Cutting For Stone Part 18

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 deposing the Emperor?"

"Why do they care about the public? They have the guns. The power," Hema said.

"They care about a civil war," Ghosh said. "The peasants worship the Emperor. Don't forget the Territorial Army, all those aging fighters who battled the Italians. Those irregulars are neither army nor Bodyguard, but they far outnumber them. They can come pouring into town."

"They might anyway," Matron said.

"Mebratu couldn't get the army, police, or air force's support ahead of time," Ghosh said. "I suppose the more people he involved before the coup, the more likely he'd have been betrayed. The General and his brother, Eskinder, were arguing when I got there this morning. Eskinder had wanted to trap all the army generals the previous night, using the same ruse that had trapped the other loyalists. But the General vetoed that."

"You saw the General when you went there?" I asked.

"I wish he hadn't," Hema said. "He has no business getting in the middle of this," she said looking cross.

Ghosh sighed. "I went as a physician, Hema, I told you. When I got there, Tsigue Debou, the head of the police, had thrown in his lot with Mebratu. He and Eskinder were pressing the General to attack the army headquarters before the army can get organized. But he refused. He was ... emotional. These were his friends, his peers. He was sure that good men in the other services would throw their lot in with him. You know he took the time to see me to the door, he thanked me. He told me he was determined to avoid bloodshed."

THE REST OF THE DAY went by with the streets eerily silent. Very few patients came to Missing, and patients who could leave fled for home. We sat glued to the radio.

Genet stayed in her quarters alone. In the late afternoon, Hema sent me to fetch her. I led her back by the hand. She put on a brave front, but I knew she was worried and scared. That night, she slept on our sofa: there was no sign of Rosina.

The next day, the city was so quiet, and the only thing circulating was rumors. Only the bravest of shopkeepers opened his doors. Word was that the army was still wavering, undecided about whether to support the coup leaders or remain loyal to the Emperor.

At noon, Gebrew came to tell us that we should go to the gate. We got there in time to see a huge procession of university students carrying Ethiopian flags, their faces glowing with sweat and excitement. They were grouped under banners: COLLEGE OF ARTS AND SCIENCES, COLLEGE OF ENGINEERING ... Marshals with armbands kept order. To my amazement, there was W. W. Gonad marching under the banner of the School of Business. He gave us a sheepish grin, adjusted his tie, and marched on, trying to look like a member of the faculty. There must have been several thousand students and staff, and they chanted in one voice in Amharic: My countrymen awake-history calls you

No more slavery, let freedom reign anew

Banners in English read: FOR EVERYONE, A BLOODLESS REVOLUTION and LET US STAND PEACEFULLY WITH THE NEW GOVERNMENT OF THE PEOPLE.

The street was lined with wary onlookers who, like us, had been indoors much too long. Stray dogs gathered, barking at the marchers and adding to the noise. A pretty student in jeans put leaflets in our hands. Almaz pushed the paper away as if it were contaminated. "Hey, miss! Is this why they sent you to university?" Almaz called after her.

An old man with a beard waved his flyswatter as if he were trying to smack the students. "If you were studying, you shouldn't have time for this," he shouted. "Don't forget who built your university, who taught you to read!"

We learned later from W. W. Gonad that in the Merkato the Muslims and Eritrean shopkeepers received the students with cheers. But elsewhere in Addis, their reception by the public was cold, and when the procession turned to reach the army headquarters, where they had intended to convince the army to join the revolt, they were met at an intersection by an army platoon in combat gear. The young commander told the crowd that they had exactly one minute to disperse or he would give his soldiers orders to fire. The students tried to argue, but the sounds of rifle bolts pulling back convinced the marchers to retreat. That was when W. W. Gonad left the rally.

I was still pleased to be out of school, but the anxiety on the faces of the adults had rubbed off. Ghosh and Matron returned to the hospital to prepare for casualties. Hema had her Version Clinic that afternoon. Shiva, who till then had little interest in what was going on, was uneasy, as if he sensed something no one else did. Unusual for Shiva, he asked Hema if she would stay home and not to go to work.

"I don't want to leave, my love," she said, agonizing over what to do, "but I have Version Clinic."

"Take us with you," Shiva said. Then he added, "We practiced Bick-ham. See my paper? Just as you told us." His calligraphy was better than the examples of the ornate and round style in the book. "So please?"

"I really can't ...," Hema said. "I have to go to the labor room first before clinic."

"We'll go with you," Shiva said.

"No. I won't have you in the labor room." She could see the disappointment in Shiva's face. "I tell you what, you boys go to the Version Clinic and wait for me. Whatever you do, stay together."

This was the rarest of invitations. Unlike Ghosh, if Hema carried a stethoscope, she didn't bring it home. The white coat we glimpsed her wearing in the hospital stayed there. I rarely thought of Hema as a doctor because at home she was all mother. Ghosh constantly talked medicine, but Hema never did. We knew she went to Labor and Delivery and that she operated on Mondays and Wednesdays. From what we overheard, she was very good and in great demand, but the specifics were not mentionable to us. She wanted us to always know that her eyes were on us, and no doctoring would distract her from that vigilance. The Version Clinic was a good example. We'd heard of it for years, but we hadn't the least idea what went on there. According to the dictionary, one meaning of "version" was from the Latin, versus-"to turn."

Hema's departures in the night came with cryptic phrases, words stranger than "version" tossed over her shoulder: "eclampsia" or "post-partum hemorrhage" or, that most chilling term of all, the "Delayed Afterbird." That one wasn't even in the medical dictionary. And you never heard of the Afterbird except when it was Delayed. It was feared, and yet its arrival was necessary. Shiva and I looked for that Delayed Afterbird on the trees of Missing, or high up in the sky.

Shiva drew the Afterbird, and in his many renderings it was like a flying wing, an elongated triangle, sightless, legless, but beautiful, sleek, aerodynamic, and utterly mysterious. Could our mother's death be linked to the Delayed Afterbird? It would have been so easy to ask Hema. But the topic was off-limits. At least that was how Hema made it feel.

THE WOMEN'S CLINIC behind the main hospital building deviated from the whitewashed decor of Missing, because it had lime-green paint on the outer walls and blue banisters. A hygenia tree dropped orange blossoms on the steps. The soil underneath the tree was aflame with blue lobelia and pink clover. We found a gaggle of pregnant patients seated on the steps, their hair covered by shashes. While waiting, theyd tucked fresh blossoms behind their ears and stretched their legs out in front of them. Their white shamas glowed in the sun, and with bellies swollen, clutching their pink outpatient cards, they resembled a flock of lively geese. Some were barefoot, and those who weren't had eased off their plastic shoes. It was tense in the city, but looking at these woman, and hearing their laughter, their complaints about swollen ankles, husbands, or heartburn, you would never have known.

When they spotted us, they called us over to shake our hands, ask our names, our age, fuss with our hair, and remark on our similarity. They insisted that we sit with them, and I would have declined, except Shiva happily said yes. I sat there embarra.s.sed, like a chick squished between hens. Shiva seemed to be in heaven.

So often we never truly see our own family and it is for others to tell us that they've grown taller or older. I confess, I mostly took Shiva's appearance for granted-he was my twin after all. But at that moment, I was seeing my brother anew: the large rounded forehead, the curls that piled up on his head, threatening to fall forward and obscure his sight, the equanimity around the brow and eyes, and his mannerism of putting his finger alongside his cheek just like the Nehru portrait on our wall at home. What was completely new was this smile which transformed my wombmate into a blue-eyed stranger, rendering a lightness to his being, so that were it not for the st.u.r.dy female arms draped over his shoulders, caresssing his hair, he would have floated off those steps.

A woman read a pink pamphlet that had been dropped over the Piazza and Merkato by an air force plane. She was the lone woman who could read, albeit slowly: "Message from His Holiness, Patriarch of the Church, Abuna Basilios," she said, and heads at once bowed, and hands made the sign of the cross, as if His Holiness were on the steps with them. "To my children, the Christians of Ethiopia and to the entire Ethiopian people. Yesterday, at about ten in the evening, the Imperial Bodyguard soldiers who were entrusted with the safety and welfare of the royal family committed crimes of treachery against their country ..."

Seated in their midst, sweating in the sun, I shivered. I could see that the patriarch's words rang true for these ladies. He was speaking for G.o.d. This did not bode well for the man we so admired, General Mebratu.

The women turned naughty after that, mocking the Bodyguard and then men in general, laughing and carrying on as if they were at a wedding. Shiva was in rapture, grinning from ear to ear. His earlier apprehension had vanished. It was as if hed found his ideal spot, surrounded by pregnant women. There was much about my brother I did not understand.

When Hema appeared, the women struggled to their feet, despite Hema's protests. A mother's pride showed in Hema's eyes to see us adopted by her patients.

THREE AT A TIME, the women mounted the examining tables. They pushed their skirts down just below their bellies and pulled their chemises up to expose their watermelon swellings. When one of the patients on the table waved to Shiva to come close and hold her hand, he stepped in, and I followed. Hema bit her tongue.

"All late third trimester," Hema said, after a while, without explaining what that meant. She used both hands to confirm that the baby's position was "something other than head down. A baby can't come out easily unless its head is pointing down to the mother's feet. That is why the Prenatal Clinic sent them here to Version Clinic," she said, mentioning another clinic which we knew she attended in this very room but on a different day.

She pulled out a strange, stunted version of a stethoscope-a feto-scope. The bell of the stethoscope had a U-shaped metal bracket on which she could rest her forehead, and then use the weight of her head to press the bell into the skin, leaving her hands free to stabilize the belly. She held up a finger like a conductor signaling for quiet. Conversation stopped, and the patients on the stretchers and the throng around the door held their breaths, till Hema raised up and said, "Galloping like a stallion!" A score of voices added, "Praise the saints!" Hema didn't offer to let us listen.

She got down to business. "With this hand I cup the baby's head. My other hand I put here where the baby's bottom is-how do I know?" She looked at Shiva as if his question was impertinent. Then she laughed. "Do you know how many thousands of babies I've felt this way, my son? I don't have to think. The head is this coconutlike hardness. The bottom is softer, not as distinct. My hands give me a picture," she said, outlining a shape in the air above the exposed belly. "The baby's back is to me. Now watch." She set her feet, then using firm and steady pressure of her cupped hands, she pushed the head one way, the b.u.t.t the other way, while also pushing her hands toward each other as if to keep the baby curled up. Something in the way her thumbs were aligned with the rest of her fingers, all held close together, reminded me of her Bharatnatyam dance gestures. "There! You see? An initial resistance, a stickiness, then it gives, and the baby tumbles over." I saw nothing. "Well, of course you didn't see. The baby's floating in water. Once I start the turn, the baby finishes the last quarter turn by itself. Now it's not a breech baby. It's a head presentation. Normal." She listened to the fetal heart again to be sure it was still strong.

In no time, Hema, possessed of the same bustling energy with which she dealt cards or drilled us on our spelling, was done. Only one baby refused to somersault.

"For all I know, this clinic could be the biggest waste of time. Ghosh wants me to do a study to see how many babies float back to where they were after version. You know how he talks. 'The unexamined practice is not worth practicing.' " She snorted, remembering something else. "I had a friend when I was a child, a neighbor boy by the name of Velu. He kept chickens. Now and then a hen would cluck in a peculiar way, and Velu knew, don't ask me how, that it meant an egg was stuck in a transverse position. He would reach in and turn it to vertical. The chicken stopped clucking, and the egg would pop out. Velu was obnoxious at your age. But I remember his trick with the chicken now, and I wonder if I underestimated him."

I didn't say a word for fear of breaking the spell. It was so rare to hear her think aloud like this.

"Between you and me, boys, I have no desire to publish a paper that might put me out of this business. I enjoy Version Clinic."

"Me, too," Shiva said.

"Whether it is India or here, the ladies are all the same," Hema said, gazing at the women milling around. No one had left. They waited for the tea, bread, and vitamin pill that would follow the clinic. They grinned back at Hema with sisterly affection-no, with adoration. "Look at them! All happy and radiant. In a few weeks, when labor starts, they'll be yelling, screaming, cursing their husbands. They'll turn into she-devils. You won't recognize them. But now they're like angels." She sighed. "A woman is never more a woman than in this state."

The problems of the city and the country had disappeared, at least for me and Shiva. How fortunate we were to have Hema and Ghosh as parents. What was there to fear?

"Ma," Shiva said, "Ghosh says pregnancy is a s.e.xually transmitted disease."

"He says it knowing you will repeat it to me. That rascal. He shouldn't be telling you such things."

"Can you show us where the baby comes out?" Shiva said. I knew he was utterly serious, and I also knew that with those words hed broken the spell. I was furious with him. Kids need a certain cunning when it comes to dealing with adults, and somehow Shiva had none. In the same mysterious fashion with which permanent teeth arrived, so also self-consciousness and embarra.s.sment came to camouflage my guilt, while shame took root in my body as a price for curiosity.

"Okay. That's enough. Time for you chaps to go home," Hema said.

"Ma, what does the word 's.e.xual' mean?" Shiva said, as she pushed us out. I studied my twin. For once I was unsure of his intent: Was he teasing her, or was this just his unconventional way of thinking? Hema's response only added to my confusion: "I have to go to the wards for a short time. You boys don't leave the house." She shooed us off. Her tone was annoyed, and yet if I was not mistaken, she was trying very hard to hide a smile.

CHAPTER 24.

Loving the Dying

IN A COUNTRY where you cannot describe the beauty of the land I without using the word "sky," the sight of three jets streaking up in a JL steep climb was breathtaking.

I happened to be outside on the front lawn. The shock wave traveled through the earth to my feet and ran up my spine before I heard the explosion. I stood rooted there. Smoke rose in the distance. The stunned silence that followed was shattered by the screech of hundreds of birds, which took to the sky, and by the barking of every dog in the city.

I still wanted to believe that this-the jets, the bombs-was all part of some grand plan, the expected course of events, and that Hema and Ghosh understood what was going on, even if I didn't. Whatever this was, they could turn it around.

When Ghosh emerged from the house, running as fast as he could, and when he grabbed me, fear and concern in his eyes, the last of my illusions vanished. The adults weren't in charge. There were clues to that earlier, I suppose, but even when I had seen the old woman pummeled by the Emperor's guards, it suited me to believe that Hema and Ghosh still controlled the universe.

But fixing this was beyond their ability.

GHOSH, HEMA, AND ALMAZ dragged mattresses into the corridor. Our whitewashed chikka walls-packed mud and straw-offered little protection. In the corridor, the bullets would at least have to pa.s.s through two or three chikka walls. Bullets whined overhead, sounding close, while the pops and thuds sounded distant. Gla.s.s tinkled in the kitchen, and later we found a bullet had shattered a pane. I lay on the mattress, frozen, my body incapable of movement. I waited for someone to say, This is a colossal error that will soon be corrected, and you can go out and play again.

"I suppose we can a.s.sume the army and air force decided not to join the coup," Ghosh said, looking to see if this understatement got a response from Hema. It did.

Genet's lips were quivering. I could only imagine how worried she was: I felt a cold flutter in my belly whenever I thought about Rosina, gone for more than twenty-four hours now. I reached out, and Genet clutched my hand.

By dusk, the firing intensified, and it turned bitterly cold. Matron, fearless, went back and forth to the hospital, despite our pleas that she stay. When I had to go to the bathroom I crawled. I saw through the window the bright tracers crisscrossing the sky.

Gebrew locked and chained the main gate and withdrew from his sentry hut to the main hospital complex. The nurses and nursing students were bedded down in the nurses' dining room with W. W. Gonad as well as Adam, the hospital compounder, watching over them.

NEAR MIDNIGHT, there was a knock at our back door, and when Ghosh opened it, there stood Rosina! Genet, Shiva, and I swarmed all over her, hugging her. Through hot tears Genet screamed at her mother in Tigrinya for leaving her and making her worry.

Matron stood grinning just behind Rosina; some instinct had made Matron and Gebrew go down to the locked gate to check one last time. Huddled against it they found Rosina, sheltering from the wind.

As she gobbled down food, Rosina told us that things were much worse than she'd imagined. "I wanted to reach the upper part of town, but there was an army roadblock. I had to take a big detour, first this way, then that." A firefight around a villa forced her to take cover, and then army tanks and armored vehicles prevented her return. She spent the night on the porch of a shop at the Merkato, where others trapped by darkness had taken shelter. In the morning, she'd been unable to move from the Merkato because of roaming army platoons who ordered everyone off the street. It had taken her till nightfall to cover a distance of three miles. She confirmed our worst fears: the Imperial Bodyguard was under attack by the army, air force, and police. Pitched battles were being fought all over, but the army was steadily concentrating its efforts on General Mebratu's position.

Rosina snuck off to her quarters to wash and change clothes, and she returned with her mattress, and also with caramela for us. Genet still hadn't forgiven her, but she clung to her.

Matron sank down on the mattress and stretched out her feet. She reached under her sweater and pulled out a revolver, tucking it between mattress and wall.

"Matron!" Hema said.

"I know, Hema ... I didn't buy this with the Baptist money, if that is what you are thinking."

"That's not what I was thinking at all," Hema said, looking at the gun as if it might explode.

"I promise you, this was a gift. I keep it in a place where no soul could find it. But you see, looters-that's what we need to worry about," Matron said. "This might stop them. I did buy two other guns. I've pa.s.sed them out to W. W. Gonad and Adam."

Almaz carried in a basket of injera and lamb curry. We ate with our fingers from this communal dish. Then it was back to waiting, listening to the crackles and pops in the distance. I was too tense to read or do anything but lie there.

Shiva sat cross-legged. He carefully folded a sheet of paper, then tore it in half and then repeated the process again and again till he had a bunch of tiny squares. I knew he was just as shaken as I was by the turn of events. Watching his hands moving methodically, I felt as if I was keeping my mind and my hands busy. Now he put one paper square by itself, then counted and stacked three squares next to it, then seven, then eleven. I had to ask.

"Prime numbers," he said as if that explained anything. He rocked back and forth, his lips moving. I marveled at his gift for distancing himself from what was going on by dancing, or by drawing the motorcycle, or playing with prime numbers. He had so many ways of climbing into the tree house in his head, escaping the madness below, and pulling the ladder up behind him; I was envious.

But Shiva's escape was incomplete tonight; I knew, because in watching him, I felt no relief.

"Don't try," I said to Shiva. "Let's go to sleep."

He put his papers away at once.

Rosina and Genet were already fast asleep, both exhausted. Rosina's return was a great reprieve, but my greatest relief that night came when my head touched Shiva's, a sense of safety and completion, a home at the end of the world. Thank G.o.d that whatever happened wed always have ShivaMarion to fall back on, I thought. Surely, we could always summon ShivaMarion when we needed to, though I guiltily remembered that we hadn't done so in a while. I nudged his ribs and he nudged back, and I could feel him smile without opening his eyes. I took rea.s.surance from that, because earlier that day hed been a stranger sitting on the Version Clinic steps, but now he was Shiva again. Together we had an unfair advantage on the rest of the world.

I awoke at some point to find everyone but Matron and Ghosh asleep. The gunfire came in intense bursts, but with unpredictable moments of quiet, so that I could hear Matron clearly as she spoke to Ghosh: "When the Emperor fled Addis in '36, just before the Italians marched in, it was chaos ... I should have gone to the British Legation. One look at the Sikh infantrymen at the gate, with their turbans and beards and bayonets, and no looter was going to get near. Biggest mistake I made was not to go there."

"Why didn't you?

"Embarra.s.sment. I'd dined once with the amba.s.sador and his wife. I felt so out of place. Thank G.o.d for John Melly He was a young missionary doctor. He sat next to me. He talked about his faith, and his hopes to build a medical school here ..." Her voice trailed off.

"You told me about him once," Ghosh said. "You loved him. You said one day you'd tell me all about it."

There was a long silence. I was tempted to open my eyes, but I knew that would break the spell.