Cutting For Stone Part 41

"No, it's not," she said.

"I saved myself for Genet. Yes, I know-ridiculous. But then when she and Shiva ... I threw myself into my studies. The worst part is I still loved her. Shiva didn't. I loved her. I felt responsible when she almost died. Can you believe that? Shiva slept with her, and I felt responsible? Then, when she and her friends stole that plane, she betrayed me again. She never worried what might happen to me or Hema or Shiva. But at least at that moment, on the day I left Ethiopia, I was free of her. When I came here, I tried to forget her. I hoped she was dead in that stupid war-her d.a.m.n war. Now I find she's here. Maybe I should leave the country, Tsige. Go to Brazil. Or India. I don't want to be on the same continent as that woman."

"Stop it, Marion. Don't talk foolishly. How much tej did you drink? This is a big country and you're a big man. Forget about her! Look where you are and look where she is. She's in jail, for G.o.d's sake!" She touched my hair, and then she pulled me to her bosom. "You are the kind of man that women dream about."

I was aroused. There was nothing about my life that I could hide from her, even if I wanted to. Not my shame, not my secrets, not my embarra.s.sment.

She kissed me on my lips, a brief exploratory brush first, then a leisurely probing kiss. I could feel the adrenaline pouring out of me, the reserves of unused, stockpiled testosterone announcing their availability. So this is how it is going to happen, I thought. On the day I pa.s.s my surgical boards. How fitting. My hands reached for her.

She sighed and pulled back, pushing me upright, then straightening her hair. Her expression was serious, like that of a clinician making a p.r.o.nouncement after the detailed physical exam.

"Wait, my Marion. You've saved yourself all these years. That is not a small thing. I want you to go home. After you have thought about it, if you want me, I will be here. You can come back here or we can go away, go on a trip together. Or I will come to New York and we will take a beautiful hotel room." She read the disappointment on my face, the rejection. "Don't be sad. I am doing this out of love for you. When you have something this precious, you must think carefully how you give it away. I'll understand if you don't give it to me. If you choose me, I will be honored, and I will honor you. Now, I'll get a taxi to take you. Go, my sweet man. Go with G.o.d. There is no one else like you."

This is my life, I thought, as my taxi slogged through heavy traffic and inched through the tunnel to Logan Airport. I have excised the cancer from my past, cut it out; I have crossed the high plains, descended into the desert, traversed oceans, and planted my feet in new soil; I have been the apprentice, paid my dues, and have just become master of my ship. But when I look down, why do I see the ancient, tarred, mud-stained slippers that I buried at the start of the journey still stuck to my feet?

CHAPTER 50.

Slit the Thew

NOW THAT I HAD the income of an attending surgeon, I bought a duplex at one end of a row of such units in Queens. The roofline above the dormer window on one side was peaked like an eyebrow, and it cast a proprietary gaze over an overgrown wedge of land, thick with maples. In summer, I put my jasmine pots on the little patio and I grew salad staples in a tiny garden. In winter, I brought the jasmine indoors while the empty wire cages outside stood as memorials to the succulent, blood-red tomatoes the earth had given up. I painted walls; I repaired roof shingles; I installed bookshelves. Uprooted from Africa, I was satisfying a nesting impulse. I'd found my version of happiness in America. Six years had gone by, and though I should have visited Ethiopia, somehow I could never quite break free.

One day, when coming out of an ice-cream shop, a tall elegantly dressed black woman, her leather coat dancing above her ankles, brushed past me. I held the door for her, and as she slid past, an intense disquiet came over me. She turned back to look at me, smiling. Another evening, while driving back through Manhattan from a trauma conference in New Jersey, a streetwalker caught my eye as she stepped out from under an awning near the Holland Tunnel. She was ghost lit by car headlamps and reflections off the puddles. She t.i.t-flashed me in the rain. Or I imagined she did. I felt the disquiet again, like the hint of something afire, but one doesn't know where. I circled the block, but she was gone.

At home, I prepared for the next day's work. I could have gone into private practice when I finished my five-year residency, or else I could have gone to some other teaching inst.i.tution. But I felt a great loyalty to Our Lady. And now, Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio and Walter Reed in Washington were sending us a few of their senior surgical residents. In peacetime, we provided the closest thing to a war zone, a place where they could hone their skills. I was Our Lady's Head of Trauma; we were blessed with new resources and more personnel. There was no reason for me to be unhappy. But that night, with a fire going in the grate, I felt restless, as if a paralysis would soon set in if I didn't take certain measures.

That weekend, I decided my life needed a dimension that did not involve work. I looked over the Times for events, readings, openings, plays, lectures, and other matters of interest. I forced myself to leave the house on Sat.u.r.day and again on Sunday.

THE FOLLOWING FRIDAY, I came home after work and deposited my briefcase and the mail in my library. In the kitchen, I lit the candle, set the table, and warmed up the last portion of a chicken ca.s.serole that I had cooked the previous Sunday from a Times recipe.

There was a knock on the door.

I panicked.

Had I invited someone over for dinner and forgotten? Other than Deepak coming over once, no one had ever been here. Could it be that Tsige from Boston had decided to take matters into her own hands, since I had failed to call her? I'd picked up the receiver a dozen times, and then lost courage. Or could this be Thomas Stone knocking? I hadn't told him where I lived, but he could have found out easily from Deepak.

I looked through the peephole.

In that convex fish-eye image, I saw eyes, a nose, cheekbones, lips ... My brain tried to juggle and rearrange the parts to come up with a face and a name.

It wasn't Stone or Deepak or Tsige.

There was no mistaking who it was.

She turned to leave, went down the two steps.

I could have watched her walk away.

I opened the door. She stood frozen, her body facing the street, her face turned back to the door. She was taller than I recalled, or perhaps it was that she was thinner. She looked to see that it was me, then she dropped her gaze to a spot near my left elbow. This allowed me to study her at will, to decide whether to slam the door on her.

Her hair was straightened, lank, without benefit of ribbons or bows or even a good combing. The cheekbones were intact, more prominent than ever, as if to better b.u.t.tress those oval, slanting eyes which were her prettiest feature. Even without makeup, hers would always be a stunning face. Although it was summer, she wore a long wool coat tied tight around the waist, and she hugged herself as if she were cold. She stood there motionless, like a small animal caught invading the territory of a predator, paralyzed and unable to move.

I came down my steps. I reached my hand out and tilted her face up. Her eyeb.a.l.l.s and lids rolled down just like the eyes of the dolls she used to play with. Her skin was cold to my touch. The vertical scars at the outer edges of her eyes were now seasoned lines, though I recalled the day Rosina's blade gave birth to them, and how they had been raw and choked with dark blood. I jerked her chin farther up. Still she wouldn't meet my gaze. I wanted her to see the scars on my body, one from her betrayal of me with Shiva and another from her becoming more Eritrean than any Eritrean, resulting in the hijacking that drove me out of my country. I wanted her to see my rage through my outer calm. I wanted her to feel the blood surge in my muscles, to see the way my fingers curled and coiled and itched for her windpipe. It was good she didn't look, because if she'd so much as blinked, I would have bit into her jugular, I would have consumed her, bones, teeth, and hair, leaving nothing of her on the street.

I took her by the elbow and led her inside. She came like a woman going to the gallows. In the foyer as I bolted the door, she stood rooted to the mat. I led her to my library-a dining room that I had transformed-and I pushed her down on the ottoman. She perched on its edge. I stared down at her; she didn't move. Then she coughed, a spasm that took fifteen seconds to pa.s.s. She brought a crumpled tissue to her lips. I looked at her for a long time. I was about to speak when the cough commenced again.

I went to the kitchen. I boiled water for tea, leaning my head against the refrigerator as I waited. Why was I doing this? One minute homicide, the next minute tea?

She had not changed her position. When she took the cup from me, I saw her unvarnished, chipped fingernails and the wrinkled washerwoman's skin. She pulled one sleeve down, pa.s.sed the cup over, and repeated the process with the other, so as to hide her hands. Tears streamed down her face, her lips pulled back into a grimace.

I had hoped that my heart would be hardened to such displays.

"Sorry. I work in a kitchen," she whispered.

"After all you have done to me, you're sorry about the state of your hands?"

She blinked, said nothing.

"How did you find me?"

"Tsige sent me."

"Why?"

"I called her when I got out of jail. I needed ... help."

"Didn't she tell you that I didn't want to see you?"

"Yes. But she insisted I see you before she would help me." She glanced directly at me for the very first time. "And I wanted to see you."

"Why?"

"To tell you I'm sorry." She averted her gaze after a few seconds.

"Is that something you learn in prison? Avoiding eye contact?"

She laughed, and in that moment I wondered if, with all she had seen and done, she was beyond being touched by anger. She said, "I was stabbed once for looking." She pointed down with her chin to her left side. "They took out my spleen."

"Where were you in prison?"

"Albany."

"And now?"

"I'm paroled. I have to see my probation officer every week."

She put her cup down.

"What else did Tsige say?"

"That you're a surgeon." She looked around the library, the shelves full of books. "That you're doing well."

"I'm only here because I was forced to run. Forced to leave in the night like a thief. You know who did that to me? To Hema? It was someone who was to our family ... like a daughter."

She rocked back and forth. "Go on," she said, straightening her back. "I deserve it."

"Still playing the martyr? I heard you hid a gun in your hair when you got on that plane. An Afro! You were the Angela Davis of the Eritrean cause, right?"

She shook her head. After a long while she said, "I don't know what I was. I don't know who I was. The person I was felt she had to do something great." She spat out the last word. "Something spectacular. For Zemui. For me. They promised me that you and our family would not be harmed. As soon as the hijack was over, I realized how stupid it was. Nothing about it was great. I was a great fool, that's all."

She drank her tea. She stood up. "Forgive me, if you can. You deserved better."

"Shut up and sit down," I said. She obeyed. "You think that does it? You say sorry and then leave?"

She shook her head.

"You had a baby?" I said. "A field baby."

"The contraceptives they gave us didn't work."

"Why did you go to jail?"

"Must I tell you everything?"

She began coughing again. When the spasm was over, she shivered, although the room was warm and I was sweating.

"What happened to your baby?"

Her face crumpled. Her lips stretched out. Her shoulders shook. "They took my baby away from me. Gave him away for adoption. I curse the man who put me in that position. Curse that man." She looked up. "I was a good mother, Marion-"

"A good mother!" I laughed. "If you were a good mother you might be carrying my child."

She smiled through her tears as if I were being funny-as if shed just remembered my fantasy of our getting married and populating Missing with our children. Then she began to shake, and at first I thought she was crying or laughing, but I heard her teeth chatter. I had rehea.r.s.ed my lines in my head as I walked out of Asmara, walked all the way to the Sudan; Id rehea.r.s.ed them so many times since. I imagined every excuse she might offer if I ever met her. I had my barbs ready. But this quaking, silent adversary was not what Id envisioned. I reached over and felt her pulse. One hundred forty beats per minute. Her skin, cool just a while ago, was burning to the touch.

"I ... must ... go," she said, rising but swaying.

"No, you will stay."

She was clearly unwell. I gave her three aspirin. I led her into the master bath and ran the shower. When it was steaming, I helped her undress. If earlier I had seen her as an animal in the predator's lair, now I felt like a father disrobing his child. Once she was in the shower, I tossed her underwear and shirt into the washer and ran the load. I helped her out of the shower. She was on gla.s.s legs. I dried her off and sat her on the edge of the bed. I put a pair of my winter flannels on her and tucked her in. I made her eat a few spoons of ca.s.serole and drink more tea. I put Vicks on her throat and on her chest and the soles of her feet, just as Hema would do with us. She was asleep before I slid the woolen socks over her toes.

What was I feeling? This was a Pyrrhic victory. A pyrexic victory- the thermometer I slid under her armpit read one hundred three degrees. While she slept, I moved her wet clothes to the dryer and stuck her jeans in the washer. I put away the ca.s.serole. Then I sat in the library by myself, trying to read. Perhaps I dozed. Hours later, I heard the sound of a toilet being flushed. She was on the bed, covers thrown to the side, pajamas and socks off, wrapped in a towel and wiping her brow with a washcloth. Her fever had broken. She moved over to make room for me.

"Do you want me to leave now?" she said.

In that question, I felt that she was taking control because there was only one possible answer: "You're sleeping here."

"I'm burning up," she said.

I changed into my boxers and T-shirt in the bathroom, took a blanket from the wardrobe, and headed for the library.

"Stay with me?" she said. "Please?"

I had no reply planned for that.

I climbed into my bed. When I reached for the light, she said, "Please leave it on."

No sooner had I lain down than she pressed against me, smelling of my deodorant, my shampoo, and Vicks. She raised my arm and huddled in the crook of my shoulder, her damp body against me. Her fingers touched my face, very gingerly, as if she worried that I might bite. I remembered that night so many years ago when I had found her naked in the pantry.

"What's that sound?" she said, startled.

"It's the dryer alarm. I washed your clothes."

I heard her sniffle. Then sob. "You deserved better," she said, looking up.

"Yes, I did."

I stared at her eyes, remembering the little fleck in the right iris, and the puff of gray around it, where a spark had penetrated. Yes, it was still there, darker now, looking like a blemish she was born with. I traced her lips. Her nose. She shut her lids at my touch. Tears were sliding underneath them. She smiled a smile from our days of innocence. I took my hand away. She opened her lids, her eyes glistening. Hesitantly she kissed my lips.

No, I hadn't forgotten. At that moment, my anger wasn't so much with her as it was with the pa.s.sage of time. Time had robbed me of such wonderful illusions, taken them away far too soon. But right then I wanted the illusion that she was mine.

She kissed me again, and I tasted the salt of her tears. Was she feeling sorry for me? I couldn't take that, ever. Suddenly I was on top of her, tearing away the sheet, tearing away her towel, clumsy but determined. She was startled, the muscles of her neck taut like cables. I grabbed her head and kissed her.

"Wait," she whispered, "shouldn't you ... ?"

But I was already inside her.

She winced.

"Shouldn't I what, Genet?" I said as I bucked, my pelvis possessing some intrinsic knowledge of the movements needed. "This is my first time ...," I managed to say. "I wouldn't know what I should or shouldn't do."

Her pupils dilated. Was she pleased to learn this about me?

Now she knew.

Now she knew that there were people in this world who kept their promises. Ghosh, whose deathbed she never had the time to visit, was one such person. I wanted the knowledge to shame her, to terrify her. When it was over, I stayed on top of her.

"My first time, Genet ...," I said, softly. "Don't think that's because I was waiting for you. It's because you f.u.c.ked my life up. You could have counted on me. Money in the bank, as they say here. And what did you do? You turned it all into s.h.i.t. I wanted to make life beautiful for you. I don't understand it really, Genet. You had Hema and Ghosh. You had Missing. You had me who loved you more than you will ever love yourself."