Cutting for Stone

For this is He that was spoken of by the prophet Esaias, saying: The voice of one crying in the wilderness. Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make His paths straight.

29. Abu Kassem's Slippers

TWO DAYS AFTER the General's execution, the hospital staff, led by Adam and W. W. Gonad, had a welcome-back party for Ghosh. They bought a cow, hired a tent and a cook.

Adam slit the beast's throat. An overeager orderly with a yearning for gored- gored—raw beef—cut a thin and still quivering steak from the flank while the animal stood on glass legs. They strung the cow from a tree, made their cuts, and carried the meat to an outdoor table to be processed.

When I saw an army jeep come up our driveway, my blood turned cold. The cooks stood still as we watched a uniformed officer go into our bungalow. I sleepwalked toward the house. I was at the front door when the officer stepped out, Ghosh and Hema with him. Shiva was by my side.

“Boys,” Ghosh said. “The motorcycle. Do you know who came to take it?” Ghosh was calm, unaware of any reason to be alarmed.

My first response was relief—they hadn't come for Ghosh! Then, when it sunk in why the man was here, came panic. The five of us had worked out the story: A soldier came with the key. He drove the motorcycle away. We had no words with him. We'd repeated the story to Hema the day the soldier went missing. As preoccupied as she was with Ghosh's arrest, she'd shrugged it off.

I was about to speak when I got a good look at the officer's face.

It was the intruder, the army man, the one who came to take the motorcycle.

It was his face. The same forehead and teeth, but a body that was not as lean and gangly. The spotless, pressed uniform, the beret tucked under his shoulder lapel, gave him the manner of a professional soldier, something which the intruder had lacked. I felt my face turning colors.

Rosina and Genet came walking rapidly around the corner of the house. Word had gotten out. There was a crowd around us.

“A soldier came with a key and he drove it away,” Shiva said.

I nodded. “Yes.”

The officer smiled. He leaned forward to me and said politely, in English, “Is there anything else you remember? Something you aren't telling me?”

Ghosh interrupted, saying, “Ah, here's Rosina.” In Amharic, Ghosh said, “Rosina, this officer wants to know about Zemui's motorcycle.”

Rosina made a deep bow. I was reminded of her politeness to the thief, and how her choice of words then had been inflammatory. I hoped she'd be prudent.

“Yes, sir. I was with the boys when he came—” She stopped and brought the edge of her shama to her mouth, her eyes popping. “Excuse me, sir. The man … he looked very much like you. When I saw your face … forgive me,” and she made a little bow again. “He wasn't … he wasn't as polite as you. Dressed … not like you.”

“We have the same mother,” the officer said, with a wry smile. “It's true, he looks like me. What was he wearing?”

“Just the army jacket. No shirt. A white singlet underneath. Boots, trousers,” Rosina said.

“Did he look all right to you?”

“He had his gun tucked here,” she said, pointing to her midriff, “instead of in his …”

“Holster?” the brother offered.

“Yes. And he looked … his eyes red. He looked as if he might be …”

“Drunk?” the brother said softly. “Did you ask him why he wanted the motorcycle?”

“Please, sir. He had that gun,” she said. “He seemed very angry. He had the key.”

“What did he say to you?”

“He … said many things. He said he's taking the motorcycle. I said nothing.” She'd departed from the script we had rehearsed, but it seemed to be working.

“Why? What has happened? What happened to the motorcycle?” Shiva said in English, his deadpan expression revealing nothing. I was astonished at Shiva's nerve.

“Well, that's what I don't know,” the officer said. His English was excellent and his manner softened. “He wasn't supposed to take the motorcycle. The army wouldn't have let him keep it, anyway” He paused as if considering whether to say more. When he continued, it was to Ghosh and Hema that he directed his remarks. “He hasn't been seen since he came here. I'm posted in Dire Dawa, and I only found out he was AWOL two weeks ago. He told a woman he kept that he was going to pick up a motorcycle.” He turned to me and Shiva. “So you saw him drive away?”

“I heard the sound,” I said.

He nodded. “Doctor, do you mind if I take a quick look around …”

“By all means,” Ghosh said.

I felt the sky pressing down on me as the officer and his driver went to the back of the house, and then walked down the gravel driveway. Had we come this far, with Ghosh free, only to have the army man send us back to hell? Genet glared at me, while Rosina squatted, applying a eucalyptus stick to her teeth. The two men walked to the ledge, then turned in the direction of the roundabout and disappeared from view. If on their return they went to the toolshed, we were doomed. The motorcycle was well hidden, but not to one who was intent on finding it.

After an eternity they returned.

“Thank you, Doctor,” the officer said, extending his hand to Ghosh. “I fear the worst. The day the Emperor returned, some of our soldiers got their hands on a lot of money. My brother had something to do with that. It's perhaps a good thing he disappeared.”

Once the jeep was out of sight, Ghosh studied us for a moment. He sensed something amiss, but he didn't ask any questions. When Hema and Ghosh stepped back inside, I went to the corner of the house and I threw up. Genet and Shiva followed me. I waved them off. The gastrointestinal system has its own brain, its own conscience.

Inside the tent the folding chairs wobbled on the soft grass. Soon the tables sagged with beakers of tej and plates of food. The kitfo—coarsely ground raw meat mixed with kibe (a spiced and clarified butter)—was my favorite dish. We never served this at home, but from the time I was a baby, I'd eaten kitfo in Rosina's quarters, or in Gebrew's shack. On this day I had no appetite. The injera was stacked on the table like napkins. The gored-gored was the dish everyone went after: cubes of raw meat, which you dipped in a fiery red pepper sauce. The dishes kept coming: meatballs, meat curry, lentil curry, tongue, and kidney. What had been grazing under a tree that morning had, in short order, reached the table.

Ghosh sat on a dais in an armchair. One by one the nurses, nursing students, and the other Missing employees came to shake his hand and to praise the saints for allowing him to survive his ordeal.

Rosina didn't come out, but I found Genet in a corner of the tent. I sat by her. Dressed in black, pushing food around on her plate, she looked like a dour and distant cousin of the Genet I knew—shed hardly left the house since Zemui's death. When an orderly came and greeted her, kissed her on her cheeks, she barely acknowledged him.

“When will you go back to school?” I said. “When will you start eating with us again?”

“They killed my father. Did you forget? I don't care about school.” Then she hissed at me, “Tell the truth. You told Ghosh, didn't you?”

“I did not!”

“But you were thinking of telling him, weren't you? Tell the truth!”

She had me there. When I felt Ghosh's arms around me for the first time in that prison yard, a confession jumped to my lips. I had to suck it back and swallow.