Cutting for Stone

then our family would be whole.

I pushed out of my mind what the probationer said about what shed done—or hadn't done—for my mother. There wasn't any point in dwelling in the pain of the past, not when the future could hold such pleasure. And as for my father? No, he wouldn't ever walk through those gates; I now knew that. Whatever Thomas Stone had, wherever he was at this moment, he had no idea what he'd given up in the exchange.

32. A Time to Sow

GENET AND ROSINA RETURNED two days before school began; they arrived with the clamor and excitement of the Indian circus coming to the Merkato. Their taxi from the bus station sagged on its springs, the roof carrier and trunk so laden with goods.

The first thing I noticed was Rosina's gold tooth and the grin that went with it. Genet, too, was transformed, radiant, wearing a traditional cotton skirt and tight bodice, with a matching shama around her shoulders. She shrieked with happiness as she leaped out to hug Hema, almost knocking her over. Then she rushed to Ghosh, then Shiva, then Almaz and me, and then back into Hema's arms. When Rosina hugged me, it was loving and affectionate; but her lengthy embrace of Shiva made me feel a stab of envy. Her absence allowed me to now see clearly what I'd overlooked before—that she favored Shiva. Was this a result of her seeing me in the pantry with her naked daughter? Or had she always had a soft spot for Shiva? And was I the only one to notice?

They were all talking over one another now. Rosina, one arm still around Shiva, allowed Gebrew to admire her gold tooth.

“Genet, darling, your hair!” Hema said, because it was braided into tight cornrows, like her mother's, each braid springing free at the back of her head where it was tied around a shiny disk. “You cut it?”

“I know! Don't you love it? And see my hands,” she said. Her palms were orange with henna.

“But it's so … short. And you pierced your ears, darling!” Hema said. Blue hoops hung down from her lobes. “My God, girl,” she said, holding Genet by the shoulders, “Look at you! You've grown taller and … fuller.”

“Your tits are bigger,” Shiva said.

“Shiva!” Hema and Ghosh said at the same time.

“Sorry,” he said, surprised by their reaction. “I meant her breasts are bigger,” he said.

“Shiva! That isn't the sort of thing you say to a woman,” Hema said.

“I can't say it to a man,” Shiva said, looking impatient.

“It's all right, Ma,” Genet said. “And it's true. I'm a B, or maybe even a C!” she said looking down proudly at her breasts, which pointed up like stargazers.

Rosina could tell what was being discussed. “Stai zitto!” she said to Genet, her finger on her lips, which made Genet laugh.

“Madam,” Rosina said to Hema in Amharic, “I've had my hands full with this girl. All the boys are chasing her. Does she have the sense to discourage them? No. And look how she dresses!” I was distressed to hear a trace of pride in her complaint.

Genet said, “I just love the clothes in Asmara. Oh! I brought postcards. Dov’e la mia borsetta, Mama? I want to show you. Oh, it's in the taxi … Hold on.” She went headfirst through the open window of the taxi, treating us to a view of her panties. Rosina screamed at her in Tigrinya, to no avail.

Genet thrust postcards at us. “Oh, Asmara, you can't imagine what a beautiful city the Italians built so long ago. See?” It wasn't something to brag about: being colonized for so long before Ethiopia. The strange, colorful buildings were all angles, like something out of a geometry set.

HEMA AND GHOSH soon drifted back into the house. The taxi driver helped Gebrew unload wooden stools and a new bed into Rosina's quarters. The bed was made of hand-carved dark wood, a gift from Rosina's brother in Asmara, we learned.

I sat on the new bed, gazing at Genet. It felt as if she'd been away for years. I was tongue-tied. “So how was your winter, Marion?” If I was unsure of myself in front of her, she didn't know the meaning of shy.

I'd saved up things to tell her. I even had a script. But this tall beautiful girl—this woman, I should say—sitting next to me, so Eritrean and so enamored of things Italian, messed up my speech. The patients I'd seen, the books I'd read … none of this could compete with Asmara.

“Oh, nothing really,” I said. “You know how it is here in the long rains.”

“That's it? Nothing? No movies, no adventures? And … girlfriends?”

I was still smarting from Rosina's description of the boys chasing Genet in Asmara. It was a betrayal. Surely Genet had a role in that: What boy would bother you if you told him to get lost?

“Well,” I said, “I don't know about girlfriends, but …”

Reluctantly at first, I told her about my visit to my mother's old room, but I recast my time with the probationer as something casual, portraying myself as the indifferent participant. However, the further I got into the story, the less I was able to sustain that tone.

Genet's eyes became as round as the hoops on her ears.

“So you did it with her?” she said.

“No!” I said.

She seemed disappointed, when I would have expected her to be jealous.

“For God's sake, Marion, why not?”

I shook my head. “I didn't because …”

“Because what? Spit it out,” she said, poking my side, as if to help the words come out. “Who are you waiting for? The Queen of England? She's married you know.”

“I didn't do it, because … I knew it would be wonderful, more than wonderful. I knew it would be fantastic —”

“What kind of explanation is that?” she said, rolling her eyes in frustration.

“But … I knew I wanted my first time to be with you.”

There, I said it.

Genet looked at me for the longest time, her mouth open. I felt vulnerable. I held my breath hoping what came out of her mouth next wouldn't be mockery or amusement. Ridicule would destroy me.

She leaned over, her eyes soft, her expression loving and tender, and she took my chin in both her hands and shook it side to side as if I were a little baby.

“Ma che minchia?” Rosina asked, her hands on her hips, rudely interrupting us. I hadn't noticed her come back into the room.

Genet burst out laughing. Rosina didn't find it amusing, but Genet was losing her breath, keeling over. Rosina glared at her, then gave up, muttering to herself. This hysterical laughter of Genet's was something new.

When she could speak, Genet explained. “ Ma che minchia?’ means ‘What the fuck?’ which I kept saying in Asmara. I learned it from my cousins. My mother threatened to slap me every time I said it. And now she says it, can you believe it? … So, Marion— che minchia, eh?”

WE HAD DINNER together in the bungalow, Genet seated with us, while Rosina and Almaz ate in the kitchen.

It had become my practice to take over the Grundig once wed eaten. Often I listened to the Rock of Africa till midnight when it went off the air. The music spoke to what I was feeling; in the tight structure of a twelve-bar blues or in Dylan's haunting ballads, order was imposed. Shiva sat with me most evenings. The music spoke to him, too.

Now the DJ came on, “Rock of East Africa, AFRS Asmara, where everyone is a mile and a half high. This is a Boone's Farm Saturday here at the base. The first shipment of Boone's Farm wine came in last night, and folks, if you missed it, I hate to tell you, but it's all gone, and so are some people here. Now let's listen to Bobby Vinton, ‘My