Cutting for Stone

wanted to ask, too. “Isn't the Imperial Bodyguard supposed to defend the Emperor?” Shiva added.

Ghosh winced, as if Shiva's query hurt.

“This isn't my country, so who am I to judge? Mebratu has a good life. He didn't have to do this. I do think he's doing this for the people. Long ago he was under great suspicion, then he was the favorite son, and recently he was under suspicion again, and he felt he might be arrested very soon anyway.”

Ghosh said that, as he left the Crown Prince's palace, Zemui had walked Ghosh to his car and given Ghosh something to give to Genet. It was the gold pendant Darwin Easton had taken off his own neck and given to Zemui—the St. Bridget's cross. He'd asked Ghosh to convey his love to her and to Rosina.

After Hema dressed, she and Ghosh left for the hospital. “Stay close to home, boys. You hear?” We were not to leave Missing property, no matter what.

I went to the gate. I met just three patients coming up the hill. No car or bus passed by Missing. I stood with Gebrew, staring out. The silence was eerie, not even the clip-clop of horseshoes or the jingle of harness bells to break the stillness. “When the four-legged taxis stay in their stables, you know things are serious,” Gebrew said.

There were bars, a tailor's shop, and a radio repair shop in the two cinder-block buildings across from us; but there was no sign of life. Ignoring Hema and Ghosh's warnings, and over Gebrew's protests, I crossed the road to the tiny Arab souk, a plywood structure painted canary yellow that sat between the larger buildings. The window through which the souk usually conducted business was shuttered, but a child emerged through the door, which was barely cracked open, carrying a cone-shaped package made out of newspaper and wrapped in twine. Probably ten cents’ worth of sugar for the morning tea. I slipped in. The air inside was thick with incense. If I leaned over the counter I could touch the back wall. The Arab souks all over Addis were like this, as if theyd come from the same womb. Dangling down from the ceiling, on clothespins attached to a string, were single-use packets of Tide, Bayer aspirin, Chiclets, and paracetamol. They twirled like party decorations. A meat hook hanging from the rafters held squares of newspaper, ready to use as wrapping. A roll of twine hung on another hook. Loose cigarettes sat in a jar on top of the counter, unopened cigarette packs stacked next to them. The shelves were stuffed with matchboxes, bottled sodas, Bic pens, pencil sharpeners, Vicks, Nivea Creme, notebooks, erasers, ink, candles, batteries, Coca- Cola, Fanta, Pepsi, sugar, tea, rice, bread, cooking oil, and much more. Mason jars full of caramela and cookies flanked the counter, leaving an opening in the middle over which I leaned. I saw Ali Osman, lace cap glued to his head, seated on the mat along with his wife, infant daughter, and two men. The floor space was hardly big enough for Ali and his family to sleep spooned against one another, knees bent, and now he had visitors. They sat around a pile of khat.

Ali was worried. “Marion, times like this are when foreigners like us can suffer,” he said. It was strange to hear him use the word ferengi to describe himself, or me, because we were both born in this land.

I crossed back over to Gebrew and shared with him some stick candy I had bought.

Suddenly Rosina walked right past us. “Look after Genet,” she called over her shoulder. I didn't know whether she meant me or Gebrew.

“Wait!” Gebrew said, but she didn't.

I ran after her and grabbed her hand. “Wait, Rosina. Where are you going? Please.”

She spun on me as if to tell me off, but then her face softened. She was pale, and her eyes were puffy from crying. The skin was tight over her jaw, whether in fear or determination I couldn't tell.

“The boy is right. Don't go,” Gebrew said.

“What would you have me do, priest? I haven't seen Zemui in a week. He's a simple fellow. I'm worried for him. He'll listen to me. I'll tell him he must be loyal to God, and the Emperor, before anything else.” I was suddenly scared. I clung to Rosina. She pulled herself free, but gently. Out of habit, she pinched me on the cheek and ran her hand through my hair. She kissed me on the top of my head.

“Be reasonable,” Gebrew said. “The Imperial Bodyguard headquarters is too far away. If he's with the General, then he's in the palace. You'll be walking right past the army headquarters and the Sixth Police Station. It will take you too long.”

With a wave she was gone. Gebrew, whose eyes were perpetually weepy from trachoma, looked as if he might bawl. He perceived a danger far greater than anything I could imagine.

Ten minutes later, a jeep with a mounted machine gun appeared, followed by an armored car. They were Imperial Bodyguard soldiers, wearing grim expressions and also combat helmets in place of their usual pith helmets. Camouflage fatigues and ammo belts had replaced the regular olive-green drill. A voice came over a loudspeaker mounted on the armored truck: “People. Remain calm. His Majesty Crown Prince Asfa Wossen has taken over the government. He will be making an announcement at noon today. Listen to Radio Addis Ababa at noon. Radio Addis at noon. People. Remain calm …”

I wandered away from the gate and drifted over to the hospital. W. W. Gonad was sitting in the breezeway outside the blood bank, a transistor radio in his lap, and nurses and probationers sitting close to him. He looked excited, happy.

At noon in our bungalow we gathered around the Grundig and Rosina's transistor radio, one tuned to the BBC and the second to Radio Addis Ababa. Almaz stood to one side; Genet shared a chair with me. Hema took the clock down from the mantelpiece and wound it; the unguarded expression on her face showed the depth of her anxiety. Matron seemed the least concerned, blowing on a cup of dark coffee, smiling at me. A faceless, stentorian English voice said, “This is the BBC World Service.”

At last, the announcer moved from a coal strike in Britain to what interested us. “Reports from Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia, indicate that a bloodless coup has taken place while Emperor Haile Selassie was away on a state visit to Liberia. The Emperor has cut short his visit and abandoned his plans for a state visit to Brazil.”

“Coup” was a new word for me. It implied something ancient and elegant, and yet the adjective “bloodless” implied that there had to be a “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 my window. But now, we'd made them look in our direction. Years later, when Idi Amin said and did outrageous things, I understood that his motivation was to rattle the good people of Greenwich mean time, have them raise their heads from their tea and scones, and say, Oh, yes. Africa. For a fleeting moment theyd have the same awareness of us that we had of them.

But how was it that the BBC could look out from London and see what was happening to us? When we looked over the walls of Missing we saw nothing.

Well after noon, and long after the BBC broadcast, the martial music on Radio Addis Ababa ceased and, with a rustle of papers, a stuttering Crown Prince Asfa Wossen came on the air. What little I had seen of the portly, pale eldest son in the newspaper and in the flesh suggested a man who might scream at the sight of a mouse; he lacked the Emperor's charisma and bearing. The Crown Prince read a statement—and it was clear he was reading—in the high Amharic of officialdom, difficult for anyone but Almaz and Gebrew to understand. When he was done, Almaz left the dining room, upset. Minutes later—how did they do this?—the BBC aired a translation.

“The people of Ethiopia have waited for the day when poverty and backwardness would cease to be, but nothing has been achieved …”

The Crown Prince said his father had failed the country. It was time for new leadership. A new day was dawning. Long live Ethiopia.

“Those are General Mebratu's words,” Ghosh said.

“More like his brother's,” Hema said.

“They must have a gun to the Crown Prince's head,” Matron said. “I don't hear any conviction in his voice.”

“Well, then he should've refused to read it,” I said. Everyone turned to look at me. Even Shiva lifted his head up from the book he was reading. “He should say, ‘No, I won't read it. I would rather die than betray my father.’ “

“Marion's right,” Matron said, at last. “It doesn't say much about the Crown Prince's character.”

“It's just a ploy, using the Crown Prince,” Ghosh said. “They don't want to dump the monarchy right away. They want the public to get used to the idea of a change. Did you see how upset Almaz is at the idea of someone