayasshelaidherheadonhisandwept,herarmsstillcradlinghim.

WITHGHOSH'SDEATHcameanewunderstandingoftheword“loss.”I'dlostmybirthmotherandfather,losttheGeneral,lostZemui,lostRosina.ButIonlyknewreallosswhenIlostGhosh.Thehandthatpattedmeandputmetosleep,thelipsthattrumpetedbedtimesongs,thefingersthatguidedminetopercussachest,tofeelanenlargedliverorspleen,theheartthatcoaxedmyearstounderstandtheheartsofothers,wasnowstilled.

AtthemomenthediedIfeltthemantleofresponsibilitypassfromhimtome.He'danticipatedthat.I remembered his advice to wear that mantle lightly. He'd handed me the professional baton,wantedmetobethekindofdoctorwhowouldsurpasshim,andthenpassonthatsameknowledgetomychildrenand to their children, a chain. “I shall notbreak the chain,” I said, hopingGhoshcouldhearme.

Freud,Iknew,wrotethatoneonlybecameamanthedayone'sfatherdied.

WhenGhoshdied,Istoppedbeingason.

Iwasaman.

CHAPTER37Exodus

WHENILEFTETHIOPIAtwoyearsafterGhoshdied,ithadnothingtodowithGhosh'sdeathbedwishes.Itwasn'taboutfindingThomasStoneandhealinghispain.Itwasn'tbecausetheEmperorhadbeendeposedbyacreepingmilitaryrebellion,orthatthearmedforces“committee”thattookpowerhadbeen reduced by infighting and murder to one mad dictator, an army sergeant, a man namedMengistu,who'deventuallymakeStalinlooklikeanangel.

Rather,IleftonWednesday,January10,1979,thedaynewsspreadthroughthecitylikeinfluenzathatfourEritreanguerrillasposingaspassengershadcommandeeredanEthiopianAirlinesBoeing 707

and forced it to fly to Khartoum, Sudan.One of the fourwasGenet. Thatmorning she'd been amedical student, albeit onewho had fallen three years behind. By evening, shewas a liberationfighter.

Iwasadoctorat long last,an internfinishingupmy lastrotation. I'ddonethreemonthseach ininternalmedicine, surgery, obstetrics andgynecology andnowall that remainedwas amonth ofpediatrics.

Hematrackedmedownbytelephoneintheearlyevening.She'dheardthenewsaboutGenet.

“Marion,comehomeatonce.”

Thetoneofhervoicemadetheairaroundmegostill.

“Ma,areyouokay?Wecan'thelpher.Theymaycometotalktous.Youareherguardian.”

SinceGhosh'sdeath,withoutthebufferofhispresence,I'dbecomeclosertoHema.Shesoughtmyadvice,andIlookedfortimetospendwithher.IfeltGhosh'shandinthat.

“Marion,mylove,it'snotaboutGenet…Adidjustcalled.Thesecretpolicearesearchingforaco-conspiratornamedMarionPraiseStone.Theymaybeontheirwaythere.”

ThankGodforAdid'ssource,aMusliminSecuritywithasoftspotforMissing.Genet'sroommate,atinywaifofagirlwhoIamsurehadnoknowledgeoftheplot,spitoutmynamewithinanhourofthehijack.Peoplewillsayanythingwhentheirfingernailsarebeingrippedout.

VisionsofGhosh,hisheadshaved, intheKerchelePrisonyard,flashedthroughmymind.ButtheoldKerchelewasacountryclubcomparedwithwhatitwasnow:anovercrowdedtorturecollege,abutchershopwhereenemiesof thestatecametotheirends.Bodiesandbodypartswerecarriedoutintruckseverynightandposedthroughoutthecityamacabrepublicartsprogramthatservedto educate and edify.Portrait of theArtist as aDeadMan.HeadlessWomanPointingOutOrion.TraitorHoldingHeadinHisHands.DeadManwithPenisinHisMouth.Theunifyingmessagewasclear:You'reDeadIfYouThinkofCrossingUs.

The Sergeant-President, an uncouth, barbaric man, had only one thing in common with theEmperor:hedneverletEritreasecede.Helaunchedafull-scalemilitaryoffensive,bombingEritreanvillages where rebels mingled with civilians, putting the Eritrean homeland under siege. But ofcourse,thisonlyservedtogivenewenergytotheEritreanPeople'sLiberationFront.

Meanwhile,theOromotribeswerepressingforfreedom.TheTigres(whospokealanguagesimilartothatoftheEritreans)hadformedtheirownliberationfront.TheroyalistsaroundAddisAbaba,who believed in the Emperor and themonarchy, had set off bombs in government offices in thecapital. Theuniversity students, oncegreat fans of themilitary “committee,”werenow split intothosepushingfordemocracyandthosewhofeltnothingshortofanAlbanian-styleMarxismwoulddo.NeighboringSomaliadecidedthiswasthetimetopressitsclaimsondisputedterritoryintheOgaden Desert that even the vultures did not want. Who said being a dictator is easy? TheSergeant-Presidenthadhishandsfull.

WITHOUTAWORDTOANYONE,IslippedoutofthebackoftheEthio-SwedishPediatricHospital,leavingmycarparked in itsspot. I tooka taxihome. Icouldn'tbelieve thiswashappening.WhathadGenetaccomplished?Hijacking anEthiopianAirlines planewas all about publicity. Yes, BBCwould payattention. Itwould furtherembarrass theSergeant-President,buthewasdoinga fine jobof thatwithoutanyoutsidehelp.EvenifGenet'sacthadn'tputmeindanger,I'dhaveresentedthehijack.Ethiopian Airlines was a symbol of our national pride. Foreigners raved about EA's wonderful

service,itsskilledpilots.JetflightsfromRome,London,Frankfurt,Nairobi,Cairo,andBombaytoAddismade it easy for tourists to visit. ThenEA's regional service ofDC-3s flew a daily looping,hopscotchroutesothatyoucouldleavetheHiltonAddisAbabainthemorning,seethecastlesinGondar,theancientobelisksinAxum,therock-hewnchurchesofLalibela,andbebackintheHiltonlounge in Addis just when the good-time girls were drifting in trailing perfume, and the VelvetAshantiswereplayingtheirthemesong,aversionof“Walk—Don'tRun”bytheVentures.

EthiopianAirlineshadforyearsbeenatargetfortheEritreanPeople'sLiberationFront.ButevenintheEmperor's time,cracksecuritymenonboarddisguisedaspassengersensuredanear-perfectsafety record until Genet's flight. On one occasion, seven Eritrean hijackers stood up andannouncedtheirintentions.Thetwosecuritymenpickedofffiveofthehijackersaseasilyasiftheywere shooting tin cansoff a fenceat tenpaces.Theyoverpowered the sixth.The seventh lockedherselfupinthebathroomandexplodedagrenade.Thepilotlandedthecrippled,rudderlessplanedespite a gaping hole in the tail section.On another occasion, the security force overpowered ahijacker and strapped him into a first-class seat. Instead of shooting him, they bibbed himwithtowelsandslithisthroat.

That January afternoon,Genet andherpals seized theplanewithout a fight.Wordwas theyhadhelpontheinside.Thesecuritymenmayhaveturned.

Asmy taxidrove through theMerkato, I took in the familiar sights.Could thisbe the last time Ipassed thisway, the last time I smelled the hops from the St.George's brewery on this road?Awomanwithherhairincornrows,Eritreanstyle,flaggedmytaxidown.“Lideta,please,”shesaid,namingherdestination.

“Lideta,isit?”thedriversaid.“Whydon'tyoutakeaplane,sweetheart?”Herfacefell,thenturnedhard.Shedidn'tbothertoargue.Shejustturnedaway.

“Thosebastardsbetter lay lowtonight,”thedriversaidtome,sinceIclearlywasn'toneofthem.“Look,” he said, waving his hand at the pedestrians on both sides. “They're everywhere.” Therewere thousands of Eritreans in Addis Ababa—people like the Staff Probationer, like Genet. Theywereadministrators,teachers,universityfaculty,students,governmentworkers,andofficersinthearmed forces, executives in telecommunications, waterworks, and public health, and legions ofotherswhowere just common folk. “They drink ourmilk and eat our bread. But in their homestonight,youknowthey'rebutcheringasheep.”

Since the military took power, many Eritreans I knew, including some physicians and medicalstudents,hadgoneundergroundtojointheEritreanPeople'sLiberationFront.

ThenewsinthecapitalwasthatthesituationinthenorthofEthiopiaaroundAsmarahadturnedagainst the Sergeant-President. The Eritrean guerrillas ambushed military convoys at night anddisappeared in daylight. I'd seen grainy photos of these fighters. Dressed in their trademarksandals, khaki shorts and shirts, they had the daring, the conviction, and the passion of patriotsfightingtheiroccupiers.TheconscriptedEthiopiansoldiersintheirjeepsandtanks,weighteddownwithhelmets, combatboots, jackets, andweaponry,were confined to themain roads.Howcouldtheyfindanenemytheycouldn'tsee, inacountrysidewheretheydidn'tspeakthe languageandcouldn'ttellciviliansandsympathizersfromguerrillas?

AsmytaxiapproachedMissing'sgates,IsawTsigesteppingoutofherFiat850infrontofherbar.She'dprospered these last fewyears, buyingout thebusinessnextdoor, addingakitchen, a fullrestaurant,andhiringmorebargirls to servecustomers.Upgrades to the furniture, two foosballmachines,andanewtelevisionsetmadeherbartheequalofthebest inthePiazza.Tsigeownedonetaxi,andwhenwelastspokeshe'dtoldmeshewas lookingforasecond.Sheneverfailedtoencourageme,totellmehowproudshewasofmeandthatsheprayedformeeveryday.Now,asIsawherlovelystockingedlegemergefromthecar,Ihadagreaturgetostopandsaygood-bye,butIcouldn't.Thiswasherland,too,andIhopedthatunlikemeshe'dneverhaveaneedtoflee.

MISSING'SMAINGATEwaswideopen.ThiswasHema'sprearrangedsignalthatthecoastwasclearformetocomehome.

When youhave justminutes to leave thehouse inwhich you've spent all your twenty-five years,whatdoyoutakewithyou?

Hema had my diplomas, certificates, passport, a few clothes, money, bread, cheese, and waterpackedinaroomyAirIndiashoulderbag.Iworesneakersandlayersofclothesagainstthecold.Ithrew in a cassettewhich I knewhad both the slow and fast “Tizita” on it, but left the cassetteplayer behind. I contemplated taking Harrisons Principles of Internal Medicine, or Schwartz'sPrinciplesofSurgery,butwitheachbookweighingaboutfivepounds,Ididn't.

Weleftonfoot,asmallconvoyheadingtothesidewallofMissing,butfirstIinsistedwegobythegrove where Ghosh and Sister Mary Joseph Praise were buried. I walked with my arm aroundHema.ShivaassistedMatron.AlmazandGebrewhadgoneahead.IfeltHema'sbodytrembling.

AtGhosh'sgrave,Itookleaveofhim.Iimaginedhowhewouldhavetriedtocheermeup,makemelook at the bright side—You always wanted to travel! Here's your chance. Be careful! Travelexpandsthemindandloosensthebowels.Ikissedthemarbleheadstoneandturnedaway.Ididn'tdwellatmybirthmother'sgrave.IfIwantedtosaygood-byetoher,thiswasn'ttheplace.Ihadn'tvisitedtheautoclaveroomformorethantwoyears.Ifeltapangofguilt,butitwastoolatetogotherenow.

Atthewall,Hemaheldme.Shelaidherheadonmychest,andthetearswereflowingfreely,inawaythatI'donlyseenatGhosh'sdeath.Shecouldn'tspeak.

Matron,arockoffaith inmomentsofcrisis,kissedmeontheforeheadandsaidsimply,“GowithGod.” Almaz and Gebrew prayed overme. Almaz handedme a kerchief tied around a couple ofboiledeggs.GebrewgavemeatinyscrollthatIwastoswallowforprotection—Ipoppeditintomymouth.

Ifmyeyesweredry,itwasbecauseIcouldn'tbelievethiswashappening.AsIlookedatmysend-offpartyIfeltsuchhatredforGenet.PerhapsEritreansinAddiswereslaughteringsheepandtoastinghertonight,butIwishedshecouldseethissnapshotofourfamilyasitwastornapart,allbecauseofher.

Itwastimetosaygood-byetoShiva.I'dforgottenwhatitfeltliketoholdhim,whataperfectfithisbodywastomine,twohalvesofasinglebeing.EversinceGenet'smutilation,we'dsleptseparatelyexcept for abriefperiodaroundGhosh'sdeath.OnceGhoshdied, I returned tohis oldquarters,leaving Shiva in our childhood room. Only now did I recognize the severity of the penance I'denforcedbysleepingapart.Ourarmswerelikemagnets,refusingtodisengage.

I pulled my head back and studied his face. I saw disbelief and a bottomless sadness. I wasstrangelypleased,flatteredtogetsuchareactionfromhim.I'dseenthisonlytwicebefore:onthedayofGhosh'sarrestandonthedayofGhosh'sdeath.OurpartingatMissing'swallwasakindofdeath,hisexpressionsaid.Andifitwassoforhim,itwasforme,too.Orshouldhavebeen.

Therewasatime,agesago,itseemed,whenwecouldreadeachother'sthoughts.Iwonderedifhecouldreadmine.I'dpostponedthismoment,thisreckoningwithhim.ItwasthedealI'dmadewithGenet,butIfeltnoneedtohonorthatnow.Now,mymindexpresseditself.

Shiva,doyouseehowdefloweringGenet,abiologicalactasfarasyouwereconcerned,ledtoallthis?ItledRosinatokillherself,ledGenettostrayfromus?ItledtothismomentwhereIhatethewomanIhopedtomarry?EvennowHemathinksthatIsetallthisinmotion,thatIdidsomethingtoGenet.

Doyouseehowyoubetrayedme?

Thisgood-byeislikecuttingoffmybody.

IloveyouasIlovemyself—thatisinevitable.

ButIcan'tforgiveyou.Perhapsintime,andonlybecausethat'swhatGhoshwanted.Intime,Shiva,butnotnow.

WestoodatthefootoftheladderwhichGebrewhadplacedagainstMissing'seastwall.

Shivahandedmeaclothbag.Inthedarknessitwasimpossibletosee,butIthoughtIrecognizedtheshapeandthecolorofhisdog-earedcopyofGray'sAnatomyandbelowthatapristinecopyofsomeotherheavybook.Iwasabouttoremonstrate.Ibitmytongue.IngivingmehisGray's,Shivasacrificedapieceofhimself,themostvaluablethingheownedthatwasremovableandportable.

“Thankyou,Shiva,”Isaid,hopingitdidn'tsoundsarcastic.Inowhadtwobagsinsteadofone.

Gebrewslungburlapsacksontopofthebottleshardsthatcrestedthewall.Iclimbedover.OntheothersidewastheroadthatI'dalwaysseenfrommybedroomwindowbutneverexplored.ItwasaviewthatIthoughtofaspastoral,idyllic,aroaddisappearingintothemistandmountainstoalandofnoworries.Tonightitlookedsinister.

“Good-bye,” I called one last time, touching my hand to that moist wall, the living, breathingexoskeletonofMissing.Inside,achorusofvoicessodeartome,theywhowerethebeatingheartof

Missing,calledout,wishedmeGodspeed.

Ahundredyardsaway,atrucksatidling.Itcarriedstacksofretreadedtires.Thedriverhelpedmeclimbontothebed,whereatarphadbeenstrungoverandundertirestomakeasmallcave.Adidhadwater,biscuits,andapileofblanketsplacedthere.Hehadarrangedmyescapebutundertheaegisof theEritreanPeople'sLiberationFront.TheEPLFhadbecome thecommonpath to leaveEthiopia,particularlyifyouplannedtodoitfromthenorthandifyouwerewillingtopay.

Thelesssaidaboutmycold,bumpy,seven-hourridetoDessie,thebetter.AfteranightinaDessiewarehouse,whereIsleptonaregularbed,andasecondnightwherewerestedinMekele,onthethirddayofoutnorthernjourneywereachedAsmara,theheartofEritrea.ThecityGenethadlovedsomuchwasunderoccupation.TheEthiopianarmywasvisible in force, tanksandarmoredcarsparkedatkeyjunctions,checkpointseverywhere.Wewereneversearched,sincethedriver'spapersshowedthetireswecarriedweretosupplytheEthiopianarmy.

Iwastakentoasafehouse,acozycottagesurroundedbybougainvil-lea,whereIwastowaituntilwecouldmakethetrekoutofAsmaraandintothecountryside.Thefurniturewasjustamattressonthelivingroomfloor.Icouldn'tventureouttothegarden.IthoughtI'dbeinthesafehouseforanightortwo,butthewaitstretchedouttotwoweeks.MyEritreanguide,Luke,broughtmefoodonceaday.Hewasyoungerthanme,a fellowof fewwords,acollegestudent inAddisbeforehewent underground.He suggested Iwalk asmuch as I could in thehouse to strengthenmy legs.“ThesearethewheelsoftheEPLF,”hesaid,smiling,tappinghisthighs.

There were two surprises in my meager luggage. What I thought was a cardboard base at thebottomoftheAirIndiabagthatHemapackedwasinsteadaframedpicture.ItwastheprintofSt.TeresathatSisterMaryJosephPraisehadputupintheautoclaveroom.Hema'snotetapedtotheglassexplained:

Ghosh had this framed in the lastmonth of his life. In hiswill he said that if you ever left thecountry,hewantedthispicturetogowithyou.Marion,sinceIcantgowithyou,maymyGhosh,SisterMary,andSt.Teresaallwatchoveryou.

Icaressedtheframe,whichGhosh'shandsmusthavetouched.Iwonderedwhyhe'dtakensomuchtrouble,butIwaspleased.Itwasmytalismanforprotection.Ihadnotsaidgood-byetoherintheautoclaveroom,anditturnedoutIdidn'tneedto,becauseshewascomingwithme.

Thesecondsurprisewas thebookunderShiva'spreciousGray'sAnatomy. ItwasThomasStone'stextbook,TheExpedientOperator: A Short Practice of Tropical Surgery. I'd never known such abook existed. (Later I learned that itwent out of print a few years after our birth.) I turned thepages, curious, wondering why I'd never seen this before and how it came to be in Shiva'spossession. And then, suddenly, there hewas in a photograph that occupied three-fourths of thepage,staringoutatme,a faintsmileonhis lips:ThomasStone,MBBS,FRCS. Ihad toclose thebook.Iroseandgotsomewater,tookmytime.Iwantedtocomposemyselfandlookathimonmyownterms.WhenIopenedthepageagain,Inoticedthefingers,nineofthem,insteadoften.IhadtoadmitthesimilaritytoShivaandthereforetome.Itwasinthedeep-seteyes, inthegaze.Ourjawswerenotassquareashisandourforeheadswerebroader.IwonderedwhyShivahadputitinmyhands.

Thebooklookedbrand-new,as if ithadhardlybeenopened.Abookmarkplacedonthecopyrightpagesaid,“ComplimentsofthePublisher.”ThebookmarkhadbeenpressedbetweenthepagesforsolongthatwhenIpeeleditoffapalerectangularoutlineremained.

Onthebackofthebookmarkwaswritten:

Mymotherhadpennedthisnoteadaybeforeourbirthandherdeath.Herclearwriting,theevenletters, retaineda schoolgirl's innocence.How longhadShivaposessed thebookandbookmark?Whygiveittome?WasitsothatI'dhavesomethingfrommymother?

To get in shape, I'd pace around the house, hauling the bag with books onmy shoulder. I readStone's textbookduring those twoweeks.At first I resisted it, tellingmyself itwasdated.Buthehadawayofconveyinghissurgicalexperience inthecontextofscientificprinciplesthatmade itquitereadable.Istudiedthebookmarkoften,rereadingmymother'swords.Whatwasintheletter

she had left for Stone? What would she have been saying to him just one day before we, heridenticaltwinboys,wouldarrive?Icopiedherwriting,imitatingtheloops.

OnedaywhenLukebroughtmyfood,hesaidwe'dleavethatnight.Ipackedonelasttime.Thetwobooks had to gowithme; I couldn't abandon either one, thoughmyAir India bagwas still veryheavy.

We set out after curfew. “That'swhywewaited,” Luke said, pointing skyward. “When there's nomoonitissafer.”

Heledmedownnarrowpathsbetweenhouses,andthenalongirrigationditches,andsoonwewereawayfromtheresidentialareas.Wecrossedfieldsinthepitch-dark.Isensedhillsinthedistance.Withinanhour,myshoulderhurtfromthebag,eventhoughIpositioneditindifferentways.Lukeinsistedontransferringsomeitemsfrommybagtohisknapsack.Helookedshockedatthesightofthebooks,butsaidnothing.HetooktheGray's.

Wewalkedforhours,stoppingonlyonce.Atlast,wewereinthefoothills,climbing.Atfour-thirtyinthemorning,weheardasoftwhistle.Wemetupwithatroopofelevenfighters.Theygreetedusintheirtrademarkfashion:shakinghandswhilebumpingshouldersbackandforth,saying,“Kamela-hai” or “Salaam.” There were four women, sporting Afros just like the men. I was shocked torecognizeoneof the fighters: itwas the firebrand, the studentwith thebovineeyeswhom Ihadencountered in Genet's hostel room. On that occasion hed stormed out contemptuously. Now,recognizingme,hesportedalopsidedgrin.Heshookmyhandwithbothhis.HisnamewasTsahai.

Thefighterswereexhausted,butuncomplaining,their legswhitewithdust.Theycarriedaheavygunwhichtheyhaddismantledintoseverallargepieces.

Tsahaibroughtsomethingovertome.“High-proteinfieldbread,”hesaid.Itwasarationwhichwasofthefighters’owninvention,butittastedlikecardboard.Herubbedhisrightkneeashespoke,anditlookedtomeasifitwasswollenwithfluid.Ifitwassore,hesaidnothingaboutit.

We avoided the topic of Genet. Instead he described how earlier that night they'd ambushed anEthiopianarmyconvoyasittriedararenightpatrol.“Theirsoldiersarescaredofthedark.Theydon't want to fight and they don't want to be here. Morale is terrible. When we shot the leadvehicle,thesoldiersjumpedout,forgettingtoshoot,justrunningforcover.Wehadthehighgroundonbothsides.Rightawaytheyscreamedthattheyweresurrendering,eventhoughtheirofficerwasorderingthemtokeepfighting.Wetooktheiruniformsandsentthemonfootbacktothegarrison.”

Tsahaiandhiscomradeshadsiphonedgasfromthetrucks,thenhidtheoneworkingvehicleinthebush, stuffedwith uniforms, ammunition, andweapons to be retrieved at another time. The realprizewastheheavygunandshellswhichtheybroughtwiththem,everythingcarriedonfoot.

WESETOFFafterfifteenminutes.Beforedaybreakwereachedawell-hidden,tinybunkercarvedoutofthesideofahill. Ididn't think Iwascapableofwalkingas faras Ihad. Ithelpedthatmy fellowwalkerscarriedfivetimesmyloadwithoutcomplaint.

LukeandIstayedinthebunker.Theothershurriedontoaforwardposition,riskingdaylightandbeingspottedbytheroamingMiGfightersbecausetherewassomeurgencytoreassemblethegun.

I sleptuntilLukewokeme.My legs feltas ifawallhadcollapsedon them. “Take this,”hesaid,givingmetwopillsandatinmugoftea.“It'sourownpainkiller,paracetamol,manufacturedinourpharmacy.”

Iwas too tired todoanythingbutswallow.Hemademeeatsomemoreof thebread,andIsleptagain. I awokewith lesspain,but so stiff I couldhardlygetoff the floor. I took twomoreof theparacetamolpills.

Fivefightersarrivedtoescortusonwardwhenitturneddark.Oneofthemhadapartiallywitheredleg:polio,Iknew.Seeinghisswinging,awkwardgait,hisgunservingasacounterbalance,madeitimpossibleformetothinkofmyowndiscomfort.

Thesecondmarchwashalfas longas the first,andgraduallymy legs loosened.Wearrived longbeforedawnatsomescruffyhills.Anarrowtrail ledtoacave, itsentrancecompletelyhiddenbybrushandbynaturalrock.Woodenlogsframedtheopening.Asteepwoodenrampwentdowntomorerooms,deepwithin.Thetrailontheoutsideledtoothercavesupanddownthehill,all the

openingscleverlyconcealed.

Iwastakeninsidetoastall.Iremovedmyshoes,andfellasleeponastrawpallet.Itfeltluxurious.Islepttilllateafternoon.Lukewalkedmearound.Iwasstiffagain,butheseemedfine.Thebasewasemptyoffightersbecauseofamajoroperationgoingonelsewhere.

I suppose I should have admired these fighters, who could flit through the dust like sandflies. Ishould've admired their resourcefulness, their ability tomanufacture their own intravenous fluid,theirownsulfa,penicillin, andparacetamol tablets stampedoutbyahandpress.Hidden in thesecaves and invisible from the air or ground was an operating theater, a prosthetic limb center,hospitalwards, and a school. The degree of sophistication in those surroundingswas evenmoreimpressive for being so spartan. The quiet discipline, the recognition that the tasks of cooking,caring for children, sweeping the floorswere as important as any other, convincedme that theywouldonedayprevailandhavetheirfreedom.

Iwatchedafighterrelaxingoutsidethebunker.Thesunfilteringthroughtheacaciatreeformedachangingmosaicoflightonherfaceandontherifleacrossherlap.Shehummedtoherselfasshescanned theskieswithbinoculars, looking forMiGs,whichwere flownby theRussianorCuban“advisers” to Ethiopia. America had long supported the Emperor, but it withdrew its support ofSergeant-PresidentMengistu'sregime,haltingweaponsandpartssales.TheEasternBlocsteppedintofillthevoid.

Thefighter,whowasaboutourage,remindedmeofGenetinthewayshearrangedherlimbs,intheeasewithwhichsheoccupiedherbody.Despitethelethalweaponinherhand,hermovementsweredelicate.Sheworenomakeup,andherfeetweredustyandcallous.SeeingherIwasgratefulforonething:myGenetdreamwasgoneforeverandgoodriddance.Idbeensostupidtosustainaone-sided fantasy forso long.Thehoneymoon inUdaipur,ourown littlebungalowatMissing, raisingourbabies,settingofftothehospitalinthemorning,doctorsworkingsidebyside…Itwouldneverhappen.Ineverwantedtoseeheragain.AndIprobablyneverwould.ShewassurelyinKhartoum,stillbaskinginthegloryofherdaringoperation.TherewasnogoingbacktoAddisforhereither.Soonshewouldjointhesefighters,liveinthesebunkers,andfightalongsidethem.IhopedIwouldbelonggonebythen.Iresentedhavingtobeintheircampatall,evenmorehavingtoturntohercomradesforhelp.

ThatnightIwoketothesoundsofMiGsoverheadandbombsdroppingfaraway,butcloseenoughforustoheartherumble.Alsothefainterthudsofartillery.Nolightswereallowedanywherenearthemouthofthecave.

Lukesaidthatamassiveraidhadjustbeencompletedonaweaponsandfueldepot.IthadincludedTsahaiandthegroupoffighterswemetonthefirstnight.Theyhadpenetratedusingastolenarmytruck. Once inside, they set charges, but their comrades outside had been surprised by areinforcementconvoy thatattacked themfromtherear. Ithadnotgoneexactlyasplanned.NineguerrillasincludingTsahaiweredeadandmanymorewounded.TheEthiopians’lossesweremuchlarger and the fuel depot partially destroyed. Our casualties would arrive at the cave by earlymorning.

Iwoke to voices, the activity and urgency unmistakable. I heardmoans and sharp cries of pain.Luketookmetothesurgicalward.

“Hello,Marion,”avoicesaid.IturnedtoseeSolomon,whodbeenmyseniorinmedicalschool.Hedgoneundergroundas soonashe finishedhis internship. I rememberedhimasachubby,well-fedintern.Themanbeforemehadhollowcheeksandwasasleanasastick.

I followed Solomon, stooping down in a low-ceilinged tunnel where stretchers were arranged inpairs on the floor, triaged so that those most in need of surgery were closest to the operatingtheaterattheendofthetunnel.Theentrancetothetheaterwasaclothcurtain.

Thewoundswereghastly.Onebarelyconsciousmanwhispered last instructions into theearofafriend,whohoveredoverhim,writing furiously. Intravenous fluidandbloodbottlesdangled fromhooksembeddedinthecavewalls.Theattendantsworkedsquattingnexttothestretchers.

Solomonsaidhedgoneclosetothebattlefrontforthismission.“UsuallyIstayhere.Weresuscitateat thebattlefield. Intravenous fluid,controlbleeding,antibiotics,evensomefieldsurgery.WecanpreventshockjustliketheAmericansinVietnam.Onlywedon'thavetheirhelicopters.”Heslappedhisthighs.“Theseareourhelicopters.Wecarryourwoundedbystretcher.”Hescannedtheroom.“Thatmanoverthereneedsachesttube,”hesaid,indicatingwithhishead.“Pleasedoit.Tumsghiwillhelpyou.I'llgoaheadtothetheater.Thatcomradecannotwait.”Hepointedtoapalesoldierlyingnearthecurtainwithabloodypadoverhisabdomen.Hewasconscious,butbarely,breathing

rapidly.

Thefighterwhoneededthechesttubewhispered“Salaam”whenIsquattedbyhim.Thebullethadenteredhis triceps, thenhischest,andmiraculouslymissed thegreatvessels, theheart,and thespine.WhenItappedwithmybunchedfingersabovehisrightnipple itwasdull,quiteunliketheboxy, resonant note on the left. Blood had collected around the lung in the pleural space,compressingtheright lungagainsttheleft lungandtheheart intheconfinedcavityofthechest.Workingjustbehindhisrightarmpit,Iinjectedlidocaineandanesthetizedtheskin,thentheedgeoftheribanddeeperintothepleura,beforemakinganinch-longcutwithascalpel.Ipushedaclosedhemostat intomy incision till I felt it pop through the resistance of the pleura. I putmy glovedfinger into the hole, sweeping around to ensure space for the chest tube—a rubber hose withopeningsatsideandtip—whichIfedintothehole.Tumsghiconnectedtheotherendtoadrainagebottlewithwaterinit,sothatthetubeemergedunderthewaterlevel.Thiscrudeunderwatersealprevented air going back into the chest. Already dark blood was emerging, and the soldier'sbreathing improved.He said something inTigrinyaandpulledoff his oxygen.Tumsghi said, “Hewantsyoutogivehisoxygentosomeoneelse.”

I joinedSolomonintheoperatingtheater intimetoseehispatientcomeoffthetable.Theman'schestdidn'tmove.Therewasabouta five-secondsilence.Oneof thewomen, fightingback tears,kneltandcoveredhisface.

“Some things are beyond us,” Solomon said quietly. “He had a laceration to the liver. I triedmattresssutures.Buthealsohadateartotheinferiorvenacavawhereitgoesbehindtheliver.Itkeptoozing. I couldn't stop itunless I clamped the inferior venacava,whichwouldkill him.YourememberProfessorAsratusedtosaythatinjuriestothevenacavabehindtheliverarewhenthesurgeonseesGod?HeusedtosaythingslikethatthatIdidn'tunderstand.Iunderstandnow.”

Thenextpatienthadabellywound.Solomonsystematicallysortedoutwhattomelookedlikeanimpossibleanddirtymess.Hepulledoutthesmallbowel,identifiedseveralperforationswhichheoversewed.Thespleenwasrupturedandsothiswasremoved.Thesigmoidcolonhadaraggedtear.He cut out the segment, and then brought the two open ends to the skin in a double-barrelcolostomyWe irrigated theabdomenvigorously, leftdrains inplace,anddidaspongecount.Thefield looked so neat compared with its condition when we started. Solomon must have read mymind.Hehelduphishandstoshowmehisstubbyfingersandhishammerthumbs:“Iwantedtobeapsychiatrist.”Overtheeighthours,thatwastheonlytimeIsawhimsmilebehindthemask.

Weamputatedfivelimbs.Thelasttwoproceduresweperformedwereburrholesintheskullsoftwocomatose patients.Weused amodified carpenter's drill. In the firstwewere rewardedby bloodwellingoutfromjustunderthedurawhereithadcollected,pressingonthebrain.Theotherpatientwasagonal,hispupils fixedanddilated.Theburrholeproducednothing.Thebleedingwasdeepinsidethebrain.

Twodayslater,ItookleaveofSolomon.Thereweredarkringsunderhiseyesandhelookedreadytofallover.Therewasnoquestioninghispurposeordedication.Solomonsaid,“Goandgoodlucktoyou.Thisisn'tyourfight.I'dgoifIwereinyourshoes.Telltheworldaboutus.”

This isn't your fight. I thought about that as I trekked to the borderwith two escorts.What didSolomonmean?DidheseemeasbeingontheEthiopianside,onthesideoftheoccupiers?No,Ithinkhesawmeasanexpatriate,someonewithoutastakeinthiswar.DespitebeingborninthesamecompoundasGenet,despitespeakingAmhariclikeanative,andgoingtomedicalschoolwithhim, toSolomon Iwasa ferengi—a foreigner. Perhapshewas right, even though Iwas loath toadmitit.IfIwereapatrioticEthiopian,wouldInothavegoneundergroundandjoinedtheroyalists,orotherswhoweretryingtotoppleSergeantMen-gistu?IfIcaredaboutmycountry,shouldn'tIhavebeenwillingtodieforit?

WecrossedtheSudanborderbyearlyevening.ItookabustoPortSudan,andthenSudanAirwaystoKhartoum.InKhartoumIwasabletocallanumberAdidhadprovidedtoletHemaknowIwassafe.TwodaysinswelteringKhartoumfeltliketwoyears,butatlastIflewtoKenya.

INNAIROBI,Mr.EliHarris,whoseHoustonchurchhadbeenthepillarofMissing'ssupport foryears,hadarrangedroomformeatamissionclinic.MatronandHarrishadmadethesearrangementsbycable. I found thework in the small outpatient clinic difficult, as Iwas certain thatmany thingsweregettinglostintranslation.Inmyfreetime,IstudiedfortheexamsthatIhadtotaketobeginpostgraduatetraininginAmerica.

NairobiwaslushandgreenlikeAddisAbaba,thegrasspushingupbetweenpavementtilesasifthejungle seethedunderneath thecity ready to takeover.Nairobi's infrastructureandsophisticationdwarfed thatofAddis.Onecould thank theyearsofBritishrule for that,and, thoughKenyawas

independent,manyBrits livedon there.And Indians: in somepartsofNairobiyoucould imagineyouwereinBarodaorAhmedabadwithsariemporiumstentoastreet,chatshopseverywhere,thepungentscentofmasalaintheair,andGujaratitheonlylanguagespoken.

At first I spentmyevenings in thebars, drowningmy sorrowsand listening tobengamusic andsoukous. The jazzyCongolese andBrazilian rhythmswere uplifting, full of optimism, butwhen Iretiredtomyroom,afloatinbeer,mymelancholiawasalwaysworse.Otherthanthemusic,Kenyanculturemadenoimpactonme.Thefaultwasmine.Iresistedtheplace.ThomasStonehadcometoNairobiwhenhefledEthiopiawithhisdemonschasinghim.ItwasanotherreasonIwasdisinclinedtostay.

IcalledHemaonaschedule,dialingdifferentfriends’houseseveryTuesdaynight.Thingswerenobetter,shesaid.WereItocomeback,I'dstillbeindanger.

So I stayed in my room and studied every waking minute. I passed the American medicalequivalencyexamstwomonths later,and immediatelypresentedmyself totheAmericanEmbassyformyvisa.Again,Harrishadeasedmyway.

Iwasrighteous:ifmycountrywaswillingtotorturemeonsuspicion,ifitdidn'twantmyservicesasaphysician, thenIdisownedmycountry.But thetruth is thatbythis timeIknewthat Iwouldn'treturntoEthiopia,evenifthingsweresuddenlyrosyagain.

IwantedoutofAfrica.

IbegantothinkthatGenethaddonemeafavorafterall.

PARTFOURTheintellectofmanisforcedtochooseperfectionofthelife,orofthework,Andifittakethe

secondmustrefuseAheavenlymansion,raginginthedark.

WilliamYeats,“TheChoice”

CHAPTER38WelcomeWagon

CAPTAINGETACHEWSELASSIE—norelationtotheEmperor—pilotedtheEastAfricanAirways707thatflewmeoutofNairobi.Iheardhiscalmvoicetwiceduringtheabbreviatednight.Ihadanewrespectforhislineofwork,whichbroughthimclosertoGodthananycleric.Hewasthefirstofthreepilotswhocarriedmethroughninetimezones.

Rome.

London.

NewYork.

THERITUALOFIMMIGRATIONandbaggageclaimatKennedyAirportwentbysoquicklythatIwonderedifI'dmissed it.Wherewere thearmedsoldiers?Thedogs?The long lines?Thebodysearches?Wherewere the tableswhereyour luggagewas laidopenandaknife taken to the lining? Ipassed intomarbledhallways, upand thendownescalators and into a cavernous receivingareawhich, evenwithtwoplanesdisgorgingpassengers, lookedhalfempty.Therewasnoonetoherdus fromonespottothenext.

BeforeIknewit,Iwasoutofthesterile,hushedincubatorofCustoms.Theautomaticdoorsswishedshutbehindmeasiftosealoutthecontaminationofthecacophonouscrowdoutside,heldbackbyametalbarrier.

A Ghanaianwoman, whose flowered gown and headcloth hadmade her look so regal when sheboarded in Nairobi, walked out from Customs beside me. We were both exhausted, dazed,unpreparedfortheseaoffacesscrutinizingus.Westoodthere,manilaX-rayfolders(arequirementfor immigration which no one checked) clutched awkwardly, baggage straps crisscrossing ourchests,wide-eyedlikeanimalscomingofftheArk.

Whatstruckmefirstwasthatthelocalswereofallcolorsandshapes,nottheseaofwhitefacesIhadexpected.Their lewd, inquisitivegazes traveledoverus. In thecross fireofbewilderingnewscents,IpickeduptheGhanaianwoman'sfear.Shepressedclosetome.Meninblacksuitsheldupsignsonwhichtheyhadprintednames.Theirgazeswereflat,likeoverseerstakingthemeasureofthe Ghanaian woman's pelvis, noting the gap between her first and second toe which everyoneknows is the only reliable gauge of fecundity. I had a vision of the Middle Passage, of blacksshufflingdownthegangplank,shacklesclinkingwhileahundredpairsofeyesprobedtheirflanks,theirbiceps,andstudiedtheexposedfleshforyaws,whichwastheOldWorldsyphilis.Asforme,Iwasnobody,hereunuch.Shedroppedherbag,shewassorattled.

ItwaswhilebendingdowntohelpherthatIsawthesigninthehandofaswarthybrown-eyedman.Hehelditatwaistlevel,asifhedidn'twanttobeidentifiedwiththeliveriedsignholders.Hisbushshirthungoutoverbaggywhitepajamapants.Brownsandalsonsocklessfeetcompletedhisoutfit.ThelettersonhissigncouldhavespelledMARVINorMARMENorMARTIN.ThesecondwordwasSTONE.

“Isthatsupposedtosay‘Marion’?”Iasked.

He surveyedme from top tobottom, and thenhe lookedawayas if Iweren'tworth a reply. TheGhanaianwomangaveacryofrecognitionandrushedawaytofamily.

“Excuse me,” I said, stepping into the man's line of sight. “I'm Marion Stone. For Our Lady ofPerpetualSuccour?”

“Marionisgirl!”hesaid,hisaccentgutturalandraw.

“Notthisone,”Isaid.“I'mnamedafterMarionSims,famousgynecologist?”

Therewas(accordingtotheEncyclopaediaBritannica)astatueofMarionSimsinCentralPark,at103rdStreetandFifthAvenue.ForallIknew,itwasalandmarkfortaxis.ThoughSimsstartedoffinAlabama, his success with fistula surgery brought him to New York City, where he opened theWoman'sHospitalandthenacancerhospital,whichlaterwasnamedMemorialSloan-Kettering.

“Gynecologyshouldbewoman!”herasped,asifI'dbrokenafundamentalrule.

“Well,Simswasn'tandneitheramI.”

“Youarenotgynecologist?”

“No,ImeantI'mnotawoman.Andyes,I'mnotagynecologist.”

Hewasconfused.“Kisoomak,”hesaid,atlast.IknewenoughArabictounderstandthathe'djustinvokedagynecologicaltermthatmadereferencetomymother.

THEBLACK-SUITEDDRIVERSledtheirpassengerstosleekblackcars,butmymanledmetoabigyellowtaxi.In no timewewere driving out of KennedyAirport, heading to theBronx.Wemerged atwhat Ithoughtwasdangerousspeedontoafreewayandintotheslipstreamofracingvehicles.“Marion,jettravelhasdamagedyoureardrums,”Isaidtomyself,becausethesilencewasunreal.InAfrica,carsrannotonpetrolbutonthesquawkandblareoftheirhorns.Notsohere:thecarswerenearsilent,likeaschooloffish.AllIheardwasthewhishofrubberonconcreteorasphalt.

Superorganism. A biologist coined that word for our giant African ant colonies, claiming thatconsciousnessandintelligenceresidednotintheindividualantbutinthecollectiveantmind.Thetrailofredtaillightsstretchingtothehorizonasdaybrokearoundusmademethinkofthatterm.Orderandpurposemust residesomewhereother thanwithineachvehicle.Thatmorning Iheardthehum,therespiration,ofthesuper-organism.It'sasoundIbelievethatonlythenewimmigranthears,butnotforlong.BythetimeIlearnedtosay“Six-inchnumbersevenonryewithSwissholdthe lettuce,” the sound, too,wasgone. Itbecamepartofwhat themindwould label silence.Youwerenowsubsumedintothesuperorganism.

The silhouette of this most famous city—the twin exclamation marks at one end, King Kong'sclimbing toy in the middle—was familiar. Charles Bronson, Gene Hackman, Clint Eastwood, theEmpireTheater,andCinemaAdowahadseentothat.MyhubriswastothinkIunderstoodAmericafromsuchmovies.ButtherealhubrisIcouldseenowwasAmerica'sanditwashubrisofscale.Isaw it in the steel bridges stretching out over water; I saw it in the freeways looping over oneanotherliketangledtapeworms.Hubriswasmytaxi'sspeedometer,widerthanthesteeringwheel,as ifDali hadgrabbed the roundgaugeandpulled its ears.Hubriswas theneedlenowshowingseventymilesperhour,orwelloveronehundredandtenkilometersperhour,aspeedunimaginableinourfaithfulVolkswagen—evenifwe'dfoundasuitableroad.

Whathumanlanguagecapturesthedislocation,theacuteinsufficiencyofbeinginthepresenceofthe superorganism, the sinking, shrinking feeling at this display of industrial steel and light andmight? It was as if nothing Id ever done inmy life prior to this counted. As ifmy past lifewasrevealedtobeawaste,agesture inslowmotion,becausewhat Iconsideredscarceandpreciouswasinfactplentifulandcheap,andwhatIcountedasrapidprogressturnedouttobeglaciallyslow.

Theobserver,thatoldrecordkeeper,thechroniclerofevents,madehisappearanceinthattaxi.Thehandsofmyclockturnedelasticwhile I imprintedthese feelings inmemory.Youmustrememberthis.ItwasallIhad,allI'veeverhad,theonlycurrency,theonlyproofthatIwasalive.

Memory.

I WAS ALONE inmy hemisection ofMr.K. L.Hamid's cab,my luggage next tome, and a scratchedPlexiglas partition between us. Two strangers, isolated and distant, in a car so broad that thebackseatalonecouldhaveheldfivehumansandtwosheep.

Mymusclesweretensebecauseofourspeed,worryingaboutachilddryingcowpattiesonthehottarmacorthecoworgoatthatsurelywouldwanderintotheroad.ButIsawnoanimals,nohumansexceptincars.

Hamid'sbullet-shapedheadwascoveredwithtightblackswirls.Onthe laminated licensenext tothe meter, the camera had caught his shock and surprise. The whites of his eyes showed. Iconvincedmyself itwasapicturetakenonthedayhe landedinAmerica,thedayhesawandfeltwhatIsaw.

WhichwaswhyHamid'sdiscourtesysowoundedme.Hewouldn'tlookmyway.Perhapswhenonehas driven a taxi for a long time, the passenger becomes an object defined by destination andnothingelse,justas(ifoneisn'tcareful)patientscanbecomethe“diabeticfootinbedtwo”orthe“myocardialinfarctioninbedthree.”

DidHamidthinkthatifhelookedI'dwanthisreassurance?DidhethinkI'dseekhisexplanationofeverysightalongthewaysoastoassuagemyfears?Hewouldhavebeenright.

Inthatcase, Isaidtomyself,Hamid'ssilencemustbe instructive!Anadmonishmentofsorts, thegentle warning of one who arrived on an earlier ship: You there! Listen! Independence andresilience.Thisiswhatthenewimmigrantneeds.Don'tgetfooledbyallthisactivity.Don'tinvokethesuperorganism.No,no.OnefunctionsaloneinAmerica.Beginnow.Thatwashismessage.Thatwasthepointofhisrudeness:Findyourbackbone,orbeswallowedwhole.

Ismilednow,relaxing,lettingthesceneryrushby.Itwasexhilaratingtohavearrivedatthisinsight.Islappedtheseat.Ivoicedmythoughts.

“Yes,Hamid.Screwyourcouragetothestickingplace,”Isaidaloud,invokingGhosh,whonevergotto seewhat Iwas seeing,neverheard the superorganism.How joyfullyhewouldhaveembracedthisexperience.

Hamidjerkedbackatthesoundofmyvoice.Heglancedatmeinthemirror,thenaway,thenbackagain. Eye contact for the first time! Only now did he seem to acknowledge he was carryingsomethingotherthanasackofpotatoes.

“Thankyou,Hamid!”Isaid.

“What?Whatyousay?”

“Isaid,‘thankyou.’“

“No,beforethat!”

“Oh,that.It'sMacbeth,”Isaid,leaningforwardtothePlexiglas,overeagerforconversation.“LadyMacbeth,actually.Myfatherusedtosaythattousallthetime.‘Screwyourcouragetothestickingplace.’“

Hewassilent,hisgazeflittingfromroadtorearviewmirror.Finallyheburstout.

“Youinsultme?”

“Begyourpardon?No.No!Iwasmerelytalkingtomyself.Itisas—”

“Screwme?Screwyou!”hesaid.

Mymouthfellopen.Wasitpossibletobesocompletelymisunderstood?Hisfaceinthemirrorsaidindeeditwas.Isankmyneckbackandshookmyheadinresignation.Ihadtolaugh.TothinkthatGhosh—orLadyMacbeth—wouldbesomisinterpreted.

Hamidstillglaredatme.Iwinkedathim.

Isawhimreachintotheglovecompartment.Hepulledoutagun.Hebrandishedit,showingmeitsdifferentaspectsthroughthedirtyPlexiglas,asifheweretryingtohawkittome,orprovetomethatitwasinfactagun,notacheapplastictoy,whichiswhatitlookedlike.

“YouthinkIjoke?”hesaid,awickedenergytakingoverhisface,asiftheobjectinhishandmadehimnotajokerbutaphilosopher.

Ididn'tmeantoaddfueltothefire.Idon'tseemyselfasfoolhardyorbrave.ButIfoundthislittlerevolverpatheticandIsimplydidn'tbelieve,indeedIwascertain,hecouldn'tpossiblyuseit.Itwashilarious.Iknewguns.I'dmadeacraterinaman'sbellywithonetwicethatsize.Ihadburiedgunandownerinaswamp(fromwhichhestillthreatenedtoriseeverynight).Justfourmonthsago,Ihadoperatedonrebels felledbyguns.This popgunofhison thisday, in thecontextofAmerica,wherecarsstayedinlanes,whereCustomsneveropenedyourbags,seemedlikeaprop,acosmicjoke.CouldInothavehadaproperAmericandriver?Failingthat,at leastagunthatDirtyHarrywouldn'thavebeenembarrassedtohold?WhyescapeAddis,fleeAsmara,getoutofKhartoum,andabandonNairobi,onlytofacethis?

Being the firstborngivesyougreatpatience.Butyoureachapointwhereafter tryingand tryingyou say,Patience be damned. Let them suffer their distorted worldview. Your job is to preserveyourself, not to descend into their hole. It's a relief when you arrive at this place, the point ofabsurdity,becausethenyouarefree,youknowyouowethemnothing.I'dreachedthatpointwithHamid.Mybodywasshakingwith laughter.Fatigue, jet lag,anddisorientationcontributedtomyfindingthissofunny.

Hamid'suseof the verb “screw”wasquitedifferent fromscrewingone's courage to the stickingplace.His saying thatwordmademe think of that storywhich had circulatedwhen I hadmore

pimplesthancommonsense,morecuriositythansoundsexualknowledge. Itwasthemythof thebeautiful blonde and her brotherwhomonemightmeet at the airportwhen landing inAmerica.Theyofferedyouaride,tookyouhomeforadrink,atwhichpointthebrotherbrandishedaweaponandsaid,“Screwmysisteroryouwilldie!”LongafterIknewthestorytoberidiculous,itretaineditscharmasacomic fantasy.Screwmysisteroryouwilldie!Here Iwas,wellafter the talehadslippedmymind,newlylandedinAmerica,and,sureenough,amanbrandishedagun.IwishedIcould have shared themomentwithGaby, the schoolmatewho first reported the story tome. Aperverseimpulseinmemademenowrepeatthephraseweschoolboyslovedtosaytoeachother,achallenge,aveiledthreat,eventhoughIwaslaughinghard:“Brother,putawaythegun,I'llscrewyoursister for free.” Idon'tknowifhepickedupthechange inmytoneandmood,oreven ifheheardme.Perhapshejustdecidedthatmykindoflunacywasn'ttobetoyedwith.Inanycase,hehadachangeofheart.

THEWROUGHT-IRONGATESofOurLadyofPerpetualSuccourwerewideopen.Dr.Abramovitz,thechiefofsurgery,wassupposedtointerviewmeat10:00a.m.Myplanwastofinishmyinterview,takeanothertaxitoQueens,andthenlookforahotelinwhichtogetovermyjetlag.IhadinterviewslinedupinthenextfewdaysinQueens,JerseyCity,Newark,andConeyIsland.

AmanwithLOUISembroideredonhisblueoverallsapproachedjustasHamid'staxipulledoutofthegate.

“LouPomeranz,ChiefCaretakerofOurLadyofPerpetualSuccour,”hesaid,grippingmyhand.AsoftpackofSalemsshowedinhisbreastpocket.Hewasbarrel-chestedandtop-heavy.“Doyouplaycricket?”

“Yes.”

“Batsmanorbowler?”

“Wicketkeeperandopeningbatsman.”ThatwasGhosh'slegacytome.

“Good! Welcome to Our Lady. I hope you'll be happy,” Mr. Pomeranz said. He thrust a sheaf ofpapersatme.“Here'syourcontract. I'll showyouto the interns’quartersandyoucansign.Thissilverkeyisforthemaindoor.Thegoldkeyisforyourroom.Thisisyourtemporaryidentificationbadge.WhenPersonneltakeyourmugshot,you'llgetapermanentbadge.”

HetookoffwithmysuitcaseandIfollowed.“But…,”Isaid,jugglingthestuffinmyhandstoreachfortheletterinmycoatpocket.Ishowedittohim.“Idon'twanttomisleadyou.IamonlyhereformyinterviewwithDr.Abramovitz.”

“Popsy?”Hechuckled.“Naw!Popsydon'tinterviewnoone.Youseethesignature?”Hetappedonmyletterasifitwereapieceofwood.“That'sreallySisterMagda'swriting.”Helookedbackatmeandgrinned.“Interview?Forgetabout it.Taxiwasprepaid.Costyouanarmanda legotherwise.You'rehired.Igaveyouthecontract,didn'tI?Yerhired!”

Ididn'tknowwhattosay. ItwasMr.EliHarrisof theHoustonBaptistswhosuggestedIapplytospecifichospitalsinNewYorkandNewJerseyforaninternshipinsurgery.EliHarrisclearlyknewwhathewasdoing,becauseassoonasIapplied,atelegramhadarrivedinNairobifromPopsy(orperhapsitwasfromSisterMagda)invitingmetointerview.Aletterandbrochurefollowed.EveryhospitalHarrissuggestedhadalsorepliedpromptly,withinafewdays.

“Mr. Pomeranz. Are you sure I am hired? Your internship must be competitive. Surely manyAmericanmedicalstudentsapplytobeinternshere?”

Louis stopped in his tracks to look at me. He laughed. “Ha! That's a good one, Doc. Americanmedicalstudents?Iwouldn'tknowwhattheylooklike.”

We rounded a dry fountain, streaked with pigeon droppings. It resembled the magnificent onedepicted in thebrochure,but thebronzemonsignorwhowasthecenterpiece leanedprecariouslyforward.Themonsignor'sfeatureswereworndownlikethesphinx's.Alsonotinthebrochurewastheironrodwedgedbetweentherimofthefountainandthemonsignor'swaisttokeephimfromfallingover.Itlookedasifthemonsignorwasusinghisblessedlylongphallusforsupport.

“Mr.Pomeranz—”

“Iknow.Itdoeslooklikehispecker,”hesaid,wheezing.“We'regoingtogetaroundtoit.”

“Thatwasn'twhat—”

“CallmeLouis.”

“Louis…areyousureyouhavetherightperson?Marion?MarionStone?”

Hestopped.“Doc,takealookatthecontract,wouldja?”

Mynamewasonthetopline.

“Ifthat'swhoyouare,that'swhoIwasexpecting.”

Athoughtcloudedhisface.“YoupassedyourECFMG,didn'tya?”

TheexamoftheECFMG—EducationalCommissionforForeignMedicalGraduates—establishedthatIhadtheknowledgeandcredentialstopursuepostgraduatetraininginAmerica.

“Yes,Ipassed.”

“Sowhatgives?…Waitaminute.Waitjustaminute.Don'ttellmethosebastardsinConeyIslandorJerseygottoyou?Didtheymailyouacontract?Sonsofbitches!I'vebeentellingSisterMagdaweshouldbedoingthat.Sendoutacontractsightunseen.Thetaxiwasheridea,butit'snotenough.”Hecameupclosetome.“Doc,letmetellyouaboutthoseplaces.They'reterrible.”Louiswasshortofbreath,hisnostrilsflaring.Hisrheumyeyesnarrowed.“I'lltellyouwhat,”hesaid.“Giveyouthecornerroomintheinterns’quarters.Hasasmallbalcony.How'sthat?”

“No,no,yousee—”

“Was it the Lincoln-Misericordia folks? Harlem? Newark? You shopping around to get the bestdeal?”

“No,Iassureyou—”

“Look,Doc,let'snotplaygames.Youjusttellmeyesorno,doyouwantaninternshiphere?”Hishandswereonhiships,hischestheavingupanddown.

“No, Imean yes… Ido have interviews in other places…This ismy first stop.But frankly… Ithoughtitwouldbedifficulttogetaninternship…Idloveto…Yes!”

“Good!Thensignthebleedingcontract,fortheloveofMary,andI'mnotevenCatholic.”

Isigned,standingbythefountain.

“WelcometoOurLady,Doctor,”Louissaid,relieved,grabbingthecontractandshakingmyhand.Hegesturedexpansivelyatthebuildingsaroundus.“ThisistheonlyplaceI'veworked.MyfirstjobwhenIlefttheservice…andprobablymylast.I'veseendocslikeyoucomeandgo.Oh,yeah.FromBombay, Poona, Jaipur, Ahmedabad, Karachi, you name it. Never had one from Africa before. Ithoughtyou'dlookdifferent.Letmetellyou,weworkedthemallhard.Buttheygaveustheirbest.Theylearnedalothere.Ilove‘emall.Lovetheirfood.Theyevengotmetolovecricket.I'mnutsaboutit.Listen,baseballhasnothingoncricket.Myboysareouttherenow,”hesaid,pointingoverthewalls. “Raking in thedough inKentuckyorSouthDakota—wherever theyneeddocsbad.Dr.SinghsentmeaplanetickettoflytoElPasoforhisdaughter'swedding.Hecomestoseemeifhe'sinNewYork.WehaveanOldBoysEleven thatplaysuseveryyear.TheOldBoysbuiltusanewcricketpitchandbattingnets.They'reproudtobe‘PeeEsses’—PerpetualSuckersiswhatwecallouralums.They'lldriveuphere in fancycars. I tell them, ‘Don'tputonairs forme. I rememberwhenyoudidn'tknowyourass fromyourelbow.Irememberwhenwecouldhardlyunderstandawordyousaid.Nowlookatyou!’“

IwasimpressedbywhatIcouldseeofOurLadyofPerpetualSuccour.ThehospitalwasL-shaped,thelonglimbsevenstorieshigh,overlookingthestreet,awallseparatingitfromthesidewalk.Theshortlimbwasnewerandjustfourstorieshighwithahelicopterparkedontop.Thetiledroofoftheolder section sagged between the chimneys while the middle floors pushed out gently like lovehandles.Thedecorativegrilleundertheeaveshadoxidizedtoabilegreen,oldcorrosionrandownthe brick likemascara, parallel to the drainpipes. A lone gargoyle jutted out on one side of theentrance,itstwinontheothersidereducedtoafacelessnub.Butforme,freshfromAfrica,thesewerenotsignsofdecay,merelythedustingofhistory.

“It'sgrand,”IsaidtoMr.Pomeranz.

“It'snotmuch,butit'shome,”Mr.Pomeranzsaid,gazingatthebuildingwithobviousaffection.

Undoubtedly, therewereotherhospitals thatwerenewerandbigger,at leastasdepicted in theirbrochures.Butyoucouldn'ttrustabrochure,Iwasdiscovering.

Fiftyyardstothesideofthehospitalstoodthetwo-storyhousestaffquarterstowhichheledme.Ontheglassdoortoitslobby,someonehadtapedahandwrittensigninthickblackfelt-tippenonyellowlegalpaper.

IndiaVersusAustralia,2ndTestAtBrisbaneSpecialCableViewingInB.C.Gandhi'sRoom

(Pakistanis,SriLankans,Bangladeshis,andWestIndianswelcome,butifyoucheerforAustraliamanagementreservestherighttoejectyou.)

FridayNight,July11,1980,7p.m.

($10apersonandbringdrinkandnon-vegdish,repeat,non-vegdishonly.Ifitdidn'tmovebeforeitwascooked,wedon'twantit!!!

Singleladiesfreeandchairsprovided.Ifyoubringspouse,$10extraandbringyourownchair.)

B.C.GandhinesanM.D.,CaptainOurLady'sEleven,

CricketCommissioner,OurLadyofPerpetualSuccour

In the lobby I registeredcoriander,cumin—the familiar scentsofAlmaz'skitchen.On thestairs Iinhaled the very brand of incense that Hema lit each morning. I heard the faint drone on thesecond-floorlandingof“Suprabhatam”sungbyM.S.Subbulakshmiandthesoundofabellbeingrung,assomeoneinsomeotherroomdidtheirpuja.Ifeltatwingeofhomesickness.WepausedforMr.Pomeranztogethisbreath.“Wehadtoputindustrial-sizefansinthehoodsabovethecookingstovesonbothfloors.Hadto!Whentheystartcookingthatmasala,forgetaboutit!”

Atall,good-lookingIndianmanwithlonghairstillwetfromtheshowercameboundingdownthestairs.Hehadbigstrongteeth,awinningsmile,andanaftershavethatsmelledsimplywonderful.(IfoundoutlateritwasBrut.)

“B.C.Gandhinesan,”hesaidstickingouthishand.

“MarionStone.”

“Excellent!CallmeB.C.orGandhi,”hesaidsqueezingmyhand.“OrcallmeCaptain.Doyou—?”

“Wicketkeeper,”Pomeranzsaid,triumphantly.“Andopeningbatsman.”

B. C. Gandhi struck his forehead and staggered back. “God is great! Wonderful! Can you keepwicketsforapacebowler?Agenuinefastbowler?”

“That'sthekindIlikebest,”Isaid.

“Smashing! I'm a fourth-year resident. Chief Resident–to–be next year. Deepak is our ChiefResident. I'malsocaptainofOurLady'sFirstEleven.Winnersof the interhospital trophy for twoyears.Until thosechutyas fromaresidencyprogramIshallnotnamebrought inabatsman fromHyderabad last year. Test-level player. I lost bigmoney on that. It tookme all year to get out ofdebt.”

“Jerks,”Louissaid,hisfacedark,referringIthinktotheotherprogram.“Theyshouldhaveforfeitedthatlastgame.”

“Turnedouttheirstar'sabatsmanallright,butnotreallyadoctor,”B.C.said.“Thebuggerwasaphotocopyexpert.Butonpaper,bythestatutesofNewYork,hewasadoctorwhenweplayed,Lou.Sowedon'tgetourmoneyback.”

“Cocksuckers,”Lousaid.“Theykilledus.”

“This year we have our own secret weapon,” B.C. said to me, a consoling arm around Lou. “IpersonallyflewtoTrinidadwithoneofourOldBoystorecruithim.You'llmeethimsoon.Nestor.Tall, strong fellow.Six foot four.Fastbowler,new-ballbowler, seambowler,body-linebowler.Butnoneofuscankeepwicketsforhim—ferociouspace.Now,withyou,wewillkillthosechutyas,andthetrophywillbeours.Gogetsomerest,Marion.Weshallseeyouatbattingpracticeintwenty-fourhours.”

CHAPTER39TheCureforWhatAilsThee

PATIENTISUNDER.Whatarewewaitingfor?Whoisdoingthecase?”Dr.Ronaldoasked.

“Iam,”Isaid.

Ronaldospunadialontheanesthesiacart,asifthisnewsmandatedachangeinthegasmixture.

“Deepakissupervisingme,”Ioffered,butRonaldoignoredthis.

SisterRuth,thescrubnurse,unfoldinghertray,shookherhead.“I'mafraidnot.Popsyjustcalled.Hewantstooperate.Marion,you'dbettercomeovertothisside.”

“Popsy!Godhelpus,”Dr.Ronaldosaid,slappinghispalmtohischeek.“Taketheclockdown.Callmywife,tellherI'llbelatefordinner.”

IpickedupthescentofBrutandthenWinstontobacco,andsecondslaterB.C.Gandhiwasatmyshoulder.Hemusthavehadalastdraginthelockerroom.

“Iknow.Iheard,”hesaidbeforeIcouldsayanything.“I'mdoingthatgallbladderinthenextroom.Listen,Marion. In caseDeepakdoesn't getherebeforePopsy, your job is to contaminate theoldmanassoonashepicksupthescalpel.”

“What?How?”

“I don't know. Scratch your butt and touch his glove. You're a smart bugger. You'll think ofsomething.Justdon'tlethimgetpastskin,okay?”Gandhiwalkedoff.

“Isheserious?”Iasked.

Ronaldosaid,“Gandhiisneverserious.Butheisright.Contaminatehim.”

IturnedtoSisterRuth,hopingshecouldhelp.

“PrayfortheintercessionofOurLady,”shesaid.“Andcontaminatehim.”

ITWASTHETWELFTHWEEKofmysurgeryinternshipatOurLadyofPerpetualSuccour.

Little did I know that the thirty-minute drive from the airport to the Bronx would be the onlyglimpseofAmericaIwouldhaveforthreemonths.

Afterjustaweekinthehospital,IfeltIdleftAmericaforanothercountry.Myworldwasalandoffluorescentlightswheredayandnightwerethesame,andwheremorethanhalfthecitizensspokeSpanish.WhentheyspokeEnglishitwasn'twhatIexpectedinthelandofGeorgeWashingtonandAbrahamLincoln.ThebloodlinesfromtheMayflowerhadn'ttrickleddowntothiszipcode.

ThreemonthsatOurLadyofPerpetualSuccourhadgonebyatlightningspeed.Wewereseverelyshorthanded,comparedwiththenorminotherAmericanhospitals,butIdidn'tknowthenorm.AtMissing, therewere only four or five doctors at the best of times; herewe had three times thatnumberofphysiciansinsurgeryalone.ButatOurLadyofPerpetualSuccour,wesawmorepatients.WekeptsomanycomplicatedtraumapatientsaliveonventilatorsintheICU,generatedsomanylabtests and somuchpaperwork, that the experiencewas completely different fromMissing,whereGhoshorHemararelymademorethanacrypticentryinthechart,leavingtheresttothenurses.Ilearnedthosequiet, longAmericancars,thosefloatinglivingroomsonwheels,causedmonstrousinjurieswhentheycrashed.Theambulancecrewsbroughtthevictimstousbeforethetiresonthewreck stopped spinning.They salvagedpeoplewe'dnever see inMissing, becausenoonewouldhavetriedtobringthemtoahospital.Judgingsomeonetobebeyondhelpnevercrossedthemindsofpolice,firemen,ordoctorshere.

ATOURLADY,wepulledevery-other-nightcall.Ihadnotimetobehomesick.Mytypicaldaystartedintheearlymorning,whenImaderoundswithmyteamleader,B.C.Gandhi.Thenmyteamandtheother surgical teams came together to make formal rounds with Deepak Jesu-dass, the ChiefResident,at6:30a.m.Onoperatingdays,whichwereTuesdaysandFridays,weinternsmannedthewardsandtheemergencyroom.Weworkedtillearlyevening.ThenifIwasoncall,Isimplyworkedon through the night admitting patients from the emergency room while caring for my existing

patientsandthoseoftheinternswhowerenotoncall.Ourchancestoassistoreventooperateasinternscamewhenwewereoncall.Itwasraretogetanysleeponcallnights.Ididn'teventry.Thenextdaywekeptgoingtillthelateafternoon,whenIwasfinallyoff.FormyoffnightallIcoulddowasfallonthebedinmyquartersandsinkintoadeepsleep.Thenextmorning,thecyclestartedagain.Myseniorresident,B.C.Gandhi,askedmelateonenightwhenwewerebothpunch-drunkfrom lack of sleep, “Do you know the disadvantage of every-other-night call?” It was animponderable question. I shook my head. He smiled and said, “You miss half the interestingpatients.”

Theschedulewasbrutal,dehumanizing,exhausting.

Ilovedit.

Atmidnight,whenthecorridorsbecamedeserted,therewereplacesinthehospitalwherethelightsdimmedandwhereIcouldseetracesofOurLadyofPerpetualSuccour'spastglory; itshowedinthe gold filigreework above the archways, in the high ceilings of the oldmaternitywing, in themarbleflooroftheadministrativefoyer,andthestained-woodcupolaofthechapel.Oncetheprideof a rich Catholic community, and then a middle-class Jewish community Our Lady of PerpetualSuccourwent thewayof theneighborhood: itbecamepoor incatering to thepoor.B.C.Gandhiexplainedittome:“ThepoorestinAmericaarethesickest.Poorpeoplecan'taffordpreventivecareorinsurance.Thepoordon'tseedoctors.Theyshowupatourdoorstepwhenthingsareadvanced.”

“Whopaysforallthis,then?”Iasked.

“ThegovernmentpayswithMedicaidandMedicare,fromyourtaxes.”

“How come we can afford a helicopter and a helipad if we're so poor?” The bull's-eye atop thenewerfour-storypartofOurLady,withtheblueflashingperimeterlightsandtheshinyhelicopterthatcameandwent,seemedincongruousforoursetting.

“Salah,youdon'tknowaboutourclaimtofame?Ournumberoneindustry?SometimesIforgetyoujustgotofftheboat.Man,thathelipadwaspaidforbyhospitalsthataretheoppositeofours.Thehelicopterisreallytheirs,notours.Richhospitals.Takingcareofthewealthy,theinsured.Evenifsomeof themtakecareof thepoor, theyhaveabiguniversityorauniversityprivatepractice tounderwritetheircosts.Thatkindof‘takingcareofthepoor’isnoble.”

“Andourkindoftakingcare?”

“Shameful.Theworkofuntouchables.ThoserichhospitalsupanddowntheEastCoastgottogetherandpaidforourhelipadsotheycanflyhere.Why?Ischemiatime!Yousee,whatwehavehereinour neighborhood is an abundance of guns, ABMs, and ALMs—Angry Black Males, Angry LatinMales,andactuallyangrymalesofallstripes,nottomentionjealousfemales.Themanonthestreetismorelikelytocarryagunthanapen.Bang!Bang!Chitty!Chitty!AndsowewindupwithtoomanyGPOpatients—GoodforPartsOnly.Young,otherwisehealthy,butbrain-dead.Pristinehearts,livers, andwhatnot.Underwarranty to keep going long after your pecker droops.Great organs.Greatfortransplant.Transplantswhichwecan'tdo.Butwecankeepthemalivetillthevulturesgethere.Theygettheorganandrun.Nexttimeyouhearthewhup-whup-whup,don'tthinkhelicopterblades.Thinkpaysa,moola,dinero!Hearttransplantcosts,what,halfamilliondollars?Kidneysahundredthousandormore?”

“That'showmuchtheypayus?”

“Us?Theydon'tpayusafuckingcent!That'showmuchtheymake.Theycome,cut,andtake,showusthemiddlefinger,andrideoffintheirwhirlybirdleavingusonourcamels.Nexttimeyouhearthehelicopter,comeseewhatmastersofmedicine,thesahibs,looklike.”

Ihadseenthemmorethanonce,theirwhitecoatsemblazonedwithvividuniversitylogosonbreastandshoulder,andthesameiconsonicechests,ontheigloosonwheels,andevenonthehelicopter.IsawintheirfacesthesamevarietyoffatiguethatIexperienced,buttheirssomehowseemedmorenoble.

DR.RONALDOCROSSEDanduncrossedhisarms,lookingattheclock,thenthedoor,foranysignofPopsy.Idrapedthesteriletowelstooutlineaperfectrectangle,theportaltoHughWaltersJr.'sabdomen.

Mr. Walters, a graying gentleman, showed up in our emergency room the week before. Thatparticularnight,stretchersspilledoutoftheER'straumabaysintohallways.Alcoholhadleachedoutof the lungs,outof skinpores,outof the secretionsofenoughmenandwomen tomake theplacesmelllikeacocktaillounge.Thereweretwoinebriatedmenvomitingblood,competingtosee

whocouldbelouder.WhenMr.Waltersarrived,alsovomitingblood,Iunfairlyassumedhewasoneoftheirkin,relatedthroughalcoholandcirrhosis.Iassumedthathisbleedingcamefromwormlikevaricoseveinsbloominginhisstomachfromthescarringintheliver.Overthecourseofthenexttwenty-fourhours,Islippedagastroscopedowneachbleeder'sthroatandpeeredintothestomach.Unlike the other two, Mr. Walters had none of the angry redness of alcoholic gastritis, and nobleedingvaricoseveins tosuggestcirrhosis.Whathedidhavewasa largeoozinggastriculcer. Itookbiopsiesthroughthescope.

A few hours after the endoscopy Mr. Walters, in a quiet dignified voice, again assured me thatalcohol had never crossed his lips, and this time I believed him.Hewas aman of the cloth.Hetaught junior high school for a living. I chastisedmyself for lumping him in with the other twostomachbleeders.Westartedintensetherapytohealhisulcer.

Mr.Walters,Ifound,knewaboutmybirthland.“WhenKennedydied,IwatchedthatfuneralonTV.YourEmperorHaileSelassiecamealltheway.Hewastheshortestmanthere.Butalsothebiggestman there. The only Emperor. The only Emperor. Hewas in the first row of dignitaries walkingbehindthatcoffin.Hemademeproudtobebl-ack.”WhenMr.Walterssaidtheword,hegaveitaweightandaheft.

Mr.WaltersreadtheNewYorkTimeseveryday.ThatandaBiblewereaconstantathisbedside.“Icouldneveraffordcollege.JustBibleschool.Itellmystudents, ‘Ifyoureadthisnewspapereveryday for a year, you'll have the vocabulary of a Ph.D. and you will know more than any collegegraduate.Iguaranteeyou.’“

“Dotheylisten?”

Heheldupafinger.“Everyyearonedoes,”hesaid,grinning.“Butthatonemakes itworthwhile.EvenJesusonlydidtwelve.Itrytogetoneayear.”

DespiteantacidsandH2 blockers,Mr.Walters sulcerwas still bleeding.His stools remained theconsistencyandcoloroftar,asuresignofbloodbeingactedonbystomachacid.Fivedaysafterhisadmission,ourtroophadgatheredathisbedduringeveningsign-outrounds.

DeepakJesudass,ourChiefResident,satontheedgeofMr.Walterssbed.“Mr.Walters,wehavetooperatetomorrow.Yourulcerisstillbleeding.Itisn'tshowingsignsofstopping.”Hesketchedoutonapieceofpaperwhatapartialgastrectomywouldlooklike—removaloftheacid-producingareaofhisstomach.IadmiredDeepak'squietcarefulmanner,hiswayofbeingwithpatientsthatmadethem feel theywere the focusofallhisattentionand that therewasnowhereelsehehad tobe.MostofallIadmiredhiswonderful,veryBritishaccent,whichseemeddoublyexoticinthatitcamefromaSouthAsianman.ItwastheresultofhishavinglivedinBritainforyears.Deepakinspiredconfidenceinpatients.

AsDeepakspoke,B.C.Gandhilookedatmeandrolledhiseyes.Hewasremindingmeofsomethinghedtoldmejustthepreviousnight.“Youcanbeacretin,butifyouhavetheQueen'saccent,nextthingyouknowyouareonJohnnyCarsonandhe'lllaughatanythingyousay.”

B.C.wasbeingfacetious,butonthesitcomsIcaughtwhilegoinginandoutofpatients’rooms,Ihad so far seen a black but very British butler serving a black American family; an eccentricEnglishmanwhowastheneighbortoarichblackfamilyontheUpperEastSideofManhattan;andarichBritishwidowerwithaprettyBrooklynnanny.

Mr.WaltershadhungonDeepak'severyword.Atlasthe'dsaid,“Ihavefaithinyou.Butforyou-all,there wouldn't be any doctors here. I have faith in someone else, too,” he said, pointing to theceiling.

The day of surgery, I rose at four-thirty to review the steps of the operation in my Zollinger'sSurgicalAtlas.Deepakhadletmeknowthatitwasmycase,andIwouldstandontherightwhileheassistedme. Iwas thrilledandnervous. Itwouldbemy first time toworkdirectlywith theChiefResident.

ButPopsyhadruinedourplans.Istoodonthepatient'sleft,awaitingthelegendaryDr.Abramovitz.Ihadyettomeethim.TherewasnosignofDeepak.

ANDSUDDENLYPOPSYWASTHERE,hisheadperilouslyclosetotheoperativelights.Hehadadeeplyfurrowedface,kindblueeyes,thepupilsrimmedwithgraybutretainingacurious,little-boyquality.Hismaskhungjustunderhisnose,wire-brushhairspokingoutfromhisnostrils.Heheldouthisglovedhandfortheknife.SisterRuthhesitated,glancingatmebeforeputtingitinhispalm.

Popsy made a sound in his throat. The scalpel quivered in his fingers. Sister Ruth nudged me.BeforeIcoulddoanything,Popsymadehisincision.Itwasbold.Verybold.IdabbedandIclampedtinybleedingvessels,andwhenPopsydidn'tmovetotiethemoff,Idid.Popsyhandledtheforcepstopickuptheperitoneum.Hecouldn'tgetpurchaseonthetissue.

Forgoodreason.Inonespothisskinincisionhadcutthroughfasciaandperitoneum.Liquidmatter,lookingsuspiciouslylikebowelcontent,welledintothewound.Ronaldopeeredovertheanesthesiascreenandhiseyebrowsdisappearedunderhissurgicalcap.

Popsytriedagainwiththeforceps,buttheinstrumentslippedfromhisfingersandclatteredtothefloor.Hebroughthishandup,minustheforceps.“Itouchedthesideofthetable…”Hewaslookingatme,asifImightdisputehisaccount.“I'vecontaminatedmyself.”

“Ithinkyoudid,”SisterRuthsaidhastilywhenshesawthatIwastongue-tied.

“Youdid,sir,”Ronaldosaid.

ButPopsystilllookedatme.

“Yes,sir,”Istammered.

“Carryon,”hesaid.Heshuffledoutoftheroom.

“POPSY,WHATDID YOUDO?”Deepakmutteredunderhismaskashebroughtout the injured loopofsmallintestine.Istayedontheleftsideofthetable.“Theysaythereareoldsurgeons,andboldsurgeons,butnoold-boldsurgeons.ButwhoeversaidthatnevermetPopsy.Fortunatelyit'sasmall-boweltearandwecanjuststitchitover.”

“Itriedto—”Istammered.

“Wehaveabiggerproblem,”Deepaksaid.Hepointedtowhatlookedlikeasmallbarnacleonthesurfaceofthebowel.OnceIsawthatfirstone,Isawthemeverywhere,evenontheapronoffatthatcoveredthebowel.Theliverwasmisshapen,withthreeominousbumpswithinmakingitlooklikeahippo'shead.

“Poor man,” Deepak said. “Feel his stomach.” The stomach wall was rock hard. “Marion, youbiopsiedtheulcerwhenyou‘scopedhim,right?”

“Yes.Thereportsaidbenign,”Isaid.

“Butthiswasalargeulceronthegreatercurvature?”

“Yes.”

“Andwhichulcersinthestomacharemorelikelytobemalignant?”

“Thoseonthegreatercurvature.”

“Soyoursuspicionformalignancywashigh,right?Didyoulookattheslideswiththepathologist?”

“No,sir,”Isaid,droppingmyeyes.

“Isee.Youtrustedthepathologisttoreadthebiopsiesforyou?”

Isaidnothing.

Deepak'svoicewasn'traised.Hecouldhavebeentalkingabouttheweather.Dr.Ronaldocouldn'thearhim.

Deepakexploredthepelvis,sweptwithhisfingerstothoseplaceswecouldnotsee.Finallyhesaid,almost under his breath, “Marion, when it's your patient and you are basing your surgery on abiopsy, be sure to look at the slideswith thepathologist. Particularly if the result isn'twhat youexpect.Don'tgobythereport.”

I felt terrible for Mr. Walters. I could have spared him this operation, spared him Popsy Inretrospect,Mr.Walterssliverfunctiontestsweremarginallyoff,andthatshouldhavebeenaclue.

Deepakrepairedtheholeinthebowel.Fortunately,therewasjustone.Heoversewedthebleedingulcerinthestomach;itwouldintimebleedagain.Wewashedouttheabdominalcavitywithseverallitersofsaline,pouringitin,thensuctioningitout.

“Okay,cometothisside,Marion.Iwantyoutoclose.”

Iworkedsteadilyunderhiseagleeye.

“Stop,” Deepak said. He cut away the knot I had tied. “I know you have probably done a lot ofsurgery inAfrica.Butpracticedoesn'tmakeperfect ifyourepeatabadpractice.Letmeaskyousomething,Marion…Doyouwanttobeagoodsurgeon?”

Inodded.

“Theanswerisn'tanautomaticyes.AskSisterRuth.Inmytimehere,I'veaskedthatquestionofafewothers.” Icould feelmyears turningred.“Theysayyes,butsomeshouldhavesaidno.Theydidn't know themselves. You see, you can be a bad surgeon, and as a rule you will make moremoney.Marion,Imustaskyouagain,doyoureallywanttobeagoodsurgeon?”

Ilookedup.

“IguessIshouldaskwhatdoesitinvolve?”

“Good.Youshouldask.Tobeagoodsurgeon,youneedtocommittobeingagoodsurgeon.It'sassimpleas that.Youneedtobemeticulous in thesmall things,not just in theoperatingroom,butoutside.Agoodsurgeonwouldwanttoredothisknot.You'regoingtotiethousandsofknotsinyourlifetime. If you tieeachoneaswellashumanlypossible, you'll experience fewercomplications. Iwanttoseeeventensiononbothlimbs.ThelastthingyouwantisforMr.Walterstohaveaburstabdomenwhenhegetspost-opbloating.Thatknot,donewell,mayallowhimtogohomeandgetthingsinorder.Donepoorlyitcouldkeephiminhospitalwithonecomplicationafteranothertillhedies.Thebigthingsinsurgerydependonthelittlethings.”

ThatafternoonwesatinthecrampedofficeofDr.Ramuna,thepathologist.ShefoundcancerintheedgeofoneofthesixbiopsiesIhadtakendaysago.Asternlady,Dr.RamunahadawayofpursingherlipsthatremindedmeofHema.Shewasunfazedabouthavingmissedthecancerthefirsttime.Shepointedtotheteeteringstackofcardboardslidetraysbyhermicroscope—biopsieswaitingtoberead.“I'mdoingtheworkoffourpathologists,butI'monlyherehalf-time.OurLadycan'taffordmorethatthat.Buttheydon'tgivemehalfthework.Ican'tspendenoughtimewitheachspecimen.OfcourseImissedit!Noonecomesdownheretogooverslideswithme,otherthanyou,Deepak.Theycall. ‘Haveyou read this specimenyet?Haveyou read that specimen?’ If itmatters toyou,comedown,Isay.GivemegoodclinicalinformationandIcandoabetterjobofinterpretingwhatIsee.”

IKEPTVIGILoverMr.Walters.Wehadpassedatubethroughhisnoseintohisstomachandconnectedittowallsuction,tokeephisgutemptyforthenextfewdays.Hewasmiserablewiththetubeandhardlyspoke.

Onthethirdpost-opdayItookoutthenasogastrictube.Hesatup,smiledforthefirsttime,takingadeepbreaththroughhisnose.

“ThattubeistheDevil'sowninstrument.IfyougavemeallofHaileSelassie'sriches,I'dstillsaynotothattube.”

Itookmyowndeepbreath.Isatontheedgeofhisbed.Iheldhishand.“Mr.Walters,I'mafraidIhave some bad news. We found something unexpected in your belly.” This was the first time inAmericathatIhadtogivesomeonenewsofafatalillness,butitfeltlikethefirsttimeever.ItwasasifinEthiopia,andeveninNairobi,peopleassumedthatallillness—evenatrivialorimaginedone—was fatal; theyexpecteddeath.Thenews toconvey inAfricawas thatyou'dkeptdeathatbay.Thosethingsthatyoucouldn'tdo,andthosediseasesyoucouldn'treverse,wereleftunspoken.Itwasunderstood.Idon'trecallanequivalentwordfor“prognosis”inAmharic,andI'dnevertriedtospeaktoapatientaboutfive-yearsurvivaloranythinglikethat. InAmerica,myinitial impressionwas that death or the possibility of it always seemed to come as a surprise, as ifwe took it forgrantedthatwewereimmortal,andthatdeathwasjustanoption.

Mr.Walters s expressionwent from joy over the tubebeingout, to shock, and finally sadness.Asingleteartrickleddownhischeek.Mygazeturnedfoggy.Mybeeperwentoff,butIignoredit.

I don't think you canbe aphysician andnot see yourself reflected in yourpatient's illness.HowwouldIdealwiththekindofnewsI'dgivenMr.Walters?

Afterafewminutes,hewipedhisfacewithhissleeve.Asmilecrackedhisfeatures.Hepattedmyhand.

“Deathisthecureofalldisease,isn'tit?Nooneispreparedfornewslikethis,nomatterwhat.I'msixty-five years old. An oldman. I have had a good life. I want tomeetmy Lord and Savior.” Amischievouslightflashedinhiseye.“Butnotjustyet,”hesaid,holdingupafingerandlaughing,aslowmetronomicsound,heh-heh-heh…

Ifoundmyselfsmilingwithhim.

“Wealwayswantmore,heh-heh-heh“hesaid.“Ain'tthatthetruth,Dr.Stone?Lord,I'ma-coming.Notjustyet.I'llberightthere,now.Yougoon,Lord.I'llcatchupwithyou.”

IadmiredMr.Walters.Iwantedtolearntobethisway,topossesshissteadyrhythm,tohavethatinnerbeatplayingquietlyinsideme.

“Yousee,youngDr.Marion, that'swhatmakesushuman.Wealwayswantmore.”Heclaspedmyhandnow,asifhewasministeringtome,asifIhadcometositonhisbedforreassurance,courage,andfaith.“Nowyougoon.Iknowyou'rebusy.Everything's just fine.Just fine.I justgottothinkthisoneout.”

Ilefthimsmilingatme,asifIhadgivenhimthegreatestgiftonemancouldevergiveanother.

CHAPTER40SaltandPepper

AFTERLEAVINGMR.WALTERS'SROOM,Isatontheparkbenchbythehousestaffquarters.HowunfairtoMr.Waltersthathisdarkestdayshouldbesoimpossiblybeautiful.ThetreesofOurLadyturnedcolorsIhad never seen in Africa. And then they blessed the ground belowwith a fiery red, orange, andyellowcarpet,whichcrunchedunderfootandreleasedadrybutsweetfragrance.

The laughterand shrieks coming from insideourbuilding, from thepatio, felt sacrilegious.B.C.Gandhihadchristenedourquarters“OurMistressofPerpetualFornication.”ThereweredayswhenIfeltIlivedinSodom.

Whenitturnedchilly,Iwentinside.Icaughtaglimpseoftheroaringwoodfireinthecast-ironpoton the patio, and the scent of tobacco and somethingmore pungent. Nestor, our Carribean fastbowlerandmyfellowintern,hadaherbgardenatthebackofourbuilding.Thesummerwearrivedhegrewabumpercropofcurryleaves,tomatoes,sage—andcannabis.

Beyond the herb garden the meadow sloped down to a brick fence topped with razor wire. ItseparatedusfromahousingprojectnamedFriendshipbythecityauthoritiestwentyyearsago.ItwasnowcalledBattleshipbyoneandall.AtnightweheardthepopofhandgunsfromBattleshipandsawcometstreaks,messagesfromearthtosky.

OnMondayswegatheredatthenurses’quartersforacommunaldinnerattheirinvitation.Butonthisdayitwastheirturntovisitus.Ijoinedthecrowd.

“Howdiditgo?”B.C.said,comingover,puttinghisarmaroundmyshoulders.ItoldhimaboutmyconversationwithMr.Walters.

B.C.listenedquietly,andthensaid,“Whatagoodmanheis!Whatcourage.Youknow,we'vebeenluckywithMr.Walters,particularlysincehe'sazero-to-onedirtballer.What'sadirtball?Thehard,stinkyconcretionthatformsinthebellybutton.Apatientwithfourdirtballsisoftenanalcoholic.He'shadoneortwoheartattacks.Beatshiswife.He'sbeenshotacoupleoftimes.Hehasdiabetes.Kidneyfunctionisborderline.YoutryaBFOforaTripleA,guesswhathappens?”

“BFO” was Big Fucking Operation, and “Triple A” was Abdominal Aortic Aneurysm. B.C. lovedacronyms and claimed to have invented a goodmany of them. A patient near death was CTD—CirclingTheDrain.

“Afourdirtballer?…Iguesshedoesterriblywithabigoperation?”Ioffered.

“No! Just theopposite.Yousee,he'salreadydemonstratedhiscapacity tosurvive.Heartattacks,strokes,stabbings,fallsoffbuildings—hisprotoplasmisresilient.Lotsofcollateralvessels,backupmechanisms.Hewaltzesoutoftherecoveryroom,fartsthefirstnight,peesonthefloortryingtogettothebathroom,anddoesgreatdespitethebourbonthefamilysneaksintoaddflavortotheicechips,whichareallhe'ssupposedtoeat.

“Thezero-to-onedirtballersaretheonestowatchoutfor.Theyareyourpreachersordoctors.MenlikeWalters. They live good clean lives, staymarried to the samewoman, raise their kids, go tochurchonSundays,watchtheirbloodpressure,don'teat icecream.YoutryaBFOforaTripleAandyouwillbeCDSCWP.”

CanoeingDownShitCreekWithoutaPaddle.

“Assoonas theanesthesiologistbrings themasknear their face,yourzerodirtballerhasaheartattackonthegoddamntable.Ifyoumanagetooperate,thekidneysconkoutorthewoundbreaksdown.Or theyget confused, andbefore you can call theFreudSquad they've jumpedout of thewindow.Soyousee,yourMr.Walterswaslucky.”

Deepaktookadragonacigar-sizejointthatNestorpassedtohim.Hehandedittome.“Here,”hesaid,holdingthesmokein,andspeakinginaclippedvoice.“Thepointis…cleanlivingwillkillyou,myfriend.”

Thecannabisdidnothingformyfatigue.SoonIfeltmyfaceandbodyturntowax.Istaredintothesky above Battleship. The sounds— good-natured yelling, screams, the throb of a boom box, theclangofabasketballrattlingthemetalrim,thesquealoftires—wereasymphony.Theymatchedthe

chiaroscurodesignsonthebrickwall.IfeltIcouldseeintoBattleshipandthatIwaswatchingthelivesofthehundredsofAmericanslivingthere,familieswhogottheirmedicalcarefromus.Ifeltlikeavisionary.

“Doesn'titseemstrange,”Isaid,afteralongwhile,strugglingtoframemyquestionsoitwouldn'tsoundsilly,“doesn'titseemstrangethat…hereweallare,foreigndoctors—”

“YoumeanIndiandoctors,”Gandhisaid.“You'rehalfIndian,butluckilyforyouit'stheprettyhalf.EvenNestorherehasanIndianfather,hejustdoesn'tknowit.”

NestorthrewabottlecapatGandhi.

“Yes,well,doesn'titseemstrange,”Iwenton,“thathereweare,ahospitalfullofIndiandoctorsandontheothersideofthatwallarethepatientswearetakingcareof.Americanpatients,butnotrepresentativeof—”

“Youmeanblackpatients,mon,”Nestorsaidinhisliltingaccent.“AndyoumeanPuertoRicans.”

“Yes…butwhat I amgettingat iswhereare theotherAmericanpatients?Whereare theotherAmericandoctorsforthatmatter?”

“Youmeanwherearethewhitepatients?Wherearethewhitedoctors,mon?”

“Yes!”Isaid.“Precisely!”

“Look here, Marion,” Gandhi said. “You mean to say you hadn't noticed this fact till just thismoment?”

“No…Imean,yes,Ihave.Don'tbesilly.Butmyquestionis,areallhospitalsinAmericalikethis?”

“Mygoodness,Marion,youdounderstandwhyyouarehereandnotattheMassGeneral?”

“Because…Ididn'tapplythere.”

I was unprepared for the laughter that greetedme. Just when I thought I was on to somethingprofound.

Nestorgotupandjoggedinplace.Hechanted,“Heenotnotapplythere!Heenotnotapplythere!”Thecannabisseemed to facilitate theirhystericalgiggles,but itwasdoingnothing forme. Iwasgettingangry.Irosetoleave.

Gandhigrabbedmyarm.“Marion,sitdown.Wait.Ofcourseyoudidn'tapply,”hesaidsoothingly.“Youdidn'twanttowasteyourtimeontheMassachusettsGeneralHospital.”

Istilldidn'tgetit.

“Seehere,” he said, taking a saltshaker andpepper shaker andputting them side by side. “Thispeppershakerisourkindofhospital.Callita—”

“Callitashithole,mon,”saidNestor.

“No,no.Let'scallitanEllisIslandhospital.Suchhospitalsarealwaysinplaceswherethepoorlive.Theneighborhood isdangerous.Typicallysuchhospitalsarenotpartofamedical school.Got it?Nowtakethissaltshaker.ThatisaMayflowerhospital,aflagshiphospital,theteachinghospitalforabigmedicalschool.AllthemedicalstudentsandinternsareinsuperwhitecoatswithbadgesthatsaySUPERMAYFLOWERDOCTOR.Even if theytakecareof thepoor, it'shonorable, likebeing in thePeaceCorps,youknow?EveryAmericanmedicalstudentdreamsofaninternshipinaMayflowerhospital.Theirworstnightmare is coming toanEllis Islandhospital.Here's theproblem—who isgoing toworkinhospitalslikeourswhenthereisabadneighborhood,nomedicalschool,noprestige?Nomatterhowmuch thehospital or even thegovernment iswilling topay, theywon't find full-timedoctorstoworkhere.

“SoMedicaredecidedtopayhospitalslikeoursforinternshipandresidencytrainingprograms,getit?It'sawin-win,astheysay—thehospitalgetspatientscaredforbyinternsandresidentsaroundtheclock,peoplelikeuswholiveonsite,andwhosestipendisabloodyfractionofwhatthehospitalwouldpayfull-timephysicians.AndMedicaredelivershealthcaretothepoor.

“ButwhenMedicarecameupwiththisscheme,itcreatedanewproblem.Wheredoyougetyourinternstofillallthesenewpositions?Therearemanymoreinternshippositionsavailablethanthere

aregraduatingAmericanmedicalstudents.Americanstudentshavetheirpick,andletmetellyou,theydon'twant to comeandbe internshere.Notwhen they cango to aMayflowerhospital.Soevery year, Our Lady and all the Ellis Island hospitals look for foreign interns. You are one ofhundredswhocameaspartofthisannualmigrationthatkeepshospitalslikeoursgoing.”

B.C.satbackinhischair.“WhateverAmericaneeds,theworldwillsupply.Cocaine?Colombiastepstotheplate.Shortageoffarmworkers,corndetasselers?ThankGodforMexico.Baseballplayers?VivaDominica.Needmoreinterns?India,Philippineszindabad!”

Ifeltstupidfornothavingseenthisbefore.“SothehospitalswhereIwasgoingtointerview,”Isaid.“InConeyIsland,Queens—”

“All Ellis Island hospitals. Just like us.Allthe house staff are foreigners and so are many of theattending physicians. Some are all Indian. Some have more of a Persian flavor. Others are allPakistaniorallFilipino.That'sthepowerofwordofmouth.Youbringyourcousinwhobringshisclassmateandsoon.Andwhenwefinishtraininghere,wheredowego,Marion?”

Ishookmyhead.Ididn'tknow.

“Anywhere. That's the answer. We go to the small towns that need us. Like Toejam, Texas, orArmpit,Alaska.ThekindsofplacesAmericandoctorswon'tgoandpractice.”

“Whynot?”

“Because,salah, in those villages there's no symphony!No culture!Nopro-ball team!How is anAmericandoctorsupposedtolivethere?”

“Isthatwhereyouwillgo,B.C.?Toasmalltown?”Isaid.

“Areyoukidding?Youexpectmetolivewithoutasymphony?WithouttheMetsortheYankees?No,sir.GandhiisstayinginNewYork.IamBombaybornandBombaybred,andwhatisNewYorkbutMumbaiLite?I'llhavemyofficeonParkAvenue.Yousee, there isacrisis inhealthcareonParkAvenue.Thecitizensaresufferingbecause theirbreastsare toosmallor theirnose is toobig,ortheyhavearollaroundthebelly.Whowillbethereforthem?”

“Youwill?”

“Fuckingright,boysandgirls.Holdon,ladies,holdon!Gandhiiscoming.B.C.willmakeitsmaller,bigger,softer,cuter,whateveryouwant,butalwaysbetter.”

Heheldhisbeeraloft.“Atoast!Ladiesandgentlemen.MaynoAmericanventureoutofthisworldwithoutaforeignphysicianathisorherside,justasIamsuretherearenonewhoventurein.”

CHAPTER41OneKnotataTime

ONEAFTERNOON,inmyninthmonthatOurLadyofPerpetualSuccour,aswewereonourwaytotheoperatingroom,abailiffservedDeepakJesudasswithpapers.MyChiefResidenttookthemwithoutcomment,andwewentonwithourwork.Wellaftermidnight,aswesatinthelockerroomoutsidethe theater and smoked, he smiled atme and said, “Anyone elsewould have askedmewhat thepaperswereabout.”

“You'lltellmeifitconcernsme,”Isaid.

Deepakwasperhapsthirty-sevenwhenImethim.Hehadayouthfulfaceandboyishshouldersthatbeliedthebagsunderhiseyesandthegraystreaksinhishair.Hadyouseenusallinthecafeteria,youwouldhaveguessedB.C.Gandhiwas theChiefResident, becauseB.C. looked thepart.Butwhen I reflect back on my surgical training, I'm indebted to a small, dark man, a self-effacingsurgeon whom the world might never celebrate. In the operating room, Deepak was patient,forceful,brilliant,creative,painstaking,anddecisive—atrueartisan.

“Don'tstutterwiththatneedleholder.”“Self-disciplinewiththosehands,Marion.Doeachstepjustonce, nowastedmotion.”When I learned to crossmy hands theway he suggested to get equaltensiononbothlimbsoftheknot,anewproblemarose:“Keepyourelbowsin,unlessyou'retryingto fly.” I redidmore knots than I tiedwhen Iwaswith him. I took down entire suture lines andstartedagaintillhewassatisfied.Igavenewthoughttolightandexposure.“Workinginthedarkisformoles.Wearesurgeons.”Hisadvicewassometimescounter intuitive:“Whenyouaredriving,youlooktoseewhereyouaregoing,butwhenyouaremakinganincision,youlooktoseewhereyouhavebeen.”

DeepakwasfromMysoreinsouthernIndia.Thatnightinthelockerroom,hetoldmewhatIdon'tthinkhehad told anyone else atOurLady.Whenhegraduated frommedical school, his parentshastilyarrangedamarriagetoaBritish-bornIndiangirllivinginBirmingham;shedbeenareluctantbride,bulliedintomarriagebyherparentswhodidn'tlikethecrowdshewashangingaroundwith.Sheflewdownwithher familya fewdaysbeforetheweddingand left thedayafter,becauseshewasattending college. It took sixmonths forDeepak togethis visa and joinher at herparents’home.Hefoundthatifheopenedhismouthheembarrassedher.Shedidn'twanthimnearherinpublicorprivate.Heleftthehouseafterafewweeksandfoundahouse-officerposition(equivalentto the internship in America) in Scotland. After a year he advanced to registrar, then to seniorregistrar.HepassedthedifficultexamstobecomeaFellowoftheRoyalCollegeofSurgeons,themagiclettersFRCSbehindhisname.

“IcouldhavegonebacktoMysore.WithmyFRCSuponaboard,Iwouldhavedoneverywell.ButIpicturedallthepeoplewho'dcometomywedding.Ididn'twanttofacethem…Ijustcouldn't.”

The next step for him in England would have been to be a surgical consultant appointed to ahospital.“Therearen'tmanyconsultantjobs.Someonehastodieforanopeningtocomeup.”Aftersixyearsofworkingasaseniorregistrar,aconsultant'sunderstudy,doingalltheemergencycases,DeepakdecidedtocometoAmerica.

“It meant starting all over again, because here you don't get credit for postgraduate traininganywhereelse.Atmyage,andafteralltheyearsoftraining,IwonderedifIhaditinme.”

The American system of surgical trainingwas different: after a year of internship and then fouryearsasasurgicalresidentwitheverincreasingresponsibilities(thelastyearasChiefResident),onewasallowedtositfortheexamtobecomeaboard-certifiedsurgeon,aconsultant.

“IdidmyinternshipinaprestigiousplaceinPhiladelphia.Iworkedhardforthem…”Heclosedhiseyesandshookhisheadatthememory.“Whenmyfatherdied,Ididn'teventellthem.Ididn'teventrytotakeonedayoffforthat.Iwaspromotedtosecondyear,eventhoughIwasperformingatamuchhigher level, and theyactuallyusedmealmost likeaChiefResident.But theybumpedmeafter the thirdyear.Oneofmyattendingphysicianswhowent tobat formewoundup resigningoverthis.Hewassoincensed.

“I couldhavegone intourologyorplastic.That'swhatpeopleoftendo if they'rebumpedat thatstage.Manyforeigngraduatesgiveupandwindupinpsychiatryorsomething.ButIlovegeneralsurgeryThesameguywhowenttobatformegotmeintoanotherhospital,thistimeinChicago,withthepromisethatI'dbepromotedifIrepeatedmythirdyear.Iworkedevenharder—andgot

bumpedagain.”He laughedatmyexpressionof incredulity.“Ithelps tobeme, Isuppose.Tonotexpecttoomuch.Tolovesurgeryforitsownsake.ButIwaslucky.OneoftheattendingphysiciansinChicagowentoutonalimbforme.HecalledPopsy,andhearrangedformetocomehereasafourth-yearresident.That's the funny thingaboutAmerica—theblessed thing.Asmanypeopleastherearetoholdyouback,thereareangelswhosehumanitymakesupforalltheothers.I'vehadmyshareofangels.Popsywasoneofthose.”

PopsymadeDeepakChiefResidentovernight,butwith theproviso thathebeChiefResident fortwoyears.DeepakwasinhislastyearoftrainingwhenIarrived.

“SoyouwillbedonethesamedayIfinishmyinternship?”

Hissilencemademeanxious.

Slowlyheshookhishead.

“We got notice today of a site visit soon from the people who accredit our residency trainingprogram.Iftheydon'tlikewhattheysee,theycanshutusdown.We'vegottoofewinterns.Andtoofew resident physicians at every level for the patient volumewehandle.Not tomention too fewfaculty.”

“Howdidthishappen?”

“Ourcompetitionissweeteningthepot.WewereluckytogetyouandNestorandRahul.Weneedmore interns,more full-time faculty.Popsy just isn'tas influentialasheoncewas toattractgoodfaculty. At this point, it's only Popsy s credentials and academic history that give our programaccreditation.Onpaper,Popsy isgolden. IfPopsystepsdown,orwordgetsout thathehasearlydementia,thehouseofcardsfalls.”

Imusthavelookedconcernedbecausehesaid,“Don'tworry.You'llbeabletofindanotherslotandgetcreditforthisyear.”

“Isthatwhatitisabout—thebailiffservingyoupapers?”

“Oh,that'smyso-calledwife.NowshethinksImustbemakingalotofmoneysosheisfilinginNewYorkforspousalsupport.IhavealawyerwhotellsmethatIhavenothingtoworryabout.Iowehernothing.”

“Whataboutyou,Deepak?Whatwillyoudoifthisplacecloses?”

“Idon'tknow,Marion.Ican'tgothroughthisagain.Can'tkeepassistingsomeonewhoismy‘senior’but isbutchering thecaseanddoesn'thave the sense toaskme tohelp.Maybe I'll justkeeponworkinghere.SisterMagdasaysthehospitalwillemployme.I'lllivehere,justlikePopsyliveshere.I'll operate. The hospital doesn't care if I amboard certified or not, particularly if the residencyprogramcloses.OurLadyneedsa surgeon. I'll beanotherPopsy.Believe it ornot,Popsy, till hisbreakdown,wasasupersurgeon,”Deepaksaid.“What'smoreimportant,hewasafineman.Trulycolor-blind.”

AfterMr.Walters'ssurgery,DeepakhadspreadthewordthatPopsywasnottooperateanymoreatanycost.

“Isthereanythingwecandotokeepthemfromshuttingusdown?”IaskedDeepak.

“Pray,”hesaid.

CHAPTER42Bloodlines

IPRAYED,BUT ITDIDN'THELP.WithtwomonthstogotofinishmyinternshipandforDeepaktofinishhisChiefResidency,ourprogramwasplacedonprobation.Iworriedaboutmyfate.Itwasbadenoughthatwemightbecloseddown,butitwouldbeworsenottogetcreditfortheyearI'dputin.Ifeltterrible forDeepak,whohadcomesoclose to finishinghisChiefResidentyear.Untilourappealwasheard,though,andthefinalordercametoshutusdown,therewaslittletodobutplodon.

On a Friday evening, I was summoned to the trauma room, and I reached there just as theambulanceroaredin.Thecrewslidoutastretcher,snappeditswheelsdown,thenracedinwithitasifitwereabatteringram.Theglassdoorspartedjustintime.Ithoughtofthesethingsasminormiracles, everyday efficiencies that were such a contrast to what I'd known in Africa. I joggedalongside.AfteralmostayearatOurLady,I'ddonethismanytimes,buttheadrenalinestillsurged.

“JohnDoe,MVA,barelybreathingatthescene,”oneofthemenpushingthestretchersaid.“Ranaredlight,gotbroadsidedbyavanondriver'sside.Noseatbelt—wentairbornethroughwindshield…Then, if you canbelieve this, his owncar, spinningaround, slammed intohisbody.Flyball tocenterfield…Kidyounot.Eyewitnesses.Helandedonthepavement.Noobviousneckinjuries.Leftankleshattered…bruisesonchestandbelly.”Isawahandsomeblackmale,clean-cutandnoolderthantwenty.

Theambulancecrewhadtwobagsof intravenoussalinegoingwideopen.Theyhaddrawnblood,and now they handed over the red-, blue-, and lavender-topped tubes to the lab technician,whowouldbegintypingandcrossmatchingforbloodbeforewe'devencutoffthepatient'sclothes.

“There'smoretothis,”theambulancedriversaid.“Reasonherantheredlightisbecausehewasinagunfightwithgangbangers.Oneof themgotshot inthehead.Anambulance ison itswaywiththatguy.Don'tworry…itain'tnoemergency.Theyhadtoscooppartsofhisbrainoffthesidewalk—kindergartenthroughfifthgradefromthelooksofit.Thisguy,”hesaid,pointingtoourpatient,“didtheshooting.”

Ourpatient'sskullwasintact,buthewasunconscious.Thepartbuzzedintohisshorthairwasasstraightasifithadbeenappliedwitharuler.Itwasoneofthestrangethingsonenoticedatsuchtimes.HispupilsconstrictedbrisklytothelightIshoneatthem,acrudebutreassuringsignthathisbrainwasallright.Hispulsewasthreadyandracingundermyfingers.Themonitorreadonehundredsixtybeatsaminute.

Anurse calledout thepressure. “Eighty overnothing.”A few seconds later she said, “Fifty overzero.”

Fluidswerepouringin,bloodwasonitsway.Therewasabruiseoverthelowerrightribs.Hisbellywastenseanditseemedtobeswellingundermyeyes.

“Nopressure,”thenurseannouncedjustastheX-raytechnicianarrivedwiththeportablemachine.

“Notimeforthis.He'sexsanguinating,”Isaid.“Let'stakehimtotheoperatingroom.It'shisonlychance.”

Nobodymoved.

“Now!”Isaid,givingthestretcherapush.“Callmybackup,letthemknow.”

In the operating room, I scrubbed for just thirty seconds, while Dr. Ronaldo, the anesthetist,adjustedthetrachealtube.Ronaldolookedatmeandshookhishead.

Ipulledonmygloveswhilelookingatwhatthescrubnursehadlaidout.

“Forgetsponges.Let'sgetlappacks.Openthemout.Wewon'thavetimetounfoldthem.Thereisgoingtobesomuchblood.We'llneedbigbasinstoholdtheclots.”

Thepatient'sbellywasmoretensethanithadbeendownstairs.

Ronaldo, peering crocodilelike above hismask, shruggedwhen I looked at him for the signal tostart.

“Getready,”IsaidtoRonaldo,“‘causewhenIopen,thepressureisgoingtobottomout.”

“Whatpressure?”Ronaldosaid.“Nopressure.”

Fornow,thebloodexpandingthebellywasservingasacompress,tampingoffthebleedingvesselwhereveritwas.ButthemomentIopenedthebelly,thegeyserwouldopenagain.Ilayeredpadsallaround.IpouredBetadineovertheskin,swabbeditoff,saidaprayer,andcut.

Blood welled out, spilled over the edge of the wound like a storm surge. Despite all the pads,despitemy suction hose sucking greedily, the blood lapped over the drapes, onto the table, andsplashed to the floor. I felt it soak throughmy gown, felt it onmy thighs, inmy socks,my feetsquishinginmyshoes.

“Morepacks!”Idtriedtowarnthenurses,butwewerestillunpreparedforthetorrent.

Ireachedinwithmyhand,displacingasecondwaveofbloodasIgrabbedthesmallbowel.Withtwohandsnow,Ipulledloopsout,fedthemontoatowelbythesideoftheincision.InsecondsIhadeffectivelydisemboweledthepatient.

Deepakappearedacrossfromme,scrubbedandready.Iclaspedmyhandstogether,steppedbacktocrosstotheothersideofthetable,butheshookhishead.

“Staythere,”hesaid.HegrabbedaretractorandpulledsoIcouldseeunderthediaphragm.

Istuffedthelappacksallaroundtheliver.ThenIdidthesameontheleftside,inthevicinityofthespleen.With cupped fingers, I scoopedout thebig clots that remained in theabdominal cavity. Ijammedmorepacksallovertheabdomenandintothepelvis,untileverythingwaswedgedtight.NobloodvesselwaspumpingthatIcouldsee.

Wecouldstopandtakeabreath.

“Arewecatchinguponblood?”IaskedRonaldo.

“Wenevercatchup,”hesaid.WhenIkeptstaringathim,heshrugged;henoddedathisdialsasiftosaythingswerenoworsethanwhenwebegan—that'swhatIhopedhehadsaid.

NowIcarefullyremovedthepacks,startingwiththespotswherethebleederwasleastlikelytobe.Thepelviswasclean—nogusherthere.Offcamethepackaroundthespleen.Ifthepatient'sbellywasaroom,thefurniture—themostmovable,centralstructures—hadbeenpulledoutsowehadagoodviewtotherear.Iftherewasableedfromatornaortaoritsbranches,thenthisbackwalloftheabdomen—theretroperitoneum—wouldhaveshownabiguglyswelling,ahematoma.Butthatwasclean,too.

Ihadapremonitionthatwewouldfindthebleederbehindtheliver.Aplacefullofshadows,hardtoseeorfix.Thiswaswherethe inferiorvenacava,the largestvein inthebody,carriedbloodbackfromthelowerlimbsandtrunk,runningthroughandbehindtheliveronitswaytotheheart.Whilecoursingthroughtheliver,itpickedupthestumpy,tauthepaticveinsthatdrainedthatorgan.

Itookthepackawayfromtheliver.Nothing.

Igentlypulledtheliverforward,tolookatitsdarkside.

Anangrygushofbloodfilledtheemptybowloftheabdomen.Ihastilypushedtheliverback,andthepumping ceased.Thingswere all right as longaswedidn't touch the liver.Whatwas it thatSolomon,operatinginthebush,hadcalledthis?TheinjuryinwhichthesurgeonseesGod.

“Okay,”Deepaksaid,“let'sleaveitlikethat.”

“Whatnow?”

“He'soozingfromtheskinincisionandfromalltheIVsites.Hisbloodisn'tclotting.”Deepakhadasoftvoice,andIhadtoleanovertohearhim.“It'sinevitablewiththismuchtrauma.Weopenthemup,pourfluidsintothem,andthebodytemperaturedrops…Wehavedilutedtheclottingsystemsoitstopsworking.Let'spackaroundtheliverandgetout.PuthiminICUwherewecanwarmhimup,givehimmorefreshfrozenplasmaandblood.Inacoupleofhours, ifhe'salive, ifhe ismorestable,wecancomeback.”

Isandbaggedtheliverandfedthesmallbowelbackintothewound.Insteadofsuturingtheskin,weusedtowelclipstoholdthewoundedgestogether.

“Thetransplantteamswillbeheretoharvestthecorneas,heart,lungs,liver,andkidneysfromthemanheshot,”Deepaksaid.“Thistheaterisbigger,andI'llletthemhaveit.”

INTHEINTENSIVECAREUNIT,twohourslater,theoozingfromthepuncturewoundsceased.Theclusterofpoles andmachinery around the bedmade it tricky to get near Shane Johnson Jr.—thatwas hisname.Hisfamilywasinthewaitingroom,tryingtofathomtheunfathomable.Freshfrozenplasma,warmed blood, and fluids had given Junior a recordable blood pressure and a respectabletemperature.Hewasalive,butjustbarely.

“Okay,”Deepaksaidafterreassessingthepatient,andlookingattheclock.“Let'sgotakeanotherlook.”

This timewewere in the smaller operating room. Ronaldowas still all gloom. Junior's face andlimbswerepuffy, his capillaries leakingoutwhatwasbeingpoured intohim.Butwe still had topourfluidintokeepabloodpressure—itwaslikekeepingabucketfulldespitetheholesinitsside.

Deepak insisted that Ibeon thepatient's rightagain. It took just seconds to remove thedrapes,swabhisskin,andpopopenthetowelclipsthatheldtheskinedgestogether.Iremovedthepacks.

Deepakguidedmyfingerstothestalkofvesselsthat led intotheliver.“Okay,”hesaid.“Squeezethere.”ThiswasthePringlemaneuver.Isqueezed,chokingoffthebloodsupplytotheliver,whileDeepakremovedthelastpadandliftedtheliverforward.Bloodgushedoutatonce,turningthedrycleanfieldintoasoppingredmess.

“Okay,youcanletgo,”hesaid,pushingtheliverback.“That'swhatIwasafraidof.Thevenacavaistornforsure.That'swhy,evenwiththePringlemaneuver,itstillbleeds.”

Insomepeople,theinferiorvenacavabarelyindentsthebackoftheliver.Inourpatient,thevenacavawasswathedbyliverlikeapiginablanket.WhenJuniorwentairborne,thenhitthepavement,hisliverkepttraveling;itsmomentumtoretheshortveinsthatanchoredittothevenacava,leavingajaggedrent.

Deepakaskedforasutureonalongneedleholder.AthissignalIpulledtheliverforward,andhetriedtoputtheneedleinoneendofthetear.Butbeforehecouldevenseeit,thefieldwasawashwithblood.

“God,”Isaid,violatingacardinalruleaboutkeepingquietwhenassisting,“howdowefixthis?”

Deepak said, “Oh, it's easy to repair thecava—it's just that the liver is in theway.” It tookmeasecondtorealizethiswasascloseasDeepakcametojokingduringsurgery.

Hewassilentforagoodwhile,almostinatrance,andItriednottomakeasound.Atlast,likeapriestfinishingaprayer,hemoved.“Okay,”hesaid.“It'salongshot.Let'sswitchsides.”

Iwasunpreparedforwhatfollowed.AllIcoulddowasmarvelandbethebestsecondpairofhandsthatIcouldbe.DeepakswabbedJunior'schest,thencutverticallydownoverthebreastbonefromtop tobottom, thenrananelectric saw in thesamegroove.Thesmellofburning fleshandbonehungintheair.Suddenlythechestpoppedopenlikeanoverstuffedsuitcase.

I didn't ask what he was doing. He didn't explain. My exposure to chest surgery had consistedmostlyofdrainingfluidcollectionsoutsidethelungor,rarely,watchingDeepakresectacancerouslobe.Threetimesduringmyinternshipwehadcrackedthechestandoversewnastabinjurytotheheart.Oneofthethreesurvived.Thiswasoneofthedeficitsinourprogram,oneofthereasonswewerebeingshutdown:wehadtoshipoffmuchofthethoracicsurgery,nottomentionmuchoftheurologyandplasticsurgery,tootherhospitals.

Junior'sheart,afleshy,yellow-streakedmasscoveredbythepericar-dialsac,wasexposed,pumpingaway,asithaddoneforallhisnineteenyears.Ithadneverbeenmorethreatened.Deepakcutopenthepericardium.

Iwasawareofactivityintheoperatingroombehindmeandinthescrubareathatwasshared.Atonepoint, I lookedaround,and through the threesetsofwindows, I sawacrowdofwhite facesaroundtheotheroperatingtable.

Deepak put a purse-string suture around the right atrium, the upper chamber of the heart thatreceivedbloodfromthevenacava.Hetookachesttubeandcutsideholesinitwithscissors.Nowhemadeanickintheatriumoftheheart,inthecenterofhispurse-stringsuture.Thenheslidhisnewly fashioned tube into the atrium, using thepurse string to cinch the tissue around the tubewhichhepusheddownthroughtheorificeoftheinferiorvenacava,anddowntowhereourproblem

was.

“Tellmewhenitreachestheleveloftherenalveins,”hesaid.

Isawtheinferiorvenacavadistend,likeagardenhosefillingwithwater.“Now,”Isaid.

“The tube serves as a stent for the inferior vena cava,” Deepak said, leaning over to look frombelow.“It'salsoacrudebypasssobloodfromthetrunkcanreturntotheheartwhilewemaketherepair.Now…let'sseeifwecanfixthis.”

Headjusted theoverhead lights.When I lifted the liver, thebleedingwasmuch less thanbefore,and what's more, the torn edges of the vein were visible on the backdrop of the tube. Deepakgrabbed one edge of the tearwith long forceps and passed the curved needle through and thengrabbedtheotheredge,passedtheneedlethroughthatandout,andtiedaknot.Ilettheliverbackdown.Itwasalaboriousprocess:lift,grab,passneedle,mop,passneedletootherside,mop,tie,relaxthepullonliver.

Atsomepoint,justaswerenearingcompletion,Isensedsomeoneatmyshoulder.Deepakglancedupbutdidnotsayanything.

“IsthataShrockshunt,son?”avoicebehindmesaid.Itwasamalevoice,politeenough,consciousthatitwasadelicatemomenttointrude,butwiththeauthorityofonewhoisentitledtoask.

Deepaklookedupagain,thenbacktohiswork.“Yes,sir,”hesaid.

“Howbigwasthetear?”

Deepakpulleduptheliverandadjustedtheoverheadlightsothevisitorcouldsee.“Itwasthree-quarters of theway around the cava.” The tube hed pushed down from the heartmade a lovelyinternalsplintforthevein,andrunningacrossit likeacreasewasthefirstpartofDeepak'sneatrepair.Itwasabeautifulsight,orderrestoredfromchaos.

“Veryimpressive,”thevoicesaid.Therewasnosarcasm,justgenuineadmiration.Isteppedbacksothevisitorcouldhaveabetterlook,andwhenIdid,heleanedin.“Very,verynice.Idputsomegelfoamaroundtherawareaoftheliver.Wereyouplanningtoleavesomedrains?”

“Yes,sir.”

“I'massumingyouaretheattendingphysician?”thevoicesaid.

“No,I'mtheChiefResident.MynameisDeepak.”

“Whereisyourattending?”

Deepakmetthespeaker'seyes,andsaidnothing.

“Isee.Notonetogetoutbedforthissortofthing.Doyoueverseehim?”

As if in reply,Ronaldo snorted and turned to his dials, feigningdisinterest. The visitor looked toRonaldoandseemedabout tobitehisheadoff,but thenremembering thiswasn'this theater,hedidn't.

“AndhowmanyShrockshuntshaveyoudonebefore,Deepak?”

“Thisismysixth.”

“Really?Inwhatperiodoftime.”

“Intwoyearshere…Unfortunatelyweseealotoftrauma.”

“Unfortunate, yes. But fortunate for us.We are not ungrateful…Still, six Shrocks, did you say?Remarkable.Howhavetheydone?”

“Onedied,butaweekafterthesurgery.Hewaswalking,eating.Probablyapulmonaryembolus.”

“Didyougetanautopsy?”

“Partial. The family allowed us to reopen the belly. The repair to the cava looked good.We tookphotographs.”

“Andtheothers?”

“Second,third,andfiftharealiveandwell,sixmonthsaftertheoperation.FourthdiedonthetablebeforeIgotthisfar.Ihadjustopenedtheheart.”

“Doyoucountthatone?”

“Ishould.‘Intentiontotreat’…thatcounts.”

“Goodman.Youshouldcountit.Mostsurgeonswouldn't.Andyoursixth?”

“Thisishim,”Deepaksaid.

“Right.Well, that'sbetterthanmyexperience.I'vedonefour.That'soversixyears.Theyalldied.Twoonthetable,twosocloseaftersurgerythatitwasasgoodasdyingonthetable.Theyweren'tall traumalikethis.Twoweretearsfromsomeonetryingtoremoveanadherentcancerousmass.Yououghttowriteupyourexperience.”

Deepakclearedhisthroat.“Withallduerespect,sir.Ihave.NoonewillpublishareportfromOurLady—”

“Nonsense.Whatisyourfullname?”

“DeepakJesudass,sir.Thisismyintern—”

“Itellyouwhat,writeupthiscaseandaddhimtoyourseries,andthenletmetakealookatyourpaper.Ifit'sgood,I'llseethatitgetspublished.I'llsendittotheeditoroftheAmericanJournalofSurgery.I'llcheckwithyoutoseehowthispatientdoes.Goodluck.Bytheway,mynameis—”

“Iknowwhoyouare,sir.Thankyou.”

ThevisitormusthavebeenwalkingawaywhenDeepaksaid,“Sir?…Ifyouwereto…nevermind.”

“What is it,man? I have a cadaver organ that I should have in the air by now. I just stopped toadmireyourwork.”

“Ifyouweretoshowushowtoharvesttheliver…wecouldstartitforyou,saveyoutime.”

Itriedtoturnaroundtolook,butbecauseIwasholdingaretractor,Icouldn't.

“Idon't trust anyoneelse todo it,” thevoice said. “That'swhy Ido itmyself.Mychief residentsdon'thavetheskill…Smartboys,buttheydon'tgetthevolumeyouhaveinaplacelikethis.”

“Wegetthevolume.Andtheyareshuttingusdown.”

“What?Ihadheardsomesuchrumor.IheardPopsy…True?”

Deepakjustnodded.

“Thisisyourfifthyear?”thevoicesaid.

“Seventh.Eighth.Tenth.Dependshowyoucount,sir.”Hedidn'tmentionhistraininginEngland.

Hedidn'tneedto,becausethevisitorsaid,“IhearaScotchinflection.WereyouinScotland?TookyourFRCS?”

“Yes.”

“Glasgow?”

“Edinburgh.IworkedinFife.Alloverthere,”Deepaksaid.

Therewasaprofoundsilence.Themanbehindmehadn'tmoved.Heseemedtobeconsideringthis.

“Whatwillyoudoiftheyshutdown?”

Deepakdroppedhiseyes.“I'lljustkeepworking.Probablyhere.Ilovesurgery…”

Afteraneternitythevoicesaid,“DeepakJesudass,withaJ?”Andthenhespelleditout.“DidIgetthatright?ComeseemeinBoston,Dr.Jesudass.We'llpayyourfare.I'llarrangeforyoutocomeuptomydoglab.We'llgetyougoing.Ifanyonecanharvestforme,youprobablycan.Whenyoucome

upwe'llvisitatlength.Havetorunnow.Goodwork,Deepak.”

Weheardthedoorswingbehindhim.

Weworked in silence.At last,Deepak said, “Heheardmyname just once…andhewasable torepeatit.”Deepak'srepairwasdone.Hewasclosingupnow,ascarefullyandefficientlyashehadopened.Heaskedforgelfoamfromthescrubnurse.“Inallmyyearshere,noone'sbeenabletoremembermynamewhenI'mintroduced.Noonehasbothered.Theyusuallyseeusastypes,notasindividuals.”

Hisshoulderswerestraighter,hiseyesbrightandglowing. I'dneverseenmyChiefResident likethis.Iwashappyforhim,andproud.

“Whowasthat?”Isaid,atlastunabletocontainmycuriosity.

“Callmeold-fashioned,”Deepaksaid,“butI'vealwaysbelievedthathardworkpaysoff.MyversionoftheBeatitudes.Dotherightthing,putupwithunfairness,selfishness,staytruetoyourself…onedayitallworksout.Ofcourse,Idon'tknowthatpeoplewhowrongedyousufferorgettheir justdeserts.Idon'tthinkitworksthatway.ButIdothinkonedayyougetyourreward.”

“Didyouknowhim?”Isaidagain.

Deepaksidesteppedmyquestionandturnedtothecirculatingnurse.

“Didthatparticularteamcomeforliverorheart?”

“Liver.Anotherteamtooktheheartandran.”

Deepaksmiledand turned tome.“Marion, I'mnotahundredpercentsure,becauseofhismask;hadIseenhisfingersIcouldhavebeencertain.ButIhaveaprettygoodidea.Youjustmetoneoftheforemostliversurgeonsintheworld,apioneeroflivertransplants.

“What'shisname?”

“ThomasStone.”

CHAPTER43GrandRounds

IBELIEVE IN BLACK HOLES. Ibelieve thatas theuniverseempties intonothingness,pastand futurewillsmacktogetherinthelastswirlaroundthedrain.IbelievethisishowThomasStonematerializedinmylife.Ifthat'snottheexplanation,thenImust invokeadisinterestedGodwholeavesustoourowndevices,neithercausingnorpreventingtornadoesorpestilence,butaGodwhowillnowandthenstickhis thumbonthespinningwheelso thata fatherwhoputacontinentbetweenhimselfandhissonsshouldfindhimselfinthesameroomasoneofthem.

AsachildIdlongedforThomasStoneorat leasttheideaofhim.SomanymorningsIwaitedforhim at the gates ofMissing. I saw that vigil now as necessary, a prerequisite formy insides tohardenandcurejustlikethewillowofacricketbatmustcuretobereadyforalifetimeofknocks.ThatwasthelessonatMissing'sgates:theworlddoesnotoweyouandneitherdoesyourfather.

Ihadn'tforgottenwhatGhoshaskedofme.Let'sjustsayI'dsetitaside.Ididn'tfeelguiltyaboutnotfollowingthrough;IneverhadtimetoseekoutThomasStone,andmoreover,whereverhewas,IneverfeltasifIwasinhisAmerica.Iwasonanisland,aprotectorate,aterritorythatAmericaclaimedonlyinname.IncarryinghistextbookwithmefromAddistoSudanandKenyaandthentoAmerica, I had developed a grudging respect for the author. I toldmyself that the bookwasmytouchstone to SisterMary Joseph Praise: I saw her hand in the line drawings and I carried thebookmarkwithherhandwriting inmywallet. I'ddiscoveredThomasStone in the text, justashemust have discovered himself in the discipline of making notes in a landscape of disease andpovertyovercominghisfatiguetofillexercisebookswithhisobservations.Iwasconvincedthatitwastheaccumulationofthesejournalsthathepulledtogethertoformatextbook.Indoingso,hemadehisknowledgeincarnate.

Butwhenthatwriter,thesolelivingauthorofmyDNA,stoodpeeringovermyshoulder,itwasfleshthatbecame incarnate, fleshofmyflesh,withascent that Ishouldhaverecognizedaskinandavoice that was my inheritance. When he leaned over the patient's belly to see our handiwork,cockedhisskullontheatlasandaxisvertebraejustso,tuckedhisarmstohischest,hisscapulaeglidingout,makinghimselfsmallsoasnottocontaminateourfield—thosemovementswereechoesofmyown.

SurelyThomasStonesensedsomedisturbanceintheuniverseandthatiswhyheappearedinourtheater.IconfesswhenIdidn'tknowwhohewas,Ifeltnothing:noaura,notingling,nothingotherthan pride in the miracle Deepak had performed with PVC tube and the uncommon skill in hishands,askill that thestrangerappreciated.When I learnedourvisitorwasThomasStone, Iwasunprepared.Shouldmyfirstreactionhavebeenanger?Righteousness?Ihadmissedmychancetoreactwhilehewasthere.Butnow,forthefirsttimesincechildhood,Iwantedtodomorethanstudyhisnine-fingeredportrait.Iwantedtoknowabouttheliving,breathingsurgeonwhohadstoodnexttome.

Inthedaysthatfollowed,IlookedupThomasStoneinIndexMedicus inourlibrary,pullingdownonebyonetheoversizevolumes,beginningwith1954,theyearofmybirth.Iwantedtoknowaboutthe post–Short Practice Stone; I wanted to see what scholarly contributions he hadmade afterleaving the tropics. Ours was a small library, but Popsy had donated his collection of surgicaljournalsdatingbacktothefifties.IfoundmostofthepaperslistedinIndexMedicus.

InmynotebookIplottedoutThomasStone'sscientificcareerasreflectedinhispublishedwork.InAmerica his interest was liver surgery, and his career was interwoven with the history oftransplantation,withtheaudaciousideaoftakinganorganfromPetertosavethelifeofPaul.ThestorybeganwellbeforeStone,ofcourse,withSirPeterMedawarandSirMacfarlaneBurnetinthe1940s,whoshowedushowtheimmunesystemrecognizes“self”fromforeigntissuesandrejectsanddestroysthelatter.Twomonthsbeforeourbirth,ThomasStonepublishedalettertotheeditoroftheBritish Medical Journal describing the extraordinary length and redundancy of the colon ofmanyEthiopians,whichhebelievedexplainedwhyitsoreadilytwistedonitself—aconditioncalledsigmoidvolvulus.By1967,whenChristianBarnardinCapeTown'sGrooteSchuurHospitalreplacedLewisWashkansky'sscarredanddiseasedheartwiththeheartofyoungDeniseDarvall,killedinacar wreck, my father, now in Boston, had become interested in liver resection. His researchquestionwas,howmuchlivercouldyoucutawayandstillleaveenoughbehindtosustainlife?

ThetransplantfieldinAmericawasledbyabrilliantsurgeon—anotherThomas,thisonewiththelastnameofStarzl.WorkinginColorado,Starzldidthefirsthumanlivertransplantsin‘63and‘64,

butneitherpatientsurvived.ThomasStoneofBoston,thefootnoteswillshow,alsotriedandfailedin ‘65.Despite increasingpubliccriticism,Starzldidn'tgiveup.Heperformed the first successfullivertransplantin1967.Soonothers,ThomasStoneincluded,managedthesamefeat.Itwasstillveryhigh risk, but by publishing their experience with such tricks as bypassing portal blood to thesuperiorvenacavaduringthelongsurgery,orusingthe“UniversityofWisconsinsolution”tobetterpreservecadaverlivers,resultswereimproving.Theproblemwasnolongertechnical,eventhoughthiswasthemost technicallydifficultoperationanyonecouldperform, theequivalentofapianistplayingRachmaninoff's“RhapsodyonaThemebyPaganini,”exceptthatonedarenotmissanoteorfluffaphrase.Theoperationlastedten,sometimestwentyhours.Starzlshoweditcouldbedone.The two new hurdles were finding sufficient organs to transplant, and of course the problem ofrejectionofthetransplantbytheimmunesystem.

In1980,theyearofmyinternship,Starzlturnedhisattentionincreasinglytorejection,focusingonapromisingnewdrugthatSirRoyCalne'sgroupatCambridgediscovered—cyclosporine.

THOMAS STONE TOOK a different approach; he focused on the problem of the shortage of organs andpursuedasolutionthatmostothersconsideredadeadend:removingpartofa liver froma livinghealthyparentandgivingthattoachildwhoseliverwasfailing.Atleastindogs,hefoundthelivergrew in size to compensate for its loss, while the transplanted segment of liver sustained therecipient.Butsplittingthedonor'sliverintroducedcomplicationssuchasbileleaksandclotsinthehepatic artery that feeds the liver. It alsoput ahealthydonor's life in real jeopardy, as the liver,unlikethekidney,isunpaired.EvenmorepromisingandimmediatelyusefulwasStone'sworkusinganimal liver cells, trying to strip the cells of those surface antigens which made humans cellsrecognizethemasforeign,andthengrowtheminsheetsonamembraneandusethemasasortofartificialliver—adialysistypeofsolution.

As I read about transplants, I was excited. It was clearly one of the most compelling stories inAmericanmedicine.

JUNIORWASTHECENTERofattentioninourICU.Hewasdeeplysedated,eyeballsrovingunderclosedlids.Thekindoftraumahedbeenthroughresultedin“shock”lung,orDaNanglung(recognizedinGIswhowere resuscitated on the battlefield, only to develop this strange lung stiffness), alongwithkidneyshutdown.AccordingtoB.C.Gandhi'srules,ifyouhadmorethanseventubesinyou,youwereasgoodasdead.Juniorhadnine.Butonebyone,overtheweeks,thetubescameoutandhegotbetter.Itrequiredmeticulousnursingcare,andDeepakandmeporingoverhisdailyflowcharts,anticipatinghisneeds,andinterveningwithongoingproblems.J.R.,ashisfamilycalledhim,lefttheICUforaregularroomafterforty-threedays.Aweeklater,smilingsheepishly,hewalkedoutonhisownsteamwiththeICUandtraumateamslineduponeithersideofthehospitalentrancetocheer.Ifhedshot someone, thewitnesseshadall vanished,and thepolicehad lost interest, so J.R.wasgoinghome.IthinkitwasthesightofJ.R.walkingoutofthehospitalthatsetmeoncourseasatraumasurgeon.Hiskindofrecoverywasbynomeansarule intraumasurgery,but ithappenedoftenenough,particularlyinthosewhowereyoungandpreviouslyhealthy,thatitmadetheheroiceffortsworthwhile.Themindwasfragile,fickle,butthehumanbodywasresilient.

AS INTERNS we were allowed to attend one national conference, all expenses paid. I chose a livertransplant conference inMay in Boston. I arrived on a lovely spring day. Boston's downtown fitevery notion I had of what colonial America was like, and it felt steeped in history, completelydifferentfrommysectionoftheBronx.ItoldmyselfthatitwascoincidencethattheconferencewasinBoston,walkingdistancefromwhereThomasStoneworked.ItoldmyselfIwasn'ttheretomeetThomas Stone, but to hear the keynote speaker, Thomas Starzl. As for Thomas Stone's plenarysession—Iwasundecidedaboutattending.

ThemorningoftheconferenceIcouldnolongerlietomyself.Iskippedthetransplantmeetingandwalked the six blocks to the hospital in which Thomas Stone had worked all these years. Afterwearingscrubsforalmostayear,mysuitandtiefeltstrange,asifIwereinfancydress.

“Send them to Mecca” was an expression we used when we dispatched patients to places thatoffered what Our Lady of Perpetual Succour could not. It was a common medical expression inhospitalsalloverAmerica,whensendingpatientstoanyofthetopreferralplacesinthecountry—Idevenseenitinletterstotheeditorinthemedicaljournals.NowIwasgoingtoMecca.

“MECCA”CONSISTEDOFaspanking-newhospital tower,weirdlyshapedandshiningas if itweremadeofplatinum.Itwasthekindofstructurearchitectscompetetobuild.Fromapatient'sperspective,itdidn'tlookwelcoming.Thetowerhidtheolderbricksectionsofthehospital,whosearchitecturefeltauthenticandalignedwiththeneighborhood.

“Goodmorning,sir,”ayoungman inapurple jacketsaid tome. Iglaredathim, thinkinghewasbeingsarcastic.Then I realized thatheand twoothersstood there ready toparkcarsandassistpatientsintowheelchairs.

Therevolvingdoorsledtoaglass-walledatrium,theceilingextendingupatleastthreestoriesandaccommodatingarealtree.Agrandpianoplayeditselfbysomemysteriousmechanism.Arounditwereplushleatherchairs,lamps.Beyondthiswasawaterfalltricklinggentlyoveraslabofgranite.Thenareceptiondeskwhereaconcierge,oneofthree,lookedup,smiling,eagertohelp.IfollowedthebluelineonthefloortotheelevatorsofTowerA,whichtookmetotheDepartmentofSurgeryontheeighteenthfloor,justasshesaiditwould,butImadenopromiseabouthavinganiceday.IfounditdifficulttobelieveIwasinahospital.

WhenIemergedfromtheelevatorsIwasmetbyfivemenandonewomanofmyage,alldressedindark suits, chests labeledwith visitor tags exactly likemine. “We're supposed towait here,” thewomansaidtome,helpfully.

Justthenayoungman,awhitecoatcoveringhisbluescrubs,approached.“SorryI'mlate,”hesaid,notsoundingsorryatall.“WelcometotheDepartmentofSurgery.Myname'sMatthew.”Hegrinnedatus. “God, a year ago Iwas in your shoes, interviewing formy internship.Time flies!Love thesuits!Okay,wehaveabouttwentyminutesbeforemorbidityandmortalityconference.I'llgiveyouaquick tourof theDepartmentofSurgery.AfterM&Myou'llhave lunchwith thehousestaff, thenyour individual interviews begin, and then the grand tour of the hospital.When I get you to theconferenceroom,I'llbreakoff.OneofmypatientsisbeingpresentedatM&M.Ihavetogostraponthebodyarmor.”

IntheyearI'dbeenatOurLadyofPerpetualSuccour,Ihadyettotakeanypotentialinternrecruitsaround.Indeed,I'dneverseenanyonecometobeinterviewed.AtMeccathiswasaweeklyevent.Itaggedalong.

The individual on-call rooms had a television on thewall, a fridge, a nice desk, and an attachedbathroom;itwasafarcryfromOurLady'ssolitaryon-callroomcrammedwithbunkbeds,withjustonephoneandinternsfromallthespecialtiesexpectedtobedthere;Ineverusedit.Next,Matthewshowedusthe“small”conferenceroomwheretheMeccasurgicalteamheldtheirmorningreport.It looked like a corporate boardroom with high-backed leather chairs around a long table. Oilportraitsofthepastchairmenofsurgerystareddownfromthewalls,awho'swhoofsurgery.

“Checkthisout,”Matthewsaid,pushingabutton.Screenscamedownbehindthecurtainstoblackouttheroom,andaprojectorroseoutofwhatItooktobeacoffeetable.Constance,thewomaninourgroup,rolledhereyesasifshethoughtthiswassogauche.

When we arrived at the auditorium where morbidity and mortality conference was to be held,Matthewexcusedhimself.“Ihavetochangeoutofscrubs.Dr.Stoneisasticklerforthat.Hedoesn'tevenlikescrubsonrounds.”

The auditorium was a small version of the Cinema Adowa in Addis, only with better seats,upholstered inanubbybeige fabric that felt smooth to the touch.A steep inclinemade theviewfrom thebackexcellent, and this iswhereweprospective interns sat.AbankofmotorizedX-rayviewingpanelswasbuiltintoonesideofthewallbehindthepodium.Aresidentstoodloadingfilms,steppingonapedaltoadvancepanels.

Constancesatnexttome.Agaggleofmedicalstudentsinshortwhitecoatsfiledinandjoinedusintheback.I'dforgottenabouttheexistenceofmedicalstudents.HowniceitwouldbeatOurLadyofPerpetualSuccourtohavesomeonebelowmeonthefoodchain.Theresidentsworelongercoats,and their expressions were not as carefree as the students’. The attending physicians wore thelongest coats and were the last to come in. We interviewees in our dark suits stood out likepenguins at a polar bear convention. In all my time at Our Lady, we never had this kind of anassembly.Deepakgotustogetherregularlyforcoachingsessions,butonesensedatraditioninthisroom,awayofdoingthingsthathadnotchangedfordecades.

“Sowhatschoolareyoufrom?”Constanceasked.IdoverheardhersayshetrainedinBoston,butitwasn'tatthisinstitution.

“Iwent toschool inEthiopia,” I said. If shecouldhavemovedoneseatover,sheprobablywouldhave.

ThomasStonedidn'tlookatthecrowdwhenhewalkedin;heassumedtheirpresence.Hewastallerthan I'd realized from seeinghim in the theater, almost as tall asShiva orme.The room turnedquiet.Hishandswereinthepocketsofhiswhitecoat.Thewayheslidintohisseat,theeaseand

fluidityofthatmotion,remindedmeofShiva.Hewasaloneinthefrontrow.Iwaswellbehindhimbutofftooneside,soIcouldseehisprofile.Thiswasmyfirstgoodlookatmyfather.Ifeltmybodygrowwarm;itwasn'tpossibletostudyhimdispassionately,clinically.Mymindwasracing,myheartpounding—IworriedthatIwasgivingawaymypresence.Ilookedawaytotryandcalmdown.WhenIlookedback,Stonewasstudyingapaperinhishand—itwashardtotellhewasmissingafinger.Hishairwasquitegrayatthetemples,butstilldarkbrownontop.Hismassetermusclesstoodout,outlininghisjaw,asifhehabituallyclenchedhisteeth.TheoneeyesocketthatIcouldseewasarecesseddarkhollowonhisface.Inoticedthathekepthisheadexceptionallystill.

I CAN'T TELL YOU MUCH about the case being discussed or exactly what transpired. While I looked atThomasStoneandsatnexttothesuperciliousConstance,aslowfuseburnedinsidemeanditwasabouttoignite.Iwasreadytohurlfurniture,activatetheceilingsprinklers,screamobscenities,anddisruptthisorderlymeeting.Ifeltanimpendinglossofcontrol.AtonepointIhadtograbthearmsofmychairasmyragepeaked,andthengraduallysubsided.

“It was my fault,” Thomas Stone said, turning to face me. For a moment, I thought he wasclairvoyant.He had heardme. Earlier,Matthew, our escort and the presenter of the case, cameunderharshcriticism fromdifferentquartersof the room.Matthewwasonly themessenger,butsincehisattendingphysicianandtheChiefResidentdidn'tcometohisdefense,hetookthebruntoftheattack.ThesnappingjawsweresilencedwhenThomasStonestoodup.

“Yes,itwasmyfault.Withoutadoubtwecandobettersurgically.Iaminstallingavideocamerainthetwotraumabays.Iwantustoreviewthevideoaftereverymajortraumathatcomesin.Werewestanding in the right place? Did we take three steps to reach for an endotracheal tube when itshouldhavebeenathand?Didsomeonehavetoaskforsomethingthatshouldhavebeenthere?Didwedistracteachotherwithwhatwesaid?Whodidn'tneedtobethere?Isthereabetterway?Thatisalwaysthechallenge.”Hepulledoutapieceofpaperfromhispocketandunfoldedit.

“Itakeresponsibilityalsoforsomethingaddressedinthisletter.”HisaccentwasfaintlyBritish,theyearsinAmericahavingsoftenedit,butwithoutaccruinganyjarringAmericaninflections.Thedayhe spoke to Deepak over my shoulder in the operating room at Our Lady, I hadn't registered aparticularaccent.“Thislettercametomefromthedeceasedpatient'smother.Iwanttomakesurethatthisdoesnothappenagain.Hereiswhatshesays:‘Dr.Stone—Myson'sterribledeathisnotsomethingIwillevergetover,butperhapsintimeitwillbelesspainful.ButIcannotgetoveroneimage,alastimagethatcouldhavebeendifferent.BeforeIwasaskedtoleavetheroominaveryroughmanner,ImusttellyouthatIsawmysonwasterrifiedandtherewasnoonewhoaddressedhisfear.Theonlypersonwhotriedwasanurse.Sheheldmyson'shandandsaid,“Don'tworry,itwillbeall right.”Everyoneelse ignoredhim.Sure, thedoctorswerebusywithhisbody. Itwouldhavebeenmerciful ifhehadbeenunconscious.Theyhadimportantthingstodo.Theycaredonlyabouthischestandbelly.Notaboutthelittleboywhowasinfear.Yes,hewasaman,butatsuchavulnerable moment, he was reduced to a little boy. I saw no sign of the slightest bit of humankindness.MysonandIwereirritants.Yourteamwouldhavepreferredformetobegoneandforhimtobequiet.Eventuallytheygottheirwish.Dr.Stone,asheadofsurgery,perhapsasaparentyourself,doyounotfeelsomeobligationtohaveyourstaffcomfortthepatient?Wouldthepatientnot be better offwith less anxiety less fright?My son's last consciousmemorywill be of peopleignoringhim.My lastmemoryofhimwillbeofmy littleboy,watching in terrorashismother isescorted out of the room. It is the graven image Iwill carry tomy own deathbed. The fact thatpeoplewereattentivetohisbodydoesnotcompensatefortheirignoringhisbeing.’“

Thomas Stone folded the letter and put it away in his breast pocket. There was a rustle in theauditorium,amurmur,anuncomfortableshiftingofbodyweight.Isensedawillingnessintheroomtoshrugofftheletter,toscoffatwhatitsaid,butStone'sdemeanormadeitnecessarytoconcealthat urge. Stone stood there, silent, looking out, as if considering the letter's context himself,unawareofhisaudience.Noonespoke.Asthemomentstretchedon,eventhesmallestnoiseswerestilled until there was only the hum of the air-conditioning. Thomas Stone's expression wasreflective,certainlynotangry.Now,asifwakingup,hesearchedtheroomforareaction,seeingifthewriterstruckachord.Thescoffershadreconsideredtheirposition.

WhenStonefinallyspoke,itwasinaquietvoicethatwasfirmandcommandedattention.Heaskedaquestion.

Iknewtheanswerbecauseitwasinhisbook,abookI'dreadcarefullyandmorethanonceinmyvoyageoutofEthiopiaandduringmystayinKenya.

“Whattreatmentinanemergencyisadministeredbyear?”

Surelywithabouttwohundredpeopleintheroom,atleastfiftywouldknowtheanswer.

Noonespoke.

Hewaited.Thediscomfortgrewevenmoreacute.IcouldsenseConstancestiffeningnexttome.

ThomasStonespreadhisfeetandputhishandsbehindhisback.Heappearedwillingtostandthereallday.Heraisedhiseyebrows.Waiting.Thestudentssittingtomyleftweretooscaredtoblink.

Stonelookedovertome,surprisedtoseearesponsefromtherowofdarksuits.Ifelthiseyesboreintomine.Itwasonlythesecondtimeheregisteredmybeinginthisworld;thefirstwaswhenIwasborn.Thistime,Ionlyhadtoraisemyhand.

“Yes?”hesaid.“Tellus,please,whattreatmentinanemergencyisadministeredbyear?”

Alleyeswereonme.Iwasinnohurry.Noneatall.

Thenmysight turnedmistyas I thoughtofGhoshand thesacrificehe'dmade forus.Thoughhediedofleukemia,itnowfelttomeasifhe'dgivenuphislifefromthetimewewereinfantssothatShivaandIshouldhaveours.Whenhedied,itwasasifasecondumbilicalcordhadbeensevered.IthoughtofHema,widowed,nowlaboringalonewithShivaatMissing,writingtometosaythatherheartwasbreakingnottohavemethere,andwouldI forgiveherfornotgivingmetheattentionand love Ideserved?Andall throughthoseyears,ThomasStoneprobablynevermissedanM&Mconference, never had a day of discomfort over Shiva, or overme. I thought ofMatron, holdingMissingtogether,anactiveandlovinggodmothertotwoboys,ananchorinourlives,andIthoughtofGebrew,Almaz,andRosina,whohadsteppedintofillthevoidofthisman'sabsence.

How unjust it was that Thomas Stone's reward for his failings, for his selfishness, should be topreside in that chair and command the respect, the awe, and the admiration of the likes ofConstanceandothersinthisroom.Surelyyoucouldn'tbeagooddoctorandaterriblehumanbeing—surelythelawsofman,ifnotofGod,didn'tallowit.

ImethisgazeandIdidnotblink.“Wordsofcomfort,”Isaidtomyfather.

Theinterveningyearslaycompressedbetweenusasifbybookends.Theothersintheroomlookedfrommyfacetohis,distressed,uncertainifminewastherightanswer.Butnooneelseexistedformeorforhim.

“Thankyou,”hesaid,hisvoicealtered.“Wordsofcomfort.”

Helefttheroom,butlookedbackatmeoncewhenhereachedthedoor.

IFOUNDWHEREHELIVEDbyaccident.Anelegantcondominiumcomplexacrosstheriverwouldhavebeenmyguess.ButatthebaseofTowerA,Isawaglassdoorleadingtotheoutside.Acrossthestreetwasthelobbytoanotherbuilding.IsawThomasStoneenterandadoormangreethim.Iwaited.Afewminuteslaterheemerged,withouthiswhitecoatandwithayellow-and-blackboxinhishand—aslidecarousel.Hewasonhiswaytothetransplantconference.Igavehimhalfanhour,andthenIwentup to thedoorman. I flashedmybadge.“I'mMarionStone.Dr.Stone forgotsomeslidesheneededforatalkheisgiving.Hesentmetopickthemup.”

Hewasabouttoquizme,denyme,butthenhecockedhishead.“Youarelative?”

“I'mhisson.”

“ByGodyouare!”hesaid,comingclosertolookintomyeyes,asifthatwaswherethesimilarityresided.Hebeamedasifthenewsvindicatedhim.AsifitgaveThomasStoneahumandimension,aredeemingquality.

“ByGodyouare!”Heslappedhisthighindelight.“Andnotawordtousallthistime.”

“Heneverknewtillthisyear,”Isaid,winking.

“JosephandMary!Getoutofhere!”

Ismiledandlookedatmywatch.

“Youknowwhereitis?”hesaid.

“Fourthfloor?”

“Four-oh-nine.”

IENTEREDHISHOUSEusingmypenknifeandthesortofancillarysurgicalskillsonlyaB.C.Gandhicanteachyou.

Itwasaone-bedroomapartment.

Theliving-diningroomhadnothingto justifythat label.Alargeworktable likeadraftsman'sdeskoccupiedmostofthatarea,withtwosidetablesatitsendstoformaU.Therewerepapersinneatstacks on the side tables. Sectional bookcases covered three walls and were full of books andpapers.Theyweren'tarrangedfordisplaybutforaccess.

Thecoffeepot in thekitchenwascollectingdust.Thestoveappearednever tohavebeenused.Atoaster on the counter had a trace of crumbs on the top. The refrigerator held only a carton oforangejuice,astickofbutter,andahalfloafofbread.

Hisbedroomwasdark,thecurtainsdrawn.Therewerenobooksorpapershere.Onlyanarmycot,ablanketfoldedneatlyatitsfoot,asifhewerecampingforonenight.

A single framed snapshot sat on the mantelpiece above the electric fireplace. The airbrushtechniqueofthe1920Sgavemotherandsonalabasterskin.TheywereposedlikeMadonnaandChild.The boy was perhaps three, ensconced in the lap of the woman who must have been mygrandmother—apresenceintheworldIrealizedI'dneveroncethoughtabout.

Nexttothepicturewasaglasscylinder,filledwithmurkyfluid.Closerinspectionrevealedahumanfingerfloatingintheliquid.

Ihadcometherewantingto…tododamage.

Thatpicturemademechangemymind.

Instead, I opened all the kitchen cabinets and left the doors ajar. I pulled down the ovendoor. Iopened both sides of the fridge. I took the top off the juice container. I opened the bathroomcabinets.Iunscrewedtoothpaste,shampoo,andconditioner,settingthetopscarefullyalongsidethebottles. Iopenedanythingthathada lidoracover. I leftopenwardrobe,chestofdrawers, filingcabinet,inkbottle,medicinebottles.Iopenedthewindows.

InthecenterofhisdeskIplacedthebookmarkwithSisterMaryJosephPraise'swritingonit.

Ifeltcertainhehadthelettermymotherreferredto.Now,inhishome,Iaskedmyselfagain:Wherewas it…andwhatdid it say? Iwas tempted to ransack theplace to find it but thatwouldhavespoiledwhatIhadcreated.

Itwistedopentheformalinbottle,fishedouthisfinger,shookitfreeoffluid,andputitnexttothebookmark.IstudiedwhatIddone.Ichangedmymindaboutthefinger.Iputitbackintheformalinbottle,cappedit,andtookitwithme.Itwasonlyfair.Afterall,Idlefthimsomethingofmine.

Iproppedthedooropenonmywayout.

CHAPTER44BeginattheBeginning

ITWASTWOWEEKSLATERonaSundaythatIheardtheknockonmydoor.WehadbeatenourarchrivalsfromConeyIslandatalimitedoversmatchontheirturf,comingawaywiththeinterhospi-talcrickettrophyNestorhadtakensixwicketsfortwenty-fiverunsinatorridspellofpacebowling,andfourof those were by catches I took standing well behind the wicket. I had slipped away from thefestivitiesinB.C.Gandhi'sroom,myfingerssoredespitethekeeper'sglovesandmykneesaching.Iplannedanearlynight.

“Comein,”Isaid.

Hescannedthedarkroom,gettinghisbearings.Ifhesawtheshadowofmybed,hedidn'tseemebecausehelookedaway,tothelightleakingfromunderthebathroomdoor.Thentothecurtainedwindow.WhenhelookedbackIwassittingup.Itgavehimastart.

Heshutthedoorandstoodthere,amanwhohadwalkedintohispast.

Iwaited.Ihadn'tinvitedhimhere.Thesecondstickedawayandheshowednoinclinationtospeak.Ihadtogivehimthis:hetrackedmedown,hefigureditout.Perhapshedidregistermypresencein the opera ting room the day he peeked over my shoulder. Perhaps in the auditorium when Iansweredhisquestionhesawinmyfacefeaturesofmymotherorofhimself.Howstrangetospotasonyou'veneverseenorthoughtoftillthedayheappearsatmorbidityandmortalityconferenceandgivesnewmeaningtothatactivity.

“Youmightaswellsit,”Isaid.Ididn'toffertoturnonthelight.

Therewasachairbeyondmybed.Hewalkedforwardquicklylikeablindmanwho'driskbumpingintosomethingratherthanseemhesitantoraskforhelp.Hesatdownhard.

Ididn'tthinkhecouldseemyface.Istudiedhis.Ashiseyesadjusted,helookedatmypossessions.Ihadmorethingsthanhedid.Ifyoudidn'tcountbooks.IsawhimlingerontheframedprintoftheEcstasy of St. Teresa—hemust have recognized at oncewhere that came from.Oh yes, and thefingerinthejar.Heknewhewasintherightroom.

Theminutespassed.Itwastenatnight.

“MindifIsmoke?”hesaidatlast.

“Youdon'tsmoke.”Ihadn'tpickedupthesmellofcigarettesinhiscondo.Justhisscent,whichmynostrilsregisteredagain.

“Idonow…Whendidyoustart?”

Hisnosewasprettygood.Itookmytimeanswering.

“Sincecominghere.It'saprerequisiteforsurgicaltraining.Goahead.”

Hefumbledinhisshirtpocketandbroughtouttwocigarettes.IthoughtofAliandhislittlesouk,theonlyplaceIknewwhereyoucouldbuyloosesmokes.InAmericayouboughtthemincartonsorbythetruckload.

Heheldacigaretteouttome.Istaredatit.HewasabouttowithdrawhishandwhenItookit.HeflickedhislighterandstoodtomeetmeasIswungmyfeetoverthesideofthebed.

Hisfingersshieldedthefire,anine-fingeredsepulchre. Ibowedtotheflameanddrewtillmytipglowed.

Thankyou,Father.

I sat back on the bed.He found an old Styrofoam cup in arm's reach. I took a thoughtful draw,passingjudgmentonhiscigarette.ItwasaRothmans,athrowbacktohisEthiopiadays,or, lestIforget,hisBritishdays.RothmanswasalsowhatwepuffedatOurLady,courtesyofB.C.Gandhi,whogotcartonsatdeepdiscountfromCanalStreet.

Thesmokemadesinuousshapesintheshaftoflightleakingpastthebathroomdoor.Irememberedour kitchen at Missing and how the dust motes dancing in the morning rays formed their owngalaxy.WhenIwasachild,thatsighthadhintedatthewonderfulandfrighteningcomplexityoftheuniverse,ofhowthecloseronelookedthemoreonesawrevealed,andone'simaginationwastheonlylimit.

“Idon'texpectyoutounderstand,”hesaid,andforamomentIthoughthewastalkingaboutthedustmotes.Thesoundofhisvoiceirritatedme.Whogavehimpermissiontospeak?Inmyroom?

“Thenlet'snottalkaboutit.”

Moresilence.

Hecrackedfirst.“Howdoyoulikesurgery?”

DidIreallywant toanswerhim?Byanswering,wasIconcedingsomething?Ihadto thinkaboutthisforafewminutes.Lethimsweat.

“HowdoI likesurgery?Hmmm…IamluckytohaveDeepak.Hetakesgreatpainswithme.Thebasics,goodhabits. I think it isso important…”Iclammedupthen. I felt Ihadsaidtoomuch. Idetected inmy tone a need for his approval, his affirmation—thatwas the last thing Iwanted. IthoughtofGhoshwhobecameanaccidentalsurgeonbecauseofStone'sdeparture.Hehadnoonetoteachhim.Ah,Ghosh!Ghosh'sdyingwishwasthat—

“I know some of the people Deepak trainedwith,” Stone said, interruptingmy train of thought.Ghosh'smessagetohimcouldwait.Thiswasn'tthetime.Iwasn'tinthemood.

“Oh,really?”

“Imadeinquiriesabouthim.Youarelucky.”

“ButDeepakisn'tlucky.Heisgoingtogetscrewedalloveragain.Infact,weallare.”

“Maybenot,”hesaid.

Ididn'tpursuethis.Nofavors,please.Iwantednothingfromhim.Hesquirmedinhischair,butnotfromdiscomfort.Itwaswhathewasholdingback,waitingformetoask.Iwouldnotgivehimthepleasure.

“IhadaDeepakinmylife,”hesaid.“Allittakesisone.MinewasaDr.Braithwaite.Asticklerfortherightway.IappreciatehimmorenowthanIdidthen.Despitehim,afteralltheseyears,Ifinditextraordinarilydifficultto…”

Thewordshaddrieduponhistongue.Thiswassuchaneffort,aphysicaltrialforhimtoconverse.He wasn't a man who ever spoke like this, I didn't think. Sharing his inner thoughts wasn'tsomethinghehadpracticed.Notevenwithhimself.Igavehimlotsoftime.

“What?Youfinditextraordinarilydifficultto…what?”

Ishouldhavejusttoldhimtoleave.HereIwasconversing,helpinghimalong.

“I find it difficult to operate. Particularly elective surgery. I have anxieties.” He spoke slowly,drawing out hiswords. “No one knows. Even if I'm doing a hernia or a hydrocele… in fact thesimplertheoperation,themorelikelythisistohappen…Ihavetolookupthesurgicalanatomy,goover all the steps in an operative book, even though after all these years I don't need to. I'mterrifiedIwillforget.Orthatmymindwillgoblank…SometimesIthrowupinthelounge.Ifeelsick,dizzy.Ithasneverstopped.Itmademeconsidergivingupsurgery.It'sworseifit'ssomeoneIknow,ahospitalemployeebringshismother…”

IthoughtofthesurgicalanatomyatlasIhadseeninhiscondominium,abigfoliobook,andnexttoit anoperativeanatomyatlas,bothopenonhisdeskas if theywere the last thingshe lookedatbeforehelefthisapartment.

“WhataboutthedayI…thedayofyourmorbidityandmortalityconference?”

“Exactly. Early that morning I had to do a simple breast lump excision, and if the biopsy waspositive, then a mastectomy and auxiliary node dissection. I've done hundreds of them. Maybemore.Butthiswasoneofournurses.Someoneputtingfaithinme.”

“Sowhathappened?”

“Iwalked into thetheater, feelingas if Iwereabout to faint.Nooneknows,ofcourse.Themaskhelps.ButassoonasImaketheincision,itallvanishes.Thenitfeelssillytohavebeensoanxious.Ridiculous.It'llneverhappenagain,Itellmyself.Butitdoes.”

“DiditeverhappeninEthiopia?”

Heshookhishead.“IthinkitwasbecauseIknewIwastheonlychoicethepatienthad.Therewerenootheroptions.Twoothersurgeonsinthewholecity.Heretherearesomanysurgeons.”

“Ormaybe those livesweren't as valuable.Natives, right?Whocares?Thealternativewasdeathanyway,sowhyworry?JustlikeyoucomeandtakeorgansfromourpatientsatOurLady.”

Heflinched.Isensedthatnooneevertalkedtohiminthismanner.Wehadn'tagreedtoanyrules.Ifhedidn'tlikeit,hecouldjustleave.HehadcometoOurLady.Thiswasn'tMecca.

Heclampedhislipstogether.“Idon'texpectyoutounderstand,”hesaid.

Iknewhewasn'ttalkingabouthissurgicalanxieties.

He patted his pockets.He didn't findwhat hewas looking for. So he just sat there and blinked,waitingformorepunishment.

Heslumpeddowninthechair.Hehadcrossedhislegs,andhookedhisfreefootunderthecalfoftheother,likeatwistedvine.“Yousee…Mar-ion—”Hewasn'tusedtosayingmyname.“I…Itisnotasifeverythingcanbeexplainedbylogic.”

Nowheuncrossedhislegsandleanedforward.“Ican'tgiveyouaneatexplanationaboutwhy…IdidwhatIdid,becauseIdon'tunderstanditmyself.Evenafteralltheseyears…”

Which“it”washe talkingabout? Ihadmydaggers linedup,andmy lancesandmaceready justbehind them. I thought of all kinds of clever things to say: Save your breath. Or, I understandall'right. You took the path less traveled. You bailed out.What else is there to understand? Butperhapshemeantthe“it”ofimpregnatingmymother.

“Ghoshsaidyoudidn'tknowhowithappened.Thatitwasamysterytoyou.”

“Yes!”hesaid,relieved,butthenIsensedhewasblushing.“Hesaidthat?Yes,itwas.”

“LikeJoseph?CluelessaboutMaryandthebaby?Babies,inyourcase.”

“…Yes.”Hecrossedhislegs.

“Maybeyoudon'tthinkyouaremyfather.”

“No,it'snotthat.Iamyourfather.I—”

“No,you'renot!Ghoshwasmyfather.Heraisedme.Hetaughtmeeverythingfromridingabiketohittingasquaredriveoffthebackfoot.Hegavememyloveformedicine.HeraisedmeandShiva.IamherebecauseofGhosh.Agreatermanneverlived.”

Ihadbaitedthetrap,luredhimin.ButIwastheonewhosnapped.

“‘Lived’…?”hesaid,leaningforward,thefootnolongerwagging.

“Ghoshisdead.”

Hisfeaturesturnedleaden,thenpale.

Ilethimruminateonthat.I'msurehewantedtoknowhow,why,buthecouldn'task.Thenewshadstoppedhimcold,saddenedhim,Icouldsee.Good.Iwastouched.ButIwasn'tdonekickinghim.Iwasimpressedthathetookit,waitedformore.

“Soyouareoffthehook,”Isaid.“Ihadafather.”

Hesighed.“Idon'texpectyoutounderstand,”hesaidagain.

“Tellmeanyway.”

“WhereshallIstart?”

“ ‘Beginat thebeginningandgoonuntilyoucometotheend,’ theKingsaid,verygravely, ‘thenstop.’Doyouknowwhosaidthat?”

Iwasenjoyingmyself.ThefamousThomasStonebeinggrilled,gettingscrewed,gettingadoseofhis own medicine. Sure, he could rattle off the branches of the external carotid artery, or theboundariesoftheforamenofWinslow,butdidheknowhisLewisCarroll?DidheknowhisAliceinWonderland?

Hesurprisedmewithhisanswer.Itwaswrongbutitwasright.

“Ghosh,”hesaid,andtheairwentoutofhislungs.

CHAPTER45AMatterofTime

WHENTHOMASSTONEWASACHILD,heaskedthe—thegardener—wherelittleboyscamefrom.Thema-alt,adarkmanwithmuddyeyesandacidbreathfromthepreviousnight'sarrack,said,“Youcamewiththeeveningtide,ofcourse!Ifoundyou.Youweresucculentandpinkwithonelongfinandnoscales.Such fishtheysayonlyexist inCeylon,but thereyouwere. Ialmostateyou,but Iwasn'thungry.Icutoffthefinwiththisverysickleandbroughtyoutoyourmother.”

“I don't believe you.Mymother and Imust havewashed in from the sea together.Wewere onelargefish.Iwasinherbellyandcameout,”thelittleboysaid,walkingaway.Themaalicouldcoaxrosesoutoftheearthwheretheirneighborsfailed.ButHildaStonewouldhavefiredhimfortellingsuchtalestoheronlychild.

Thelittleboy'shomewasjustoutsidetherockwallsofFortSt.GeorgeinMadras,India.ThespireofSt.Mary'spokedup frombehind the incompletebattlements. Itsquaint,well-tendedcemeterywashisplayground,aplacewheremorethanfivegenerationsofEnglishmen,women,andbabieswereburied,takenbytyphoid,malaria,kalaazar,andrarelyoldage.

FortSt.GeorgewasthefirsthomeoftheEastIndiaCompany.St.Mary's,builtin1680,wasthefirstAnglicanchurchinIndia(butbynomeansthefirstchurch,thatbeingtheonebuiltinA.D.54bySt.ThomastheApostle,wholandedontheKeralacoast).AplaqueinsideSt.Mary'scommemoratedthemarriageofLordClive,andanotherthatofGovernorElihuYale,wholaterfoundedauniversityinAmerica.ButthelittleboysawnoplaquetocommemoratethemarriageofHildaMastersofFife,tutorandgoverness,toJustifusStone,civilservantintheBritishRajandalmosttwodecadeshersenior.

Thomasthoughteverychildgrewupashedid—insightoftheIndianOcean,hearingthefearsome-soundingwaves crashing aroundFort St.George.Andhe assumed that all fatherswere like his,crashingintofurnitureandmakingalarmingsoundsatnight.

JustifusKayeStone'svoicerumbleddownfromaheight,andhisbottle-brushmustachekeptlittleboysatbay.DistrictcollectorsintheIndianCivilServiceweredemigods,withsecretariesandpeonshoveringaroundthemlikefliesaroundoverripemangoes.Collectorswentontoursforweeksatatime,holdingcourtineachcity.WhenJustifusStonewashome,despitehisnoisypresence,hewassomehownotthere.Thomasunderstood(inthatwaythatchildrendo,eventhoughtheylackwordstoexpressthemselves)thatJustifuswasaself-centeredmanandneglectfulofhiswife.PerhapsthiswaswhyHildaturnedtoreligion.ToimagineChrist'ssufferingallowedhertolivewithhers.

Blessedarethemeek.

Blessedarethepeacemakers.

BlessedtheyounggovernesswhomarriesaDChopingtoclearhisyellow-tingedskinofquinineandcurehistasteforginandnativewomen,forhersisthekingdomofheaven.

Hilda'sblessingcameintheformofherblue-eyed,towheadedboywhosefeetshehardlylettouchtheground,evenwhenhewasoldenoughtowalk.

Thelittleboy'sayah,Sebestie,hadnothingtodootherthanjoinintheplaysinceitwasHildawholethimrideonherbackpretendinghewasJimCorbett,thebig-gamehunter,andshetheelephantcarryinghimtothetigerblind.Hildadrewred-chalkwicketsonthewhitewashedwallsandbowledtohimwitha tennisball.Shesanghymns tohim,and fannedhimwhen itwas toohumid to fallasleep.Thebell-likeclarityofhervoicecausedsomnolentlizardsonthewalltosnaptoattention.Herbrownhair,partedinthecenter,fellfromasteepledhead.Regardlessofhowsherestrainedit,afrizzyhaloframedherface.

Inthemiddleofthenighthereachedforherandshewasthere.ButonthenightsJustifusStonewashome,thelittleboysleptpoorly,fearfulforhismotherbecausethoseweretheonlytimesshelefthisbed.Hekeptvigilwithhiscricketbatoutsidetheclosedbedroomdoor,preparedtobreakinif thenoisesdidnotsubside.Theyalwaysdidandonly thenwouldheretreat tohis room. In themorning,whenheopenedhiseyes,shewouldbebackinhisbed,awakeandpeeringoutthroughherfringeofhair.

Every child should have amother of such even temperament, her rare displeasure evidenced so

gently that the effect was lasting. Thomas lived to please hismother and hewas earnest in hispleasing. Itwasas if theybothknew, though theycouldnothaveknown, that lifewasshort, themomentfleeting.

HEWASEIGHTwhenHildahadtoexcuseherselffromtheSt.Mary'schoir.Acoughthatatfirstwaslikedistantartillerysoonsoundedlikenailsrattlinginapaperbag.Dr.Winthrop,anoverdressedmanwhodidnotconverseasmuchasmakepronouncements,saidmotherandsonweretosleepapart,“forthechild'sbetterment.”

The little boy heard her nightly paroxysms from the other room and covered his ears with thepillows. “Undoubtedlyconsumption,”Dr.Winthropsaid toThomasoneday,usingadelicatewordfortuberculosisasheputawayhisstethoscopeandthermometer.“Ithasturneddry.Thesiccaformof phthisis, you know.” He talked to the little boy as if to a colleague and shook his hand withgravity.Whenwouldshegetbetter?“Restanddietandhydrotherapy,”saidthedoctor.“Someofthetime— let's say,muchof the time—itbecomesquiescent.After all, it's notup tous, is it,MasterStone?”WhenThomasasked,Please,sir,whommightitbeupto,Winthropraisedhiseyestotheceiling. It was only later that the little boy understood the doctor did not mean Justifus, whoseheavytreadshookthechandelier.HemeantGod.

OnemorningThomasawokedreamingofhorse-drawncarriages, andwith the thunderofhoovesechoinginhisears.Hediscoveredthatinthenighthismotherhadcoughedupblood,lotsofit,andWinthrop had been summoned. They bundled her off, not letting her kiss her son's brow. ShetraveledtoCoimbatore,andfromtherethenarrow-gaugetoytraintookherupthemountaintoahillstationsittingjustbelowOoty.Dr.RosshadbuiltasanatoriumintheNilgiriHillsfashionedafterTrudeau'sfamedSaranacLakeinNewYork.ThewhitecottagesaroundthehospitalwerereplicasofthoseatSaranac,withthesameairyporchesandtrundlebeds.

ThomaswepthimselftosleeponSebestie'sbonychest.HewasangrywithHildaforgettingsick,forhavingfosteredsuchaclosenesswithhimsoastomakethisseparationunbearable.Hewasnotlikehisschoolmateswholovedtheirayahsmorethantheirparentsandcarednothingabout longseparations.Overnight,Sebestieblossomedintoasurrogatemother,butThomaswaswaryofgivingherhislove.Forthenshe,too,mightdisappear.

BeforeschoolThomasvisitedSt.Mary'sandrecitedfiftyOur-Father-Hail-Marysanddidthesameonhiswayback.Hewasonhiskneessooftenthatboggysacsformedunderhiskneecaps.Aroundhisneckhe fastenedwith twine theheavycrucifix thathadbeenonherwall,hiding itunderhisschooluniform,whereitgougedtheskinoverhisbreastboneandthetwinecutintohisneck.Nothavingafirstbornoraramorewe,hesacrificedhisDonBradmansignaturecricketbat,smasheditonthewashingstone.Hefastedtillhewasdizzy.Hecuthisforearmwitharazor,spillingbloodontotheshrinefortheVirginMarythathebuiltinhisroom.SebestietookhimtotheMambalamTempleandeventothetinypavementtemplebehindtheirhouse.IfitwasuptoGod,Hedidnotseemtolisten.

Meanwhilehis fathernevermissedastoponhiscircuit:Vellore,Madurai,Tuticorin,andparts inbetween.WhenJustifusStonewashome,hebarelyhadtimetoremovehispithhelmetorunpackhisbagsbeforehewasoffagain.JustifuscalledhissontheArchbishopofCanterbury,andifthesewere words of reassurance, they did nothing for Thomas. He spoke to his son as if he wereaddressingmultitudes.AtnightThomascouldhearhisunevenfootsteps likethoseofagiant inabedroomofLilliputiandimensionswhocouldnothelpknockingoverfurniture.ItwasareliefwhenJustifuswentoutontouragain.

AYEARPASSEDwithThomaslivingallbutparentless inthebighouse,alongwithSebestie,Durai(thecook), themaali,Sethuma(whowashedclothesandswabbed the tile floors),andanuntouchablewhocameonceaweektocleanthetoilets—thatwashisfamily.

OnChristmasDay,sonandbackslappingfathercametogetherfordinner;hisfather'sclerk,AndrewFothergill,wastheirsoleguest.“Well,whatafeast!Goodtohaveyouall.Finerepast,justfine.Eat,doeat”—thiswhenitwasjustthethreeofthematthetable,withDuraiwaitingbehindthekitchendoor.“Wecan'tletthemgetawaywithitall.Thereismoneytobemadeincoir.Rope,youknow,ormatting.Wedeserve,weearnedit,I'llsay,andbygollywearegoingtohaveit,”andonhewent,barelystoppingtoswallow,thecrumbssprayingfromhislips.FothergilltriedvaliantlytoconnectJustifus's thoughts, togivehissuperior'sscatteredremarksaspine,athreadofmeaning. Justifusbegantorubonethigh,thentheother,fidgeting,glancingdownwithirritationasifthedogwereunderfoot, but of course she never came into the house when Justifus was around. By the timepuddingwas served the leg rubbingwas so furious that Thomas had to ask, Please, sir, what iswrong.

“Ihavefuronmelegs,son.Keepsmefromfeeling,itdoes.Ruddynuisance.”Hisfatherstruggledtorise,almostupsettingthetableintheprocess.Hestumbledout,grabbingsideboardandwall,hisfeetstickinglikemagnetstothefloor.ThomasrememberedFothergill's lookofconsolationastheboysawtheguesttothedoor.

Jan.20,

Mydarlingson,

Mytemperatureswere36.7,37.2.37.8,37.3.Ithrewoutthe38.6becauseIdidn'tbelieveit.Theyroll ourbedsout to theporch, andback inatnight. Inandout. I'mnot evenallowed togo thelavatory.TOTALBEDREST, thoughthehugeeffort thisrequiresseemstobeagainst the ideaofrest.Ifinditdifficulttobelievethatonthisporch,withthemistoutsideandtheairsocold,thatabody can generate a temperature over 36 degrees. No wonder we are called warm-bloodedanimals.

Shehadcircledasplotchonthepageandcaptioneditwith“Mytears,asIcryforyou,mydarlingboy.”IneachletterHildatoldhimthathemustbebrave,andbepatient.

TIMEFORTHOMASwasnolongerdividedbydaysandnightsorseasons.Timewasaseamlessyearningforhismother.

TheysayIhavenotmadeanygreatimprovementbutthatIshouldbegladIamnoworse…

Hewentthroughthemotionsatschool.Sheexhortedhimtopray,toldhimthatsheprayedeveryhourandthatGodlistenedandprayerneverfailed.Heprayedconstantly,convincedthatattheveryleasttheprayerskeptheralive.

IknowGoddidnotmeantokeepusapart,andsoonhewillbringusbacktogether.

ONEDAY,Thomaswoketofindhispillowmoist.WhenSebestielitthelamp,therewasthemarkofthebeast: a fine red spray on his pillow, a strangely beautiful pattern. Sebestie wept, but he wasoverjoyed.Heknewthismeanthewouldseehismotheragain.Whydidn'thethinkofthissooner?

TwobarefootstretcherbearersincrispwhitedrillmethistraininOoty.TheytookhimdirectlytoHilda's cottage. He climbed into her narrow cot, into her arms. Hewas eleven years old. “YourcomingisthebestandworstpresentIcouldeverhave,”shesaid.

Grayandshrunktoherbones,shewasashadowofthemotherheonceknew.Herplayfulnesswasgone,butthensowasthereciprocityitmighthavefoundinthisganglysonofherswhoseeyeswerehauntedandringedbyworrylines.Theysatsidebysideontheporchoftheircottage,theirfingersintertwined like dried roots. In the early morning they watched the tea pickers float by on thefootpath, their feethidden in themist, their lunchpailscreakingwitheverystep.During thedayonly the nurses interrupted their solitude to take their temperatures and to bring tiffin andmedications.Bydusk,whentheysawtheteapickersheadhome,itwastimeforsleep.

SinceHildahadnowind,hereadtoher.Sheweptwithprideathisprecociousfluency.Thecane-bottomedloungechairshadlargearmrestsandawritingpalettemadeofthesameteak.Heretheypennedletterstoeachother,putthemintoenvelopes,andsealedthem;afterlunchtheyexchangedenvelopes, tore themopen, and read their letters.Theyprayedat least three timesaday. In themostbittercoldtheyremainedoutside,bundledup.

At first Thomas was light-headed from the altitude. He grew stronger. His cough lessened. Butnothing—notfreshair,ormilk,meat,oreggsorthetonicsthatwereforcedonher—helpedHilda.Hercoughwasdifferent.Itwasahonking,bleatingsound.Henoticedthatshehadanexquisitelypainfulswellingatherbreastbone,pushingupunderherblouse.Hewasembarrassedtoaskaboutit,andcarefulnottolethisheadrestthere.Once,whenshewasundressing,hecaughtaglimpse.Itwasasbigasarobin'seggbutofadarkercolor.Heassumeditwastheconsumption,thephthisis,the tubercle bacillus, the Koch's agent, TB, themycobacterium—whatever name it had, it was atreacherousenemyripeningwithinher.

ONEEVENINGastheylaynexttoeachother,theirbedspulledtogether,andashereadtoherfromthe

daily worship book, she exclaimed in surprise. He looked back at the sentence to see if he hadmissedaword.Helookeduptoseebloodstainingherwhitenightgownandspreadingoutasifshehadbeenshot.

Aslongashelivedhewouldrememberthatintheawfulmomentwhensherealizedshewasdying,andwhenhereyessoughthis,herfirstthought,heronlythought,wasaboutabandoningherson.

ForasecondThomaswasparalyzed.Thenhejumpedupandpulledasidethesoggyblouse.Aredgeysershotupfromherchestandarcedtotheceiling,thenfelltoearth.Inthenextinstantitdiditagain.Andagain.Apulsingobscenebloodfountain,timedtoeverybeatofherheart,keptstrikingtheceiling,showeringhim,thebed,andherfacewithblood,soakingthepagesoftheopenbook.

He recoiled from the monstrous sight, this eruption from his mother's chest which paintedeverythingarounditred.Whenitoccurredtohimtotrytostaunchitwiththebedsheet,thejetwasalreadydroppinginheight,asifthetankwereempty.Hildalaysoakedinherblood,herfacewhiteasporcelainandfleckedwithscarlet.Shewasgone.

Thomascradledhersoggyhead,histearsfallingonherface.WhenDr.Rossarrived,awhitecoatthrownoverhispajamas,hesaidtoThomas,“Itwasinevitable.Thataneurysmhasbeentickinginherchestforoverayear.Itwasjustamatteroftime.”HereassuredThomasthatthebloodwasnotinfective—thethoughthadnotcrossedtheboy'smind.

ALONE,TRULYALONE,Thomasdevelopedfever,andacough.Herefusedtobemovedfromthecottagetotheinfirmary;thecottagewasthelastthingonearthtoconnecthimtohismother.HeletthemtakehimforanX-ray.LaterhewatchedMuthukrishnan,thecompounder,arrivewithapushcartcarryingthebulkypneumothoraxapparatusinitspolishedwoodencase.Muthusquattedonthebalconyand,afterwipinghisfacewithatowel,heopenedthewingsofthefancyboxandbeganunpackingthelargebottles,manometers,andtubing.Dr.Ross,himselfonceaconsumptive,sooncycledup.“TheX-raywasnogood,lad.Nogoodatall,”Rosssaid.

Itisjustamatteroftime,Thomasthought.Helookedforwardtojoininghismother.

Hedidn'tflinchastheneedlewentbetweenhisribsposteriorlyandintothepleuralspacethatlinedthe lung,aspace thatwasnormallyavacuum,Rossexplained.“Nowwemeasurepressures.”Hemaneuvered the needlewhileMuthu fiddledwith the two bottles, raising and lowering them onRoss'scommand.“Thisis‘artificialpneumothorax.’Fancywayofsayingweputairinthatvacuumthatlinesyourchesttocollapsetheinfectedpartofthelung,lad.ThoseKochbacterianeedtheiroxygentothrive,andwewon'tgiveittothem,willwe?”

Facedown,fromthedepthsofhisillness,Thomasthoughtthisreasoningwasillogical:Whataboutmyoxygen,Dr.Ross?Buthesaidnothing.

Fortwenty-fourhoursThomashadto lieprone,propped inpositionbysandbags.Muthucamebymany times a day to check on him. Muthu noted the sudden fever and the chills. The artificialpneumothorax had introduced other bacteria into the pleural space around the lung. He heardRoss's voice from afar. “Empyema, my boy. That's what we call pus collecting around the lung.Doesn'thappenthatofteninmyhands,butitdoeshappen.Iamsosorry.Alas,thepusistoothicktocomeoutwithaneedle,”Rosssaid.

Fortheoperationtheytookhimtoatiledroomwithhighwindows.Itseemedbarebutforanarrowraisedtableinthemiddle,overwhichwassuspendedagiantdishlightresemblingthecompoundeye of an insect. The place left a strong impression on the boy. It was otherworldly, hallowedground,butstillsecular.Thename“theater”wasfitting.

Rosscut into theskin,under localanesthesia, just to theoutsideof the leftnipple, thenexposedthreeadjacentribsandcutoutshortsegmentsfromthem,therebyunroofing,or“saucerizing,”theempyemacavity.Thepushadnoplacetocollect.Despitetheanesthesia,Thomashadmomentsofexcruciatingpain.

Whenhecouldspeak,Thomasasked,“Won'tanopeninglikethatdestroythevacuuminthepleuralspace?Won'titcauseairtorushinandthewholelungtocollapse?”

“Brilliantquestion,lad,”Rosssaid,delighted.“Itwouldcollapseinanybodyelse.Buttheinfection,theempyema,hasstiffenedtheliningofyourlung,madeitthickandinflexible, likeascab.Soinyourcase,thelungwon'tcollapseback.”

Foraweek,pusoozedoutontogauzepaddingstrappedoverthehole.Whenitslowedtoatrickle,Ross stuffed the wound with gauze tape, to cause it to “heal by secondary intention.” During

dressing changes, Thomas studied his crater with a mirror, taking perverse pride in what itproducedandtheday-to-daychangesashisbodymaderepairs.

Rosswasashort,cheerfulmanwiththeroundestandmostforgettableoffacesandthebowlegsofa jockey.HealwayswarmedthechestpieceofhisstethoscopeinhischubbyhandsbeforelettingthemetaltouchThomas'sskin.HepercussedThomas'schest,soundingitoutskillfully.Rosspulledoutthegauzeandtheypeeredintothecrater.“Youseethered,pebbly-lookingbase,Thomas?Wecallthatgranulationtissue.Itwillslowlyfillupthewoundandallowskintoformoverit.”Andthatwasexactlywhathappened.Atonepointthegranulationtissuegrewexcessively,pouchingoutlikea strawberry. “Proud flesh,” Ross called it.Holding a crystal of copper sulfate in his forceps, herubbeditovertheproudflesh,burningitback.

One day Ross brought him Metchnikoff s Immunity in Infectious Diseases along with Osler'sPrinciplesandPracticeofMedicine.Metchnikoffwashardgoing,butThomaslikedthedrawingsofwhitecellseatingbacteria.Oslerwassurprisinglyreadable.

Inalifethatwasmerelyapreludetodeath,ThomasfoundhelookedforwardtoRoss'svisit,totheshortman'sdailyrituals.Andyetheheldbackhisaffectionforthedoctor,becausethatwasarecipeforloss.“I'mnotgoingaway,lad,”Rosssaidoneday.“Andsinceyouarestaying,whydon'tyoujoinusonrounds.”Rossturnedandleft,notwaitingforananswer.

WHEN ROSS PRONOUNCEDhimhealed,Thomashadbeenat thesanatorium forayearandahalf.Duringthattimeheneversawhisfather.Fothergillcametwice,sayingJustifusStonewastooilltotravel.Thomas asked Ross about the illness from which his father suffered. Ross said, “It's nottuberculosis,butsomethingelse.”

“Todowithhislegs?”

RosstousledThomas'shair.“Somethingpunky,lad.Unfortunate,itis.Heisbedridden.You'lllearninmedicalschool,”hesaid.

ItwasthefirsttimeRosshadeverutteredthewords“medicalschool”toThomas.Thomascouldn'tcontroltheflutteringinhisheart,asifadoorhadcrackedopeninhiscoalcellar,bringinginlight,promisingafuturewhenhehadvisualizednone.

ROSS,NOWOFFICIALLYTHOMAS'SGUARDIAN,decidedThomasshouldgotoboardingschoolinEngland.Thomasdidn'tevenconsidergoingtoseehisfatherintheinfirmaryinMadrasbeforehesailed.

TwotermshadgonebywhenRosswrotetosaythatJustifushaddied.AmodestinheritanceunderRoss'sguardianshipwouldallowhimtofinishschoolingandgotouniversity.

Ross had led Thomas in the direction ofmedical school as if it were inevitable. Thomas had noreason to resist. Life thus far had convinced him of his aptitude for two things: sickness andsuffering.

In medical school in Edinburgh, he lost himself in his studies, finding a stability and a sanctitymissingbefore.Hehadnoneedto lifthishead fromhisbooks,nodesire togoanywherebut forclassesordemonstrations.Whenhiseyestired,hewentdiffidentlytotheinfirmary,hopingnoonewouldthrowhimout.Hegottoknowahouseofficerhere,aseniorstudentthere,andbeforelong,and well before his class had reached the clinical years, he was being pointed to interestingpatients.

Thehospitalporternicknamedhim“theLurker,”andThomasdidn'tmind.Intheorganizedchaosofthehospital, inthelabyrinthofcorridors, inthestinkandconfinementof itswalls,hefoundbothorderandrefuge;hefoundhome.Miseryandsufferingwerehisclosestkin.

AdrunknamedJoneslookedeerilylikehisfather;Thomasrealizeditwasthewaxycomplexion,theswollenparotids,thelossoftheouterthirdoftheeyebrows,andthepuffyeyelidsofalcoholismthatgavebothmena leonineappearance.Now thathewas trained to see,heput together theothercluesherecalled:redpalms,thestarburstofcapillariesoncheekandneck,thewomanlybreasts,andtheabsenceofarmpithair.His fatherhadcirrhosis.Perhapsthatwasthe“punky”thingthatRosshadbeentoopolitetomention.

ITWASSLEETINGonabittercoldeveningintheFounders’Librarywhenthefinalpiececametogether,andwhen it did, Thomas slammedhis book shut, alarmingMrs. Pincus, the librarian. The young

man,whopracticallylivedinthestudycarrelfarthestfromthefireplace,suddenlyranoutintothespittingsnow,hatlessanddistraught.

Thomasnegotiatedthelongcorridorleadingtohisroominthepitch-dark.Walkinginthedarkwassomethinghisfathercouldnothavedone.ThesignalscomingupfromThomas'stoeandankleandkneetoldhimwherehewasinspace,butinJustifusStonethosemessageshadbeenblockedinhisspinalcord.Hisfather'sstamping,crashinggait,alwaysworseatnightwhenhenolongercouldseewherehisfeetwereplanted—thatwasfromsyphilisofthespinalcord,ortabesdorsalis.Nochildshouldpossesssuchknowledgeofaparent.

Themeanderingconversation,theboastfultalesatthedinnertable,thedelusionsofgrandeur—thatwassyphilisofthebrain,notjustthespinalcord.

Onceinhisroom,Thomasstrippedbeforethewardrobemirror.Withasecondhandheldmirrorheexaminedeveryinchofhisskin.Nosyphilids.Nogummaonhisskin.Helistenedtohisheartbutheardnothingunusual.He'dbeensparedcongenitalsyphilis.Butthenherealizedthathisfearwasabsurdbecausecongenitalsyphilishadtocomethroughtheplacentatohim, ithadtocomefromhismother.Absurdforhimtoworry.Whathismotherhadwastuberculosis.PureastheVirgin,hismothercouldneverhavehad….

Hecriedoutsuddenly,theanguishofachildwhosefinalillusionisstrippedaway.Heunderstoodatlast.

Ithadbeenunderhisnoseallthistime.Tuberculosisdidn'tcauseaneurysmsliketheonethatkilledher,butsyphilisdid.“Mother.PoorMother,”hecried,grievingforheralloveragain.HisfatherhadmurderedHildawithhisunbridled lust.ShemighthaverecoveredfromherTB,butsheprobablyneverknewshehadsyphilisuntilthataneurysmblossomedandbeganerodingpainfullythroughthebreastbonewhenshewasatthesanatorium.Rosswouldhavetoldherwhatitwas.Sheknew.Bythatpointneithersalvarsannorevenpenicillin,haditbeenavailable,wouldhavebeenofanyuse.

WHENTHOMASSTONEBOUGHThisowncadaverinhisfinalyearofmedicalschool,itwasunheard-of,butdidnotsurpriseanyone.Hewasplanningasecondcompletedissection,searchingformasteryof thehumanbody.

“Is Stone around?” was a common question in the casualty room, because he was the medicalstudent who was more constant than Hogan or the other porters, always willing to stitch up alaceration,orpassastomachtube,orruntothebloodbank.Hewasthehappiestofstudentswhenaskedtoscrubinandholdaretractorduringemergencysurgery.

Onenight,Dr.Braithwaite,SeniorConsultantSurgeonandChiefExaminerfortheRoyalCollegeofSurgeons, came in to see a patient with a high stab wound to the abdomen. Braithwaite was alegendforhavingpioneeredanewoperationforesophagealcancer,anotoriouslydifficultconditionto cure. The patient, already inebriated, was terrified, abusive, and combative. Braithwaite, acompactmanwithsilverhair,woreabluethree-piecesuitthatwasthesameshadeashisblueeyes;hedismissedtheportersrestrainingthepatientandheputhishandgentlyontheman'sshoulderandsaid,“Don'tworry.Itisgoingtobeallright.”Hekepthishandthere,andthepatient,staringattheelegantdoctor,quieteddownandstayedthatwayduringthebriefinterview.ThenBraithwaiteexaminedhimquicklyandefficiently.Whenhewasdone,Braithwaiteaddressedhispatientasifhewereapeer,someonehemightseelaterinthedayathisclub.“I'mgladtotellyouthattheknifesparedyourbigbloodvessels. Iamconfidentyouaregoingtodoverywell,soIwantyounot toworry. I'll operate, to repair whatever is cut or torn.We are going to take you to the operatingtheaternow.Everythingisgoingtobefine.”Thedocilepatientextendedagrubbyhandofthanks.

When theywereout of earshot of thepatient,Braithwaite asked theentourageof registrars andhouse-officers,“Whattreatmentisofferedbyearinanemergency?”

Thiswasanoldsaw,particularlyinEdinburgh.Still,theoldsawswerenotwellknownanymore,amatter that distressed Braithwaite greatly. He saw it as emblematic of a slackness in the newgenerationoftrainees,anditwassadthatonlyonepersonknewtheanswer.Andthattooamedicalstudent,ofallpeople.

“Wordsofcomfort,sir.”

“Verygood.Youcancomeandassistmeinsurgeryifyoulike,Mr.…”

“Stone,sir.ThomasStone.”

DuringthesurgeryBraithwaitefoundThomasknewhowtostayoutoftheway.WhenBraithwaite

askedhimtocutaligature,Stoneslidhisscissorsdowntotheknotandthenturnedthescissorsata forty-five-degree angle and cut, so there was no danger to the knot. Indeed, Stone so clearlyunderstoodhisrolethatwhentheseniorregistrarshoweduptoassist,Braithwaitewavedhimoff.

Braithwaitepointedtoaveincoursingoverthepylorus.HeaskedThomaswhatitwas.

“ThepyloricveinofMayo,sir…,”Thomassaid,andappearedabouttoaddsomething.Braithwaitewaited,butThomaswasdone.

“Yes, that'swhat it'scalled, thoughI thinkthatveinwasthere longbeforeMayospotted it,don'tyouthink?Whydoyouthinkhetookthetroubletonameit?”

“I believe it was as a useful landmark to identify the prepyloric from the pyloric area whenoperatingonaninfantwithpyloricstenosis.”

“That'sright,”Braithwaitesaid.“Theyshouldreallycallitthepre-pyloricvein.”

“Thatwouldbebetter,sir.Becausetherightgastricvein isalsoreferredto insomebooksasthe‘pyloricvein.’Whichisveryconfusing.”

“Indeed,itis,Stone,”Braithwaitesaid,surprisedthatthisstudenthadpickeduponsomethingthateven surgeons with a special interest in the stomachmight not know. “If we have to give it aneponym,maybecallittheveinofMayoifwemust,oreventheveinofLaterjet,whichseemstomemuchthesamething.Justdon'tcallitpyloric.”

Braithwaite'squestionsbecamemoredifficult,buthefoundtheyoungman'sknowledgeofsurgicalanatomytobeshockinglygood.

He letThomasclose theskin,andhewasgratified toseehimusebothhandsand takehis time.Therewasroomfor improvement,but thiswasclearlyastudentwho'dspentmanywakinghourstyingknotsone-handedandtwo-handed.Stonehadthegoodsensetosticktoatwo-handedknot,tiedwellandwithcare,ratherthanshowingofftoBraithwaitewithone-handedknots.

Thenextmorning,whenBraithwaitereturned,hefoundStoneasleepinachairatthebedsideintherecoveryroom,havingkeptanall-nightvigilonthepatient.Hedidnotwakehim.

Atyear'send,afterpassinghisfinalexams,whenThomaswasappointedtothecovetedpositionofBraithwaite'shouseofficer,ShawnGrogan,abrightandwell-connectedmedicalstudent,foundthecouragetoaskBraithwaitewhathemighthavedonetobeselectedinsteadofStone.

“It'squitesimple,Grogan,”Braithwaitesaid.“Allyouhavetodoisknowyouranatomyinsideout,never leave the hospital, and prefer surgery over sleep, women, and grog.” Grogan became apathologist,famousasateacherinhisownright,andfamousforhisextraordinarygirth.

During the war, Thomas was commissioned. He traveled with Braith waite to a field hospital inEurope. In 1946, he returned to Scotland, became a junior registrar, then a senior registrar. He'dskippedarealchildhoodandgonedirectlytodoctorhood.

Ross came to Scotland on a rare visit. He told Thomas how proud he was of him. “You're myconsolation for never having married. That wasn't by choice, by the way—not being married.‘Perfectionofthelifeorofthework’—Icouldonlydotheone.Ihopeyoudon'tmakethatmistake.”

Rossplannedtoretirenearthesanatorium,toplayrummyattheOotyClubeverynight,tocatchuponalifetimeofreading,andtolearntoplaygolfwiththeretiredofficerswholivedthere.Butjustashedid,acancermade itselfknowninRoss'sgood lung.ThomasreturnedtoIndiaatonce.HestayedwithRoss for thenextsixmonths,duringwhichtimethecancerspreadtohisbrain.Rossdiedpeacefully, Thomas at his side, the faithfulMuthu, old andgray, on the other side,with themanynursesandattenderswhohadworkedwithRossholdingvigil.

The funeral brought Europeans and Indians from as far away as Bombay and Calcutta to paytribute.Rosswasburiedinthesamecemeterywheremanyofhispatientsrested.“Theyareheroes,one and all, all those who sleep in this cemetery,” said the Reverend Duncan at the gravesideservice.“Butnogreaterhero,andnohumbleraman,andnobetterservantofGodisburiedherethanGeorgeEdwinRoss.”

THOMASTOOKANAPPOINTMENTasaconsultantsurgeonintheGovernmentGeneralHospital,Madras.Butafterindependencein1947,thingswerenotthesame.IndiansnowrantheIndianMedicalService,andtheywerenotexcitedbyEnglishmenwhowantedtostayon,thoughmanydid.Thomasknewhehadtoleave;ifithadeverbeenhisland,itnolongerwas.Andthatwashow,inresponsetoanotice

fromMatronintheLancet,hemadehisvoyageontheCalangutetoAden.ItwasonthatshipthatSisterMaryJosephPraiseliterallyfellintohisarmsandenteredhislife.

Thomas Stone believed there existed within him the seeds for harshness, for betrayal, forselfishness,andforviolence—afterall,hewashisfather'sson.Hebelievedtheonlyvirtuespasseddown to him were the virtues of his profession, and they came through books and byapprenticeship.Theonlysufferingthatinterestedhimwasthatoftheflesh.Fortheheartacheandthegriefofhisownloss,hehadfoundthecureandhe'dfounditbyhimself.Rosshaditwrong,orsoThomasthought:perfectionofthelifecamefromperfectionofthework.ThomasstumbledonanaddressbySirWilliamOslertograduatingmedicalstudentsinwhichthemanarticulatedthisverythesis:

Themaster-wordisWork,alittleone,asIhavesaid,butfraughtwithmomentoussequencesifyoucanbutwriteitonthetabletsofyourhearts,andbindituponyourforeheads.

“Themaster-wordisWork.”Stoneboundittohisforehead.Hewroteitonthetabletofhisheart.Hewoketoitandfoughtsleepforit.Workwashismeat,hisdrink,hiswife,hischild,hispolitics,hisreligion.Hethoughtworkwashissalvation,until thedayhefoundhimselfseated inOurLadyofPerpetualSuccour,intheroomofachildhehadabandoned;onlythendidheadmittohissonhowcompletelyworkhadfailedhim.

CHAPTER46RoomwithaView

HESTOPPEDTALKINGatthispoint.Inthesilencethatfollowed,itseemedtomehewasdebatingwhatto tell me next. When he resumed, I thought at first that he had leapfrogged over his years atMissing,dismissedtheexistenceofmymother,andInearlysaidsomethingrudetointerrupthim,butI'mgladIdidn't,becausewhatfollowedwasallabouther…

THEOAKSANDMAPLESoutsidethewindowofhisroomarewildmenwiththeirheadsonfire.Heshutshiseyes,buttheviewinsidehiseyelidsisthesamenightmare.Hisnervesarelancinatingcablesunderhisskinthatsendjoltsofelectricitytohismuscles.Heissotremulousthatwhenhebringsaglassofwatertohislips,hehasspilledmostofitbeforehecantakeasip.Hepukeshisinsidesout,tillheimaginestheliningofhisstomachissmoothandshinylikeacopperpot.Buttheimpulsetorunisgone.Hehasputoneorperhapstwooceansbetweenhimandtheplaceheflees.

EliHarris and anotherman, a doctor perhaps, judging by his detachment, leave him tincture ofparegoricinatinybottlebythebedside.Thomasfailstoseeitatfirst,imaginingthatthepeculiarscentofaniseedandcamphor isahallucination.Butoncehespies thebottlehedrinks itas if itholdsredemption.Theantisepticodorfillstheroom,andthenitcomesoffhisbreath.Itisthetinyamountofopium inparegoric thatgiveshimsomeease,or sohe tellshimself.Surely it isn't thealcoholbaseofthetincture.Heisdonewithalcohol.

Theonlytwowomenhehaseverlovedhavedied,andthoughonedeathoccurredyearsbeforetheother,theybecamesuperimposedinhisbrain.Itmadehimlosehismind.Hefled.Heranwithoutknowingwheretoorwhatfrom.Hehasnowrunfarenough.HehasnomemoryofhowhearrivedinNewJerseyfromKenya,exceptthathehasabenefactor,EliHarris.

Aweekpasses,measurednotindays,butincoldsweatsandnightterrors.Itistwoweeksbeforetheagitationand theshakesease,andbefore theugly little invertebratesbegina retreat.Forsolong theyhavebeenonhis skin andon the edgeof his sheets, scurrying to theperiphery of hisvisionwhenheturnstolookatthem.Nowtheyretreattothechitinousunderworldfromwheretheycame.

There isbreadandcheesebyhisbed,sittingonanewspaperthat is twodaysold.Theparegoricbottleisempty.Apitcherofwaterhasbeenrefilled.Whenatlasthefeelsitsafetotakehischairtothe window, the leaves have gone from carrot to brick to crimson and every hue in between, apalettebeyondtheimaginationofanypainter.Hesitstherelikeastatue,gratefulforbeingabletosit, to see things for what they are. Leaves spiral down, each descent unique and never to berepeated.Amillionvoyagersleavetheirinvisibletrailsintheair.

Onemorning he is steady enough to go downstairs. A sparrow hops on thewarpedwood of theporch, the varnish flaking under its feet. Stone sees the ginger kitten inching forward from thewisteria,itsshoulderbladesglidinglikepistonsunderitsfur.Hewondersifheishallucinating.Thekitten'sunblinkingeyesare lockedon itsprey.Thebird tilts itshead likeacoquettishwoman toregardmanandbeast.

JustwhenThomasthinksthetensionisunbearable,thekittenpounces,butthesparrowhopseasilytotherailingandoutofreach.Thomasfeelssomethingcrackinside,releasinghimfromthetorporthatstifledhismovementsandslowedhisthoughts.Hehasemergedtoaworldwhereasparrow'sfateandthatofamancanbedecidedintheblinkofacat'seye,suchisthetruemeasureoftime.

HEKNOWSTHECEILING inhisbedroombetterthanheknowshisbody.Hehasstudiedthemolding.Thedecorativegroovesareevenindepthandwidth.Heseesthehandiworkofacraftsman.Aclumsyamateurlatersubdividedthehousewithplywoodpartitionsandwithprefabricateddoors.Butthemaster'simprintistheretosee.

Atfirsthecreditstheparegoricforthecuriousphenomenon,butitcontinuesaftertheparegoricislonggone:likeacinemaprojectionisthewatcheshislifeplayoutonthescreenoftheblankceiling,orsometimesinthelightplayingonhiswindow.Hecannotcontrolthecontentororderofthereels.Whathecandoisobservedispassionately,separateemotionsfromevent,andjudgetheactorwhoplayshim.

ANEARLYWINTERSTORMcomesoverOceanCityandreachesinlandbyafternoon,firstwithfreezingrain,cracklingonthewindow,andthensnowsoheavythatwhenhestandsoutsideitweighsdownhiseyelashes. It blankets northern New Jersey, five to six inches in as many hours. It shuts down

interstates,airports,schools,andallcommerce,butheknowsnothingofthisasheretreatstohisroom.Iceformsaroundtheedgesofhiswindow,leavinganarrowprismthroughwhichtolookontoastillandghostlyworld.Itisonthiseveningthathewitnessesascenefromhislifewhichmakeshimwant to end it. He is seated on his bed, staring through that narrow breach in the frostedwindow.Hismindismotionlessandhushedlikethelandscapeoutside.Theonlythingthatstirsistheebbandflowofhisbreath,buteventhatseemstocease.

Thensuddenly,hefeelsaquickening,asifthewearingawayofbraincellshasunroofedalacunaofmemory.

Whatspewsoutthatwinter'snightisavivid,colorful,andspecificmemoryofSisterMaryJosephPraise.

Heissimplytheobserver,amanwatchingabird,unawareoftheferalcatlurkinginthewisteria.Thisiswhathesees,whatheremembers:

AddisAbaba.

MissingHospital.

Work.

Heseeshimselfintherhythmofoperating,ofclinics,ofwriting,forcinghimselftosleep,hisdaysfull and satisfying. The weeks and months roll by. The master word. Work. And suddenly themachineryseizes…

(Hethinksofthisashis“MissingPeriod.”Heprefersthatto“breakdown.”)

It alwaysbegins the sameway.Hewakes fromsleep inhisquarters atMissing,wakes in terror,unabletobreathe,asifheisabouttodie,asifthenextbreathwilltriggertheexplosion.Thoughheisawake, the tentaclesofdreamandnightmarewon't letgo.A terrifyingspatialdistortion is thehallmark of this state. His bedroom in his quarters begins to shrink.His pen, the doorknob, hispillow—ordinaryobjectsthatnormallydonotmeritasecondglance—ballooninsize.Theybecomecolossalandthreatentoimpalehim,tosuffocatehim.Hehasnocontroloverthisstate.Hecannotturnitoffbysittingupormovingaround.Hebecomesneitherchildnorman,doesnotknowwhereheis,orwhatsceneheisreliving,butheisterrified.

Alcoholisnottheantidote.Itdoesnotbreakthespell,yetitdullstheterror.Itcomeswithaprice:insteadofstraddlingthelinebetweenwakefulnessandnightmare,hecrossesover.Heroamsinaworld of familiar objects turned into symbols; he traipses through scenes of his childhood andthroughhell'sportals.Hehearsanonstopdialogue, likecricketcommentaryontheradio.ThatisthebackdroptothesenightterrorsinEthiopia.Thecommentator'svoiceisindistinct—sometimesitsoundslikehisownvoice.Ashedrinks,heloseshisfearbutnothissorrow.Hewhohasnotearsinhiswakingnowweepslikeachild.HeseesGhosh—probablytherealGhosh,notadreamfigure—standing before him, concerned, the Ghosh lips moving but the words drowned out by thecommentator.

Thenshe is there.Hecannothearherwords,butherpresenceisreassuring,andultimately,onlyshestays,onlyshekeepsvigil.Shemusthavebeenasleepwhenshewassummoned,becauseshewearsaheadscarfandadressinggown.Sheholdshimtoherwhenanewwaveoftearsappears,andshecrieswithhim,tryingtorescuehimfromhisnightmarebut,intheprocess,shegetssuckedin. (Every time he recalls this, there is a stirring in him.) In their work together, they share anintimacy that involves the body of another who lays between them, unconscious, naked, andexposed.Butthisweepinginherarmsisshockinglydifferentfromtheirgownedforearmsbrushingorheadsbumpingduringsurgery.Separatedastheyarebyanoperatingtableforsomanyhoursaday,whensheholdshim, theabsenceof the table,orof themask,or thegloves, is startling.Hefeelslikeanewbornplacedagainstitsmother'snakedbelly.Shewhispersinhisear.Whatdoesshesay?Howhewisheshecouldremember.Itsoundsimprovised,notaformalprayer.Itsucceedsinbluntingthecommentator'svoice.

Heremembersherblouse,dampwithhistears—no,boththeirtears.

Heremembersclingingtoher,pressinghisfacetoherbosom,sleeping,waking,clinging,weeping,sleepingagain.Sheasksagainandagain,Whatisit?Whatisitthathascomeoveryou?Forhours,days, who knows how long, she stays with him as he holds on for dear life, the storm raging,batteringhim,tryingtopryhimoutofhergrasp.

Heremembersalull,astartlingsilencewhichisachangeinthepattern.Herblousehasopened.

Likea surgeonworking todevelopa tissueplaneunder the incision, hewills theblouse to openfarther,andperhapshisnose,hischeeks,help italong.Hernipplesstir from thecoinsonwhichtheylie,andnowherbreastsescapeherblousetomeethislips.Herfacemustbeamirrorofhisbecausewhatheseesinitisfearcoupledwithdesire.

Shehoversoverhim,naked,herbreastsfullandreassuring,tearsofreliefonboththeirfaces,theirkissesdevouringeachothertomakeupfortimelost.Thenheisaboveher,andshelooksupathimasifheistheSavior.Whenheentersher,heisanchoringhimselftohergoodness,agoodnessandinnocencehelostsoyoung,fromwhichhehasdriftedaway,andwhichhevowsnevertoletgo…

SittingonhisbedinhisNewJerseyexile,theworldoutsidemutedinacanopyofsnow,hisheartisracing,adangeroustachycardia,hisshirtsoakedwithsweatdespitethecold.Thereisadullacheunderhisbreastbone.Howhewishesthathecouldrecalltheexactfeelofherlips,ofherbreasts.

Butherecallsthis(andhepraysitisatrueimage):

Herecallshowheloseshimselfinher,pullingherlikeasoftlambcoatoverhim.Shesettlesonhim,smothershim likenightfalloverameadow. In theircoming together they thwart thedemons,hisandhers,andwhenhiscryofreleasecomesitpunctuateshersoftexclamations.Orderisrestored.Proportionreturns.Sleepcomesasablessing.

HIS CURSE IS THIS (andheweeps inNew Jerseyat the recollection,hebeatshisheadwithhishand):whenhewakes fromhisMissingPeriod,hesensesonlyaperturbation inspace,agap in time,adeepembarrassmentandshame,thereasonforwhichhecannotrecall,butwhichhecanonlyhealbythrowinghimselfintohisworkanew.Hehasblockedoutwhatcamebefore.

Howcruel it is that thismemoryshouldsurface inawinterstormso longaftershe isdead.Howcrueltohavethisfleeting,fragmentedvision,seenthroughanice-crustedwindow,thentowonderifitisreal,orifitistheperturbationofabrainundonebyalcohol.Hehasreassembledthememorylikea shattered relic, and it is finallywhole;andstillhehasdoubts.Hewillnever seehermoreclearly than that night at 529 Maple. When he recalls it in later years, he will wonder if he isdistortingit,embellishingit,becauseeachtimeheconsciouslyrecallsher,thatformsanewmemory,anewimprinttobestackedontopofthepreviousone.Hefearsthattoomuchhandlingwillmakeitcrumble.

“Yousavedmy life,”he saysaloud toSisterMary JosephPraise, seatedonhis smallbed inNewJersey“Andmystupidity,myindecision,mypanic,causedyoutoloseyours.”Thoughitismuchtoolate to say it to her, he knows it must be said, and though he is a nonbeliever, he hopes thatsomehowsheis listening.“Icannot loveanyhumanbeingmorethanI loveyou.”Whathecannotbringhimselftomentionisthechildren;hefeelshecandoevenlessforthemthanhecandoforSisterMaryJosephPraise;theyexist,twoboys,twins,heknows,heremembers,inauniverseevenmoreremovedthantheoneinwhichSisterresides.

ButitistoolatetosayallthistoSisterMaryJosephPraise.Eventhismemoryofher,beautifulanderotic, cannot arouse him or fill him with joy. Instead, when he sees her nakedness, hisengorgement,themiscibil-ityoftheirparts,whathefeelsisaviolentjealousy,asifanotherpersonoccupieshisnakedbodyandstraddlesthewomanheloves,anillusiondessoises—Thatisme,butitisnotme.Histhrustingbody,thedarktrianglesofhisshoulderblades,thehollowsanddimplesofthelowback,onlyforetelldeathanddestruction.TheyareanaugurytoaterribleendbecausethiscarnalpleasurewilldoomMary, thoughshedoesnotknow itasyet,buthe,watching thescene,does.Hispunishmentisevenworse:hemustlive.

CHAPTER47MissingLetters

THOMASSTONESTAYED INMYROOMpastmidnight.Atsomepointhebecameonewiththedarkshadows,hisvoicefillingmyspaceasifnootherwordshadeverbeenspokenthere.Ididn'tinterrupthim.Iforgothewas there. Iwas inhabitinghis story, lightingacandle inSt.Mary'sChurch inFortSt.George,Madras,holdingmyowninanEnglishboardingschool,seeinghowanunroofingofmemorymightleadtoavisionofMary.AndifvisionscouldhappeninFatimaandLourdesandGuadalupe,whowasItodoubtthatasecularvisionofmymotherhadnotappearedtohiminafrost-rimmedroominghousewindow,justasIhadseenandfeltherintheautoclaveroomasayoungboy?Hisvoicewalkedmeintoapastthatprecededmybirth,butitwasstillmineasmuchasthecolorofmyeyesorthelengthofmyindexfinger.

IbecameconsciousofThomasStoneonlywhenhewasdone;Isawamanunderthespellofhisowntale,asnakecharmerwhoseserpenthasbecomehisturban.Thesilenceafterwardwasterrible.

THOMASSTONESAVEDoursurgeryprogram.

HediditbymakingOurLadyofPerpetualSuccouranaffiliateofMeccainBoston.Allittookwashis affixinghis signature to a letter saying itwas so.ButOurLadyofPerpetualSuccourwasnomerepaperaffiliateofMecca.Eachmonth,fourmedicalstudentsandtwosurgicalresidentscamedown fromMecca todoa rotationwithus. “A safari to see thenativeskillingeachother, and tocatchafewBroadwayshows,”ishowB.C.Gandhiputitwhenheheardabouttheplan.ButeachofusalsohadopportunitiestodospecialtyrotationsupinBoston.

Ifinishedmyinternshipandbeganmysecondyearofresidency.ThemostimportantresultofouraffiliationwithMeccawasthatitallowedDeepak,theWanderingJewofsurgery(asB.C.referredtohim), to finish. He was now a board-certified surgeon and could have gone anywhere to set uppractice.Instead,hestayedonatOurLadywiththetitleofDirectorofSurgicalTraining;hewasalso appointed Clinical Assistant Professor at Mecca. I had never seen Deepak happier. ThomasStone, true tohisword,paved theway forpublicationofDeepak's studyon in juries to thevenacava.Thatpaper in theAmericanJournalofSurgery becameaclassic, one thateveryonequotedwhendiscussingliverinjuries.ThoughDeepakwasgettingaconsultant'ssalary,hecontinuedtoliveinthehouse-staffquarters.CourtesyoftheMeccasurgicalresidentswhocamedowntotheBronxforrotations,wehadmoremanpowerandDeepakgotmoresleep. Inanunusedbasementspace,Deepakresearchedtheeffectsofdifferentinterruptionstothebloodsupplyofpigandcowlivers.

Popsy's dementia no longer needed to be concealed. He roamed safely throughout Our Lady,wearing scrubs, and with a mask dangling from his neck. He was turned away every time hewanderedintotheoperatingroom,ortriedtoleavethepremises,buthedidn'tseemtomind.Hewouldsometimesstoppeopleanddeclare,“Icontaminatedmyself.”

LATEONAFRIDAYEVENING,afewmonthsafterThomasStone'sfirstvisittomyroom,Iheardaknockatmydoor.Therehestood,tentative,embarrassed,andunsurewhathisreceptionwouldbe.

Myfather'slongconfessionalhadchangedthingsforme;ithadbeenmucheasiertostayangrywithhim, to trashhisapartmentandviolatehis space,before Iheardhisstory.Nowhispresence feltawkwardandIdidn'tinvitehimin.

“Ican'tstaybutIwondered…wanttoaskif…wouldyoucaretojoinmefordinneratanEthiopianrestaurantinManhattantomorrow,Saturday?…Here'stheaddress—aboutseven?”

ThiswasthelastthingIexpectedfromhim.Ifhe'dinvitedmetogototheMet,ortodineattheWaldorf-Astoria, I would have declined without any hesitation. But when he said “Ethiopianrestaurant,” itconjuredupthesourtasteof injeraandafierywotandmymouthbeganwateringandmytonguestoppedworking.Inodded,eventhoughIreallydidn'twanttobearoundhim.Butwehadunfinishedbusiness.

OnSaturdayIemergedfromthesubwayandIsawThomasStoneatadistancestandingoutsidetheMeskereminGreenwichVillage.Thoughhedbeen inAmericamore thantwentyyears,he lookedoutofplace.Hehadnointerestinthemenudisplayedoutside,andhedidnotnoticethestudentspouring out from a New York University building, instrument cases in their hands, their hair,clothing,andmultipleearpiercingssettingthemapartfromotherpedestrians.Whenhesawmehewasvisiblyrelieved.

Meskeremwassmall,withdarkredcurtainsandwallsthatrecalledtheinsideofachikkahut.ThearomaofcoffeebeansroastedovercharcoalandthepepperysmellofberberemadeitfeelaworldawayfromManhattan.Wesatonrough-hewn,three-leggedwoodenstools,lowtotheground,withawovenbasket tablebetweenus.A longmirrorbehindThomasStoneallowedme to seeboth theback of his head and people entering or leaving the restaurant. The posters thumbtacked to thewallsshowedthecastlesofGondar,aportraitofasmilingTigrewomanwithstrongperfectteeth,aclose-upofthewrinkledfaceofanEthiopianpriest,andanaerialviewofChurchillRoad,eachwiththe same caption: THIRTEEN MONTHS OF SUNSHINE. Every Ethiopian restaurant I subsequently visited inAmericareliedheavilyonthesameEthiopianAirlinescalendarfordecor.

The waitress, a short, bright-eyed Amhara, brought usmenus. Her namewas Anna. She almostdroppedherpencilwhenIsaidinAmharicthatI'dbroughtmyownknifeandIwassohungrythatifshepointedmetowherethecowwastethered,I'dgetstarted.Whenshebroughtourfoodoutonacirculartray,ThomasStonelookedsurprised,asifhe'dforgottenthatwewouldeatwithourfingersoffacommonplate.Tohisdismay,Anna(whohailedfromtheneighborhoodofKebenainAddis,notthatfarawayfromMissing)gavemegursha—shetoreoffapieceofinjera,dippeditincurry,andfedmewithherfingers.ThomasStonehastilyroseandaskedfortherestroom,lestsheturntohim.

“Blessed St. Gabriel,” Anna said, watching him leave. “I scared your friend with our habeshacustoms.”

“Heshouldknow.HelivedinAddisforsevenyears.”

“No!Really?”

“Pleasedon'ttakeoffense.”

“It's nothing,” she said, smiling. “I know that type of ferengl. Spend years there, but they lookthroughus.Butdon'tworry.Youmakeupforit,andyou'rebetterlooking.”

Icouldhavetakenupforhim.Icouldhavesaidhewasmyfather.Ismiled.I'msureIblushed.Isaidnothing.

WhenThomasStonereturned,hemadeahalfheartedefforttoeat.Inevitably,oneofthesongsthatcycled through theceilingspeakerswas“Tizita.” I studiedhis face to see if itmeantanything tohim.Itdidn't.

Themarkofanativeisthatyourfingersareneverstainedbythecurry;youusetheinjeraasyourtongs,asabarrier,whileyoupickupapieceofchickenorbeefsoppedinthesauce.ThomasStone'snailswerered.

Tilahoun singing “Tizita,” the cocoonlike atmosphere, and the frank incense brought memoriesbubblingtothesurface.IthoughtofmorningsatMissingandhowthemisthadbodyandweightasif it were a third element after earth and sky, but then it vanished when the sun was high; IrememberedRosina's songs,Gebrew's chants, andAlmaz'smagical teat; I recalled the sight of ayoungerHemaandGhoshleavingforwork,aswewavedthroughthekitchenwindow;Icouldseethosehalcyondays,shinylikeanewcoin,glintinginsunlight.

“DoyouplantofinishyournextfouryearsofresidencyatOurLady?”ThomasStonesaid,abruptly,breaking into my reverie. “If you were interested in moving to Boston …” So much for hisperceptiveness.JustwhenIwasreadytotalkaboutthepast,hewantedtoknowaboutmyfuture.

“I don'twant to leaveOur Lady. The hospital ismyMissing equivalent. I neverwanted to leaveMissingorAddis,butIhadto.NowIdon'twanttoleaveOurLady.”

AnyothermanwouldhaveaskedmewhyIhadtoleaveMissing.Thatwasmyfault—hadheposedthequestion,Imightnothaveanswered.Andperhapsheknewthat.

Assheclearedourplates,AnnasaidtoThomasStoneinEnglish,“Howdidyoulikethefood?”

“Itwasgood,”hesaid,barelyglancingather.HereddenedassheandIstudiedhim.“Thankyou,”headded,asifhehopedthatwouldhelpgetridofher.Shetooktwopackagedtowelettesoutfromherapronpocketandputthemonthetable.

IsaidtoAnna,“Honestly,itwasgood,butyoucouldmakethewothotter.”

“Of coursewe can,” she said inAmharic, a little takenabackby the implied criticism. “But thenpeople like himwon't be able to touch the food. Alsowe use local butter, so even ifwemake ithotter,itwon'ttastethesameashome.Onlysomeonelikeyouwouldknowthedifference.”

“Youmeanthereisnoplacetogetrealhabeshafood?Therealthing?WithalltheseEthiopiansinNewYork?”

She shook her head. “Not here. If you ever visit Boston, go see the Queen of Sheba. She's inRoxburyShe is famous.Thehouse is likeourembassy.Upstairs, inoneroom,theysellgroceries,and downstairs they serve home food. Cookedwith true Ethiopian butter. TheEthiopian Airlinescrew bring it just for her. All the Ethiopian taxi drivers eat there. You won't see anybody butEthiopiansthere.”

THOMASSTONEHADWATCHEDthisexchange,hisfaceblank.WhenAnnaleft,hereachedintohispocket.Ithoughthewasreachingforhisbillfold.Instead,hepulledoutthebookmarkIhadleftinhisroom,theoneonwhichSisterMaryJosephPraisehadwrittenhernotetohim.

I dried my hands carefully and took it from him. I realized that I had missed it; it felt as if itshouldn'tbehereonabasket tablebut inabankvault. Ithadbeenmy talismanonaharrowingjourney,anescape fromEthiopiawhichheknewnothingabout. I readher last lines—”Also, Iamenclosingalettertoyoufromme.Pleasereadatonce.SMJP”—andthenIlookedup.

ThomasStonefidgetedinhisseat.Heswallowedhard,leaningonthebaskettable.

“Marion.Thisbookmark…wasinthetextbook,Ipresume?”

“Yes,itwas.Ihavethetextbook.”

Hegrew stiff, his hands trappedunderhis thighs as if an electric currentwere running throughhim.“Wouldyou…CanIaskif…Doyouhave…Wastherealetter?”

Helookedhelpless,sittingsolowtotheground,likeaparentvisitingkindergarten,hiskneesunderhischin.

“Ithoughtyouhadtheletter,”Isaid.

“No!”hesaid,soemphaticallythatAnnalookedoveratus.

“I'msorry,” I said, though Iwasn'tsurewhat Iwassorry for. “Iassumedthatyou took the letterwhenyouleft.Thatyouleftthebookwiththebookmarkinit.”

Hisface,soexpectantamomentago,collapsed.

“Itookalmostnothing,”hesaid.“IwalkedoutofMissingwiththeclothesIhadonandoneortwothingsfromtheoffice.Ineverwentback.”

“Iknow,”Isaid.

HecringedwhenIsaidthosewords.Nowonderhewasreluctanttoprobemypast.Nobladecanpuncturethehumanheartlikethewell-chosenwordsofaspitefulson.Butdidhereallythinkofmethisway?Asason?“Butyoutookthefingerwithyou?”Iwenton.

“Yes…that'sallItook.Itwasinherroom.Iwentbackthere.”Helookedup.

Isaid,“I'msorry.IwishIhadtheletter.”

“Andthebookmark?”hesaid.“Howdidyougetit?”

Isighed.Annaserveduscoffee.Thesmallcupwithnohandlefeltinadequateformytaskoftryingtocoveralifetimeforthisman.“IhadtoleaveEthiopiainhaste.Theauthoritieswerelookingforme…It'salongstory.TheythoughtIwasinvolvedinthehijackingofanEthiopianAirlinesplane.They thought I was a sympathizer for the Eritrean cause. Ridiculous, right? You remember yourmaid, Rosina? One of the hijackers was Rosina's daughter, Genet. Rosina is dead, by the way.Hangedherself.”

Itwasmorethanhecoulddigest.

“RosinaandGenet…,”Ibegan.“Sufficeittosay,Ihadanhourtogetoutoftown.AsIwasleaving,climbingoverMissing'swall,Isaidmygood-byestoHema,Matron,Gebrew,Almaz,andtoShiva,mybrother…”Istopped.Ihadhitaroadblock.“Shiva,yourotherson…?”

Stone swallowed. Thiswas proving impossible. And yet he needed to know, particularly if itwaspainful.

“Myson…,”hesaid,tryingouttheword.

“Yourson.Youwanttoseewhathelookslike?”Henodded,expectingmetopulloutawallet.“Lookatthatmirrorbehindyou.”

He hesitated as if thismight be a joke, a trick. But he turned, and our eyesmet in themirror,startlingme, because it was suddenlymore intimate than I'd expected. “Shiva and I aremirrorimages.”

“Whatishelike?”heaskedwithoutturningaround.

Isighed.Ishookmyhead.Idroppedmygaze.Heturnedbacktome.

“Shiva is…verydifferent.Agenius,Iwouldsay.Butnot intheusualway.Impatientwithschool.He'd never answer an examquestion in away thatmightmake himpass, not because he didn'tknow … He has never understood the need to subscribe to convention. But he knows moremedicine, certainly more gynecology than I do. He works with Hema doing fistula work. He's abrilliantsurgeon.Trained,butbyHema.Nomedicalschool.”NoneofthiswouldhavebeendifficultforStonetodiscoveronhisownhadhebeeninterested.Hewasinterestednow.

“IwasveryclosetoShivawhenwewerelittleboys.”

Stone'seyeswereunblinking.Icouldn'ttellhimthedetailsofwhathadhappenedsince.Ihadtoldnoone.OnlyGenetandShivaknewthetruth.

“HeandGenetdidsomethingtohurtmethatIcannotforgive…”

“Somethingrelatedtothehijacking?”

“No, no. It happened longbefore.Anyway, Iwas and still amvery angrywithhim.But he is mybrother—mytwin—andsowhenIhadonehourtoleavethecity,whenthetimecametosaygood-bye to Shiva— well, it was very painful for both of us.” Suddenly I found myself fighting forcomposure.ItwasterriblyimportantformenottocryinfrontofThomasStone.Ipinchedtheinsideofmythigh.“AsIwassayinggood-byetoShiva,hehandedmetwobooks.OnewashisGray'sAnatomy.Thatwashismostvaluedpossession.Hedraggeditaroundlikeablanket.

“Andthesecondwasyourbook,withthatbookmarkinside.Ididn'tknowhowhegotit,orhowlonghehad it. Ididn't evenknowyouhadwrittenabook.Thebookwashardlyopened. Idon't thinkShiva ever read it, certainly not like he devoured his Gray's. He probably saw and read thebookmark.ButyouhavetoknowShiva.Hewouldn'tbecuriousabout thebookmarkor the lettershereferredto.Shivalivesinthenow.Idon'tknowjusthowhegotthebookorwhyhewantedtogiveittome.”

Stoneremainedsilent,hisgazeon theemptybasketbetweenus,as if it stood in forall thatwasunknownabouthispast,ourpast.Hislookofpainwassointense,itpiercedme.“Icanaskhim,”Ioffered.IwantedtoknowjustasmuchasThomasStonedid.“Iwillaskhim,”Isaid.

ThomasStonewasaworldaway.Whenheliftedhisgaze,Iunderstoodthedepthsofhissorrow;Isawitinadarkeningofhisiris,eventhoughthatdelicatestructureshouldnotchangecolor.Icouldseethatthealmostmysticalauraofthislegendarysurgeon—thesingle-mindedness,thededication,theskill—wasmeresurface.Thesurgicalpersonawassomethinghehadcraftedtoprotecthimself.Butwhathehadcreatedwasaprison.Anytimehestrayedfromtheprofessionaltothepersonal,heknewwhattoexpect:pain.

Whenhespoke,hisvoicesoundedtired,old.“AndhereIthoughtyouhadit,andyouthoughtI…”

“Whatdoyouthinkisintheletter?”

“HowIwishIknew,”hesaidabruptly.“I'dgivemyrightarm…”

IthadbeenafewmonthssinceImetThomasStone.TheangerIfeltobligedtohavehadsubsided.Thestoryhe toldmeofhischildhood,hismother'sdeath—itshouldhavebeenenough to forgivehim,butIdidn'tthinkIwasreadyforthat.Ihadn'tforgivenShiva,sowhyforgiveThomasStone?Even if I had forgiven him, a perverse streak in me refused to let him know that. But I hadunfinishedbusinesswithhim.

“There'ssomethingIhavetotellyou,”Isaid.IneverthoughtIwouldbeashamedinfrontofthisman.“SomethingIwaschargedtotellyoubyGhosh.”Ghosh'swishhadseemedirrationaltomeatthetime.Butnow,lookingintothathard,craggyface,IunderstoodwhyGhoshhadwantedmeto

reachouttoStone.GhoshknewThomas,butGhoshhadoverestimatedmymaturity.

“GhoshhadadyingwishwhichIpromisedtofulfill.ButIdidn't.Iignoredit.Ihopeyou—andhe—willforgiveme.Ghoshtoldmethathefelthislifewouldbeincompletewithoutmydoingthis…Hiswishwasformetocomeandfindyou.Toletyouknowthatheconsideredyouabrother.”

Thiswashard,bothbecause I could recallGhosh's laboredbreathing,could recallGhosh'severyword,andbecauseIwasnowseeingtheeffectthesewordshadonThomasStone.Otherthanhismother,andDr.Rossinthesanatorium,whohadeverexpressedloveforhim?SisterMaryJosephPraiseperhaps,butdidsheevergettotellhim,andifshedid,didhehear?

“Ghoshwasdisappointedthatyounevercontactedhim.Buthewantedyoutoknowthatwhateveryourreasonwas forbeingsilentall thoseyears, itwasall rightwithhim.”Ghoshhad felt itwasshamethatkeptThomas from lookingback.Hewasright,because itwasshamethatcoloredhisfacenow.

“I'msosorry,”Stonesaid.Idon'tknowwhetherhewasspeakingtome,orGhosh,ortheuniverse.Itwasn'tenough,butitwasabouttime.

If therewere other people in the restaurant, Iwasno longer aware of them. If therewasmusicplaying,Icouldn'thearit.

IstudiedmyfatherasImightstudysomespecimensetbeforeme:Isawthesmilethatstruggledforpurchaseonhisfaceandfailed,andthenIsawthehauntedandhuntedlookthatcameinitswake.Godhelpusifsuchamanhadtriedtoraiseus,ifhehadtakenusawayfromEthiopia.WithallthesorrowandlossI'dexperienced,I'dneverhavetradedmypastatMissingforalifeinBostonwithhim. I should have thanked Thomas Stone for leaving Ethiopia. The love he felt for SisterMaryJosephPraisehadcometoo late.Shewasthemystery, thegreatregret thathewouldtaketohisgrave—andhewouldregretnothingmorethannotknowingwhatshesaidinthatletter.

“I'll write to Shiva,” I said. “I'll ask about the letter.” I suppose I understood Thomas Stone'sshutting people out. After Genet's betrayal, I never wanted to have such strong feelings for awomanagain.NotunlessIhadawrittenguarantee.I'dencounteredamedicalstudentfromMecca,a saint comparedwithmy first love; shewaskind,generous,beautiful, andseemed to transcendherself,asifherexistencewassecondarytoherinterestintheworldandthethingsinit,includingme.Mybelatedandmutedresponsemusthavepushedheraway, lostmeanychanceofa futurewithher.DidIfeelsad?Yes.Andstupid?Yes,butIalsofeltrelieved.Bylosingher,Iwasprotectedfromherandshe fromme. Ihad that incommonwith thismansittingbeforeme. I thoughtofawatchthathadstoppedticking,andhowitshowedthecorrecttimetwiceaday.Hepaid.Irosewithhim.Atthedooroftherestaurant,ourhandsinourpockets,Iwaited.

“‘Callnomanhappyuntilhedies,’“hesaid.BeforeIcouldtellifthatwasasmileoranexpressionofsadnessonhisface,henoddedandwalkedaway.

CHAPTER48FiveFingers

JUSTAFTERMIDNIGHTonthefirstSundayofeverymonth, IwouldringHemaatherbungalow.Itwasseven o'clock, Monday morning, Addis time. The rates were best at this hour, but since Almaz,Gebrew,andsometimesMatroncameonbeforeHema, itcouldstillbea longandexpensivecall.Ever sinceHema deliveredMengistu's—sorry,Comrade Mengistu's—child, we no longer worriedabout the secret police eavesdropping on us; besides, theywere preoccupiedwith real enemies.Mengistu Haile Mariam, Strength of Mary, Secretary General of the Council of Peasants andWorkers, Chairman of the Military Council of Socialist Ethiopia, President-for-Life of the ArmedForces of the Democratic Peoples of Ethiopia, General in Command of the Bureau for ArmedStruggle Against Imperial Aggression in Tigre and Eritrea, had adopted an Albanian style ofMarxism.Theupper andmiddle classes andeven theworkingpoorhad their houses confiscatedandlandtakenaway.ButfavorstoMengistuandparticularlyfavorstohiswifeweren'tforgotten;Missing's medicines and supplies were not held up in the Customs godown, and there were nopalmstogrease.

As I dialedHema's number thatSunday, I picturedmyMissing familywatching the clock, coffeecupsintheirhands,waitingforthephonetoringfromacontinentnoneofthemhadseen.Almazpickedupthereceiver,withGebrewleaningin,bothofthemsuddenlyshyandself-conscious.Theirsideof the conversation consistedof repeatedEnde-menneh?Dehna-ne-woy?—How-are-you? Are-you-well,then?—untilthesegodparentsofmineweresatisfiedthattheirlij,theirchild,wasallright.Theytoldmetheykeptmeintheirprayers,fastedforme.“PraythatI'llseeyousoonandmayGodtakecareofyouandyourhealth,”Isaid.Matronwasjusttheopposite,chattyandspontaneous,asifwehadrunintoeachotherinthecorridoroutsideheroffice.

IhadreportedtoHemamyfirstsightingofThomasStone.Shedlistenedwithoutcomment,andshemusthavesmiledwhensheheardofhersonbreakingandenteringThomasStone'sapartment. Ididn'tcensorinformationforherbenefit;surely,ThomasStonewasnolongerthethreathe'doncebeentoherwhenwewereminors.WhenIhadtoldheraboutplacingthebookmarkonStone'sdeskasmycallingcard,IhadreadfromHema'ssilencethatshe'dknownnothingaboutShiva'shavingThe Expedient Operator: A Short Practice of Tropical Surgery. I surmised from that and laterconfirmedfromMatronthatHemahadmadeeveryattempttobanishthebookfromMissing;she'dneverwantedmeorShivatoseehiswork,muchlessapictureofhim.

“IhaddinnerwithThomasStone,Ma,”Isaidwhenshecameontheline.“Iateinjeraforthefirsttimeinwelloverayear.”ShewasmiffedtolearnthatGhoshhadamessageforStone—Ireadthatinthefactthatshesaidnothing.WhenItoldherjustwhatGhoshhadwantedmetosaytoStone,Ihearda vigoroushonkonherkerchief.Themessage saidmoreaboutGhoshandhis selflessnessthan it did about Thomas Stone. I asked if she knew about the bookmark or a letter thataccompaniedit.Shedidn't.

“MaybeShivaknows,”Isaid.“CanIspeaktohim?”

Shecalledouthisname,asummonsIhadheardsomanytimessinceIwasachild.IheardShiva'sreply,andcould judge from itsecho that ithadcome fromourchildhoodroom.While Iwaited, IheardHemaaskingMatronaboutthebookmark;her“No!”toldmeitwasnewstoher.

THETELEPHONEWASNEVERacomfortable instrument inShiva'shands.Hewasfine,thefistulaworkwasgoingverywell,andno,heknewnothingaboutanymissingletter.

“Doyourememberthebookmark,Shiva,andthereferencetoaletter?”Iasked.

“Yes.”

“Butyou'resayingtherewasnoletterinthebook?”

“Noletter.”

“Howdidyougetthebook,Shiva?”

“Ghoshgaveittome.”

“When?”

“Whenhewasdying.Hewanted to talkwithmeaboutmany things.Thiswasone.He saidhe'dtakenthebookfromThomasStone'squartersonthedaywewereborn.Hehadkeptit.Hewantedmetohaveit.”

“Wasthatthefirsttimeyou'dseenthetextbookorseenapictureofThomasStone?”

“Yes.”

“DidGhoshmentionaletterfromSisterMary—ourmother—toStone?”

“No,hedidn't.”

“Didhesaywhyhewantedyoutohavethebook?”

“No.”

“Whenyousawthebookmarkandthereferencetotheletter,didyougobackandaskhim?”

“No.”

Isighed.Icouldhavestoppedthere,butIhadcomethisfar.“Whynot?”Iasked.

“Ifhewantedmetohavetheletter,hewouldhavegivenittome.”

“Whydidyougivemethebook,Shiva?”

“Iwantedyoutohaveit.”

There was no annoyance in Shiva's voice; his tone was no different than when we began—Iwondered if he'd pickedup the irritation inmine. Shivawas right: there eitherwasno letter, orGhoshhadtheletterandhadhisreasonsfordestroyingit.

Iwasabouttosaygood-bye.Iknewbetterthantoexpectmybrothertoaskaboutmyhealthormywelfare.Buthetookmeabackbysaying,“Howareyouroperatingtheaters?”Hewantedtoknowabout the layout, how far away the autoclave and the locker roomswere, andwas there a sinkoutsideeachroom,oronecommonscrubbingarea.Igavehimadetailedpicture.WhenIwasdone,Iwaited.Onceagain,hesurprisedme:“Whenareyoucominghome,Marion?”

“Well,Shiva…Ihavefourmoreyearsofresidency.”

Wasthishiswayofsayinghewassorryforeverythingthathadhappened?Thathemissedme?DidIwantthatfromhim?Iwasn'tsure,soallIaddedwas,“Idon'tknowifitissafeformetocome,butifitis,I'dlovetocomeayearorsofromnow…Whydon'tyoucomevisithere?”

“WillIbeabletoseeyouroperatingtheaters?”

“Sure.Wecallthemoperatingroomshere,nottheaters.ButIcanarrangeforyoutoseethem.”

“Okay.I'llbethere.”

Hemacamebackon the line.Shewas ina chattymood, reluctant to letmego.Listening toherliltingvoice,IwastransportedbacktoMissingMeanTime,asifIweresittingbythephoneunderNehru'sphotographand lookingacross the roomat theportrait ofGhoshwhich consecrated thespotwherehespentsomanyhourslisteningtotheGrundig.

WhenIhungupIfeltdespair:IwasbackintheBronx,mywallsbarebutfortheframedEcstasyofSt.Teresa.Mybeeper,silenttillthen,wentoff.Inansweringitssummons,Islippedtheyokebackaroundmyneck;indeed,Iwelcomedmyslavishexistenceasasurgicalresident,thenever-endingwork,thecrisesthatkeptmeinthepresent,theimmersioninblood,pus,andtears—thefluidsinwhichonedissolvedall tracesofself Inworkingmyself ragged, I felt integrated, I feltAmerican,andIrarelyhadtimetothinkofhome.Theninfourweeks,itwastimetodialMissingagain.WerethesephonecallsjustasdifficultforHema?Iwondered.

Inaletterafterourcall,HemasaidthatshedcheckedwithBachelli,Almaz,andevenW.W.GonadtoseeiftheyhadheardofGhoshorSisterleavingaletterbehind,butnoonehad.ShetoldmethatShiva'sapplicationforanexitvisatocomevisitmewasheldupbythegovernment;hewasaskedtoprovideaffidavitstoshowhehadnodebtsinEthiopia,andmoreoverthatIhadnodebtsforwhichhemightberesponsible.ShesaidshewouldremindShivatoworkonthevisa.Readingbetweenthelines,IknewandsheknewthatShivahadlostinterest.

IwrotetoThomasStonetolethimknowthatthewhereaboutsofSisterMaryJosephPraise'sletterremainedamystery.Heneverwrotebacktomethankingmeformytroubles.

OVERTHENEXTFOURYEARS, IsawThomasStonenowandthenwhenhecametoconductconferencesorbedside teaching rounds; he was impressive, as I knew he would be, masterful, serious, and incommandofhissubject.Hehadthekindofperspectivethatcouldonlycomefromcarefulstudyofthe literatureofsurgeryandfromliving it formanyyears. Imuchpreferredbeingaroundhiminthatfashionthanhavingadinnerwithhim.Perhapshefeltthesameway,becausehedidn'tcallorvisitagain.

I went up to Boston for three separate, month-long rotations: plastic surgery, urology, andtransplant,andtheworkwasengrossing,challenging,sothateachtimemyanxietiesaboutbeingthereandnearhimwereforgotten.Iworkedwithhiminthatlastrotation,whichwasbusierthanI'd ever imagined. He suggested once during that time that we have a meal, but I begged offbecausemyworkinthetransplantintensivecareunitsimplydidnotallowmetogetawaybeforenineintheevening,evenonmynightsoff.Ithinkhewasrelieved.

By 1986 I had finishedmy year asChief Resident,whichwas alsomy fifth year of training, and IstayedonasanassistanttoDeepakasIpreparedtotakemyboardexam.Grudgingly,Idcometoadmire the long,arduousAmericansystemofsurgical training; itwaseasier toadmirewhenyouwere about done with it. I felt technically competent to do all the major operations of generalsurgery,andIknewmylimits.Therewasn'tmuchIhadn'tseenatOurLady.Moreimportant,Iwasconfidentaboutcaringforpatientsbeforeandaftersurgery,andintheintensivecaresettings.

ALSOIN1986,mybrotherbecamefamous;itwasDeepakwhoshowedmethefeaturearticleintheNewYorkTimes.WhatashockitwastoseeShiva'spicture,toseeinitmyreflection,butwithshorterhair, almost a crew cut, andwithout the gray that had completely taken overmy sideburns andtemples.Theimagebroughtimmediatebitterness,therecollectionofthepainofbetrayal.Andyes,envy.Shivahad taken the firstandonlygirl I lovedandspoiledher forme.Now,hewasmakingheadlinesinmybackyard,inmynewspaper.I'dfollowedalltherules,andtriedtodotherightthingwhile he ignored all the rules, and here we were. Could an equitable God have allowed such athing?Iconfess,itwasawhilebeforeIcouldreadthearticle.

According to theTimes, Shivawas theworld's expert and the leading advocate for womenwithvaginal fistula.Hewas thegeniusbehindaWHOfistula-preventioncampaign thatwasa“farcryfromtheusualWesternapproachtotheseissues.”TheTimesreproducedthecolorful“FiveFailingsThatLeadtoFistula”poster:itshowedahand,thefingerssplayedout.Peeringatthephotograph,IcouldseethatitwasShiva'shand.Inthepalmwasaseatedwomaninapostureofdejection—wasthemodeltheStaffProbationer?

TheposterwasdistributedalloverAfricaandAsiaandprintedinfortylanguages.VillagemidwivesweretaughttocountoffononehandtheFiveFailings.Thefirstwasbeingmarriedofftooyoung,childbrides;thesecondwasnonexistentprenatalcare;thethirdwaswaitingtoolongtoadmitthatlaborhadstalled(bywhichtimethebaby'sheadwasjammedhalfwaydownthebirthpassageanddoingitsdamage)andaCesareansectionwasneeded;thefourthfailingwastoofewandtoodistanthealthcenterswhereaC-sectioncouldbedone.Presumingthemotherlived(thebabyneverdid),the final failing was that of the husband and in-laws who cast out the woman because of thedribbling,odiferousfistulafrombladdertovagina,orfromrectumtovagina,orboth.Suicidewasacommonendingtosuchastory.

“SomehowwomenwithfistulafindtheirwaytoShivaPraiseStone,”thearticlesaid.“Theycomebybus,asfarastheycanbeforetheotherpassengerskickthemoff.Theycomeonfoot,orbydonkey.They come oftenwith a piece of paper in their hand that simply says in Amharic, ‘MISSING’ or‘FISTULAHOSPITAL’or‘CUTTINGFORSTONE.’”

ShivaStonewasnotaphysician,“butaskilledlayperson,initiatedintothisfieldbyhisgynecologistmother.”

When Inext spoke toHema, I askedher to congratulateShiva forme. “Ma,” I said, “you shouldhavegottenmorerecognitioninthatstory.Withoutyou,Shivacouldn'tbedoingwhathedoes.”

“No, Marion. This is really all his doing. Fistula surgery wasn't something I relished. It suitssomeoneassingle-mindedasShiva.Itneedsconstantattention,before,during,andaftersurgery.Youshouldseethehourshespendsthinkingovereachcase,anticipatingeveryproblem.Hecanseethefistulainthreedimensions.”Shivahadfashionednewinstrumentsinhisworkshopandinventednewtechniques.ThearticlehadmentionedMatron'sfund-raisingeffortsandthedesperateneeds,andthearticlebroughtdonationspouringin.MatronhadinmindanewMissingbuildingdevotedtowomenwithfistula.“Shivahashadtheplansdrawnoutforyears.ItwillbeintheshapeofaVwith

the wings converging on Operating Theater 3.” Theater 3 was to be overhauled and remodeled,makingtwooperatingroomswithasharedscrubareainthemiddle.

IrereadtheTimesarticle latethatnight. I feltahollowsensation inmybelly this timeasIwentthrough itagain.Thewriter'sunabashedadmiration forShivacamethrough,andonesensedshehadabandonedherreserve,herusualdispassionatetone,becausethemanmorethanthesubjectsomovedher.Sheendedwithaquotefrommybrother:“WhatIdoissimple.Irepairholes,”saidShivaPraiseStone.

Yes,butyoumakethem,too,Shiva.

IHADMYOWNSUCCESS,albeitaquieterone:IpassedthewrittenexamoftheAmericanBoardofSurgery.Afewmonthsafterthat,IwasassignedtotakemyoralexamsinBostonattheCopleyPlazaHotel.Afteragruelinghourandahalfinfrontoftwoexaminers,Iwasdone.IknewIdidwell.

Outside, the day was glorious. The monolith of gray stone that was the Church of ChristianScientistsstoodsereneattheendofalongreflectingpoolandframedagainstabluesky.ForfiveyearsIhadspentmynightsanddaysinthehospital,notseeingthesky,notfeelingthesunonmyface. I felt the urge to wade through the water fully clothed, or to let out a victory whoop. Icontentedmyself insteadwith an ice-cream cone,which I enjoyedwhile sitting by the reflectingpool.

Iplannedtoheadtotheairport,taketheshuttlebacktoNewYork.ButseeingthatmydriverwassoobviouslyEthiopian,andhavinggreetedhiminourlanguage,Ihadanotheridea.Yes,ofcourseheknewtheQueenofSheba'sinRoxbury,anditwouldbeanhonorforhimtotakemethere.

“MynameisMesfin,”hesaid,grinningatmeintherearviewmirror.“Whoareyou?Whatdoyoudo?”

“MynameisStone,”Isaid,puttingmyseatbelton,althoughIwasn'tworried;nothingbadcouldhappentomeonthisday.“I'masurgeon.”

CHAPTER49Queen'sMove

THESTREETHADA JUNKYARDatthecornerwithhighwallsandbarbedwiresoreminiscentofKerchelePrison. Amassive dog, chained and asleep,was visible through the gate. Then came a string ofvacantlotswhereashesandsootoutlinedwhateverhadstoodthere.Mesfinseemedtobepointingthecabtothesolehouseattheendofthestreetthatsurvivedtheblightthathadfelledtheothers.Itsdrivewaybeganinthemiddleoftheroad,asifthepavingmachinehadrunoutofasphaltwhenitgot this farandso theowner took things intoherownhands.Thesplit-levelhousehadyellowshingles.Thesteps,therailings,thepillars,thedoors,thedecks,andeventhedrainswerepaintedthesamecanaryyellow.Acolumnof(unpainted)wheelhubsshoredupacornerofthesaggingfrontveranda.Therewerefourtaxisparkedoutside,allyellow.

ThesmelloffermentinghoneyelicitedaPavlovianresponsefrommytastebuds.AdourSomalimetusatthedoorandledustoadiningroomsixstepsdownfromthefrontlanding.Wefoundahalf-dozenmeneatingatthepicnictablesandbenches,withroomforadozenmore.Thewoodenfloorwasstrewnwithfreshlycutgrass,justasitwouldhavebeenifthiswereahomeorrestaurantinAddis.

Wewashedourhandsandtookourseats,andatonceabuxomwomanarrived,bowing,wishingusgoodhealth,andplacingwaterandtwosmall flasksofgoldenyellowtejbeforeus.Thecorneaofher left eye was milky white. Mesfin said her name was Tayitu. Behind her, a younger womanbroughtatrayofinjera,onwhichweregenerousservingsoflamb,lentils,andchicken.

“Yousee?”Mesfinsaid,lookingathiswatch.“IcaneatherequickerthanIcanpumpgasinmycar.It'scheaper,too.”IateasifIhadlivedthroughafamine.ThewaitressinNewYorkwhofirsttoldmeabouttheQueenofSheba'shadbeenright.Thiswastherealthing.

Later,throughasidewindowthatlookedoutontoaslopingyard,IsawawhiteCorvetteslideup.Ashapely leg inheels emerged, the skin a café au lait color,with a shadeof nail polish thatB.C.Gandhicalled“fuck-mered.”Ababygoatappearedfromnowhereanddancedaroundthoseelegantfeet.

SoonalovelyEthiopianladycamecautiouslydownthestairs,carefulnottosnagherheels.ShesaidoverhershouldertotheSomali,“Whyisthatsillyboylettingthebabygoatoutatthishour?Oneofthese days I'll run over it.” Her golden-brown hair had red streaks, and it was cut in a perky,asymmetricalstylethatrevealedherneck.Sheworeamaroonpinstripedblazeroverawhiteblouseandskirt.

TheQueen,fortherewaslittledoubtthatthiswasshe,bowedinourdirectionwhilecontinuingontoanofficenexttothekitchen.Shestoppedabruptly.Sheturnedasifshehadseenavisionandshestared.Iwasinmysuit,mytie loosened—didI lookthatoutofplace?WithintheconfinesofOurLadyofPerpetualSuccour,all thetribesofAbrahamwererepresentedandI feltnomoreforeignthanmypatientsorthestaff.Now,asIattractedherattention,andthatoftheothersthere,Ifeltlikeaferengiagain.

“Praise God, praise His Son,” the Queen said, her hands on her cheeks. She shifted her tintedglassestoherforehead,revealingeyesthatwerewideopeninastonishment.I lookedbehindme;couldshebetalkingtosomeoneelse?Herexpression,atfirstquizzical,nowturnedjoyous,showingbrilliantwhiteandperfect teeth. “Child,doyounotknowme?” she said, comingclose,her rose-scentedattarprecedingher.

Icametomyfeet,stillpuzzled.

“Iprayforyoueveryday,”shesaidinAmharic.“Don'ttellmethatIhavechangedthatmuch?”

Itoweredoverher.Iwastongue-tied.ShehadbeenamotherandIaboywhenIfirstmether.

“Tsige?”Isaidatlast.

Shelungedtowardme,kissedmycheeks,heldmeatarm'slengthtobetterexamineme,thenpulledmetohertobumpcheeksagainandagain.“MyGod,BlessedMaryandallthesaints,howareyou?Isityou?Endemenneh?Dehnanewoy?Howareyou?Canthisbeyou?PraiseGodthatyouarehere…”

AftersixyearsinAmerica,itwasonlyatthatmoment,standinginthatyellowhouse,inherarms,cutgrassundermyfeet,thatIfeltateaseinthisland,feltmyguardcomedownandthemusclesinmybellyandneckrelax.Herewassomeonefrommypast, frommyverystreet,someonewhomIlikedandwithwhomIhadalwaysfeltabond.Ikissedhercheeksasvigorouslyasshekissedmine:Whowouldstopfirst?NotI.

Tayitupeeredinfromthekitchen.Twootherwomenlookedovertheupstairsrail.Ourfellowdinersstoppedtowatch.Theyweredisplacedpeople,justlikeus,andtheyunderstoodalltoowellthesekindsofreunions,thesemomentswhenapieceofyouroldhousecomesfloatingbyintheriver.

“Whatareyoudoinghere?”Tsigesaid.“Youmeanyoudidn'tcometoseeme?”

“Icametoeat.Ihadnoidea!I'vebeenlivinginNewYorkforsixyears.I'mherejustfortheday.I'madoctornow.Asurgeon.”

“Asurgeon!”Shegasped,fallingback,claspingherhandstoherheart.Thenshekissedthebackofmywrists,firstone,thentheother.“Asurgeon.Youbrave,bravechild.”Sheturnedtoouraudienceand inthetonesofacantorshecontinued,still inAmharic,“Listen,allyouunbelievers,whenhewasalittleboy,andwhenmybabywasdying,whotookmetotherightplaceinthehospital?Itwashe.Whocalledthedoctor,whowashisfather,toseemychild?Hedid.Thenwhowasitwhostayedwithmeasmybabyfoughtforlife?Noonebuthim.Hewastheonlyonebymysidewhenmylittlebabydied.Nooneelsewasthereforme,ifonlyyouknew…”Thetearsstreameddownherface,andinaninstantthemoodintheroomwentfromthejoyofreuniontoprofoundsadness,asifthosetwoemotionswereinvariablylinked.Iheardsympatheticclucksandtsksfromthemen,andTayitublew her nose and dabbed at her good eye, while the other two women wept freely. Tsige wasunable to speak, head bowed—she was overcome for a moment. At last she straightened hershoulders,raisedherhead,thelipspartedtosmilebravely,andshedeclared,“Inevereverforgothiskindness.Eventoday,whenIgotosleep, Iprayformybaby'ssoul, thenIprayforthisboy. Ilivedacrossthestreet.Iwatchedhimgrowup,becomeaman,gotomedicalschool.Nowheisasurgeon. Tayitu, give everyone theirmoney back, for today is a feast day.Our brother has comehome.Tellme,yeoflittlefaith,doesanyoneofyouneedsomeotherproofthatthereisaGod?”Hereyesglitteredlikediamonds;herhands,palmsup,reachedfortheceiling.

ForthenextfewminutesIsolemnlyshookthehandofeverypersoninthehouse.

LATER ISATWITHTSIGEonasofaina livingroomupstairs.Shehadkickedoffherheelsandtuckedherfeetupunderher.Stillholdingmyhand,shetouchedmycheekoftentoexclaimhowhappyshewastoseeme.

IhadplanstoreturntoNewYorkthatafternoon,butTsigeinsistedonsendingMesfinaway.“Youcantakealaterflight,”shesaid.

“AreyousureIcanfindataxihere?”Isaid,pretendingtobeserious.

Afterabeat,shethrewherheadbackandlaughed.“See,youhavechanged!Youusedtobesoshy.”

Through thewindow I saw six or sevenbabygoats in a largewire enclosure.Behind thatwas achickencoop.Adreamy-lookingboywithalongnarrowheadsatstrokingoneofthegoats.“He'smycousin,”Tsigesaid.“Youcanseetheforcepsmarksonhisforehead.Hehassomeproblems.Buthelovestotakecareoftheanimals.YoushouldcomeherewhenwecelebrateMeskelonMeskeremDay.We slaughter thegoats and cookoutdoors. Youwill seenot just taxis, but police cars. TheycomefromtheRoxburyandSouthEndstationstoeat.”

Tsigesaidshe leftAddisa fewmonthsafterme.Apatronof thebar,acorporal in thearmy,hadwantedtomarryher.“Hewasnobody.But intherevolution,eventheprivatesbecamepowerful.”Whenshedeclinedhisadvances,shewasfalselyaccusedofimperialistactivitiesandimprisoned.“Iboughtmywayoutaftertwoweeks.InthetimeIwasinKerchele,theyconfiscatedmyhouse.Hecame to see me, pretending he had nothing to do with my arrest. If I married him, he said,everythingwouldcomebacktous.Thecountrywasbeingrunbydogslikehim.Ihadmoneyhiddenaway.Ineverlookedback.Ileft.

“InKhartoum,IwaitedamonthforasylumfromtheAmericanEmbassy.IworkedasaservantfortheHankins,aBritishfamily.Theywerenice.IlearnedEnglishbytakingcareoftheirchildren.ThatwastheonlygoodthingthatcameoutofKhartoum.Idon'tmindthecoldinBostonbecauseeverycolddayremindsmehowgooditistobeoutofKhartoum.

“Iworked hard here,Marion.Quick-Mart—often I did two shifts. Then five nights Iworked at aparkinggarage.Isavedandsaved.IbecamethefirstEthiopianwomantodriveataxiinBoston.Ilearnedthecity. I foundworkforEthiopians.Stockboy,parkingattendant, taxidriver,orcountergirlatthehotelgiftshop.IlentmoneyoninteresttoEthiopians.Tayituusedtoworkformeinthebar,sowhenshecame, I rented thishouse.Shecooked.Then Ibought thehouse.Now,myGod,thereismuchtobedone:grindtef,makeinjera,cleanchicken,makewot,sweepthehouse.Ittakesthreeorfourpeople.Ethiopiansarriveatmydoorlikenewbornlambs,everythingtheyhavetiedupinbedsheets,theirX-raysstillintheirhands.Itrytohelpthem.”

“YoureallyaretheQueenofSheba.”

Therewasanimpishgrinonherface.SheswitchedtoEnglish,alanguageIhadneverheardherspeak.“Marion,youknowwhat Ihadtodo to feedmybaby inAddis.Then inSudan, Iwasevenlower than that— Iwas no better than abariya,” she said, using the slangword for “slave.” “InAmericatheysaidyoucanbeanything. Ibelieved it. Iworkedhard.Sowhentheysay, ‘QueenofSheba,’Ithinktomyself,Yes,frombariyatoqueen.”

ItoldTsigeaboutseeingheronthedayIleftAddissohastily,seeinghergettingoutofherFiat850.“Today,whatdoIseebeforeIseeyourface?Yourbeautifulleggettingoutofacar.ThelastglimpseofyouinAddiswasalsoyourbeautiful legcomingoutofacar. Iwantedtosaygood-bye toyouthen.ButIcouldn't.”

She laughed, and self-consciously pulled her skirt down. “I knew you disappeared right afterGenet,”Tsigesaid.“Nooneknewifyouwerepartofthehijacking.”

“Really?PeoplethoughtIwasanEritreanguerrilla?”

Sheshrugged.“Ididn'tthinkyouhadanythingtodowithit.ButwhenIsawGenet,sheneversaidanythingonewayortheother.”

Iwaspuzzled.“HowcouldyouhaveseenGenet?SheleftthesamedayIleft.That'swhyIhadtogo—didyouseeherinKhartoum?”

“No,Marion.Isawherhere.”

“YousawGenetinAmerica?”

“Isawherhere.Inthishouse…OhmyGod.Youdidn'tknow?”

Ifelttheairleavemylungs.Asinkholeopenedupunderme.“Genet?Isn'tshestillfightingwiththeEritreans?”

“No,no,no.Thatgirlcamehereasarefugee, justliketherestofus.Someonebroughtherhere.Shehadherbabyinherarms.Sheactedasifshedidn'trecognizemeatfirst.Ihadtoremindher.”Tsige s face turnedhard. “Youknow,Marion, oncewecomehere,weareall the same.Eritrean,Amhara,Oromo,bigshot,bariya,whateverstatusyouhad inAddis itmeansnothing. InAmericayoubeginatzero.Theoneswhodothebestherearethosewhowerezerothere.ButGenetcameherethinkingshewasspecial,notliketherestofus—”

“Whenwasthis?”

“Two,maybethreeyearsago.Shesaidshe'dlosttouchwithyou.Shedidn'tknowwhereyouwent.Sheactedasifshedidn'tknowyouhadescapedfromAddis.”

“What?Shewaslying,”Isaid.“ItwastheEritreanswhohelpedmeescape.Shewastheirstar…theirbigheroine.Shemusthaveknown.”

“Maybeshedidn't trustme,Marion. Ineverknewher theway Iknewyou,neverexchanged twowordswithher.Peoplechange,youknow.Whenyouleaveyourcountry,youarelikeaplanttakenoutofsoil.Somepeopleturnhard,theycan'tfloweragain.Iremembershetoldmeshegotsickinthefield.Shegotsickofthefighting,too,Ithink.Shehadthebaby.SomewomensheknewinNewYorkhada jobforherandofferedtohelptakecareofthebabyboy.SoIdidn'treallyhavetodoanythingforher.”

“MyGod,” Isaid,sinkingback into thesofa. IwasgladIdidn'tknowof thisbefore,gladIdidn'tknowshewasinNewYork.“Isshestillthere?”

“No.”Tsigehesitated,asifshewasn'tsurewhethertotellmetherest.“Therewerelotsofrumors.

What Iheard is…shemetamanand theygotmarried.Somethinghappened.Shealmostkilledhim.Idon'tknowexactlywhyorhow.AllIknowisthatshe'sinprison.Herbabywasgivenupforadoption…”Tsigesawtheshockonmyface.“I'msorry.Ithoughtyouknewallthis…Icouldfindoutifsheisstillinjail.”

“No!”Ishookmyhead.“Youdon'tunderstand.Idon'twanttoeverseeheragain,”Isaid. Idon'twanttoseeherotherthantospitinherface,Ithought.

“Butshewasyourownsister.”

“No!Don'tsaythat,”Isaidsharply.

Wesatthereinsilence.IfTsigefoundmyreactionunexpected,Icouldn'tblameher.Ihadtowaitafewminutesfortheturmoilinmetosubside.

“Tsige,”Isaid,atlast,reachingforherhand.“I'msorry.Imustexplain.Yousee,Genetwasnotmysister.Shewastheloveofmylife.”

Tsigewasshocked.“Youwereinlovewithyourownsister?”

“She'snotmysister!”

“Iamsorry.Ofcourse.”

“Whatdoesitmatter,Tsige?Ifshewasmysisterornotmysister,eitherwayIwasinlovewithher.Icouldn'tchangewhatIfeltforher.Weweregoingtomarryafterwefinishedmedicalschool…”

“Whathappened?”

“Myownbrotherbetrayedme.Shebetrayedme.”Thiswassohardtosay.“Theywerepillowsforeachother,”Isaid,usinganAmharicexpression.

IrealizedIdjusttoldTsigewhatI'dnevertoldanyoneelse,notevenHema.I'dcomeclosetotellingThomasStoneintherestaurant,butIhadn't.Therewassuchreliefnowinthetelling.Ileftnothingout—mybeingfalselyaccused,Genet'sgenitalmutilation,Rosina'sdeath,Hema'ssuspicionthat Iwasresponsible.InsixyearsatOurLadyofPerpetualSuccour,withalltheclosefriendsIhadmade—Deepak,B.C.,variousmedicalstudents—notoneofthemhadItoldthistale.

Tsigeshandwasoverhermouth,hereyesshowingherastonishmentandempathy.Afterawhile,sheputherhanddownandshookherheadsadly. “Yourbrotherwanted tosleepwithme,”Tsigesaid. She grinnedwhen she sawmy jaw drop. “Oh, yes. You bothwere young then, fourteen orfifteen.Nottooyoung,though.Shivawassodirect.‘Howmuchtosleepwithyou?’“

Shelaughedattheaudacityofthis,gazingoutofthewindow,hermindconjuringupthatfarawaytime.

“Didhe?”Isaidatlast,mythroatsodrythatthewordscouldhavesetfiretothetejinmystomach.Shehadnoideahowimportantheranswerwastome.

“Didhewhat?”

“Sleepwithyou?”

“Oh,yousweetthing.No!”Shepinchedmycheek.“Youshouldseeyourexpression.No,no.”Iletout the breath I had been holding. “Don't you know that if it had been you, itwould have beendifferent?Ifyou'deverasked…Ioweyou,Marion.Istilloweyou.”

IwassureIwasblushing.AsquicklyasGenethadappearedinmyhead,shehaddisappeared.“Youdon'towemeanything,Tsige.AndI'msorry, Inevershould'veaskedyouthat—it'spersonal,yourbusiness.”

“Marion,youmusthave lotsofgirlfriends.Asurgeon inNewYork!Howmanynursesshareyourpillow,eh?Whereareyougoing?Whyareyoustanding?What'sthematter?”

“Tsige,itislate,I'dbetter—”

Shepulledmefirmlydown,sothatIlandedalmostontopofher.Sheheldme.Thescentofherbodyandofherperfumehadshotupmynostrils.Myeyeswereonherthroat,herchin,herbosom.Ihadthoughtofhermanyanight in thehouse-staff quarters atOurLadyofPerpetualSuccour,never

imaginingthatImightreallytouchher.Iwasaboard-certifiedgeneralsurgeon,butnowIfeltlikeapimplyadolescent.

“Youareturningsored!Areyouallright?Oh,blessme,Mary…blessedGabrielandthesaints…youarestillavirgin,aren'tyou?”

Inoddedsheepishly“Whyareyoucrying?”Iasked.

Shewould only shakeher head, studyingmy facewhile swiping at her eyes.At last, holdingmycheeksinherhands,shesaid,“Iamcryingbecauseit'ssobeautiful.”

“Itisn'tbeautiful,Tsige.It'sstupid.”

“No,it'snot,”shesaid.

“IsavedmyselfforGenet.Yes,Iknow—ridiculous.ButthenwhensheandShiva…Ithrewmyselfintomystudies.TheworstpartisIstilllovedher.Shivadidn't.Ilovedher.Ifeltresponsiblewhenshealmostdied.Canyoubelievethat?Shivasleptwithher,andIfeltresponsible?Then,whensheandherfriendsstolethatplane,shebetrayedmeagain.SheneverworriedwhatmighthappentomeorHemaorShiva.Butatleastatthatmoment,onthedayIleftEthiopia,Iwasfreeofher.WhenIcamehere,Itriedtoforgether.Ihopedshewasdeadinthatstupidwar—herdamnwar.NowIfindshe'shere.MaybeIshouldleavethecountry,Tsige.GotoBrazil.OrIndia.Idon'twanttobeonthesamecontinentasthatwoman.”

“Stopit,Marion.Don'ttalkfoolishly.Howmuchtejdidyoudrink?Thisisabigcountryandyou'reabigman.Forgetabouther!Lookwhereyouareandlookwheresheis.She'sinjail,forGod'ssake!”Shetouchedmyhair,andthenshepulledmetoherbosom.“Youarethekindofmanthatwomendreamabout.”

Iwasaroused.TherewasnothingaboutmylifethatIcouldhidefromher,evenifIwantedto.Notmyshame,notmysecrets,notmyembarrassment.

Shekissedmeonmylips,abriefexploratorybrushfirst,thenaleisurelyprobingkiss.Icouldfeeltheadrenalinepouringoutofme,thereservesofunused,stockpiledtestosteroneannouncingtheiravailability.Sothis ishowit isgoingtohappen,I thought.OnthedayIpassmysurgicalboards.Howfitting.Myhandsreachedforher.

Shesighedandpulledback,pushingmeupright, thenstraighteningherhair.Herexpressionwasserious,likethatofaclinicianmakingapronouncementafterthedetailedphysicalexam.

“Wait,myMarion.You'vesavedyourselfalltheseyears.Thatisnotasmallthing.Iwantyoutogohome.Afteryouhavethoughtaboutit,ifyouwantme,Iwillbehere.Youcancomebackhereorwecangoaway,goonatriptogether.OrIwillcometoNewYorkandwewill takeabeautifulhotelroom.”Shereadthedisappointmentonmyface,therejection.“Don'tbesad.Iamdoingthisoutofloveforyou.Whenyouhavesomethingthisprecious,youmustthinkcarefullyhowyougiveitaway.I'llunderstandifyoudon'tgiveittome.Ifyouchooseme,Iwillbehonored,andIwillhonoryou.Now,I'llgetataxitotakeyou.Go,mysweetman.GowithGod.Thereisnooneelselikeyou.”

Thisismylife,Ithought,asmytaxisloggedthroughheavytrafficandinchedthroughthetunneltoLoganAirport. Ihaveexcisedthecancer frommypast,cut itout; Ihavecrossedthehighplains,descended into the desert, traversed oceans, and planted my feet in new soil; I have been theapprentice,paidmydues,andhavejustbecomemasterofmyship.ButwhenIlookdown,whydoIseetheancient,tarred,mud-stainedslippersthatIburiedatthestartofthejourneystillstucktomyfeet?

CHAPTER50SlittheThew

NOWTHATIHADtheincomeofanattendingsurgeon,Iboughtaduplexatoneendofarowofsuchunits inQueens.Therooflineabove thedormerwindowononesidewaspeaked likeaneyebrow,anditcastaproprietarygazeoveranovergrownwedgeofland,thickwithmaples.Insummer,IputmyjasminepotsonthelittlepatioandIgrewsaladstaplesinatinygarden.Inwinter,Ibroughtthejasmineindoorswhiletheemptywirecagesoutsidestoodasmemorialstothesucculent,blood-redtomatoestheearthhadgivenup.Ipaintedwalls;Irepairedroofshingles;Iinstalledbookshelves.Uprooted from Africa, I was satisfying a nesting impulse. I'd found my version of happiness inAmerica.Sixyearshadgoneby,andthoughIshouldhavevisitedEthiopia,somehowIcouldneverquitebreakfree.

Oneday,whencomingoutofanice-creamshop,atallelegantlydressedblackwoman,herleathercoatdancingaboveherankles,brushedpastme. Iheld thedoor forher,andassheslidpast,anintense disquiet came over me. She turned back to look at me, smiling. Another evening, whiledrivingbackthroughManhattanfromatraumaconferenceinNewJersey,astreetwalkercaughtmyeyeas shesteppedout fromunderanawningnear theHollandTunnel.Shewasghost litbycarheadlampsandreflectionsoffthepuddles.Shetit-flashedmeintherain.OrI imaginedshedid.Ifelt thedisquietagain, likethehintofsomethingafire,butonedoesn'tknowwhere. Icircledtheblock,butshewasgone.

Athome,Ipreparedforthenextday'swork.IcouldhavegoneintoprivatepracticewhenIfinishedmy five-year residency, or else I could have gone to some other teaching institution. But I felt agreatloyaltytoOurLady.Andnow,BrookeArmyMedicalCenterinSanAntonioandWalterReedinWashingtonweresendingusafewoftheirseniorsurgicalresidents.Inpeacetime,weprovidedtheclosest thingtoawarzone,aplacewheretheycouldhonetheirskills. IwasOurLady'sHeadofTrauma;wewereblessedwithnewresourcesandmorepersonnel.Therewasnoreasonformetobeunhappy.Butthatnight,withafiregoinginthegrate,Ifeltrestless,asifaparalysiswouldsoonsetinifIdidn'ttakecertainmeasures.

Thatweekend, Idecidedmy lifeneededadimension thatdidnot involvework. I lookedover theTimesforevents,readings,openings,plays,lectures,andothermattersofinterest.IforcedmyselftoleavethehouseonSaturdayandagainonSunday.

THEFOLLOWINGFRIDAY,Icamehomeafterworkanddepositedmybriefcaseandthemailinmylibrary.Inthekitchen, I lit thecandle,set the table,andwarmedup the lastportionofachickencasserolethatIhadcookedthepreviousSundayfromaTimesrecipe.

Therewasaknockonthedoor.

Ipanicked.

HadIinvitedsomeoneoverfordinnerandforgotten?OtherthanDeepakcomingoveronce,noonehadeverbeenhere.Could itbethatTsigefromBostonhaddecidedtotakematters intoherownhands,sinceIhadfailedtocallher?I'dpickedupthereceiveradozentimes,andthenlostcourage.OrcouldthisbeThomasStoneknocking?Ihadn'ttoldhimwhereIlived,buthecouldhavefoundouteasilyfromDeepak.

Ilookedthroughthepeephole.

Inthatconvexfish-eyeimage,Isaweyes,anose,cheekbones,lips…Mybraintriedtojuggleandrearrangethepartstocomeupwithafaceandaname.

Itwasn'tStoneorDeepakorTsige.

Therewasnomistakingwhoitwas.

Sheturnedtoleave,wentdownthetwosteps.

Icouldhavewatchedherwalkaway.

Iopenedthedoor.Shestoodfrozen,herbodyfacingthestreet,herfaceturnedbacktothedoor.ShewastallerthanIrecalled,orperhapsitwasthatshewasthinner.Shelookedtoseethatitwasme,thenshedroppedhergazetoaspotnearmyleftelbow.Thisallowedmetostudyheratwill,to

decidewhethertoslamthedooronher.

Herhairwasstraightened, lank,withoutbenefitofribbonsorbowsorevenagoodcombing.Thecheekboneswereintact,moreprominentthanever,asiftobetterbuttressthoseoval,slantingeyeswhich were her prettiest feature. Even without makeup, hers would always be a stunning face.Although itwas summer, sheworea longwool coat tied tight around thewaist, and shehuggedherself as if shewere cold. She stood theremotionless, like a small animal caught invading theterritoryofapredator,paralyzedandunabletomove.

Icamedownmysteps.Ireachedmyhandoutandtiltedherfaceup.Hereyeballsandlidsrolleddown just like the eyes of the dolls she used to play with. Her skin was cold to my touch. Thevertical scarsat theouteredgesofhereyeswerenowseasoned lines, though I recalled thedayRosina'sbladegavebirthtothem,andhowtheyhadbeenrawandchokedwithdarkblood.Ijerkedherchinfartherup.Stillshewouldn'tmeetmygaze.Iwantedhertoseethescarsonmybody,onefrom her betrayal of me with Shiva and another from her becoming more Eritrean than anyEritrean,resulting inthehijackingthatdrovemeoutofmycountry. Iwantedhertoseemyragethroughmy outer calm. Iwanted her to feel the blood surge inmymuscles, to see thewaymyfingerscurledandcoiledanditchedforherwindpipe.Itwasgoodshedidn'tlook,becauseifshe'dsomuchasblinked,Iwouldhavebitintoherjugular,Iwouldhaveconsumedher,bones,teeth,andhair,leavingnothingofheronthestreet.

Itookherbytheelbowandledherinside.Shecamelikeawomangoingtothegallows.InthefoyerasIboltedthedoor,shestoodrootedtothemat.Iledhertomylibrary—adiningroomthatIhadtransformed—andIpushedherdownontheottoman.Sheperchedonitsedge.Istareddownather;she didn't move. Then she coughed, a spasm that took fifteen seconds to pass. She brought acrumpledtissuetoher lips. I lookedatherfora longtime.Iwasabouttospeakwhenthecoughcommencedagain.

Iwenttothekitchen.Iboiledwaterfortea,leaningmyheadagainsttherefrigeratorasIwaited.WhywasIdoingthis?Oneminutehomicide,thenextminutetea?

Shehadnotchangedherposition.Whenshetookthecupfromme,Isawherunvarnished,chippedfingernailsandthewrinkledwasherwoman'sskin.Shepulledonesleevedown,passedthecupover,andrepeatedtheprocesswiththeother,soastohideherhands.Tearsstreameddownherface,herlipspulledbackintoagrimace.

Ihadhopedthatmyheartwouldbehardenedtosuchdisplays.

“Sorry.Iworkinakitchen,”shewhispered.

“Afterallyouhavedonetome,you'resorryaboutthestateofyourhands?”

Sheblinked,saidnothing.

“Howdidyoufindme?”

“Tsigesentme.”

“Why?”

“IcalledherwhenIgotoutofjail.Ineeded…help.”

“Didn'tshetellyouthatIdidn'twanttoseeyou?”

“Yes.ButsheinsistedIseeyoubeforeshewouldhelpme.”Sheglanceddirectlyatmefortheveryfirsttime.“AndIwantedtoseeyou.”

“Why?”

“TotellyouI'msorry.”Sheavertedhergazeafterafewseconds.

“Isthatsomethingyoulearninprison?Avoidingeyecontact?”

She laughed,and in thatmoment Iwondered if,withall shehadseenanddone,shewasbeyondbeingtouchedbyanger.Shesaid,“Iwasstabbedonceforlooking.”Shepointeddownwithherchintoherleftside.“Theytookoutmyspleen.”

“Wherewereyouinprison?”

“Albany.”

“Andnow?”

“I'mparoled.Ihavetoseemyprobationofficereveryweek.”

Sheputhercupdown.

“WhatelsedidTsigesay?”

“Thatyou'reasurgeon.”Shelookedaroundthelibrary,theshelvesfullofbooks.“Thatyou'redoingwell.”

“I'monlyherebecauseIwasforcedtorun.Forcedtoleaveinthenightlikeathief.Youknowwhodidthattome?ToHema?Itwassomeonewhowastoourfamily…likeadaughter.”

Sherockedbackandforth.“Goon,”shesaid,straighteningherback.“Ideserveit.”

“Stillplayingthemartyr?Iheardyouhidaguninyourhairwhenyougotonthatplane.AnAfro!YouweretheAngelaDavisoftheEritreancause,right?”

Sheshookherhead.Afteralongwhileshesaid,“Idon'tknowwhatIwas.Idon'tknowwhoIwas.The person I was felt she had to do something great.” She spat out the last word. “Somethingspectacular.ForZemui.Forme.Theypromisedmethatyouandourfamilywouldnotbeharmed.Assoonasthehijackwasover,Irealizedhowstupiditwas.Nothingaboutitwasgreat.Iwasagreatfool,that'sall.”

Shedrankhertea.Shestoodup.“Forgiveme,ifyoucan.Youdeservedbetter.”

“Shutupandsitdown,”Isaid.Sheobeyed.“Youthinkthatdoesit?Yousaysorryandthenleave?”

Sheshookherhead.

“Youhadababy?”Isaid.“Afieldbaby.”

“Thecontraceptivestheygaveusdidn'twork.”

“Whydidyougotojail?”

“MustItellyoueverything?”

Shebegancoughingagain.Whenthespasmwasover,sheshivered,althoughtheroomwaswarmandIwassweating.

“Whathappenedtoyourbaby?”

Herfacecrumpled.Herlipsstretchedout.Hershouldersshook.“Theytookmybabyawayfromme.Gavehimaway foradoption. I curse themanwhoputme in thatposition.Curse thatman.”Shelookedup.“Iwasagoodmother,Marion—”

“Agoodmother!”Ilaughed.“Ifyouwereagoodmotheryoumightbecarryingmychild.”

ShesmiledthroughhertearsasifIwerebeingfunny—asifshedjustrememberedmyfantasyofourgettingmarriedandpopulatingMissingwithourchildren.Thenshebegantoshake,andatfirstIthoughtshewascryingorlaughing,butIheardherteethchatter.IhadrehearsedmylinesinmyheadasIwalkedoutofAsmara,walkedallthewaytotheSudan;Idrehearsedthemsomanytimessince. I imagined every excuse shemight offer if I evermet her. I hadmy barbs ready. But thisquaking, silent adversary was not what Id envisioned. I reached over and felt her pulse. Onehundredfortybeatsperminute.Herskin,cooljustawhileago,wasburningtothetouch.

“I…must…go,”shesaid,risingbutswaying.

“No,youwillstay.”

Shewasclearlyunwell.Igaveherthreeaspirin.Iledherintothemasterbathandrantheshower.Whenitwassteaming,Ihelpedherundress.IfearlierIhadseenherasananimalinthepredator'slair,nowIfeltlikeafatherdisrobinghischild.Onceshewasintheshower,Itossedherunderwearandshirtintothewasherandrantheload.Ihelpedheroutoftheshower.Shewasonglasslegs.Idriedheroffandsatherontheedgeofthebed.Iputapairofmywinterflannelsonherandtuckedherin.Imadehereatafewspoonsofcasseroleanddrinkmoretea.IputVicksonherthroatandon

herchestandthesolesofherfeet,justasHemawoulddowithus.ShewasasleepbeforeIslidthewoolensocksoverhertoes.

WhatwasIfeeling?ThiswasaPyrrhicvictory.Apyrexicvictory—thethermometerIslidunderherarmpitreadonehundredthreedegrees.Whilesheslept,Imovedherwetclothestothedryerandstuckherjeansinthewasher.Iputawaythecasserole.ThenIsatinthelibrarybymyself,tryingtoread.PerhapsIdozed.Hourslater,Iheardthesoundofatoiletbeingflushed.Shewasonthebed,coversthrowntotheside,pajamasandsocksoff,wrappedinatowelandwipingherbrowwithawashcloth.Herfeverhadbroken.Shemovedovertomakeroomforme.

“Doyouwantmetoleavenow?”shesaid.

In that question, I felt that shewas taking control because therewas only one possible answer:“You'resleepinghere.”

“I'mburningup,”shesaid.

I changed into my boxers and T-shirt in the bathroom, took a blanket from the wardrobe, andheadedforthelibrary.

“Staywithme?”shesaid.“Please?”

Ihadnoreplyplannedforthat.

Iclimbedintomybed.WhenIreachedforthelight,shesaid,“Pleaseleaveiton.”

Nosoonerhad I laindownthanshepressedagainstme,smellingofmydeodorant,myshampoo,andVicks.Sheraisedmyarmandhuddledinthecrookofmyshoulder,herdampbodyagainstme.Herfingerstouchedmyface,verygingerly,asifsheworriedthatImightbite.IrememberedthatnightsomanyyearsagowhenIhadfoundhernakedinthepantry.

“What'sthatsound?”shesaid,startled.

“It'sthedryeralarm.Iwashedyourclothes.”

Iheardhersniffle.Thensob.“Youdeservedbetter,”shesaid,lookingup.

“Yes,Idid.”

Istaredathereyes, remembering the little fleck in theright iris,and thepuffofgrayaround it,whereasparkhadpenetrated.Yes, itwasstill there,darkernow, looking likeablemishshewasbornwith.Itracedherlips.Hernose.Sheshutherlidsatmytouch.Tearswereslidingunderneaththem.Shesmiledasmilefromourdaysofinnocence.Itookmyhandaway.Sheopenedherlids,hereyesglistening.Hesitantlyshekissedmylips.

No, I hadn't forgotten. At that moment, my anger wasn't so much with her as it was with thepassageoftime.Timehadrobbedmeofsuchwonderfulillusions,takenthemawayfartoosoon.ButrightthenIwantedtheillusionthatshewasmine.

Shekissedmeagain,andItastedthesaltofhertears.Wasshefeelingsorryforme?Icouldn'ttakethat,ever.SuddenlyIwasontopofher,tearingawaythesheet,tearingawayhertowel,clumsybutdetermined. Shewas startled, themuscles of her neck taut like cables. I grabbed her head andkissedher.

“Wait,”shewhispered,“shouldn'tyou…?”

ButIwasalreadyinsideher.

Shewinced.

“Shouldn'tIwhat,Genet?”IsaidasIbucked,mypelvispossessingsomeintrinsicknowledgeofthemovementsneeded.“Thisismyfirsttime…,”Imanagedtosay.“Iwouldn'tknowwhatIshouldorshouldn'tdo.”

Herpupilsdilated.Wasshepleasedtolearnthisaboutme?

Nowsheknew.

Now she knew that there were people in this world who kept their promises. Ghosh, whosedeathbedsheneverhadthetimetovisit,wasonesuchperson.Iwantedtheknowledgetoshame

her,toterrifyher.Whenitwasover,Istayedontopofher.

“My first time, Genet …,” I said, softly. “Don't think that's because I was waiting for you. It'sbecauseyoufuckedmylifeup.Youcouldhavecountedonme.Moneyinthebank,astheysayhere.Andwhat did you do? You turned it all into shit. Iwanted tomake life beautiful for you. I don'tunderstanditreally,Genet.YouhadHemaandGhosh.YouhadMissing.Youhadmewholovedyoumorethanyouwilleverloveyourself.”

Sheweptunderme.Afteralongtime,shegentlycaressedmyhead,triedtokissme.Shesaid,“Ineedtogotothebathroom.”

Iignoredher.Iwasarousedagain.Ibegantomoveinsideheroncemore.

“Please,Marion,”shesaid.

Without removing myself from within her, I rolled onto my back, holding her, flipping her, andsettingherontopofme,herbreastshoveringoverme.

“Youneedtopee?Goahead,”Isaid,mybreathcomingquick.“You'vedonethatbefore,too.”

Igrabbedhershouldersandpulledhertomehard.Ismelledherfever,andthescentofbloodandsexandurine.Icameagain.

ThenIletgo.Iletherslideoff.

IWOKELATEONSATURDAYMORNINGtofindherbackinthecrookofmyarm,staringatme.Itookheragain—Icouldn'timaginehowIhaddeniedmyselfthispleasureforsolong.

WhenIawokeitwas2:00p.m.andIcouldhearher inthekitchen.Iwenttothebathroom.ItwaswhenIreturnedtothebedthatIsawthebloodonthesheets.Istrippedthebedandtookthesheetstothewashingmachine.

Shebroughttwocupsofcoffee,aservingofthecasseroleandtwospoonstome.Shewasgettingfeverishagain,thedressinggownnotwarmenough,herteethchattering,andwithspasmsofadrycough.Itookthecoffeefromher.Herdressinggowncameapart.Shewatchedmeremakethebed.

“Sorry,”shesaid.“Iambleedingbecausethescars…Ialwaysbleedwith…intercourse.Rosina'sgifttome.SothatIwillalwaysthinkofherwhen—”

“Isitpainful?”

“Atfirst.Andifit'sbeenalongtime.”

“Whataboutthisfever,howlonghaveyoubeenthisway?HaveyouhadanX-ray?”

“I'llbefine,”shesaid.“It'sabadcold.HopeIdon'tgiveittoyou.ItooksomeAdvilIfoundinyourcabinet.”

“Genet,youshould—”

“Really,I'llbefine,Doctor.”

“Tellmewhyyouwenttoprison.”

Hersmiledisappeared.Sheshookherhead.“Please,Marion.Don't.”

Iknewthenitwasastorythatwoulddomenogood.IknewIhadtohearit.Later,whenthetwoofuswereseatedinmylibrary,Iinsisted.

HE WAS AN INTELLECTUAL, a firebrand, an Eritrean who like her had left the cause. He shall remainnameless—it'spainfulenoughalready.Suffice it tosayhewon theheartofherbaby. (Thebaby'sfatherhaddiedinthestruggle.)Andthenhewonherheart—allthisinNewYork,afterherarrival.Shefeltherlifewasjustbeginning.Theymarried.Inayearshewaspregnantwithhischild.Shebegantosuspect thathewascheatingonher.She foundthewhereaboutsof thewoman, the flatwhere theyconducted their tryst.Shebroke inandhid in thewoman'sclothesclosetandwaitedthereforhalfadaytill thecouplearrived inthe lateafternoon.Whenherhusbandandhiswhite

lover were on her bed, seeking carnal knowledge of each other in a noisy, effortful way, Genetdebatedwhethertoannounceherpresence.

“Marion,”shesaid,“asIstoodinthatcloset,withthiswoman'sbeltsinbasketslikesnakesatmyfeet,itallcamebacktome.EverythingIhadbeenthroughfromthetimeofZemui'sdeathtillthen.

“IsomehowcametoAmerica,andwhatdidIdo?Forthefirst time inmy life, fortheonepersonwhodeservedittheleast,Igavemylovecompletely.Ilovedhim—whatisityousaidearlier?—morethanIlovedmyself.Igaveitallupforthisuselessman.Standinginthecloset,IknewthatifItriedtogetvengeance,Ihadtobewillingtolosemylife.Therehasonlybeenonemaninmylifeworthyofsuchasacrifice,Marion,anditwasyou.IwastoostupidtoknowthatwhenIwasyoung.Iwastoostupid.

“Hewasn'tworthit,butnowIcouldn'tstopmyself.Yousee,inlovinghim,ithadhappenedagain,Marion—I wanted to be great. I thought he was destined for greatness as an academic, as anintellectual,andmygreatnesswouldbeinbeingwithhim.

“ForthefirsttimeIunderstoodwhowastheproletariat.Theproletariatwasme,theproletariathadalwaysbeenme,andnowIneededtoactfortheproletariat.Ihadmystraightrazorinmyhand.

“Ibegantosinginmysoftestvoice.TheycouldnotseemethoughIcouldseethem.

“I opened thedoor of the closetwith one intention forhim: to slit his thew, slit it like a stalk ofhenna.Youcanonlydothatwhenyouhavelovedsomeonesocompletelythatyouhaveheldnothingbackandthereisnothingleftofyou—ithasallbeenused.Doyouunderstand?”Iunderstoodalltoowell.“Otherwise,I'dhavesaidtoher,Takehimandkeephim.Goodriddance.Instead,Ijumpedonthem.

“Icutthem,butnotasbadlyasIhadinmind.Theyescaped.Iwaitedforthepolice.IfeltasifIhadtakenoffhandcuffsthathadbeenonmywriststhewholetime.Ihadbeenlookingforgreatness,andIfounditthen.Iwasfreeattheverymomentwhenmyfreedomwouldend.”

ShesawmyexpressionasIfollowedthestory,andshesmiled.

“Genetdiedinprison,Marion.Genetisnomore.Whentheytakeyourlivingchildaway,youdie,andthechildgrowinginsideyoudies,too.Allthethingsthatmatteraregone,andsoIamdead.”

Therewas a tiny part ofme thatwanted to say,You haveme,Genet. But for once, I stopped toconsidermyself,tosavemyself

IfeltcompassionforherofasortthatIhadn'tfeltbefore:itwasafeelingbetterthanlove,becauseitreleasedme,itsetmefreeofher.Marion,Isaidtomyself,shefoundhergreatness,atlast,founditinhersuffering.Onceyouhavegreatness,whoneedsanythingelse?

CHAPTER51TheDevil'sChoice

INRETROSPECT,myillnessbeganthatSundaymorninginthecrystallinemomentofwakingtoasilenthouse inwhich Iknew Iwasaloneandshewasgone.Forty-threedays later, the first shudderofnauseaarrived,anoceansurgeasifadistantVesuviushadcollapsedintothesea.Nextanancientfog,anEntotomist fullof shiftingshapesandanimalsoundsdescendedonme,andby the forty-ninthdayIhadlostconsciousness.

Howremarkablethatalifeshouldturnonsuchasmallthingasadecisiontoopenadoorornot.IusheredGenet inonaFriday.She letherselfout twodays laterwithoutagood-bye,andnothingwouldbethesameagain.Sheplacedapinwheelcrossatthecenterofthediningtable,agiftforme,Ipresumed.ThatSt.Bridget'smedallionsheworeonanecklacehadbeenherfather's,andithadbelongedtoaCanadiansoldiernamedDarwinbeforethat.

Thetaleofherex-husbandlingeredlikeanastyflu.I'dinsistedonhearingthestory.IdiscoveredthatGenetwascapableofselflesslove—justnotwithme.Still,inmyhomeI'dfoundamomentaryequilibriumwithher,or the illusionof it,as ifwewereagain likechildrenplayinghouse,playingdoctor.

I HURRIED HOME eachnightafterwork,hoping to findherwaitingonmystoop.Myheartwould sinkwhenIglimpsedtheyellowstickyIhadleftforherinsidethescreendoor,tellingherthekeywaswithmygoodneighbor,Holmes,andto feelathome.Once inside, I feltcompelledtoretrievemynote,checkingtobesureIhad,infact,writtenonit.Iconfess,Ievenleftastubofapencilbythedoorincaseshefeltinclinedtocomposeareply.

ByFriday,aweekafterIfirstdraggedherintomyhome,thesightofthatyellowsquareofpaperscreamed,FOOL!Thestubbypencilsaid,FOOLOFTHEHIGHESTORDER.Itoreupthepaperandflungthepencilstubintothestreet.

Iwasn'tangrywithGenet.Shewasconsistent, ifnothingelse. IwasangrywithmyselfbecauseIstill lovedher,orat leastI lovedthatdreamofourtogetherness.Myfeelingswereunreasonable,irrational,andIcouldn'tchangethem.Thathurt.

Sittinginmylibrarythatnight,havingdonemoredamagetoabottleofPinchinfourhoursthanIhadintheyearsinceIboughtit,Ireplayedourlastexchange.She'dbeencurledupinthechairInowsat in,wearingmydressinggown, thegown that I nowwore. I came toherwith tea— thatsignaturemoveoffools,oneofthestigmatabywhichyoushallknowus.

“Marion,”shesaid,forshehadbeengazingatmylibrary,myeclecticlittlecollection.“Yourfather'sapartmentinBoston,thewayyoudescribedit…itsoundssomuchlikethis.”

“Don'tberidiculous,”Isaid.“Ibuiltthesebookcasesmyself.Halfthebooksherehavenothingtodowithsurgery.Surgeryisn'tmylife.”

Shedidn'targue.Wesatquietly.AtonepointIsawhergazeflittotherugonthefloorbetweenus—therewasanintrudersittingnakedonthosesyntheticfibers,adarksilentmanwithrazorcutstohisbody.Hispresenceputadamperonourconversation.

When I announced I was going to go to bed, she said she'd be right along. She smiled. I didn'tbelieveher.IthoughtI'dneverseeheragain.ButIwaswrong.Shejoinedmeunderthecovers.Wemadelove.Itwastenderandslow.ItwastheverymomentwhenIthought,Atlast,sheisgoingtostay,butinfactitwashergood-bye.

TWOWEEKSAFTERSHELEFT, I feltatoddswithmyhouse.I foundmylibraryoppressive.Inthekitchen,Itookoutmydinner,whichwasafoilpacketlabeledFRIDAYinmyhandwriting;itwasthelastofwhatIhadcooked,frozen,andpackedinaliquotsmanyweekendsago.NowIsawthiscategorizingofmyfreezerfoodasasignofthetruechaosinsidemyhead.

ThankGodformygoodneighbor,SonnyHolmes.Heheardmeraging,heheardmebangmyheadagainst the fridge.SonnyHolmeshadan inherentcuriosityanhonest,all-Americannosiness thatcamewithcrossingone'sseventiethyearandthatdidnottrytoconcealitself.Hedbeenawareofthecomingofmyguest—sucharareevent—andhe'dheardtheheadboardmusicandthenthelongsilence.

“Youneedtohireasecurityfirm,”hesaid,comingtoaquickdiagnosisbeforeIhadevenfinishedmy story. Sonny believed in the ennea-gram, that Jesuit-invented classification of people intopersonalitytypes.HewasaOne,willfulandconfidentandcertain.HehadmepeggedasaThreeoraFour,orwasitaTwo?Whateveritwas,itwasanumberthatdidnotarguewithOnes.

“Ineedawhat?”Isaid.

“Aprivatedetective.”

“Sonny,forwhat?Idon'twanttoseeheragain.”

“Perhaps so. But you need closure. What if she's in jail or in a hospital? What if she's tryingdesperatelytogetbacktoyou,butcan't?”

Anoblemotive,thatwasallaTwoneededtocontinueanobsession.Ilatchedontothat.

East Coast Investigations of Flushing turned out to be an earnest, blond youth by the name ofAppleby,sonofHolmes'slatesister-in-law.ApplebyquicklyestablishedthatGenethadnotreturnedtoherhalfwayhouse.Shehadn'tgonetoNathan'srestaurant,whereshewasheddishes.ShehadnotcheckedinwithherprobationofficerandshehadnotcalledTsige.Helearnedthesefactsinnotime.HeevenknewthatGenethadbeendiagnosedwith tuberculosiswhile inprison.Shebeganmedications, but then failed to report for her DOT—Directly Observed Therapy—after she wasreleased. The cough, the fever, in all likelihood were her tuberculosis coming back. Thedisconcerting news was that if she ever materialized, I'd be third in line after the state healthdepartmentandherprobationofficer.Shewouldbeheadedback to jail.Applebyssource in jailcouldgethishandonhercompletemedicalrecordsifwewished,andApplebysaidhe'dtakentheliberty of telling the man to proceed. I was concerned about violating her confidentiality.“Knowledgeispowerinthesekindsofsituations,”Applebyadded,andwiththathewonmeover;anymanwhowoulduseaquotethatGhoshlovedwasamantotrust.“Youarepayingtoknow,”headded,“andIthinkwe'reobligedtoknowmore.”

“Sowhatnow?”IaskedAppleby.Iwasn'taskinghimaboutexposuretotuberculosis.Icouldhandlethat.

Appleby avoided my eyes. His cheeks and the tip of his nose were covered with twitchy bloodvessels,readytoflushattheleastprovocation.Hisconditionwasacnerosacea,nottobeconfusedwith thepedestrianacnevulgaris, thebaneofmany teenagers.Appleby'snosewouldonedaybeburgundyandbulbous,thecheeksameatyred.Alreadyshy,hisproblemswouldgetworsebecausestrangerswouldassumeincorrectlythathisappearancewasaresultofdrink.HereIknewabouthisfuturewhilepayinghimtotellmemine.

“Well,Dr.Stone,”Applebysaid,clearinghis throat,hisnosestarting to redden,asure indicationthat I would not like what he had to say, “Respectfully, I would say to check your silverware.Inventoryyourbelongings.Makesurenothingismissing.”

Ilookedathimforalongwhile.“But,Mr.Appleby,theonlythingthatmatterstomeispreciselytheonethingthatismissing.”

“Yes,ofcourse,”hesaid.

Thecompassioninhisvoicetoldmehehadknownmykindofpain.Therearelegionsofus.

ASFARASTHEEVENTSofthenextfewweeks,Irecallonenightwakingtotheshrillringofthetelephone.Receiver inhand, Iwas lost,uncertainwhether IwasatOurLadyorbackatMissing. Iwas thebackuptraumaconsultant.ButIcouldn'tdecipherwhattheresidentattheotherendwanted.Thisisn't uncommon for the first ten seconds of a middle-of-the-night conversation. The callerunderstands.But, aswe kept talking, the fog inmybrain refused to lift. I hungup. I pulled thephonefromitsmoorings.Thenextmorning,mymindfeltclear,butmybodywouldn'triseoffthebed.Iwasweak.Thethoughtoffoodturnedmystomach.Irolledoverandwentbacktosleep.

Perhaps that sameday,perhapsa fewdays later,amanwason theedgeofmybed.He tookmypulse,calledmyname.ItwasmyformerChiefResidentandnowmycolleagueatOurLady,DeepakJesudass. I desperately held his hand and asked him not to leave—I must have recognized thedangerofmysituation.

“I'mnotleaving,”hesaid.“Justpullingbackthecurtain.”MymemoryisthatItoldhimeverythingthathadtranspired.HeexaminedmeasIspoke.Hepulleddownmyeyelids,interruptingmeonlytoaskthatIlookdownatmyfeet,orsay“Ah!”AtonepointheinquiredifIhadastethoscopeinthe

house.Isaid,“Areyoukidding?I'masurgeon,”andwelaughedtogether,astrangesoundthathadbeenmissingfrommyhome.Isaid“Ouch”whenheprobedjustundermyribsontheright.Ifoundthisfunny.Iheardhimmurmuringonthetelephone.Allthewhile,Ididnotletgoofhishand.

Three men whose faces I knew arrived with a stretcher. They wrapped me in a flannel cocoon,carried me out to the curb, and lifted me up into their ambulance. I remember wanting to saysomething about the beauty of theirmotion, the inherent grace, and how incredible it was, thisbaby-kangaroo-in-pouchfeeling.Iapologizedfornothavingappreciatedtheirskillalltheseyears.

Deepakrodewithme.AtOurLady,hewalkedalongsidemygurneypasttheshockedfacesofthestaffweencounteredinthehallsandelevator.HewheeledmeintotheIntensiveCareUnitofOurLadyofPerpetualSuccour.Myeyesglowedyellowundertheharshfluorescentlights,butIdidn'tknowit.Myskin, too. Ibledwildly fromeveryneedlestick.Too late, thenurses triedtohidetheominoustea-coloredurineinmycatheterbagfromme,butIsaw.Forthefirsttime,Iwasvery,veryscared.

The increasingswelling inmybrainmademedesperatelysleepy. Iheldon toconsciousness longenough toaskDeepak to comenear. “Whateverhappens,” Iwhispered, “don't takeme fromOurLady.IfImustdieandcan'tdieatMissing,Iwanttodiehere.”

Atsomepoint IwasawarethatThomasStonecametomybedsideandwasstudyingme,butnotwiththeconcernofaclinician.ItwasthepetrifiedlookIknewsowell,thelookofaparentwhosechildhadsufferedsomemisfortune.ItwasataboutthistimethatIlostconsciousness.

ASILEARNEDLATER,thecabletoHemaread:COMEATONCESTOPMARIONCRITICALLYILLSTOPTHOMASSTONESTOPP.S.DONOT

DELAYSTOP—andshedidnot.HemacalledinherfavorwiththeComradePresident-for-Life'swife,whounderstood all too well Hema's need to be at her son's sickbed. The American Embassy readilyprovidedvisas,andbyday'send,HemaandShivawereontheirwaytoFrankfurtviaCairo.Then,still on Lufthansa, they crossed the Atlantic. Hema pulled out the telegram more than once,studyingthe letters, lookingforahopefulanagram.OverGreenland,shesaid toShiva,“PerhapsthismeansThomasStoneisneardeath,notMarion.”

Shivasaidwithabsolutecertainty,“No,Ma.It'sMarion.Icanfeelit.”

AtteninthenightNewYorktime,theyfloatedintotheIntensiveCareUnit,agrayingwomaninamaroon sari, the face striking despite the raccoon rings around her eyes. With her was a tallyouthfulmanwhowassoobviouslyhersonandmyidenticaltwin.

Theyslowedoutsidemyglasscubicle,wearyOldWorld travelerspeering into theglowofaNewWorldhospitalroom.ThereIwas,thesonwhowenttotheStatesforhigherstudies,whobecameapractitioneroftheartful,lavish,disposable-everything,lucrative,andincrediblyeffectiveAmericanbrandofmedicine,withnopricesonthemenu,sodifferentinstyleandsubstancefromwhattheydidatMissing;onlynowitmusthaveappearedtothemasiftheAmericanmedicinehadturnedonme, like the tiger turningon its trainer, so that I laymoored toablue-grayventilator,chained tomonitorsontheconsolesbehindmybed,comatoseandinvadedbyplastictubing,bycathetersandwires.Therewasevenastiffwirelikeanailpokingupfrommyskull.

They saw Thomas Stone seated on the side ofmy room closest to the window, his head restingawkwardlyagainstthebed'ssafetyrail,hiseyesclosedasifinsleep.Intheseventy-twohourssincehesentthetelegram,myconditionhadworsened.ThomasStoneopenedhiseyes,suddenlyawareof them.Hestoodup,bedraggled,stiff,andsomewhatshrunken inhisborrowedscrubs, relievedbutapprehensive.Worrylinesranintohiseyes,andhisfacewasdrawnandpaleunderhisshockofwhitehair.

Thetwooldcolleaguesandcombatantshadlastseeneachotherinadeliveryroom,momentsaftermy birth and our mother's death. That was also when Stone had last seen Shiva: in OperatingTheater3,heldtightinHema'sarms.

The bedside table and the ventilator blockedHema's approach to the near side of the bed. ShecircledtowhereStonestood,hereyesonme.

“He is ‘critically ill’ fromwhat,Thomas?”Hemasaid, referring to the twowords in the telegramthathadmostfrustratedher.Hertonewasprofessional,asifshewereaskingacolleagueaboutapatient;itallowedherthepretenseofbeingcalmwheninsideshewasquaking.

“It's hepatic coma,” Thomas said, responding in the samemanner, grateful that she'd elected toconverse in the language of disease, a fallbackwhich allowed even their son to be reduced to adiagnosis. “He has a fulminant hepatitis. The ammonia level is very high and the liver hardly

functioning.”

“Whatfrom?”

“Viralhepatitis.HepatitisB.”

Stoneletdownthebedrailandthetwoofthemstoodoverme.Hema'shandreachedbehindherforthetailendofhersari,thepartthatwentoverhershoulder.Shebroughtittohermouth.

“Helooksanemic,notjusticteric,”shemanagedtosayatlast,clingingtotheidiomofmedicinetodescribemypallorandjaundice.“What'shishemoglobin?”

“Nine, after four units of blood.He's bleeding from his gut. His platelets are down and he isn'tmaking clotting factors.Thebiliru-bin is twelve, andhis creatinine just today is four, rising fromthreeyesterday…”

“What'sthis,please?”Shivasaid,pointingatmyskull.HestoodacrossfromThomasStone,thebedbetweenthem.

“An intracranialpressuremonitor.Goes into theventricle.Hehascerebraledema.They'regivinghimmannitolandadjustingtheventilatorsettingstokeepthepressuredown.”

Shivalookedskeptical.“Itgoesthroughhisskull,throughbrainintotheventriclejusttomeasure?Itdoesnottreat?”

ThomasStonenodded.

“Howdidthisbegin?”Hemaasked.

AsThomasStonerecountedthesequenceofevents,Shivafreedthebedsidetableandfoundslackbetween the bed and ventilator. He let down the bed rail on his side. Moving with the slowefficiencyofacontortionist,heslidunderthetubesandwires.DeepakenteredintimetoseeShivalyingonhissidenext tome,hisheadtouchingmine.Hisbeingthere lookedbothprecariousandentirely natural. All Deepak could do was stare, noting, however, that my intracranial pressuretracing,whichhaddonenothingbutgoupforthreedays,wentdown.

No sooner had Deepak introduced himself than Vinu Mehta, the gastroenterologist, filled thedoorway,pantingfromtakingthestairs.VinuhadbeenaninternalmedicineresidentatOurLadywhenIwasasurgeryresident.Afterspecializingingastroenterologyhe'djoinedalucrativepracticeinWestchesterbutwasn'thappyandhadreturnedtothesalariedstaffofOurLady.

“VinuMehta,Dr.Madam,”hesaid,puttinghispalmstogetherinañamastebeforegraspingHema'shandwithbothofhis.“AndthismustbeShiva,”hesaid,unfazedatseeingShivainmybed.“IknowthisonlybecauseIamcertaintheothergentlemanisMarion.”HeturnedbacktoHema.“Whatashockthismustbe,madam.Foreveryonehere,too.Ourwholeworldisupsidedown!Marionisoneofus.”ThissuddenswitchtothevernacularoffeelingsmadeHema'slipstremble.

OnelookatVinuandyouknewthestoriesabouthimbuyinggroceriesforpatientshedischargedwereprobablytrue.Idseenhimextendapatient'sstaytoinsulateherfromsomemadnessathome.Hewas thebest friend toeveryoneon the staff and regularlybakedcakesandcookies forme. IalwayssenthimacardonMother'sDay,whichpleasedhimnoend.

“IwascalledtheminutethatMarionwasbroughthere,Dr.Madam,”Vinuwenton.“Hepatology,theliver,thatismyfield.HepatitisBswimsaroundhere.Lotsofcarriers,intravenousdrugaddictsandpeoplewhoacquireitfromtheirmothersatbirth—verycommoninimmigrantsfromtheFarEast.Madam,weseenoendofsilentcirrhosisandevenlivercancerfromthisvirus.ButacutefulminanthepatitisB?InmycareerIhaveseenonlytwootherpatientsquitethissevere.”

“Vinu, tellmethetruth,”Hemasaid, takingonano-nonsense,MotherIndiatonewiththisyoungdoctorwhowasalltooreadytoplaytheroleofnephew.“Ismysonadrinker?”

Isupposeitwasafairquestion.Ihadn'tseenherinmorethansevenyears.Sheknewitwasinmygenes.WhatdidshereallyknowofwhoorwhatIhadbecome?

“Madam,categoricallyno!”Vinuresponded.“No,no.Agemofasonyouhave.”

Hema'ssternexpressionsoftened.

“Although,madam,”Vinucontinued,“in thepast fewweeks,madam—don't take thiswrongly—by

thereportofhisneighbor,Marionhadbeentroubledanddrinking.”

Deepakhadfoundanewprescriptioninmyhouseforisoniazid,adrugusedtopreventtuberculosis.Isoniazid was also famous for causing severe liver inflammation. It was routine to check liverenzymestwoweeksafterstartingtreatmentsothedrugcouldbediscontinuediftherewasanysignofliverdamage.

“Myhypothesis,madam, is thatMarion-bhaiya started isoniazidonhisown.Theprescription isamonthold.Heprobablydidn'tgethisblooddrawntocheckliverfunctionsthewayhewassupposedto.Heisasurgeonafterall,poorfellow.Whatdoesheknowaboutthesefinematters?Ifhe'donlyconsultedme!Iwouldhavebeenhonoredtotakecareofhim.Afterall,Marion-bhaiyatookcareofmyherniasolovingly.

“Inanycase,madam,IpersonallywenttoManhattan,toMountSinai,andIchauffeuredovertheworld'sbest liverman,themanwhotrainedmeinthisspecialty. Isaid, ‘Professor, this isanotacase of hepatitis, but a case of my own brother.’ He is in agreement that the alcohol and theisoniazidmightbecontributory,butthereisnodoubtthatwhatwearedealingwithherefirstandforemostishepatitisB.”

“What is the prognosis?”Hema said. “Will someone tellme that?” Itwas themost basic thing amotherwantedtoknow.“Willhegetbetter?”

VinulookedtoDeepakandThomasStone,butneithermanwaswillingtospeak.Thediseasewas,afterall,Vinu'sareaofexpertise.

“Justtellme.Willhelive?”Hemaspatout.

“It is undoubtedly very grave,” Vinu said, and the fact that he was fighting back tears told hereverything.

“Comeon!”Hema said, annoyedby this and turning toThomasStone, and then toDeepak. “It'shepatitis.Iunderstandhepatitis.WeseethedamageitdoesinAfrica.But…here,America!Inthiswealthy place, this rich hospital”—she swept her hands at all the machinery— “surely here inAmericayoucandomoreforhepatitisthantowringyourhandsandsayitisverygrave.“

Theymusthavewincedwhenshesaid“rich.”Comparedwiththestate-of-the-artICUsinthemoneyhospitals,suchasThomasStone'sinstitutioninBoston,ourswasbare-bones.

“We tried everything, madam,” Deepak said now in a more subdued tone. “Plasma exchange.Whateveranyoneintheworldcandoforthisdisease,wearedoingthathere.”

Hemalookedskeptical.

“Andpraying,madam,”Vinuadded.“Thesistershaveaprayerchaingoingaroundtheclockfortwodaysnow.Honestly,weneedthatkindofamiracle.”

Shivahadquietlyfollowedeverywordfromwherehelay.

Hemastoodlookingdownatmyunconsciousform,strokingmyhandandshakingherhead.

Vinuconvincedthetwoofthemtoretiretoaroomreadiedfortheminthehouse-staffbuilding;he'devenarrangedforalightdinnerofcha-pattianddal.Hemawastootiredtoargue.

THENEXTMORNING,Hemaappearedinanorangesari,lookingrested,yetasifshehadagedafewyearsinthecourseofthenight.

Thomas Stone was exactly where she had left him. He looked past her in the doorway, as ifexpectingShiva,butShivawasn'tthere.

Shestoodbymybedagain,anxioustoseemeindaylight.Thepreviousnightshe'dfounditalltoounreal,as if itwerenotmeon thebedbut someextensionofall thenoisymachinerywhichhadtakentheformofflesh.Butnowshecouldseeme,seetheriseandfallofmychest,thepuffinessofmyeyes,mylipscontortedbythebreathingtube.Itwasreal.Shecouldn'thelpherself,andbegantoweepsilently, forgettingThomasStonewasthere,ornotcaringonewayortheother.Shewasonlyconsciousofhimwhenhetentativelyofferedahandkerchief.Shesnatched it fromhim,as ifhe'dbeenslowtoofferit.

“Itfeelsasifthisishappeningbecauseofme,”Hemasaid.Sheblewhernose.“Iknowthatsoundsselfish,buttoloseGhosh,thentoseeMarionlikethis…Youdon'tunderstand,itfeelsasifIhave

failedthemall,thatIletthisbefallMarion.”

Had she turned, shemight have seen Thomas Stone stir, seen him rub his knuckles against histemples,asiftryingtoerasehimself.Hespoke,hisvoicehoarse.“You…youandGhoshneverfailedthem.Idid.Ifailedallofyou.”

There itwas,Hemamusthavethought; itwasboththesorryandthethank-youthatwasso longoverdue,andthefunnythingwasthatatthismoment,shedidn'tcare.Itnolongermattered.Shedidn'tevenlookhisway.

SHIVAENTERED,andifhesawThomasStone,hedidn'tacknowledgehispresence.Hehadeyesonlyforme,hisbrother.

“Wherewereyou?”Hemasaid.“Didyousleepatall?”

“Inthelibraryupstairs.Itookanapthere.”Shivasurveyedme,thenhestudiedthesettingsontheventilator,andthenthelabelsonthefluid-containingbagshangingovermybed.

“ThereisonethingIdidn'taskVinu,”HemasaidtoStone.“HowdidMariongethepatitisB?”

Thomasshookhisheadasiftosayhedidnotknow.Butsinceshewasn'tlookinghisway,hehadtospeak. “It … was probably during surgery. Nicking himself. It's an occupational hazard forsurgeons.”

“It can also be acquired by sexual intercourse,” Shiva said, addressing Thomas Stone. ThomasStonestammeredassent.HemaglaredatShiva,onehandonherhip.Shedidn'tgetachance tospeak,becauseShivahadmoretosay:“GenetwasatMarion'shouse,Ma.Sheshoweduptheresixweeksago.Shewassick.Shestayedfortwonightsandthendisappeared.”

“Genet…?”Hemasaid.

“Therearetwopeopleinthewaitingroomyouneedtomeet.OneisanEthiopianlady,Tsige.Sheused to live oppositeMissing.Ghosh took care of her infant years ago.Marionmet her again inBoston.TheotherisMr.Holmes—heisMarion'sneighbor.Theywanttospeaktoyou.”

BYMIDMORNING,Hemaknewthewholestory.GenethadbeenillwithTB.ButApplebyhadhishandsontheprisonhealthrecordsandtheyshowedwhatwehadnotknownbefore:Genetwasalsoasilentcarrier of hepatitis B. She contracted it (or so the prison doctor postulated) from an improperlysterilizedneedleora transfusionora tattoowhenshewas in the field inEritrea; shecouldalsohaveacquireditsexually.Genethadbledreadilywhenweslepttogether,andIhadbeengenerouslyexposed to her blood and thereby to the virus. The incubation period of hepatitis B fit Shiva'shypothesis:itwassixweeksfromhervisittomyfallingill.

Hemapacedthewaitingroom,cursingGenetandbemoaningmystupidityinlettingGenetgetclosetomeagainaftereverythingshehadputusthrough.HadGenetappearedjustthen,Iwouldhavefearedforherlife.

WHEN DEEPAK AND VINU made rounds together that afternoon they shared the latest lab results: mykidneyswerefailing;myliver,normallythesourceofclottingfactors,wasn'tproducingany.Iftherewereanyviable livercells left, theywereshowingnosignsof recovering.Therewasnotabitofgood news they could convey. They withdrew, Shiva following them. Thomas Stone and Hemastayed,silentaroundmyimmobileform.Nowitwasawatchinggame,avigiltotheend.Therewasnohope.Thetwoofthemasphysiciansknewitalltoowell,butifanything,experiencemadeitevenlesspalatable.

ATNOON,anICUnursepagedbothDeepakandVinutoaStonefamilyconference.TheycametofindHemaandShivaseatedacrossfromThomasStoneinthesmallmeetingroom.

Hema,weary, head in her hands and elbows on the table, gazedup at the two youngdoctors inwhitecoats,herson'speers.“Youwantedtoseeus?”shesaidimpatientlytoVinuandDeepak.

Deepaklookedpuzzled.“Ididn'tcallthismeeting.”HeturnedtoVinu,whoshookhishead.

“Idid,”Shivasaid.Hehadastackofphotocopiedpapers in frontofhim.Ayellow legalpadwascovered with notations in his careful script. Hema noticed an authority to his voice, a sense ofactionandenergyand initiative thatnooneelse seemedcapable of displaying in the faceofmyterribleprognosis.“IcalledthemeetingbecauseIwanttotalkaboutalivertransplant.”

Deepak,whofounditdifficulttositface-to-facewithShivaandnotfeelhewasspeakingtome,said,

“We considered a transplant early on, Shiva. In fact, Dr. Stone and I talked about transferringMarion to Mecc—I mean to Boston General, Dr. Stone's hospital. Dr. Stone's team does moretransplantsthananyoneontheEastCoast.Butwedecidedagainstitfortworeasons.Firstofall,transplantsarenotoriouslyunsuccessfulwhentheliverisbeingdestroyedbyfulminanthepatitisB.Even if we found a cadaver liver of the right blood group and size and we did the transplantsuccessfully, wewould have to usemassive doses of steroids and other drugs that suppress theimmunesystemtopreventrejectionofthenewliver.ThatwouldgivethehepatitisBvirusa fielddayandthenewliverwouldbedestroyedandwewouldbebacktoexactlywherewearenow.”

“Yes,Iknow,”Shivasaid.“Butwhat if thetransplant isaperfectmatch?Not justthesamebloodgroup, but all six HLA antigens and other antigens you don't even measure—what if they allmatched? Then no immune-suppressing drugs would be needed? Right? None. No steroids, nocyclosporine,nothing.Wouldyouagree?”

“Theoretically,yes,but…,”Deepaksaid.

“Aperfectmatchiswhatyouwouldhaveifyoutooktheliverfromme,”Shivasaid.“Hisbodywouldseeitasself,notasforeigninanyway.”

The air had been sucked out of the room. No one spoke for a few seconds. Seeing Hema'sexpression,Shivaquicklyexplained,“Imeantakeapartofmyliver,Ma.LeavingenoughformeandtakingoutalobetogivetoMarion.”

“Shiva…”ItwasonHema's lips toapologize forShiva—thisclearlywasnothis field,orhers forthatmatter.Butthenshechangedhermind.Sheknewsomethingabouthistenacitywhenitcameto medical situations that others thought impossible. “But, Shiva, has that ever been done—transplantingpartofaliver?”

Shivaslidoneofthearticlesovertoher.“Thisisfromlastyear.AreviewbyDeepakJesudassandThomasStoneontheprospectsforlivedonorlivertransplant.Ithasn'tbeendoneinhumans,Ma,butbeforeyousayanything,readpagethreewhereIhaveunderlined.Theysay, ‘Technically, thesuccessinalmostonehundreddogs,theabilitytosustainlifeintherecipientandnotjeopardizelifeinthedonor,suggeststhatwearereadytoperformthisoperationonhumans.Theriskstoahealthydonorpresentasignificantethicalobstacle,butwebelievethecriticalshortageofcadaverorgansobliges us to move forward. The time has come. Live donor transplant will overcome both theproblemoforganshortageandtheproblemofcadaverliversthataredamagedbecauseithastakentoolongtogetconsentandtoolongtoremovetheorganandget ittowhereitneedstobe.Livedonorlivertransplantistheinevitableandnecessarynextstep.’“

Shiva wasn't reading, but reciting word for word from memory. It didn't surprise Hema, but itastonishmed theotherphysiciansat the table.Hema feltproudofShiva.Shewas remindedhowoftenshe tookShiva'seideticgift forgranted.Sheknewhecoulddrawthepagehewasrecitingfrom,reproduceitonablankpieceofpaper,beginningandendingeachlinejustasitwasontheoriginal,downtothepunctuation,thepagenumber,andthestaplemarksandphotocopysmudges.

Shiva,sensingthathehadquietedHemaforthemoment,addressedThomasStoneandDeepak,thetwo surgeons: “May I remind you that the first successful kidney transplant by Joseph Murrayinvolvedadyingtwinwhoreceivedahealthykidneyfromhisidenticaltwinbrother?”

Deepakspoke,becauseitappearedthatThomasStonewasinastateofshock,“Shiva,wealsostateinthepaper,”Deepaksaid,“thatthereareethicalandlegalimplications—”

Shivainterrupted.“Yes,Iknow.Butyoualsosay‘inalllikelihoodthefirstdonorswillbeaparentorsibling,becausesuchadonorhasapuremotiveandtakesontheriskwillingly’“

DeepakandThomasStonelookedlikedefendantswhosealibihadjustbeenshotdownbyasurprisewitness.Theprosecutorwasmovinginforthekill.

Buttheattackcamefromanotherquarter.Hemasaid,“Thomas,tellmethetruth:inthelastfourdays,giventhatthisisyourareaofinterest”—shetappedthepaper,herfingersbunchedtogether—”seeing Shiva lie next to his twin, did the thought of this live donor operation not cross yourmind?”

Ifsheexpectedhimtosquirmandswallowhard,shewasinforasurprise:StonelookedsteadilyatHema, and after a beat, he nodded almost imperceptibly. “I thought of theMurray twins, yes. Ithoughtofit.Butthenthinkingofallthehazards…Idismissedit.Thisismuch,muchharderthanremovingakidney.It'sneverbeendone.”

“Ineverthoughtofit!”VinuMehtasaidquietly.“Madam,Ishouldhavethoughtofit.Shiva,Ithankyou.InanyoneelsewithacutehepatitisB,alivertransplantwouldsimplyfeedthevirus.Butwithaperfectmatch…Ofcourse,Shiva,theissueisreallytherisktoyou.”

Mybrotherwasready,andhespokewithoutglancingathisnotes,addressinghiscommentslargelyto Thomas Stone even thoughVinu had asked the question. “Your estimate, Dr. Stone, based oncuttingoutoneormore lobes frompatientswith livertrauma, is that theriskofdeathshouldbeless thanfivepercent forme, thedonor.Theriskofseriouscomplications,suchasbile leaksandhemorrhage,yousaidshouldbenomorethantwentypercentinanotherwisehealthydonor.”ShivapushedasinglesheettoDeepakandThomasStone.“Ihadmyblooddrawnlastnight.Allmyliverfunctionscamebacknormal.Asyoucansee,IamnotacarrierofhepatitisBoranythinglikethat.Idon't drink or take drugs that might damage the liver. I never have.” Shiva waited for ThomasStone.

“You know that paper of ours better than I do, son,” Stone said. “Unfortunately, those wereestimates,apureguess.”Heputhishandsonthetable.“Wedon'tknowhowitmightreallyworkinhumans.”

“Andifwefail,”Deepakaddedgently,sinceThomasStonewasfinished,“weloseyouwhowalkedinherehealthyandweloseMarion.Nottomentionthatwewon'thavealegtostandonorthatourcareerscouldbeover.Evenifwesucceed,wewillbeheavilycriticized.”

If they thoughtShivawasdone, theydidn'tknowmybrother.Hemawasseeingher sonanew. “Iunderstand your reluctance. I wouldn't think much of you as surgeons if you agreed at once.However,ifyoucandothisoperationandifithasareasonablechance,evenatenpercentchanceofsavingMarion'slife,andalessthantenpercentchanceofendingmylife,andifyouchoosenottodotheoperation,theninmyopinion,youwouldhavefailedMarion,failedHemaandme,failedmedicalscience,failedyourselves.Youwouldhavefailedmybrothernotonlyashisphysicians,butashisfriend,andashisfather.Ifyoudidtheoperationandsucceeded,youwouldnotonlysavemybrother,butyouwouldhaveadvancedsurgerybyadecade.Thetimeisnow.”HelookedhisfatherandthenDeepakintheeye.“Youmaynevergetachancelikethisagain.IfyourrivalsatPittsburghwerefacingthissituation,whatwouldtheydo?Wouldtheynotbebold?”

Theprosecutionrested.Itwastimefortheothersideofthetabletorespond.

“Bold, yes,” Stone said, breaking the long silence, and speaking in an undertone as if only forhimself,“buttheywouldn'tbeoperatingontheirownsons.I'msorry,Shiva,Ican't imaginethis.”Hepushedback from the table, puthishandson thearmsofhis chair as if hewere thinkingofleaving.

“Thomas Stone!” Hema's voice was sharp as a Bard-Parker blade and it nailed him in his seat.“Once before I asked you for something, Thomas,” she said. “It had to do with these boys. Youwalkedawaythen.Butthistimeifyouwalkaway,neitherInorGhoshcanhelptheseboys.”Stoneturnedpale.Hesatbackinthechair.Hema'svoicebroke.“Thomas,doyouthinkIwouldwanttosubjectShivatoariskhecouldn'tsurmount?DoyouthinkIwanttolosemysons?”

When she had composed herself, and after blowing noisily on her kerchief, she said, “Thomas,pleasedismissfromyourheadtheideathattheyareyoursons.Thisisasurgicalproblemandyouareinthebestpositiontohelpthem,preciselybecausetheywereneveryoursons.Theyneverheldyouback, theynever slowedyour research, your career.”Therewasno rancor inher voice. “Dr.Stone, thesearemy sons.Theyareagiftgiventome.Thepain, theheartbreak, if there is tobeheartbreak,areallmine—thatcomeswiththegift.Iamtheirmother.PleasehearwhatIsay.Thishas nothing to do with your sons. Make your decision by deciding what you must do for yourpatient.”

Afteraneternity,DeepakdraggedtheyellowpadfromShiva'ssideofthetableandturnedtoafreshpage.HeuncappedhispenandsaidtoShiva,“Tellme,whyareyouwillingtosubjectyourselftosucharisk?”

Shiva,foronce,didnothaveareadyreply.Heclosedhiseyesandmadeasteepleofhisfingers,asiftoshutouttheirfaces.ItworriedHematoseehimthisway.Whenheopenedhiseyes,heseemedfor the first timesincehisarrival tobesad.Hesaid,“Marionalwaysthought that Inever lookedback.Hesawmeasalwaysactingonlyformyself.Hewasright.HewouldbesurprisedifIweretoriskmylifetodonatepartofmy liver. It isn'trational.But…seeingthatmybrothermightdie, Ihavelookedback.Ihaveregrets.

“IfIwasdying,iftherewasachancehecouldsaveme,Marionwouldhavepushedyoutooperate.Thatwashisway.Ineverunderstooditbeforebecauseit'sirrational.ButIunderstanditnow.”He

glancedatHema,thenshoulderedon.

“IhadnoreasontothinkaboutallthistillIgothere.Butathisbedside…Irealizedifsomethinghappenstohim,ithappenstome,too.IfIlovemyself,Ilovehim,forweareone.Thatmakesitariskworthtakingforme—itwouldn'tbeforanyoneelse,unlesstheylovedhim.Iamtheonlyonewhoisaperfectmatch.Iwanttodothis.Icouldn'tlivewithmyselfifIdidn'tdothis,andIthinkyouwouldn't be able to live with yourselves if you didn't try. This is my destiny. My privilege. Andyours.”

Hema,composedtillthen,pulledShivatoherandkissedhimontheforehead.

Deepak,penpoised,hadyettowriteaword.Heputthependown.

Atthatmomentitsunkinthattheyweregoingtogoaheadwithwhathadneverbeendonebefore.

ShivasaidtoDeepak,“Yousaidtherewasasecondreasonyouhadinitiallydismissedtheideaofatransplant.Whatwasit?”

Deepak said, “Before he lost consciousness, Marion made me promise not to transfer him. Thishospitalwasspecialtohim.Itwasmorethanaplaceforusforeignmedicalgraduatestotrain.Itwelcomeduswhenotherplacesdidnot.Thisisourhome.”

Hema sighed and dropped her head into her hands. Just when they had come this far, anotherobstacle.

“Wecandoithere,”ThomasStonesaidsoftly.HehadlistenedtoShivawithoutmovingamuscle,andthoseblueandsteadyeyeswerenowshinyandbright.Hepushedhischairbackandstoodup,hismovementspurposeful.“Surgeryissurgeryissurgery.Wecandoithereaswellasanywhereifwehavethetoolsandthepeople.Fortunately,theworld'sexpertinsplittingtheliverissittingrightnext to me,” he said, putting a hand on Deepak's shoulder, “and the tools, many of which hedesigned,arealsohereandwillneedtobesterilizedatonce.Wehavealottogetready.Hema,atanytimeifyouorShivahaveachangeofheart,allyouneedtodoissayso.Shiva,pleasedon'teatordrinkanythingfromthismomenton.”

AshewalkedpastShiva'schair,heclampedhishandonmybrother'sshoulder,squeezedhard,andthenhewasgone.

CHAPTER52APairofUnpairedOrgans

AHELICOPTERFROMBOSTONGENERALlandedonOurLadyofPerpetualSuccour'shelipadduringthenight.It brought special instruments and the key personnel from Boston General's well-oiled livertransplantprogram.ThecorridoroutsideOurLady'soperatingsuites,normallyadesolatestretchwhereonemightfindanemptystretcheroraportableX-raymachineparkedwhilethetechtookacigarettebreak,wasnowlikebattalionheadquartersatthestartofamilitarycampaign.Twolargeblackboardshadbeensetup,onelabeledDONORandtheotherRECIPIENT,eachlistingwhathadtobeaccomplishedwithacheckboxnexttothetask.OurLadyofPerpetualSuccour'steamwithDeepakas lead surgeon would handle the donor (Shiva's) operation, and the Boston General crew withThomasStoneasleadsurgeonwouldstafftherecipient(my)surgery.TheOurLadyteamworebluescrubs,whiletheBostonGeneralcrewworewhite,andjusttobecertain,theformerhadabigD(for“donor”)markedontheirhatsandscrubshirtswithablackmarker,whereasthelatterhadanR.Theadrenalineflowkeptthesedisparateteamsingoodspirits;oneBronxwagevensuggestedtohisDorchester counterpart that they could call the teamsCrackers andHomeboys.OnlyThomasStoneandDeepakJesudasswouldbecommontobothteams,eachmanassistingtheother.

Adryrunatmidnightwithdummypatients inbothoperatingroomshaduncoveredafewcriticalglitches:anesthesiafromBostonGeneralneededabetterorientationtothesetupatOurLady,andtherewasneed toanointa “ringmaster”whose jobwas tobe timekeeper, tokeepabreastof theactivities of both teams, andwhowas the only person authorized to carry and,most important,recordallmessagesfromTeamRtoTeamDandviceversa.Twonewblackboardswerebroughtintobeplacedinsideeachtheater,andtaskstobetickedoffwrittenonthese.OurLadyofPerpetualSuccour was put on diversion, with trauma being rerouted to other hospitals in neighboringboroughs.By4:00a.m.itwastimefortherealthing.

ThomasStonethrewupinthesurgeons’lockerroom.TheOurLadycrewsawthisasabadomen,but theBostonGeneralcrewassured theircounterparts thatapale,diaphoreticStoneauguredagoodoutcome(thoughintruth,theyhadneverseenhimquitesopaleandweak,lyingprostrateonthebench,apukebasinathisside).

Withsomanypeoplefromtwohospitalsinvolved,itwouldhavebeendifficulttokeeptheoperationasecret.ThereweretwotelevisioncrewsparkedoutsideOurLady.Newspapereditorswerepastthe deadline for the morning paper, but they were preparing to weigh in on the ethics of thishistorictransplant,andnowtheycouldwaittoseehowitwentbeforecommittingthemselves.

Makinghistoryorkeepingitasecretwasthelastthingonthesurgeons’minds.Deepak,sittingonabench separatedbya rowof lockers fromwhereStone suffered, tried toblockout the sickeningsoundofhiscolleague'sretchingbyreviewingaliveratlas.

At4:22a.m.Shivawasgivendiazepamandthenpentothal,andatubewaspassedintohistrachea.Thedonoroperationhadbegun.ThomasStoneandDeepakexpectedittotakeanywherefromfourtosixhours.

IFTHEBEATINGHEARTispuretheater,aplayful,moody,extrovertedorgancavortinginthechest,thentheliver,sittingunderthediaphragm,isafigurativepainting,stolidandsilent.Theliverproducesbile,withoutwhichfatsarenotdigested,andtheliverstoresexcessglucoseintheformofglycogen.Insilenceandwithoutoutwardsigns, itdetoxifiesdrugsandchemicals, itmanufacturesproteinsforclottingandfortransport,anditclearsthebodyofammonia,awasteproductofmetabolism.

Theliver'ssmoothandshinyoutersurfaceismonotonousandunexciting,andapartfromamedianfurrowdividingitintoalargerightlobeandasmallerleft,ithasnovisiblecleavageplanes.Itisasurprisetofindsurgeonsspeakaboutitseightanatomical“segments”—asiftheyarediscrete,asiftheyarelikesectionsofanorange.Trypullingthesesegmentsapartandyou'llhaverawsurfacesoozing blood and bile and a very dead patient. Still, the idea of segments allows the surgeon todefineareasofliverthathaveafullcomplementofbloodandbileconduitsandthatarethereforesemiautonomousunits,subfactorieswithinthefactory.

Fourfamiliesofvesselsenterorleavetheliver.First,theportalvein,whichcarriesallthevenousblood leaving the gut and hauls it to the liver, blood that after a meal is rich in fats and othernutrients for the factorytoprocess.Thehepaticarterybringsoxygen-richbloodto the liver fromtheheartviatheaorta.Thehepaticveinshavethetaskoftakingallthespentbloodthathasfilteredthroughtheliverandreturningittotheheartviathevenacava.Thebileformedbyeachlivercell

gathersintinybiletributariesthatmergeandgrowandeventuallyformthecommonbileductthatthen empties into the duodenum.Excess bile is stored in the gallbladder,which is nothingmorethan a balloonlike offshoot of the bile duct. In keeping with the liver's chaste and understateddemeanor,thegallbladderistuckedoutofsight,justundertheoverhangoftheliver.

DEEPAK,STANDINGONTHERIGHT,madetheincision.ThefirststepwastoremoveShiva'sgallbladder.Then,turninghisattentiontothestalkofvesselsenteringtheliver(theportahepatis),hedissectedouttherighthepaticartery,thentherightbranchoftheportalveinandtherightbiliaryduct.Togettherightlobefree,healsohadtocutthroughlivertissueanddisconnectthehepaticveinsatthebackwheretheyjoinedthevenacava—thedarksideoftheliver,theplacewherethesurgeonmight“seeGod” if there was bleeding. In removing a lobe of the liver for cancer, it is possible to controlbleedingbypinchingoffthestalkofbloodvesselsintheportahepatis—thePringlemaneuver.Butthiswasn'tanoptionforDeepak,becauseitwouldcompromisethefunctionofthelobetheywereremoving,choke ithalf todeathbeforegiving it tome.Therearenowultrasonicandevenradio-frequency “dissectors” thatmake cutting through the liver easier, less bloody. But Deepak, withThomas Stone as his assistant, had to resort to clamp crushing and “finger fracturing” to breakthroughthelivertissuewhileavoidingthemajorbloodvesselsorbileducts.Deepakworriedabouthis senior partner: Thomas Stone's mind seemed to wander, something Deepak had neverencounteredbefore.LittledidDeepakknowthatStonewasstrugglingtokeepawaytheimageandthememoryofhis futileefforts tosaveSisterMaryJosephPraise,andhisdangerousattemptsatcrushingababy'sskull.

Thedonoroperationwentwithoutahitch.At9:00a.m.,Iwaswheeledintotheoperatingroom,andat 9:30a.m., justasShiva'sright lobewascoming free, theBostonGeneral team,withoutThomasStone,madealongincisionacrossmymiddle,belowmyribcagebutabovemybellybutton.Theybeganmobilizingmyliver,cuttingawayitsligamentsandtrusses.

ThomasStone tookShiva's freedright lobe toaside table,where,withhands thatweresteadierthan his insides, he flushed the portal vein with University of Wisconsin solution. Deepak,meanwhile,ensuredthattherewerenobileleaksintherawedgeofwhatremainedofShiva'sliver,which was largely his left lobe. He looked all around for any overlooked bleeders, repeated thespongeandinstrumentcounttwice,andthenheclosedShiva'sbelly.Inamonth,Shiva'sliverwouldregeneratetoitsprevioussize.

Now,ThomasStoneandDeepakdonnedfreshgownsandglovesandcametometocompletetheremoval of my liver. Because my clotting functions were poor, there were lots of tiny bleeders,particularlybehindmyliverastheyfreeditfromthediaphragm.Irequiredmanyunitsofbloodaswellasplatelets.Theycarefully identifiedandpreservedmybileduct, thehepaticartery,andtheportal vein. It was one in the afternoon whenmy four-and-a-half-pound companion, which I hadshelteredundermyribcageall theseyears, leftme.Agapingcavityunder thedomeofmyrightdiaphragm,anunnaturalvoid,remained.

Connecting Shiva's liver, or rather his right lobe, was a laborious process. Bleeding had to bemeticulouslycontrolledinordertoseeclearlyandforThomasStone,withDeepak'sassistance,tosuturearterytoartery,bileducttobileduct,andveintovein.Thescissorsandneedleholderswerespeciallydesignedformicrosurgery.Bothsurgeonsworeheadlightsandmagnifyingloupesastheymanipulatedsuturesthatwerefinerthanahumanhair.OneadvantageofDeepak'sdecisiontogivemeShiva'srightlobewasthatitfitmorenaturallyunderthedomeofmydiaphragm,anditshilum—theplacewhere thevesselsentered—wasorientedmorenaturally toward thevenacava. Itmadethesurgeons’jobsalittleeasier.

TheremnantsoftheDteamtookShivatotherecoveryroomandthenwaitedinthelockerroom.Theirmoodunexpectedlybecamesomber.Itwasnowoutoftheirhands,andthatmadethetensionalmostunbearable.

AnanxiousHema,withVinuatherside,watchedtheclock inthewaitingroom.At first,shewasthankful for her chatty companion, but then evenhe couldnot distract her. She kept thinking ofGhoshandwonderingifhewouldhavechastisedherforlettingShivatakesucharisk.Astoneinhand…orwasit“bird”?Grassisgreener…hewouldhaveamaximforthesituation.

WordcamefromtheoperatingroomviatheRingmaster—hecalledateachstageoftheoperation—andHemanowwishedhewouldn't,becausetheshrillringneverfailedtostartleherandmadeherimagine theworst, only tobe told “Theyhavebegun”or “Theportal vesselshavebeen isolated”whenwhatshewantedtohearisthattheyweredonewithShiva.Atlast,shedidhearthosewords,andsoonshesawShiva,awakebutgroggyintherecoveryroomandwincinginpain.Shewasgiddywithjoy,strokingShiva'shair,andsheknewthatwhereverhewas,whateverformhisreincarnationhadtaken,Ghosh,too,wasrelieved.

Shiva'seyes,coming into focus,askedthequestion.“Yes,”Hemasaid.“They'reputtingyour liverlobeintoMarionrightnow.Deepaksaidthepartyoudonatedlookedmagnificent.”

Shewasn'tallowedtostaylong.Insteadofreturningtothewaitingroom,shedecidedtoslipawayto the chapel. A solitary stained-glass window allowed in very little light. When the heavy doorclosedbehindher,shehadtoseekthepewwithherhandandeaseintothevelvet-coveredbench.Shecoveredherheadrespectfullywiththetailofhersari.Ashereyesadjusted,shegotthefrightof her life, seeing a figure on its knees near the altar. An apparition! she thought. Then sheremembered the prayer chain for Marion, the round-the-clock vigil in this chapel. As her pulserecovered, Hema settled back and observed the veiled head, the scapular falling back, stiff andseparatefromthepleatedtunic.Hemarealizedthatinimportuningeverydeityshecouldthinkof,shehadsomehowneglectedtoappealtoSisterMaryJosephPraise.Theoversightcausedafierceandsillypanic,bloodsurgingupherneck.Oh,pleasedon'tletthatbeareasontopunishmyson.Shewrungherhands,squirmedandchastisedherselfforforgetting.Forgiveme,Sister,butifyouonlyknowhowstressfulthishasbeen,andifitisnottoolate,pleasewatchoverMarion,pleaseseehimthrough.

She felt the responsearriveasdistinctlyas if itwereavoiceora touch: first, a lightness inherforehead,thenacalmnessinherchestthatsaidshehadbeenheard.Thankyou,thankyou,Hemasaid.Ipromisetokeepyouupdated.

Shereturnedtothewaitingroom.ShewassoexhaustedthatshecouldonlywonderhowStoneandDeepakmanaged to stay upright. From thewaiting roomwindow the earth looked as if it weremostlyskyandconcrete—norealearthtospeakof,nomanifestationofnatureonthegroundotherthanthesunsettinginthatdirection.Itwassoodd,andyetthiswastheviewhersonhadknownforthelastsixyears.

At7:00p.m.,ThomasStonewasatherside.Henodded,thensmiled,anexpressionsorarethatsheknew it had gone well. He said nothing, and she, too, was speechless, tears running down hercheeks. InstudyingStone's face,groovedwherehismagnifyingspectaclesand lamphadsat,andgroovedalsofromworryandwork,sherealizedwithastarthowoldhehadbecome,howoldtheyhadbothbecome,andhowiftheyhadnothingelseincommon,theyhadthis:thattheywerebothstillstandingafteralltheseyears,andthathersons(his,too,atsomelevel,shehadtoadmit)werebothalive.

ThomasStonesatdown,orratherfellintothesofa,andhedidn'tprotestwhensheforcedjuiceandasandwichonhimfromVinu'sicechestofgoodies.Stonewashedthejuicedownwithabottleofwater and started on a second before life seemed to stir within him. His gaunt face filled out.“Technically,everythinghasgonewell,”hesaid.“Marion'snewliver,Shiva'soldlobe,wasalreadymaking bile before we had even finished the anastomosis.” He smiled again, a shy twist of thecornersofhismouth,prideinhisvoice.Thebile,hesaid,wasanexcellentsign.

“We had a scare,” he added. “There was a moment when Marion's blood pressure droppedprecipitously.Noexplanationfor it.Wewereaheadonfluidandblood,butstillhisheartracedtoone hundred and eighty beats a minute. We poured fluid in, tried this and that … and just assuddenly,thepressurecamebackup.”Shewasabouttoaskhimpreciselywhattimethatwas,butthen she didn't bother, because she knew. She closed her eyes and thanked Sister for herintercession.Whensheopenedthem,ThomasStonewasstaringatherasifheunderstood.Shefeltsoclosetohim,sograteful.Shecouldn'tgosofarastohughim,butshedidreachforhishand.

“So, Imust leave now,” he said toHema after aminute. “Itwill be touch-and-go for awhile forMarion,givenhowsickhewaswhenwestarted.Butatleasthehasaworkingliver.Hiskidneysarestillnotfunctioning,andheneedsdialysis,butItrustitisjusthepatorenalsyndromeandthenewliverwill fix that.”Hewasholding thingsback fromher.Hedidn't tellherhow,when thingshadlookedsodire in theoperatingroom,hed lookedupat theceilingandprayednot toaGodor tospiders,buttoSisterMaryJosephPraise,askingtoberedeemedforalifetimeofmistakes.

THEREWASREJOICINGinthehospital,firstthatoneofitsownwhohadbeenneardeathwasstillalive,andsecondthatOurLadyhadmadehistory.TheMassofGratitudeinthechapelwaspacked,HemaandVinuinthefrontpewandthecrowdspillingouttothecloisters.

Outside Our Lady of Perpetual Succour, the news vans were lined up—international as well asnational.Everypreviouslivertransplantintheworldhaditsoriginsinacorpse-to-be,insomeonewho was brain-dead. A living donor—and an identical twin who had given half his liver to hisbrother—thatwasbignews.Themediadidn'tquitegetthatthistechnicalbreakthroughwouldbemostmeaningfultobabiesbornwithcongenitalbiliaryatresia—lackofbileducts.Adultorgansfrompeopledyingoftraumawerescarceenough;achilddonorwasexceedinglyrare.StoneandDeepak

openedthewayforaparenttodonatepartofhisorherlivertosavetheirinfant.

Bythesecondday,theferretingjournalistshadconnectedShivatohisfameasthefistulasurgeon—”fixing holes is what I do”—and by the third day, they'd labeled Thomas Stone the “estrangedfather.”ItwasperhapsonlyamatteroftimebeforetheydiscoveredthestoryofSisterMaryJosephPraise,thoughitwouldprobablynecessitateareportertravelingtoAddistounearththattidbit.

ICAMEAWAKEonthefifthday.Myfirstmemoryisthatoffloatingupfromtheoceanbottom,myeyesstill waterlogged and with what felt like scuba gear stuffed in my mouth and throat—I couldn'tspeak.AsIbroketothesurface,IunderstoodthatIwasstill intheICUatOurLady,butIheardnothingofwhatanybodysaid. IsawHemaandStoneandI lookedforShiva.He'sdecidednot tocomefromAddis,Irememberthinking,andIwasdisappointed.

Twelvehourslater,inthelateeveningofthefifthday(thoughitwasperpetualtwilightintheICU),Isurfacedforgood,relievedtoseethatHemawasthere,andthatIhadn'timaginedherpresence.

Shestayedbymyside,holdingmyhand.Icravedhertouch,fearfulImightsinkbackintotheabysswhereitwasalldarkandfromwhichtherewasnopromiseofreturn.ButIwoulddriftoffintolightsleep for short periods.Night turned to day, bringingwith it a newbustle and energy andmoretrafficthroughourroom.

Ontheseventhday,IwasawakelongenoughforHematomakethefantasticstatementthathalfofShiva'sliverwasinme.Sickpatientsneedtohaveeverythingexplainedatleasttwice,becauseyoucan presume theywill not have heard half ofwhat you said.Hema repeated herself at least tentimes,anditwasonlywhensheshowedmetheTimes,andthepictureofmeandofShiva,thatIbelieved.

“Shiva is recovering,”Hema said. “He's fine. But you've developed pneumonia and there is fluidcollectingaroundyourrightlung.That'swhyyouarestillontheventilator.Butit'sgettingbetter,soDeepak saysyouwill beoff theventilator tomorrow.Yournew liver is functioningwell, andyourkidneys have bounced back.” This was not the reunion I had imagined with Hema, but theexpressiononherface,herjoy,herrelief,werepriceless.Sherarelyleftmyside.

IsawDeepakandStoneforthefirsttimelaterthatsameday.Istruggledwithmyemotions.IknowIwassupposedtofeelgratitude.SometimesIthinkwesurgeonswearmaskstoconcealourdesires,tohideourwillingnesstoviolatethebodyofanother.Onlytheguaranteeofamnesia,thefactthatthe patient will remember nothing but the anesthetist's saying “Sweet dreams,” allows us to besurgeons.Theystoodbeforeme,theseperpetratorsoforganizedviolenceonmybody.Thefactthatbothmenwereshyandunassumingseemedalmostdeceitfulgiven theambition, thehubris, thathadallowedthemtoriskShiva'slifeformine.ItwastheonlytimeIwasthankfulforthateviltubegoingdownmythroatandbetweenmyvocalcords,becausewhatIwouldhavesaidtothemwouldhavesoundedungrateful:It'sagoodthingShivamadeit,otherwiseI'dbeafteryourhides.

WhenIawokesometimelater,Iforgotaboutthetubeandtriedtospeak,whichmademefeelIwaschoking,whichmademepanic.Mystrugglestriggeredtheventilatoralarm,andnowIwasterrifiedthat the nurse would decide I was “fighting the ventilator,” which could bring an order forintravenous curare. That drug, derived from the poisondarts ofAmazon tribes, paralyzes all themuscles,leavingyoustillasdeath,sothattheventilatorcandoitsworkunimpeded.ButGodhelpyouifyouaren'tgivenastrongsedativealongwithit,becausethenyouareawake,alert,butunabletotwitchorevenblink.Thethoughtofbeinginthatparalyzed,locked-instatehadalwayshorrifiedme, even as I blithely ordered curare (andsedation) for hundreds of patients. Now that I was apatient,mycursewasthatIknewtoomuch.

WithHema'shelp,hersoothingvoice,Ididmybesttocalmdown,toletthemachinepushairintome,andthenurseretreated.WhenIfeltbetterIwrote,HowisShiva?

Shedidn'thavetoreply,becausejustthenmyotherhalfcamein,ledbyThomasStone.

Mybrother,whomIhadnotseenforsevenyears,lookedhaggard,notatalllikethepictureintheTimes. I felt vertigo in seeing my reflection moving independently of me. Shiva wore a hospitalgown,onepalmrestingcarefullyonhisbelly,theotherhandpushinghisintravenouspoleaheadofhim, and using it as a walking stick.My brother wasn't given to laughing andmost jokes werewastedonhim,butwhenhesawme,hegrinnedlikethechimpwho'dlockedupthezookeeper.

Youmonkey,you,Iwantedtosay,andIreachedhungrilyforhishand,ourfingersinterlocking.Youshouldlaughmore,itsuitsyou:seehowthefurrowsaroundyourbrowvanishandyourearseaseback? I felt fluid runningdownmy temples,andhiseyeswere full, too. I squeezedhis fingers,aMorsecodetoconveywhatwasinmyheart.Henodded—Youdon'thavetotellmeanythingiswhat

hewassaying.Hebentforwardgingerly,andIwonderedwhathewasupto,surelynotakiss…Heclinkedhisskullagainstmine.Itwassuchanunexpected,jarring,andsurprisingact,athrowbackto being little boys, the softest of testas, that itmademe laugh, whichmade that horrible tubescratchtheinsideofmythroat,andsoIhadtostop.

IpointedtoShiva'sbelly.HepulledasidehisgownandIcouldseesomeoftheincision,thoughagauzepadwithadrainpassingthroughithidtheremainder.Iraisedmyeyebrowsathim,askingifithurt.Andhesaid,OnlywhenIbreathe,andwebothlaughedandbothhadtocutthatoffbecauseofthepain.Stonestoodlookingonatthissilentdialogue,amazed,astrangeexpressiononhisface.

Little did I know that Shiva's recovery had been complicated by a bile infection requiringantibiotics.Orthathehaddevelopedabloodclot inthevein inhisrightarmthroughwhichhe'dbeengettingfluids.Hewasonabloodthinner,andtheclotwasresolving.

Iheldhishandfora longtime,contentto lookathim,tothankhimwithmyfingers,buthekeptshrugging offmy thanks. I reached formy pen, andHema pushed the pad in front ofme and Iwrote,Greaterlovehathnoman—

Hedidn'tletmefinish.Heheldmypen.Hesaid,Youwouldhavedonethesame.Ihadmydoubts,buthenodded.Yes,youwould.

That evening,Deepak drained fluid from aroundmy right lung, andmy breath expanded in thatdirection.Thenhetookthewretchedtubeoutofmythroat.Myfirstwordswere“Thankyou,”andwhenthatuglybluemachineleftmyroom,Ifellintoadeepsleep.

Thenextmorningwasfullofsmallmiracles:beingabletoturnandgazeatthewindowandseesky,beingabletosay“Ouch”whenthemovementpulledonmyincision.Hemawasn'taround.TheICUwasquiet.Mynurse,Amelia,wasunnaturallycheery.Iassumeditwasstillearlymorning.“WehaveanX-raytododownstairs,”shesaid,unhookingmefromthetethers,andreadyingmybedtoroll.

InRadiologyIwasliftedintothedoughnutforaCATscan,butoddly,itwasofmyheadandnotmybelly.Surely itwasamistake.Butno, theorderwas fromDeepak,and it read, “CATscanof theheadwithandwithoutcontrast.”

Backinmyroomandbynoon,stillnosignofHema,orStone,orShiva.Ameliasaidtheywouldbealongpresently.

Thephysical therapisthelpedme standbesidemybed fora fewseconds.My legs felt like Jell-Osticks.Itookafewstepswithassistance,thensatinthechair,exhausted,woozy,asifIhadrunamarathon.Idozedthere,atewhatlittleIcould.Afterlunch,Itookafewmoresteps,andevenpeedupright.Thenurseshelpedmeback tobed. In retrospect, they seemedpleased togetout ofmyroom.

ITWAS2:00P.M.whenThomasStoneappearedatmydoor.Thereweredarkcirclesaroundhiseyes.Hesatself-consciouslyontheedgeofthebed.Hetouchedmyhand.Hislipsparted.

“Wait,” I said. “Don't say anything yet.” I looked out of the window at the clouds, at distantsmokestacks.Theworldwasintactnow,butIknewoncehespokeitwouldn'tbeso.

“Okay,”Isaid.“WhathappenedtoShiva?”

“Hehadamassivebleedinhisbrain,”hesaid,hisvoicehoarse.“Ithappenedlastnight,aboutanhourafterweleftyourroom.Hemawaswithhim.Hesuddenlyclutchedhisheadinpain…Then,inamatterofseconds,hewas…unconscious.”

“Ishegone?”

ThomasStoneshookhishead.“Hebledfromanarteriovenousmalformation,acavernoustangleofbloodvessels in thecortex.Hehasprobablyhad itallalong…Hewasonanticoagulants for thebloodclotinhisarm…Inaweekwewouldhavestopped.”

“Whereishe?”

“Here.IntheICU.Onaventilator.Twoneurosurgeonshaveseenhim.”Heshookhishead.“Itisn'tfeasibletoevacuatethebleed.Theythinkit'stoolate.Andthathe'sbrain-dead.”

Ididn'tregistermuchofwhathesaidafterthat.IrememberhesaidthatmyCATscanshowedasimilarbutsmallerspiderknotofvessels,butminewasn'tbleeding,amiracleofsorts,Isuppose,sinceI'dbledfromeverywheretillIgotShiva'sliver.

Afewminuteslater,Hema,Deepak,andVinucameintotheroom.IunderstoodnowthatStonehadbeendelegatedtobreakthenews.

PoorHema. I shouldhave tried tocomforther,but Iwas too fullofgriefandguilt. I felt soverytired.Theysataroundmybed,Hemaweeping,bentover,restingherheadonmythigh.Iwantedthemtoleave.Iclosedmyeyesforamoment.Iwokeupwhenanursecameintosilenceoneoftheintravenouspumps.Therewasnooneelseintheroom.IhadherwalkmetothebathroomandthenIsatinthearmchair.Iwantedmystrengthback.

WHENIAWOKE,ThomasStonewasbymychair.“Hecan'tbreatheonhisown,andtherearenopupillaryorotherreflexes,”hesaidinresponsetomysilentquery.“He'sbrain-deadnow.”

IsaidIwantedtoseehim.

MyfatherwheeledmedownthehallwhereShivalay.Hemawaswithhim,hereyespuffyandred,andwhensheturnedtome,Ifeltashamedtobealive,ashamedtobethecauseofhersorrow.

Shiva looked asleep. It was his turn to sport the spike coming out of his skull—the intracranialpressuremonitor.Theendotrachealtubeskewedhislips,anglinghischinupunnaturally.Theriseandfallofhischest fromtheventilatorofferedaspotonwhichtorestmyeyes,andmy ifswerecoming in that rhythm: If Ihadn'tcometoAmerica. If Ihadn'tseenTsige. If Ihadn'topened thedoorforGenet…

HEMAWHEELEDMEBACKtomyroom,helpedmebackinbed.

Isaidtoher,“Itwouldhavebeenbetter ifyouandShivahadburiedme.YoudbeonyourwaytoMissingnowwithyourfavoriteson.”

It was a stupid, churlish thing to say, a primitive and subconscious urge to wound her so as toassuagemypainandguilt.But if Iexpectedher tostrikeback,shedidn't.There isapointwhengrief exceeds the human capacity to emote, and as a result one is strangely composed—she hadreachedthatpoint.

“Marion,IknowyouthinkIfavoredShiva…AndmaybeIdid.WhatcanIsaybutthatI'msorry.Amotherlovesherchildrenequally…butsometimesonechildneedsmorehelp,moreattention,togetbyintheworld.Shivaneededthat.

“Marion, Ihave toapologize toyou formore thanthat. I thoughtyouwereresponsible forGenetbeingmutilated,circumcised,andall that followed. Iheld thatagainstyou.Whenwecamehere,Shivatoldmeeverything.Myson,Ihopeyoucanforgiveme.I'mastupidmother.”

Iwasspeechlessatthisnews.WhatelsehadgoneonwhenIwasunconscious?

Outsideasirendrewcloserandcloser,anambulancecomingtoOurLady.

“TheywanttodiscontinuetheventilatoronShiva,”Hemasaid.“Ican'tbearforthemtodothat.Aslongasheisbreathing,evenifitistheventilatorbreathingforhim,he'saliveforme.”

Thenextmorning,afterthenurseseatedmeintheshowerandhelpedmewithmyfirstbath,IputonafreshgownandIaskedtobewheeledtoShiva'sroom.

“Stophere,” I said,wellbeforehis room,because I saw through thehalf-opendoor thatThomasStonewasseatedbyShiva'sbed,justasIwastoldhehadsatbymine.HisfingersrestedonShiva'swrist, feeling the pulse. His hand lingered there long after he had registered the heart rate. Iwonderedwhathewasthinking.Iwatchedhimforafulltenminutesbeforehestoodupandcameout,hiseyeshauntedandred.Hedidn'tseemeashewalkedoffintheotherdirection.

Irolledmychairafterhim.“Dr.Stone,”Isaid.Everyfiberofmybeingwantedtocryout,Father!

He came to me. “Dr. Stone,” I said. “Surely an operation … is his only chance. Can't theneurosurgeonsgoin,tieoffthetangledvessels,andevacuatetheclotinhisbrain?Sowhatifit'salongshot?It'shisonlyshot.”

Heconsideredthisforawhile.

“Son, theysay the tissue in there is—sorry tosay this—theconsistencyofwet toiletpaper.Blood

mixedwithbrain.Thepressure'ssohigh,iftheysomuchastouchhim,theytellmeit'llonlymakehimbleedfurther.”

Ididn'twanttoacceptthat.“Can'tyoudo it?YouandDeepak?You'vedoneburrholes. I'vedoneburrholes.What'stheretolose?Please?Let'sgivehimthatchance.”

Hewaitedso long thateven Icouldhear the fallacyofwhat Iwassuggesting.My fatherputhishand on my shoulder. He spoke to me gently, as to a junior colleague, not to his son. “Marion,remembertheEleventhCommandment,”hesaid.“Thoushallnotoperateonthedayofapatient'sdeath.”

WhenIwasbackinmyroom,ThomasStonebroughtupShiva'sCATscan.Iwasshockedtoseethehuge white splotch—which is how blood looks on a CAT scan—involving both hemispheres andspilling into the ventricles. It compressed thebrainwithin the rigid confines of the skull. I knewthenthatitwashopeless.

BECAUSEOFTHEANEURYSMortangledvesselmalformationinhisbrain,Shivawasnotapotentialdonorforheartorkidneys,forfeartheremightbesimilarchangesinthoseorgans.

Hemadidn'twanttobetherewhentheventilatorwasdiscontinued.IsaidI'dbewithhim.IaskedtobealonewithShivawhenhepassed.

Hemasaidhergood-byefirst.

IwasoutsidetheroomwhenVinuescortedherout.Itwasaheartbreakingsighttoseemymother,thetailendofhersaridrapedoverherhead,hershouldersslumped,leaveherstill-breathingchild.Itmusthavefelttoherasifshewereabandoninghim.Everyeyeintheunitwasonher,andnotonewasdry,ashershimmering,sari-cladformfloateddownthehallonherwaytotheQuietRoom.

WithDeepak'sassistance IclimbedontoShiva'sbed. Itwaseight in theevening. Isettledmyselfnexttohim.Everythingbuthisbreathingtubeandanintravenouslinehadbeenremoved.DeepakpeeledawaythetapethatheldthetrachealtubetoShiva'scheeks.Then,withanodfromme,heinjectedmorphine through Shiva's intravenous tubing. If any part of Shiva's brainwas alive,wedidn'twant it to sensepain, or fear, or suffocation.Deepak turnedoff the ventilator, silenced itsimmediateshrillprotest,slidtheendotrachealtubefromShiva'smouth,andthenhelefttheroom.

I LAY THERE,myheadagainstShiva's, a finger restingonhis carotidpulse.Hisbodywaswarm.Henevertookabreathafterthetubecameout.Hisfacialexpressionneverchanged.Hispulsestayedregularforalmostaminute,thenitpaused,asifithadjustrealizeditslifelongpartner—thelungs—hadquit.His heart spedup, became faint, and then,with a final throbundermy fingers, itwasgone.IthoughtofGhosh.Ofallthepulsetypes,thiswasboththerarestandthemostcommon,aJanusqualitythateverypulsepossesses:thepotentialtobeabsent.

IclosedmyeyesandclungtoShiva.Icradledhim,hisskullbuttressedagainstmineandnowwetwithmytears.IfeltphysicallyvulnerableinawayI'dneverfeltwhenwewereacontinentapart,asifwithhisdeathmyownbiologywasnowaltered.Theheatwasrapidlyleavinghisbody.

IrockedShiva,wedgingmyheadagainsthis,rememberinghowforsolongIwasunabletosleepexceptlikethis.Ifeltdespair.Ididn'twanttoleavethisbed.ChangandEnghaddiedwithinhoursofeachother,becausewhenthehealthyonewasofferedtheopportunitytobefreedfromthedeadone,hedeclined.Iunderstoodsowell.LetDeepakgivemealethaldoseofmorphineandletmylifeendthisway, letmyrespirationcease,mypulse fadeandthendisappear.Letmybrotherandmeleavetheworldinthesameembracewithwhichwebeganinthewomb.

IPICTUREDSHIVAgettingthetelegram,hiscomingtome,thenputtinghimselfatrisktosaveme.WouldIhavedonethesameforhim?Perhapswhenhesawme,he'dfelt thewayIdidnow:that itdidn'tmatterwhatmighthavetranspiredbetweenus,but lifewouldnotbeworth livingandwouldendsoonifsomethinghappenedtotheother.

His body continued to lose heat in my arms as if I were drawing it away, siphoning it over. Iremembered the two of us running up the hill in a relay, carrying a lifeless and cold child toCasualty,theparentstrailingbehindus.Hewasnowthatlifelesschild.

Theminutespassed.

UltimatelyitwastherudecoldnessofShiva'sskin,theterribleseparationitdelineatedofthelivingandthedead,thedisarticulationofourboundflesh,thatforcedmetoanewunderstanding,anewwayofseeingusinthefaceofsuchrapidattrition,andthisiswhatIcameto:

ShivaandIwereonebeing—ShivaMarion.

Evenwhenanoceanseparatedus,evenwhenwethoughtweweretwo,wewereShivaMarion.

HewastherakeandItheerstwhilevirgin,hethegeniuswhoacquiredknowledgeeffortlesslywhileItoiledintothenightforthesamemastery;hethefamousfistulasurgeonandIjustanothertraumasurgeon.Hadweswitchedroles,itwouldn'thavematteredonebittotheuniverse.

FateandGenethadconspiredtokillmyliver,butShivahadarole inGenet's fate,andhencemyfate.Everyactionofoursturnedouttobedependentontheother.Butnowbyabrilliantanddaringrearrangementoforgans,ShivaMarionhadreadjusted.Four legs, fourarms, fourkidneys,andsoon, but instead of two livers, we had downsized to one. Then karma and bad luck took us evenfurther,forcedfurtherconcessions:welostgroundonhisside,afeworgansdied.Okay—justabouteverythingonhissidedied,butweretainedhalfhis liver,anditwasthriving.Whatwehadtodonowwaseconomizefurther,gohalvesagain,toughmeasuresfortoughtimes:twolegssufficed,soalsowitheyes,kidneys.We'dgowithhalfaliver,oneheart,onepancreas,twoarms…butwewerestillShivaMarion.

Shivalivesinme.

Callitafar-fetchedschemethatIconjureduptoallowmetogoon…Wellthen,itallowedmetogoon.Itgavemecomfort.Itdriedmytears,helpedmeuntwinemyarmsandlegsfromthebodythatwewerediscarding.Intheeeriequietofthatroom,soprimedformachinesbutwiththemachinesallsilent,theblindsclosed,andwithanicycorpsenexttome,IfeltShivawasinstructingme.Hehadrowedoverfromthesinkingshipandhewastellingmetothinkthisway,anditwasjustShiva'skindoflogic.Onebeingatbirth,rudelyseparated,weareoneagain.

THEY WERE ASSEMBLED outside, a ghoulish receiving linewaswhat I thought at first.But they couldn'tknowwhathad just transpired,andso Ididn'tblame them.Theirheartswere in the rightplace.ThomasStone,Deepak,Vinu,andsomanyofmynursesandnursingassistants—my friends,myOurLadyfamilybeforetheybecamemycaregivers.Ishookeachhand,andthankedthemforthetwo of us. I believe they will tell you my manner was composed, far different from what theyexpected. I left Thomas Stone for last. After I shook his hand, I followed an irrational instinct—Shiva's,Ibelieve,certainlynotmine—whichtoldmetohughim,nottogetbuttogive.Tolethimknowthatasafatheritturnsoutheddonewhathewasmeanttodo;helivedoninusandwelivedbecauseofhisskills.Thewayheclungtome,heldmeasifheweredrowning,toldmeIdmadetherightchoice,orShivahad,awkwardasitwas.

IwalkedslowlydownthehalltoourQuietRoom,aeuphemismfortheplacewechosetogivebadnews,aplacewithchairs,atable,asofa,abigpicturewindow,acrossonthewall,butnoTV,nomagazines,onlya solidandsoundproofdoor.Howmany timeshad Imade thiswalkasa traumasurgeon?SooftenIhadlingeredoutsidethedoor,consciousofthedevastationmynewswouldbebringing.HadIhonoredthefeelingsandthedignityofthosewhowaitedinthatroom,theparents,siblings,spouses,andchildren,evenifwhatIhadtosaydashedalltheirprayers?Icouldremembereverysuchencounter;Icouldrecalleachfaceasitturnedinhopeandapprehensionwhenthedooropened.

IFOUNDHEMA,handscrossed in frontofher,gazingoutof thewindowat the lightsof theBattleshiphousingprojectthatabuttedourhouse-staffquarters,andthedistantoutlineofthebridgebeyond.Herbackwastome.Shesawmyreflectionintheglassbeforeshesawme,butunlikeeverysinglepersonIhadevercometoseeinthisroom,shedidnotspinaround.Instead,shestoodlikeastatue,staringatmyreflectioninthewindow.IstoppedwhereIwas,holdingthedooropen.Isawinthatglasshereyeswiden,theeyebrowsrise.Sheheldmygazeforthe longesttime.Herfaceshowedsurprise…asifwhoshesawwasn'tthepersonshehadexpectedtosee.

“Hereweare,Ma,”Isaid.

Shecockedherheadatmyvoice.Shebroughtonehandup toher chin,her fingersalignedandlocked together and resting contemplatively along her cheek, her movements exaggerated. Shestudiedmyface,myreflection,justlikeavillagegirlwhoissurprisedintheactofdrawingwateratthewell,andwhomustnowreadtheintentionsofthetall,smilingavatarwhomsheseesstandingbehindher.

Then,inslowmotion,asifthiswereadance,andbothofusdancers,sheturnedandfacedme.

Imovedtoher.“Hereweare,”Isaidagain,myarmsextendingtowardher.“Wecangohomenow,Ma.”

Itmusthaveseemedtoheraverystrangething,eventhewrongthing,tosay.Tolivepurelyinthehereandnow,tolookforwardbutnevertothepast—thatwasvintageShiva.“Hereweare,”Isaid.

Shecameintomyarms.

Weheldhertight.

CHAPTER53SheIsComing

ONABEAUTIFULMORNING, just threeweeksafterShiva'stransference,HemaandI took leaveofOurLadyofPerpetualSuccour.ThomasStoneinsistedonbeingourescort.Westeppedoutsideintoairso crisp I felt a cough or a sneeze would shatter it like glass. The brick façade of Our Lady ofPerpetualSuccourglistenedwithdewaswesaidourgood-byes.Thehospital'srecent turn in thelimelight had brought in special city funds and sparked emergency repairs; as a result, themonsignorinthefountainwasnolongertilting,hisswizzlestickwasgone,aswashiscrustingofbirddroppings.Polishedandsanguine,he lookedemasculatedandalientotheplacewhereIhadspentthelastsevenyearsofmylife.

OuryellowcabspedacrosstheWhitestoneBridgetoKennedyAirport.Thesunhadbarelycomeup,andyetthefreewaywasthickwithcars,thesolitarydrivers insulatedfromoneanother inwafer-thinmetal,whichatthesespeedsofferedonlytheillusionofprotection.Wemergedlikewingmenrejoining the formation. Hema looked out meditatively just as I had when I arrived seven yearsbefore. I wondered if she could hear the hum of the überconsciousness, the superorganismwhokeptthisfromdescendingintochaos.

The year 1986 was a disaster for our family. Hema believed that it had something to dowith thenumber,becauseithadbirthinthe1anddestinyinthe8.Nineteeneighty-sixhadstartedoffterriblywith theChallenger spacecraft exploding on January 28 (which was month 1, and there was thenumber 8 again). Then theChernobyl tragedywas exactly eighty-eight days after theChallengerdisaster.Onthatscale,thedeathofonetwin—ontheeighteenthofthemonth—hardlyregistered.

Therewasyetanotherdeatheightdays later thathadbearingonus:myneighborHolmescamewith Appleby of the detective agency to let me know that Genet had passed away in a prisonhospitalinGalvestonjustasIwasregainingmystrength.Genet'ssonhadbeenadoptedbyafamilyinTexas,andshehadgoneinsearchofhim.Shedbeenlivinghand-to-mouthinacardboardlean-toafewblocksfromtheseawallwhenshewaspickedup.Shewasamereskeletonandsurvivedjusttwodaysintheprisoninfirmary.Shehadsupposedlydiedofadrenalfailurecausedbytuberculosis.Iknewbetter.Shehaddiedchasinggreatnessandneversawiteachtimeitwasinherhand,soshekept seeking it elsewhere, but never understood the work required to get it or to keep it. I'mashamedtosayIfeltreliefwhenthewordcame;onlyherdeathcouldensurethatwedidn'tkeeptearingeachotherapartforwhatremainedofourlives.

IN THE INTERNATIONAL DEPARTURE HALL, IheardsnatchesofBengali,Arabic,andTagalog.Amanbound forLagosprotestedinscreechingpidginabouttheunfairnessofBritishAirways,becausetherewasnoway he was four pounds over. In this setting, Thomas Stone, without his white coat or scrubs,lookedlikethenewlyarrivedforeigner.

“Willyoubeback,Marion?”heaskedwhenitwastimeforsayinggood-bye.

AllIknewwasthatIwantedtobewithHemawhensheinterredShiva'sashesbetweenGhoshandSisterMaryJosephPraise.ThegrottobyMissing'sbackwallandinearshotofthelittlecreekwasrapidlybecomingthefamilyburialplot.IwasgoingbackalsotoseeMatron,Almaz,andGebrew.Iknewthatmypresencewouldhelpconsolethem.Beyondthat,Ihadn'tgivengreatthoughttomyfuture.

“OfcourseI'llbeback,”Isaid.“Istillhavemyhouse,thecar,myjob…”

“Becarefulwhatyoueat,drink…,”hesaid.Itwashiswayoftellingmetoprotecthishandiwork.

Ifeltbetterthanwell.Othertransplantpatientshadtofighttokeeptheirbodiesfromrejectingthelifesavingorgan.The cortisone they took led to cataracts, diabetes, hip fractures, andother sideeffects. I was blessed not to have to swallow a single pill. I felt no pain if you didn't count thetwingesundermyribs,whichIconsideredpromisingandnotpainful;theywerethesignofShiva'shalflivergrowingtofullyoccupyitsnewhome.

“Howaboutyou?”Ihadyettofindacomfortablewaytoaddressmyfather;itwas“Dr.Stone”inthehospitalandnothingattimeslikethis.“Willyouhaveajobtogobackto?”Iteased.Hehadn'tseenBostonsinceIfellill.

Hisslowsmileonlyexaggeratedthesadnessinhisface.HetookShiva'sdeathpersonally,asiffatehadnever forgotten that he'd once attempted to destroyShiva, and sowhenhehad operated to

saveShiva,hisoriginalintenthadbetrayedhim.

My fathermadenoattempt toshakemyhand.OuronehugafterShiva'spassingwasgood foralifetime.Wepartedwithanod.

Hema, however, took Thomas Stone's hand in both of hers. I had missed their reunion at mybedside.Now,Iwatchedlikeanosychild.

“Thomas, stop this at once!” Hema said, chiding him for his melancholic expression. “You dideverythingyoucould,doyouhearme?Youdidyourbest foryoursons.Nooneelse in theworldcould have donewhat you did. Thomas, ifGhoshwere here, he'd say the same thing.He'd havebeensoproudofyouandhe'dsay,‘Goonwithyourworkbecauseitissoimportant.’“Shereleasedhishand,afterpattingitonelasttime,thensheturnedandwalkedaway.

Later,asourplanebankedoverQueensandheadedforopenwater,IthoughtaboutHema'spartingwordstoStone.Buried intherehadbeenherapologyforhavingfashionedhimintoamonster inhermindforalltheseyears.Inpattinghishandandwalkingaway,shewasreleasingherself.

AlitaliatookustoRome.Mechanicalproblemsontheconnectingflighthadtheagentprojectingafourteen-hour layover. Itgavemean idea. Inno timeHemaand Iwereonceagain ina taxionafreeway,but this timewewereheading todowntownRome.Wewere likechildrenplayinghookyfromschool.

Hemahadneededlittleconvincing.Wewenttoafirst-classhotel,theHassler,Rome'sbest,Iwasoncetold.ItwasagrandbuildingthatoverlookedtheSpanishSteps.Fromtherooftopatduskthesky'sredhueoutlinedthedomeofSt.Peter'sinthedistance.

Eachmorningwesetoutforthebriefestsightseeing.Wereturnedtoourhotelforlunchandalongafternoon nap. The evenings we wandered down the streets and alleyways beneath the SpanishSteps.Eventuallywe'dpickanoutdoorcaféfordinner.“It'ssofamiliar,isn'tit?”Hemasaid.“Thesemenus,typedoutandmimeographed,minestroneandpastafagl-oli,thewaiterswithwhiteshirts,blackpants,whiteaprons…” Iknewwhatshemeant.The Italianshadbrought itall toEthiopia,rightdowntotheumbrellasthathungoverthelittleFormica-toppedroundtables.Hema'sfaceatdinnerwasastranquilasIdseenitsinceIbecameconsciousofheratmybedsideatOurLady.“IwishGhoshcouldhavebeenwithus.Howhewouldhaveenjoyedthis,”shesaid,smiling.

ONTHEFOURTHMORNING,welettheconciergetalkusintoaprivatetourwithaguidefromourhotel.Whatdidwewant to see?Surpriseus,wesaid.Takeusoff thecowpath.Placeswhere there isn't toomuchwalkingorwaitinginline.

Hebeganwith theSantaMariadellaVittoria, a ten-minute ride fromourhotel. Itwas ahomelychurch, sittingrighton thestreet,carspassingby, theelaborate façade lookingas if ithadbeenslapped on to the front of an unadorned stone box. Our guide said it was built about 1624, firstdedicatedtoSt.Paul,andlatertotheVirginMary.Theinteriorwassmall—tinywhencomparedwithSt.Peter's—withashortnaveunderalowvault.Offtotheside,Corinthianpillarsflattenedintothewall demarcated three “chapels” which were nothing more than recesses, each with a rail forprivateprayerandaplacetolightcandles.Aswecametotheendofthenave,ourguideturnedtotheleftandpointed.“ThisistheCornaroChapel.ItiswhatIwantedyoutosee,”hesaid.

It tooka fewseconds formyeyes to relay the sight tomybrain,and longer still formybrain tobelieve.ThebluemarblesculpturefloatingbeforemewasBernini'sEcstasyofSt.Teresa.Iwantedtosilenceourguideandsay,Stop,Iknowthissculpture.ButintruthwhatIknewwasonlyaprintthat found its way onto a calendar which my mother had then thumbtacked to the wall of theautoclaveroom.IthadbeenupforperhapsthirtyyearsbeforeGhoshhadtakenthatagingpieceofpaperandframedit forme,toprotect it fromfurtherdeterioration.Theprintmeanttheworldtome,yetithadneverseemedateaseonmywallsinAmerica,whereitlookedlikethecheapestkindof tourist gewgaw. I'd packed itwithme on this journey, planning to restore it to the one placewhereIknewitwasathome,theautoclaveroom.

I lookedover toHema.Her facewasaglow.Sheunderstood.Whatprovidencehadbroughtus tothisspot?SurelythiswasGhoshannouncinghispresence,becauseGhoshwasthesortofmanwhocouldbecountedontoknowthatBernini'sEcstasyofSt.Teresawasminutesfromourhotel,evenifhe'd never been to Rome before. Ghosh had brought us here, led us to this spot, not to see St.Teresainmarble,buttoseeSisterMaryJosephPraiseintheflesh,forthatiswhatthefigurewastome.Ihavecome,Mother.

WE LIT CANDLES. Hema fell to her knees, the flame throwing a flickering light on her face. Her lipsmoved. She believed in every kind of deity and in reincarnation and resurrection—she knew no

contradictions in these areas. How I admired her faith, her lack of self-consciousness—a HindulightingcandlestoaCarmelitenuninaCatholicchurch.

Iknelt,too.IaddressedGodandSisterMaryJosephPraiseandShivaandGhosh—allthebeingsIcarriedwithme in the flesh and in spirit.Thank you for lettingme be alive, lettingme see thismarbledream.Ifeltagreatpeace,asensethatcomingtothisspothadcompletedthecircuit,andnowablockedcurrentwouldflowandIcouldrest.If“ecstasy”meantthesuddenintrusionofthesacredintotheordinary,thenithadjusthappenedtome.

Mymotherhadspoken.

WhatIdidn'tknowthenwasthatshehadmoretosay.

CHAPTER54Homefires

IT WAS DUSKwhenwe landed. Ihadbeenaway fromAddis forsevenyears.ThewhitebuildingsofMissinglookedroundedattheedges,worndown,asiftheydbeenexcavatedinanarchaeologicaldigbutnotrestored.

WhenthetaxireachedShiva'stoolshedIhadthedriverletmeout.ItoldHematogoonbecauseIwantedtowalktherestoftheway.

Istoodlisteningoncethecarpulledaway;thedryrustleoftheleaveswaslikeachild'shandsiftingthroughaboxofcoins.Thesoundhadlostallitsmenaceforme.Ifoundthatdentedandbentcurb,which had stopped amotorcycle but not its rider. I looked down into the trees and the shadowswhere he fell. The spot no longer generated any dread forme. Allmy ghosts had vanished; theretribution that theysoughthadbeenexacted. Ihadnothingmore togive,andnothing to fear. Ilooked out over trees to the city. The skywas amadpainter's canvas, as if halfway through theartist had decided against azure and had instead splashed ochre and crimson and black on thepalette. The citywas alight, glowing, but here and there it was obscured by great puffs ofmistwhichsmudgedmyview,likethesmokeofmanysmallbattles.

Iwalkedupthehilltothehouse,athousandmemoriesnowofShivaandmedoingourthree-leggedrace tobe in time fordinner,or the twoofusandGenetwalkingbackwithour schoolbooks,ofZemuicomingupwithhismotorcycleandthencoastingthelasthundredyards.UpaheadIcouldsee the figures huddled around our taxi and around Hema. Then Matron, Gebrew, and Almazseparatedfromthevehicle,silhouettedagainstthelastembersofthesky,andtheywaitedforme.

I'D BEEN BACK just threedayswhenMatronsummonedme toCasualty.Ayounggirlwithabull-gorewoundtotheabdomenwasexsanguinatingbeforeoureyes.Thechildwouldhavediedifwedtriedto send her elsewhere. I took her to Operating Theater 3 at once, and found the bleeder. Whatfollowed next—cutting out damaged bowel, washing out the peritoneal cavity, fashioning acolostomy, was routine, but its effect on me was anything but. I felt I was on consecrated soil,standingonthesamespotwhereThomasStone,Ghosh,andShivahadstood,eachwithscalpelinhand.Attheendofthesurgery,whenIturnedtoleave,weavingaroundthebucketandwiresonthefloor, I lookedupandsawShiva in thenewglass thatseparatedTheater 3 from itsspanking-newmate,Theater4.Thesighttookmybreathaway.IrememberedShiva'sfirstwordswhenthekillingofKoochooloo'spuppiespromptedhimtobreakyearsofsilence:WillyouforgetifsomeonekillsmeorMarion?

No,Shiva,we'llneverforgetyou,Isaidtomyreflection.InsayingthatIthinkIdecidedmyfuture.

AMONG SHIVA'S BELONGINGS inhisroom, I foundakeyonakey-holdershaped like theCongo. InShiva'stoolshedwasastrange-lookingmotorcycle,withbrightred,stubbyfenders,ateardrop-shapedredfuel tank, handlebars that would have been called ape hangers in America, and lovely chromewheels.HemasaidthatShivahadboughtthebikesecondhandafewyearsbackandthathekepttinkering with it. She said he had only ridden it late at night when there was no traffic. Theudderlikeenginelookedveryfamiliar,anditslowrumblewhenIkick-starteditgaveawayitstrueidentity.

Ioperated threedaysaweek,andwhenmyreturn ticket toNewYorkwasabout toexpire, Ididnothing.

Shiva's liverfunctionedbeautifully inmeyearafteryear.TheshotsofhepatitisBimmunoglobulinhelped. The virus became so dormant thatmy blood tests showed I wasn't a carrier, and that Icouldn'tinfectanyone.Matroninsisteditwasamiracle,andIhadtoagree.

In1991,fiveyearsaftermyreturn,IstoodbythegatesofMissingjustasIhadwhenIwasachild,and Iwatched the forcesof theTigrePeople'sLiberationFrontandother freedom fightersmaketheirwayintothecity.Theyweredressedinthesamefunctionalshirts,shorts,andsandalsoftheguerrillas I had seen in Eritrea, bandoliers crisscrossing their chests, rifles in their hands. Theydidn'tmarchinformation,yettheirfacesshowedthedisciplineandconfidenceofmenwhobelievedintheircause.Therewasnolooting,nomayhem.TheonlylootingwasbytheComradePresident-for-Life, who emptied the Treasury and flewwith his loot to Zimbabwe, where his fellow looter,Mugabe, gave him refuge.Mengistuwas a despised figure, a blight on the nation, aman aboutwhom to this day no one can find a goodword to say Almaz said that the souls of all those hemurderedwereassembledinastadium,waitingtogivehimareceptiononhiswaytohell.

EVERYEVENINGIcheckedonMatronbeforeIwenttobed.Shewassotremulousandbentoverwithage,but her joy in lifewasunchanged.Wewouldhave a cupof cocoa together.Her onlyLP—Bach—played in the background on the small gramophone I had bought for her. She never tired of the“Gloria,”whichIwillalwaysassociatewithher.AsIdsitwithher,shewouldlookoverandsmileasifshealwaysknewIdcomebacktothelandIhadoncedisowned.IthadbeenMatron'swishthatGodmightcallhereitherduringherprayersorhersleep,andHeobliged.Itwas1991,afewmonthsafter the President-for-Life fled; I found her in her chair, the record still spinning on hergramophone.Justthepreviousmorningshehadbeensupervisingtheplantingofanewcultivar,theRosarubiginosaShiva,whichshehadofficialyregisteredwiththeRoyalSociety.Tomeitlookedasif thewholecity, richandpoor, turnedout forher funeral.Almazsaid that thestreets toheavenwere lined by the souls of thosewhowere grateful toMatron, and that her thronewas next toMary's.

Almaz and Gebrew were retired and ensconced in new, comfortable quarters built for them atMissing,freetospendtheirtimeinanywaytheychose.Isupposeitshouldnothavesurprisedmethattheywouldspenditinfastingandprayer.

TheShivaStoneInstituteforFistulaSurgerywithHemaasitstitularheadgrew,asdiditsfunding.Hemaworkedeveryday, and zealous younggynecologists fromwithin the country,but also fromotherAfricannations,cametotrainandtakeupthecause.TheStaffProbationer,whoseroomIhadvisited somany years ago, had become a skilled assistant under Shiva's tutelage, and now,withHema's encouragement, shewas a confident surgeon on her own,well suited to the painstakingtaskoftrainingtheyoungdoctorswhocametolearnhowtotreatthisonecondition.Iinsistedonlearningherrealname,andreluctantlyshetoldmeitwasNaeema.Butitwasnotanamesheeverused;shehadbecometheStaffProbationereventoherself.

IngoingthroughMatron'spapers,IdiscoveredthattheanonymousdonorwhohadmodestlyfundedShiva'sworkforsomanyyearswasnoneotherthanThomasStone.NowheworkedtodirectotherdonorsandfoundationstosupportMissing.

IHADTOWAITtill2004forSisterMaryJosephPraise'smessagetoreachme.IthappenedjustafterNewYear's on the Western calendar, a time when the mimosa trees that surrounded the outpatientbuilding had sprung their violet and yellow blooms and Missing was enveloped in the scent ofvanilla.

I'd gone into the autoclave room between patients. The framed print of Bernini'sEcstasy of St.Teresalookedslightlyaskew.Instraighteningit,Ifoundthehookwasloose.WhenItooktheframedown to tighten thehook, I noticed the thickpaperbackinghadcomeungluedat oneedge.Theroomstayedhumidbecauseoftheautoclave,anditappearedtohaveweakenedtheglue.Ontryingtogetthebackingtostickagain,Ispiedagossamer-thinletterpaperfoldedandensconcedbehindthatbacking,thelinesofbluewritingshowingthrough.

Ifisheditout.

I slumpedback intomychair.Myhandsnever tremble, but for some reason thatdelicate slip ofpapershook.

The letter looked discolored by age, almost transparent, in danger of crumbling into dust. LikeGhosh,Ihadamomenttodecidewhethertoreadaprivateletterthatwasmeantforanother.IwascertainthatthiswasthelettermymotherhadpennedjustbeforeIwasborn.ThenitwasinGhosh'spossession.When Iwas twenty-fiveyearsold, the lettercame tome. Ihadcarried it toAmerica,thenIhadbroughtitback.Fortwenty-fiveyearsIwasunawarethatIhadit.Untiltoday.“Whenareyoucoming,Mama?”IusedtoaskwhenIwasasmallboygazingupatthepicture.Shehadcomeatlast.

CHAPTER55TheAfterbird

September19DearThomas,

Lastnight,GodtoldmeImustconfesstoyouwhatIhaveneverconfessed,eventoGod.Yearsago,inAden,IturnedfromGodasHeturnedfromme.Somethinghappenedtometherethatshouldnothappentoanywoman.Icouldnotforgivethemanwhoharmedme.IcouldnotforgiveGod.Deathwouldhavebeenbetter thanwhat I endured.But I camehere, toMissing. I came in thedressofanuntohidemybitternessandshamefromtheworld.

InJeremiah17itiswritten,“Theheartisdeceitfulaboveallthingsandbeyondcure,andwhocanunderstandit?”IcametoEthiopiaindeceit.

Butourworkchangedme.Iwouldhavebeenyourassistanttillmylastbreath.Now,thingshavechangedagain.

Afewmonthsago,youwerelikeamanpossessed,andItriedtocomfortyou.NowIamwithchild.Donotblameyourself.

ItwasdifficulttohidemybodyfromMatronandtheothers.ManytimesIthoughtoftellingyou.Icould never find a way. But now I am frightened.My time is short. Last night the movementsbecamestrong.Itmademethink,WhatifThomaswishesmetostay?IshouldnotleaveinthewayIcametoMissingandtoyou,hidingandindeceit.ThatiswhyIwrite.

ImustfleeMissingtospareitmyshamejustasIoncefledtoittohidemyshame.Ifyoucometomewhenyougetthisletter,Iwillknowthatyouwishmetobewithyou.Butwhateveryoudo,mylovewillalwaysbethesame.

Mary

It took such concentration to finish my last surgical case—a routine vagotomy andgastrojejunostomy for a duodenal ulcer—and not letmymindwander. At last,with that letter inhand,Iwalkedbacktomyquarters,feelingasifIhadnevercomeupthispathbefore.

Shelovedhim.ShelovedhimsomuchsherantohimfromAden.ThebloodstainswithwhichshecametoMissingtoldmewhatshecouldnot.Shemadeherwaytothedoctor—theman—shehadmetonthatshipoutofIndia.Andthen,yearslater,shelovedhimsomuchshewasreadytoleavehim.Attheeleventhhourshedecidedtowriteandtellhim.Thenshewaitedforhimtocome,ornot.

But Thomas Stone did come. Surely shewould have registered his arrival. As he picked her up,carriedher,ranwithher,everytearthatfellfromhiseyesontoherfaceshewouldhaveinterpretedasaffirmationsofhis love.Hecamenotbecauseof the letter:henevergot it.Hecamebecausesomepartofhimknewwhathehaddone,andwhathehadtodo:somepartofhimknewwhathefelt.

IpicturedGhoshvisitingThomasStone'squartersaftermymother'sdeath,searchingforhim.Hewould have seen on Stone's desk the new textbook and bookm ark, and on top of them,conspicuouslyperhaps,thisletter.ThomasStoneneversawthebookortheletterbecausehespentthepreviousnightsleepingintheloungechairinhisMissingoffice,asheoftendid,andthenaftermymother'sdeathhenever returned tohisquarters.Whyhadn'tGhoshsimplymailed the letterdirectlytoThomasStone?Thomasneverwroteorcommunicated;Ghoshhadnoaddressatfirst.Butas theyearswentby,Ghoshcouldprobablyhave foundStone'swhereabouts.Afterall,EliHarrishadalwaysknownthem.ButperhapsbythenGhoshwashurtbyStone'ssilenceandhiswillingnesstoforgethisoldfriendandleavehimcaringforhischildrenasheranfromhispast.Asmoreyearswentby,GhoshmighthaveponderedtheeffectoftheletteronStone—perhapsitwouldinfactbeadisservicetosendittohim.Itmighthaveprecipitatedanothermeltdown,or,asHemahadalwaysfeared,Stonemighthavereturnedtoclaimthechildren.AndperhapsStonewouldn'tunderstand—orbelieve—anythingthelettersaid.

Then, as death approached, itmust haveworkedonGhosh's conscience to be the keeper of thisletter.WhatifthecontentscouldsaveStone,puthisheartatease?WhatifitmadeStonedo,evenbelatedly,therightthingbyhissons?BythistimeallGhosh'sresentmentforStone,ifheeverhadany,hadvanished.

So ultimatelyGhosh gave the textbook and bookmark to Shiva, and the letter tome, but hiddenfromme. Imarveledat the foresightof adyingmanwhowouldentomba letterwithina framedpicture. He would leave it to fate—how like Ghosh this was!Whenwould I find Thomas Stone?WhenwouldIfindtheletter?IfandwhenIfoundit,wouldIgivethelettertoitsintendedrecipient?GhoshtrustedmetodowhateveritisIwouldchoosetodo.That,too,islove.Hedbeendeadmore

thanaquartercenturyandhewasstillteachingmeaboutthetrustthatcomesonlyfromtruelove.

“Shiva,”Isaid,lookingupattheskywherethestarswerewarmingupfortheirnightlyshowwhileIrecalledthenightIfledMissinginhaste,andhowShivahadthrustatmemyfather'sbook—AShortPractice, that bookmark inside. The fewwords on thebookmarkpennedbymymotherwere theonly way any of us knew a letter even existed. Years ago, over the telephone, I had asked him,“Shiva,whatmadeyougiveme thebook?”Hedidn't know. “Iwantedyou tohave it”wasall hecouldsay.Theworldturnsonoureveryaction,andoureveryomission,whetherweknowitornot.

WHEN IREACHEDMYQUARTERS,Isatdownandspreadtheletteronmylap,andwithshakyhandsIdialedThomasStone'snumber.Myfatherwaswellpasteightynow,anemeritusprofessor.Deepaksaidtheoldman'seyeswerefading,buthistouchwassogoodhecouldhaveoperatedinthedark.Still,herarely operated anymore, though he would often assist. Thomas Stone was once known for TheExpedient Operator: A Short Practice of Tropical Surgery. Now he was famous for pioneering abreakthroughtransplantprocedure. Iwasproofthattheoperationworked,butShiva'sdeathwasproofoftheattendantrisks.Surgeonsaroundtheworldhadlearnedtodotheoperation,andmanyinfantsbornwithoutaworkingbile-drainagesystemhadbeensavedbyaparent'sgiftofapartofhisorherliver.

INMYEARPIECEIheardthehushofthevoidthathangsovertheearth,andthenoutofthatether,thesoundof thephoneringingfaraway, itshigh-pitchedsummonssobriskandefficient,sodifferentfrom the lackadaisicalanalogclicksand thecoarse ringwhen IdialedanAddisAbabanumber. IpicturedthephonetrillandechointheapartmentthatIhadvisitedonce,andwhichIhadleftopenlikeasardinecansothatThomasStonewouldknowthathissonhadarrivedinhisworld.

Ithoughtofmymotherwritingthisletter,herwholelifecompressedononesideofthisparchment.Shehadprobablydeliveredit(andthebookwithbookmark)inthelateafternoonwhenthepainshither.Shehadworsenedinthenight,slowlyslippingintoshock,andthenthenextdayshedied.ButnotbeforeThomasStonecametoher.Itwasthesignshehadwaitedfor.Hedidtherightthing,andyetforthelasthalfcentury,hewasunawarethathehaddoneso.

ThomasStoneansweredafterthefirstring.ItmademewonderifhewerewideawakeeventhoughitwasthemiddleofthenightinBoston.

“Yes?”Myfather'svoicewascrispandalert,asifheexpectedthisintrusion,asifhewerereadyforthestoryoftraumaormassivebrainbleedthatmadeanorganavailable,orreadytohearofachild,oneintenthousand,bornwithbiliaryatresiawhowoulddiewithoutalivertransplant.ThevoiceIheard was that of someone who would bring all the skill and experience he carried in his ninefingers to the rescue of a fellow human being, and who would pass on that legacy to anothergenerationofinternsandresidents—itwaswhathewasborntodo;heknewnothingelse.“Stonehere,”he said,his voice soundingsoveryclose,as ifhewere therewithme,as ifnothingatallseparatedourtwoworlds.

Acknowledgments

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION, and all the characters are imagined, as isMissingHospital. Somehistorical figures, such as Emperor Haile Selassie and the dictator Mengistu, are real; anattemptedcoupdidoccur inEthiopia,butfiveyearsearlierthantheoneIdescribe.TheColonelandhisbrotherare looselybasedon the real coup leaders.Thedetails of their captureand thewords at the Colonel's trial and before he was hung are from published reports, particularlyRichard Greenfield's Ethiopia: A New Political History; John H. Spencer's Ethiopia at Bay: APersonal Account of the Haile Selassie Years; the published work of Richard Pankhurst forhistorical backdrop; and Edmond J. Keller's Revolutionary Ethiopia: From Empire to People'sRepublic.AremarkablephysicianbythenameofJohnMellydiedafterbeingshotbyalooter,buthisdialoguewithMatronisimagined.TheIbisandotherbarsareinventions.TheLT&Cschoolisimagined;anyresemblancetomywonderfulschool(whereMr.RobbsandMr.Thamesencouragedmywriting)isnotintentional.

Thefollowingsources,books,andpeoplewereinvaluable:Thebirthsceneandthephrases“whiteasphyxia”and“in theobscurityofourmother'swomb”are inspiredby thewonderfulmemoirofthelategreatEgyptianobstetricianandfistulasurgeonNaguibMahfouz,TheLifeofanEgyptianDoctor,asistheideaofthecoppervessel.NergeshTejani'sessaysdescribingherexperiencesinAfricawithversionclinicsandwithfistula,aswellasourcorrespondence,wereextremelyhelpful.I consulted the published work of Dr. Reginald Hamlin and Dr. Catherine Hamlin, pioneers offistulasurgery.Asamedicalstudent,Iwouldseethemandwasveryawareoftheirwork.Recently,I had the opportunity to visit the “Hospital by the River,” which is also the title of CatherineHamlin'slovelymemoir.ThefistulasurgeonsinmybookarenotinanywaybasedontheHamlins.ThelateSirIanHillwasinfactthedeanofthemedicalschool,andifIusehisname,andthatofBraithwaite,inthebook,itisasatributetotwopeoplewhotookachanceonme.TheattemptedhijackingsoftheEthiopianAirlinesjetsduringthe1960sand1970sarehistoricalfacts;onewould-behijackerwasmyseniorinmedicalschool;sheandherfellowhijackersperishedintheattempt.ThepresentprimeministerofEthiopia,MelesZenawi,wasoneyearmy junior inmedical school;hebecameaguerillafighter,ultimatelyleadingtheforcesthattoppledMengitsu.Theheroismofthesecuritycrewandtheincredibleskillofthepilotsareveryreal.EthiopianAirlinesremains,inmyopinion, the safest and best international airline I have flown, with the most hospitable anddedicatedflightattendants.Louse-bornerelapsingfeverwasstudiedbythelatePeterPerineandthelateCharlesLeithead,andIhadthepleasureofseeingpatientswithbothmenwhenIwasastudent.

ForinformationaboutTeresaofAvila,andthedescriptionofBernini'sstatue,IdrewonTeresaofAvila:TheProgressofaSoulbyCath-leenMedwick.EvenafterseeingtheoriginalinRome,IfoundMed-wick'sdescriptionssoinsightful.AnyofSt.Teresa'swordsthatIquote,aswellastheideasaboutfaithandgrace,andtheideaofSisterMaryJosephPraiserecitingtheMiserereatherdeathandtheideaoftheinex-picablysweetscent,arebasedonMedwick'saccountofthelifeofTeresa.Thewords“celestialbillingandcooing”arefromH.M.StutfieldquotedinMedwick'sbook.

Theline“Ioweyouthesightofmorning”isbyW.S.Merwinfromthepoem“TotheSurgeonKevinLin,”originallypublishedinTheNewYorker.Alimited-editionprintofthispoempreparedbyCaroleeCampbellofNinjaPressandsignedbyWilliamMerwinhangsinmyoffice.Ioweagreatdebttophysician,writer,andfriendEthanCaninforfirstinvitingmetotheSunValleyWritersFestivalandtherebyintroducingmetoRevaTooleyandtheremarkablepeoplewhogatherthere.

The line “hernosewas sharpasapen” is fromHenryV,Part II and relates tomybelief that itrepresents Shakespeare's astute clinical observation, which I described in “The Typhoid StateRevisited,”inTheAmericanJournalofMedicine(79:370;1985).

MyownimpressionsofAdenandmymemoriesofsittinginkhatsessionswereaidedbythemostvividdescriptionsinEricHansen'swonderfulbookMotoringwithMohammed:JourneystoYemenandtheRedSeaandalsoEatingtheFlowersofParadise:OneMan'sJourneyThroughEthiopiaandYemenbyKevinRushby.TheimageofthewomanwiththecharcoalbrazieronherheadandalsothewheelbarrowstransportingpeoplecomefromHansen'sbook.

The Italian occupation, the description of Aweyde, and many aspects of the Italian-Ethopianconflict, including the desire to win by any means—Qualsiasi mezzo—were informed by PaulTheroux'swonderfulDarkStarSafari:OverlandfromCairotoCapetownandmanyothersources.

“Squaredher shoulders to theunloveliness” is a paraphrase of JamesMerrill's line in thepoem“CharlesonFire”:“Noonebutsquared/Theshouldersofhisunloveliness.”

BlissCarnochanshowedmeanearlyeditionofhisGoldenLegends:ImagesofAbyssinia,SamuelJohnsontoBobMarleyandhelpedmeseehowWesternideasaboutEthiopiawereshaped.

I and countless Commonwealth medical students admired Bailey and Love's Short Practice ofSurgery;Stone'simaginedtextbookisbasedonBaileyandLove,andthewombatandtheappendixstory is from there. As a student I was impressed with the photograph of Bailey and his ninefingers. Other than that, the character of Stone has no connection with Hamilton Bailey, whopracticedonlyinEnglandbeforeretiring.

“Acarefuldecisionwasneededsoasnot toblunderagain. Itwasoften thesecondmistakethatcameinthehastetocorrectthefirstmistakethatdidthepatientin”and“Arichman'sfaultsarecoveredwithmoney,butasurgeon'sfaultsarecoveredwithearth”arebothfromAphorismsandQuotations for theSurgeon byMosheSchein.For these andmanyother surgical notions, I owe

Moshe, maverick surgeon, brilliant teacher, author of several wonderful surgical textbooks,essayist, and friend.He not only read early drafts but also introducedme to the community ofsurgeons on SURGINET I delighted in, learned from, and borrowed ideas from their musings,particularlythevasectomydetails,whichmadeforaseriesofmemorableexchanges.KarenKwongsharedwithmeherexperiences(andthoseofherhusband,Marty)asatraumasurgeon,andshewasacarefulreaderofthemanuscriptbothearlyandattheend.Herlong,thoughtfule-mailswereprecious,andIcannotexpresstohersufficientlymygratitudeandadmiration.ThanksalsotoEdSalztein,JackPeacock,StuartLevitz,andFranzTheard.ImetThomasStarzlwhenIwasaChiefResidentinTennesseeandhavesincerenewedtheacquaintance.Heistrulyasurgeon'ssurgeon,andhispioneeringworkestablishingthefieldoflivertransplantationisnofiction;Irefertohiminthebook intribute.ThomasStone ishis fictionalcontemporary.FranciscoCigarroa,presidentoftheUniversityofTexasHealthScienceCenter,SanAntonio,waskindenoughtoletmewatchasheperformedalivertransplantonachild.TheremarkablegroupinSanAntonio,ledbyGlennHalff,whomakelivertransplantappearalmostroutine,arepartofStarzl'slegacy—untilveryrecently,itwasfairtosaythateverylivertransplantsurgeonintheworldwastrainedbyStarzlorbysomeonewhotrainedwithStarzl.

“Birth, andcopulation, anddeath /That's all the factswhenyoucome tobrass tacks: I'vebeenborn,andonceisenough”isapartialquoteformT.S.Eliot'sSweeneyAgonistes.

“Indeedtothinkoflifeastragicisapostureofdelusion,forlifeisuniformlyworsethantragic”isalinefromHeinrichZimmer'sTheKingandtheCorpse,editedbyJosephCampbell,asis“Notonlyouractionsbutalsoouromissionsbecomeourdestiny.”

“Theysaw in theplagueasureandGod-sentmeansofwinningeternal life” is fromCamus’ThePlague.

I am greatly indebted to the late Ryszard Kapuscinski's take on a city and a country which Ithought I knew well. Details of the Emperor's court, the palace, the funding of the healthdepartments,theAmharacharacter,themotorcycleescort,theMinisterofthePen,andthepalaceintrigues were things most residents knew about and had in some cases seen firsthand, butKapuscinski'sparticulartalentwas,asanoutsider,makingthosethingsmorevisibletous,whichhedidinhisextraordinarybookTheEmperor.

“The crookedness of the serpent is still straight enough to slide through the snake hole” isparaphrased from one of the Bhakti poems inSpeaking of Siva, edited by the late, great A. K.Ramanujam.

For information about the Carmelites I thank Fred de Sam Lazaro and Eliam Rao and theincomparableSisterMaude.ThereisnoconventofCarmelitestomyknowledgeinEgmore.

ThedetailsofthetheRockofEastAfrica,AFRSAsmara,arefromhttp://www.kagnewstation.com/.

ForthescenesoftheescapefromAsmara,IthankNayneshKamani,whowasmyseniorinmedicalschool and whomade that heroic walk; he read themanuscript and hadmany corrections andsuggestions. Iwasgreatly influencedbyThomasKennealy'swonderfulnovelToAsmara,with itsobservations about the Eritrean guerrilla camps which Kennealy appeared to have visited; heremains a champion of the Eritrean people. I should state that my affection is equal for bothEthiopiaandEritrea,andIhavedearfriendsinbothplaces.

“AsifIhadgivenhimthegreatestgiftamancouldevergiveanother”isaparaphraseofalineinRaymondCarver's“WhattheDoctorSaid,”fromNewPathtotheWaterfall.

Forthescenesatthetuberculosissanatorium,IamindebtedtoJeanMason's“TheDiscourseofDisease:PatientWritingatthe‘UniversityofTuberculosis,’“whichIwasfortunatetohearatthePsychoanalysisandNarrativeMedicineConference,UniversityofFlorida,Gainesville,in2002.

“MaynoEnglish nobleman venture out of thisworldwithout aScottishPhysician, as I am suretherearenonewhoventurein”wassaidtobeatoastusedbyWilliamHunter,M.D.,theelderoftheHunterbrothers.IhaveparaphrasedthisasatoastthatB.C.Gandhiuses.

“Callnomanhappyuntilhedies” iswhat theAthenianSolon tellsCroesus, thewealthykingofLydia,accordingtoHerodotus.ThesearewordsthatSirWilliamOslerquotedonhearingthenewsofhisbelovedsonRevere'sdeathatFlanders.TheimaginednursingtextbookthatdescribesSoundNursingSenseisarecastingofoneofOsler'saphorisms.

FortheinformationonpsychosomaticailmentsamongEthiopians,IamgratefultomyfriendRickHodes,M.D., internist, writer, andmensch. His life in Ethiopia is a story of its own. Thanks toThomas “Appu”Oommen forhis incredible recollectionsofhis time inAddis as a schoolboyandlaterasajournalist,andoftheperiodofthecoup.Ane-mailAppusharedwithmefromYohannesKiflegavemegreatinsightintoKerchele.Myparents,GeorgeandMariamVerghese,sharedtheirmemories, andmymothermade extensive notes just formy use. To them I have dedicated thisbook.

Inthecourseofwritingthisnoveloverseveralyears,Iconsultedmanyotherworks,mostofwhichI hope are listed in the bibliography, and any failure to acknowledge a person or source issomething Iwould like to correct. The scene of Genet's damp gift toMarionwas inspired by asimilarscenefromanovelorshortstorywhoseauthorshipIcannotrecall;similarly,themetaphorofAdenasacityatoncedeadyetalivelikemaggotsonacorpse(orwordstothateffect) isonethatIwouldlovetoattributetoasource.

IamgratefultotheextraordinaryAdvisoryBoardinSanAntoniothatallowedustobuildaCenter

for Medical Humanities, but even more grateful for the personal friendships I formed with itsmembers.SteveWartman,mytennispartnerandfriend,recruitedmetoSanAntoniowhenhewasdean.EdithMcAllisterwasmyteacher,mycoach,myinspiration,andthepersonwhounderstoodbetterthananyonetheneedIhadforprotectedtime,evenifitmeantmyleaving;inmynextlifemyambition is tocomebackasher.ForMarvinandEllieForlandand for JudyMcCarter,wordscannot do justice to the support and love they gave me; to hold a distinguished professorshipnamedafterMarvin,andadistinguishedchairnamedafterJoaquinCigarroaJr.(bothconsummateinternists),wasthegreatesthonor.Judyremainsmycounselorandconscience;witheverypassingyearIgrowinadmirationofherwisdom.ThankstoUTHSCA,totheextendedCigarroafamily,BillHenrich, Robert Clark, Jan Patterson, Ray Faber, Tom Mayes, Somayaji Rama-murthy DeborahKaercher,thelateDavidSherman,andsomanyotherswhomadeitaspecialplacetowork;soalsoto Texas Tech, El Paso, where this work first began. Dr. Erika Brady of Western KentuckyUniversity'sfolkstudiesdepartmentwasanexpertinmattersrangingfromAlphaOmegaAlphatoReligioMedici to details about prayers and dress; I could always rely on her research.MicheleStanushalsohelpedmewithresearch,andIammostgrateful.

MyWednesday-morningbrothers(RandyTownsend,BakerDuncan,OlivierNadal,DrewCauthorn,GuyBodine,andespeciallyJackWillome)andtheirwives(andespeciallyyou,Dee!)gavemeloveandfaithandheldmeaccountable.“Nogreaterlove…”

TomRozanski,neighbor,colleague,andurologist,gavemeadviceonthevasectomysceneaswellasothersurgicalissues,forwhichIammostgrateful.RajenderReddyandGabeGarciahelpedmethinkthroughissuesrelatedtohepatitisB.

AnandandMadhuKarnad,mydearestandoldestfriends,readandheardmanysectionsofthisandallmypreviousbooksovertheyears;theygaveandcontinuetogivemeloveandsustenance,andIknowIhaveahomewherevertheyare.

IamgratefultoJohnIrvingforhisfriendshipalltheseyears.Ihavelearnedsomuchfromhimbothinourcorrespondenceandinhispublishedwork.

RalphHorwitz,M.D.,chairmanofmedicineatStanford,createdahomeforme;IamsogratefulforhisvisionandhisandSally's friendship. I thankmybrother,George,andhiswife,Ann,and theKailaths,aswellasHelenBing,forintroducingmetoStanford'scharmsyearsbeforeIdreamedofcominghere.

Mylovelywife,Sylvia,spenthoursenteringthechangesthatIwouldwriteonthemanuscriptanddidthisseveraltimesovertheyears.Shemorethananyone,butalsoTristan,Jacob,andSteven,putupwithmyabsencesfromsocietyandsustainedmethroughtheupsanddownsinthewritingofthisbook.Graciasmiamor;conlosañosquemequedan…

MaryEvans,myagent,soldmyfirststorytoTheNewYorkerbeforewemetinperson,andshehaskeptthefaithwithmesincethosedaysinIowain1991.Herdiscerningeyeandwisecounselhavemadeawriterofme,andherfriendshiphasmademeabetterperson.RobinDesserhadahandinmy first book, and it was a privilege to get toworkwith her on this one. Robin saw this bookthroughitsmanyiterationsandspentinnumerablehourswithitandwithme,andIamsoindebtedtoher.Ihaveoftenthoughtthatthegrace,passion,humility,andextraordinaryskillshebringstoher craft are attributes she shareswith the physicians Imost admire.My thanks also to SarahRothbard,Robin'swonderfulassistant.IammostgratefultoSonnyMehtaforhisenthusiasmforthisstoryandhissteadfastsupportofmywriting.

Medicine is a demanding mistress, yet she is faithful, generous, and true. She gives me theprivilegeofseeingpatientsandofteachingstudentsatthebedside,andtherebyshegivesmeaningtoeverythingIdo.LikeGhosh,everyyear,atcommencement,Irenewmyvowswithher:IswearbyApolloandAsclepiusandHygieiaandPanaceiatobetruetoher,forsheisthesourceofall…Ishallnotcutforstone.

AbrahamVerghese,

Stanford,California,June2008

BibliographyAnderson,R.,andR.Romfh.TechniqueintheUseofSurgicalTools.NewYork:Appleton-Century-Crofts,1980.

Ayele,N.WitandWisdomofEthiopia.Hollywood,Calif.:TsehaiPublishersandDistributors,1998.

Bailey,H.Pye'sSurgicalHandicraft.17thed.Bristol,England:JohnWright&Sons,1956.

Bierman, J., and C. Smith.Fire in theNight:Wingate of Burma, Ethiopia, and Zion. New York:RandomHouse,1999.

Coleman, D. The Scent of Eucalyptus: A Missionary Childhood in Ethiopia. Fred-ericton, NewBrunswick,Canada:GooseLaneEditions,2003.

Cook,H.FiftyYearsaCountryDoctor.Lincoln:UniversityofNebraskaPress,1998.

Cope,Z.TheDiagnosisoftheAcuteAbdomeninRhyme.London:H.K.Lewis&Co.,Ltd.,1962.

Dreger,A.D.OneofUs:ConjoinedTwinsandtheFutureofNormal.Cambridge,Mass.:HarvardUniversityPress,2004.

Gould,G.M.,andW.E.Pyle.AnomaliesandCuriositiesofMedicine.NewYork:W.B.Saunders,1896.

Habte-Mariam,M.,andC.Price.TheRichManandtheSinger:FolktalesfromEthiopia.NewYork:E.P.Dutton,1971.

Hertzler,A.E.TheHorseandBuggyDoctor.Lincoln:UniversityofNebraskaPress,1938.

Humphries, S. V.The Life ofHamiltonBailey. Beckenham, England: Ravens -wood Publications,1973.

Keller, E. J. Revolutionary Ethiopia: From Empire to People's Republic. Blooming-ton: IndianaUniversityPress,1991.

Lambie,T.A.BootandSaddleinAfrica.NewYork:FlemingH.RedellCo.,1943.

ADoctorWithoutaCountry.NewYork:FlemingH.RedellCo.,1939.

MarcusH.G.ThePolitics of Empire: Ethiopia,GreatBritain and theUnited States, 1941–1974.Lawrenceville,N.J.:RedSeaPress,1983.

MarstonA.HamiltonBailey:ASurgeonsLife.London:GreenwichMedicalMediaLtd.,1999.

Melly,A.J.M.JohnMellyofEthiopia.Ed.K.NelsonandA.Sullivan.London:Faber&Faber,1937.

Speert,H.IconographiaGyniatrica:APictorialHistoryofGynecologyandObstetrics.Philadelphia:FA.DavisCo.,1973.

Smith,I.WishIMight.NewYork:Harper&Brothers,1955.

WaughE.WaughinAbyssinia.Harlow,Essex,England:Longman,1936.

ANOTEABOUTTHEAUTHOR

ABRAHAMVERGHESEisProfessorandSeniorAssociateChairfortheTheoryandPracticeofMedicineat the Stanford University School ofMedicine. He has served on the faculty at East TennesseeStateUniversity,theUniversityofIowa,TexasTechUniversity,andtheUniversityofTexasHealthScience Center, San Antonio, where he was the founding director of the Center for MedicalHumanities&Ethicsandwhereheholdsanadjunctprofessorship.AgraduateoftheIowaWriters’Workshop,heistheauthorofMyOwnCountry,a1994NBCCFinalistandoneoffivebookschosenasBestBookof theYearbyTime,andTheTennisPartner,aNewYorkTimesNotableBook.Hisessays and short stories have ap peared in The New Yorker, The New York Times, SportsIllustrated,TheAtlanticMonthly,Esquire,Story,Granta,TheNewYorkTimesMagazine,TheWallStreetJournal,andelsewhere.HelivesinPaloAlto,California.

Copyright©2009byAbrahamVergheseAllrightsreserved.www.aaknopf.com

Knopf,BorzoiBooks,andthecolophonareregisteredtrademarksofRandomHouse,Inc.

LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationDataVerghese,A.(Abraham),[date]

Cuttingforstone:anovel/AbrahamVerghese.—1sted.p.cm.

eISBN:978-0-307-27134-11.Physicians—Fiction.2.Brothers—Fiction.3.Fathersandsons—Fiction.

4.Ethiopia—Fiction.5.Bronx(NewYork,NY.)—Fiction.I.Title.PS3622.E744C872009

813‘.6—dc222008028252

v3.0

TableofContentsCover

OtherBooksByThisAuthor

TitlePage

Dedication

PROLOGUE:TheComing

PARTONE

CHAPTER1:TheTyphoidStateRevisited

CHAPTER2:TheMissingFinger

CHAPTER3:TheGateofTears

CHAPTER4:TheFive-FRule

CHAPTER5:LastMoments

CHAPTER6:MyAbyssinia

CHAPTER7:FetorTerribilis

CHAPTER8:MissingPeople

CHAPTER9:WhereDutyLies

CHAPTER10:DanceofShiva

PARTTWO

CHAPTER11:BedsideLanguageandBedroomLanguage

CHAPTER12:Land'sEnd

CHAPTER13:PraiseintheArmsofJesus

CHAPTER14:KnowledgeoftheRedeemer

CHAPTER15:Crookednessof:theSerpent

CHAPTER16:BrideforaYear

PARTTHREE

CHAPTER17:“Tizita”

CHAPTER18:SinsoftheFather

CHAPTER19:GivingDogsTheirDue

CHAPTER20:BlindMan'sBuff

CHAPTER21:KnowingWhatYouWillHear

CHAPTER22:TheSchoolofSuffering

CHAPTER23:TheAfterbirdandOtherAnimals

CHAPTER24:LovingtheDying

CHAPTER25:Angerasa:FormofLove

CHAPTER26:TheFaceofSuffering

CHAPTER27:AnsweringMedicine

CHAPTER28:TheGoodDoctor

CHAPTER29:AbuKassem'sSlippers

CHAPTER30:WordforWords

CHAPTER31:TheDominionoftheFlesh

CHAPTER32:ATimetoSow

CHAPTER33:AFormofMadness

CHAPTER34:ATimetoReap

CHAPTER35:OneFeverfromAnother

CHAPTER36:PrognosticSigns

CHAPTER37:Exodus

PARTFOUR

CHAPTER38:WelcomeWagon

CHAPTER39:TheCureforWhatAilsThee

CHAPTER40:SaltandPepper

CHAPTER41:OneKnotataTime

CHAPTER42:Bloodlines

CHAPTER43:GrandRounds

CHAPTER44:Beginatthe:Beginning

CHAPTER45:AMatterofTime

CHAPTER46:RoomwithaView

CHAPTER47:MissingLetters

CHAPTER48:FiveFingers

CHAPTER49:Queen'sMove

CHAPTER50:SlittheThew

CHAPTER51:TheDevil'sChoice

CHAPTER52:APairofUnpairedOrgans

CHAPTER53:SheIsComing

CHAPTER54:Homefires

CHAPTER55:TheAfterbird

Acknowledgments

Bibliography

ANOTEABOUTTHEAUTHOR

Copyright