Cutting for Stone

laughter. Fatigue, jet lag, and disorientation contributed to my finding this so funny.

Hamid's use of the verb “screw” was quite different from screwing one's courage to the sticking place. His saying that word made me think of that story which had circulated when I had more pimples than common sense, more curiosity than sound sexual knowledge. It was the myth of the beautiful blonde and her brother whom one might meet at the airport when landing in America. They offered you a ride, took you home for a drink, at which point the brother brandished a weapon and said, “Screw my sister or you will die!” Long after I knew the story to be ridiculous, it retained its charm as a comic fantasy. Screw my sister or you will die! Here I was, well after the tale had slipped my mind, newly landed in America, and, sure enough, a man brandished a gun. I wished I could have shared the moment with Gaby, the schoolmate who first reported the story to me. A perverse impulse in me made me now repeat the phrase we schoolboys loved to say to each other, a challenge, a veiled threat, even though I was laughing hard: “Brother, put away the gun, I'll screw your sister for free.” I don't know if he picked up the change in my tone and mood, or even if he heard me. Perhaps he just decided that my kind of lunacy wasn't to be toyed with. In any case, he had a change of heart.

THE WROUGHT-IRON GATES of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour were wide open. Dr. Abramovitz, the chief of surgery, was supposed to interview me at 10:00 a.m. My plan was to finish my interview, take another taxi to Queens, and then look for a hotel in which to get over my jet lag. I had interviews lined up in the next few days in Queens, Jersey City, Newark, and Coney Island.

A man with LOUIS embroidered on his blue overalls approached just as Hamid's taxi pulled out of the gate.

“Lou Pomeranz, Chief Caretaker of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour,” he said, gripping my hand. A soft pack of Salems showed in his breast pocket. He was barrel-chested and top-heavy. “Do you play cricket?”

“Yes.”

“Batsman or bowler?”

“Wicketkeeper and opening batsman.” That was Ghosh's legacy to me.

“Good! Welcome to Our Lady. I hope you'll be happy,” Mr. Pomeranz said. He thrust a sheaf of papers at me. “Here's your contract. I'll show you to the interns’ quarters and you can sign. This silver key is for the main door. The gold key is for your room. This is your temporary identification badge. When Personnel take your mug shot, you'll get a permanent badge.”

He took off with my suitcase and I followed. “But …,” I said, juggling the stuff in my hands to reach for the letter in my coat pocket. I showed it to him. “I don't want to mislead you. I am only here for my interview with Dr. Abramovitz.”

“Popsy?” He chuckled. “Naw! Popsy don't interview no one. You see the signature?” He tapped on my letter as if it were a piece of wood. “That's really Sister Magda's writing.” He looked back at me and grinned. “Interview? Forget about it. Taxi was prepaid. Cost you an arm and a leg otherwise. You're hired. I gave you the contract, didn't I? Yerhired!”

I didn't know what to say. It was Mr. Eli Harris of the Houston Baptists who suggested I apply to specific hospitals in New York and New Jersey for an internship in surgery. Eli Harris clearly knew what he was doing, because as soon as I applied, a telegram had arrived in Nairobi from Popsy (or perhaps it was from Sister Magda) inviting me to interview. A letter and brochure followed. Every hospital Harris suggested had also replied promptly, within a few days.

“Mr. Pomeranz. Are you sure I am hired? Your internship must be competitive. Surely many American medical students apply to be interns here?”

Louis stopped in his tracks to look at me. He laughed. “Ha! That's a good one, Doc. American medical students? I wouldn't know what they look like.”

We rounded a dry fountain, streaked with pigeon droppings. It resembled the magnificent one depicted in the brochure, but the bronze monsignor who was the centerpiece leaned precariously forward. The monsignor's features were worn down like the sphinx's. Also not in the brochure was the iron rod wedged between the rim of the fountain and the monsignor's waist to keep him from falling over. It looked as if the monsignor was using his blessedly long phallus for support.

“Mr. Pomeranz—”

“I know. It does look like his pecker,” he said, wheezing. “We're going to get around to it.”

“That wasn't what—”

“Call me Louis.”

“Louis … are you sure you have the right person? Marion? Marion Stone?”

He stopped. “Doc, take a look at the contract, wouldja?”

My name was on the top line.

“If that's who you are, that's who I was expecting.”

A thought clouded his face. “You passed your ECFMG, didn't ya?”

The exam of the ECFMG—Educational Commission for Foreign Medical Graduates—established that I had the knowledge and credentials to pursue postgraduate training in America.

“Yes, I passed.”

“So what gives? … Wait a minute. Wait just a minute. Don't tell me those bastards in Coney Island or Jersey got to you? Did they mail you a contract? Sons of bitches! I've been telling Sister Magda we should be doing that. Send out a contract sight unseen. The taxi was her idea, but it's not enough.” He came up close to me. “Doc, let me tell you about those places. They're terrible.” Louis was short of breath, his nostrils flaring. His rheumy eyes narrowed. “I'll tell you what,” he said. “Give you the corner room in the interns’ quarters. Has a small balcony. How's that?”

“No, no, you see—”

“Was it the Lincoln-Misericordia folks? Harlem? Newark? You shopping around to get the best deal?”

“No, I assure you—”

“Look, Doc, let's not play games. You just tell me yes or no, do you want an internship here?” His hands were on his hips, his chest heaving up and down.

“No, I mean yes … I do have interviews in other places … This is my first stop. But frankly … I thought it would be difficult to get an internship … Id love to … Yes!”

“Good! Then sign the bleeding contract, for the love of Mary, and I'm not even Catholic.”

I signed, standing by the fountain.

“Welcome to Our Lady, Doctor,” Louis said, relieved, grabbing the contract and shaking my hand. He gestured expansively at the buildings around us. “This is the only place I've worked. My first job when I left the service … and probably my last. I've seen docs like you come and go. Oh, yeah. From Bombay, Poona, Jaipur, Ahmedabad, Karachi, you name it. Never had one from Africa before. I thought you'd look different. Let me tell you, we worked them all hard. But they gave us their best. They learned a lot here. I love ‘em all. Love their food. They even got me to love cricket. I'm nuts about it. Listen, baseball has nothing on cricket. My boys are out there now,” he said, pointing over the walls. “Raking in the dough in Kentucky or South Dakota—wherever they need docs bad. Dr. Singh sent me a plane ticket to fly to El Paso for his daughter's wedding. He comes to see me if he's in New York. We have an Old Boys Eleven that plays us every year. The Old Boys built us a new cricket pitch and batting nets. They're proud to be ‘Pee Esses’—Perpetual Suckers is what we call our alums. They'll drive up here in fancy cars. I tell them, ‘Don't put on airs for me. I remember when you didn't know your ass from your elbow. I remember when we could hardly understand a word you said. Now look at you!’ “

I was impressed by what I could see of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour. The hospital was L-shaped, the long limb seven stories high, overlooking the street, a wall separating it from the sidewalk. The short limb was newer and just four stories high with a helicopter parked on top. The tiled roof of the older section sagged between the chimneys while the middle floors pushed out gently like love handles. The decorative grille under the eaves had oxidized to a bile green, old corrosion ran down the brick like mascara, parallel to the drainpipes. A lone gargoyle jutted out on one side of the entrance, its twin on the other side reduced to a faceless nub. But for me, fresh from Africa, these were not signs of decay, merely the dusting of history.

“It's grand,” I said to Mr. Pomeranz.

“It's not much, but it's home,” Mr. Pomeranz said, gazing at the building with obvious affection.