Cutting for Stone (22 page)

“We have more English Bibles than there are English speaking people in the entire country.” Matron had turned from the window and followed his gaze. “Polish Bibles, Czech Bibles, Italian Bibles, French Bibles, Swedish Bibles. I think some are from your Sunday-school children. We need medicine and food. But we get Bibles.” Matron smiled. “I always wondered if the good people who send us Bibles really think that hookworm and hunger are healed by scripture? Our patients are illiterate.”

“I am embarrassed,” Harris said.

“No, no, no. Please! People here love these Bibles. They're the most valuable thing a family can possess. Do you know what Emperor Mene-lik, who ruled before Haile Selassie, did when he fell ill? He
ate
pages of the Bible. I don't think it helped. This is a land where paper—
worketu
— is much valued. Did you know that among the poor, marriage consists simply of writing two names on a piece of paper? And to divorce, why you just tear up the paper. Priests will give out pieces of paper with verses on them. The paper is folded over again and again until it is a tiny square and then these are wrapped in leather and worn around the neck.

“I was happy to give away Bibles. But the Interior Minister saw it as proselytizing. ‘How can it be proselytizing when no one can read? Besides it is the same faith as yours,’ I said. But the minister disagreed. So now the Bibles pile up, Mr. Harris. They breed in the toolshed like rabbits. They spill over into our storerooms and into my office. We use them as support for bookshelves. Or to paper the walls of the
chikka
huts. Anything at all, really!”

She walked over to the door and beckoned him to join her outside. “Let's take a walk,” she said. “Look,” Matron said when they were in the hallway, pointing to a sign above a door:
OPERATING THEATER 1.
The room was a closet, jammed full of Bibles. Wordlessly she pointed to another room across the way which Harris could see was a storeroom for mops and buckets. The sign above it read
OPERATING THEATER 2.
“We have only one theater. We call it Operating Theater
3
. Judge me harshly, if you will, Mr. Harris, but I take what I am given in God's name to serve these people. And if my donors insist on giving me another operating theater for the famous Thomas Stone, when what I need are catheters, syringes, penicillin, and money for oxygen tanks so I can keep the single theater going, then I give them their operating theater in name.”

At the steps of the Missing outpatient department the bougainvillea was in full bloom, concealing the pillars of the carport so that the roof appeared to be cantilevered.

A man hurried by, bundled in a heavy white wrap over a ragged military overcoat. His white turban and the monkey-mane fly-swish in his hand made him stand out.

“That's the very Gebrew we were talking about,” Matron said as Gebrew spotted them and stopped and bowed. “Servant of God. And watchman. And … one of our bereaved.”

Harris was surprised at Gebrew's relative youth. In one of her letters, Matron wrote of a Harrari girl of twelve or thirteen who had been brought in, moribund, a cut umbilical cord trailing out from between her legs. She had given birth a few days before, but there had been no afterbirth; the placenta wouldn't budge. The family had traveled by mule and bus for two days to get to Missing. And as Gebrew, in his compassion, lifted the poor girl out of the gharry, she screamed. Gebrew, instrument of God, had inadvertently stepped on the trailing umbilical cord, causing the placenta to break free. The little girl was cured even before she crossed the threshold of the casualty room.

Harris shivered in a sleeveless cotton shirt, his eyeballs oscillating, his fingers tugging at his collar, then adjusting a pith helmet which Matron didn't realize he had with him.

Matron walked him through the children's ward, which was no more than a room painted bright lavender with infants on high beds with metal rails. The mothers camped out on the floor beside the beds. They jumped up at the sight of Matron and bowed. “That child has tetanus and will die. This one has meningitis, and if he lives he might well be deaf or blind. And its mother”—she said, affectionately putting her arm around a waiflike woman—”by staying at Missing night and day is neglecting her three other children. Lord, we've had a child back home fall into a well, get gored by a bull, and even kidnapped while the mother was here. The humane thing is to tell her to go home, to take the child home.”

“Then why is she here?”

“Look at how anemic she is! We are feeding her. We give her the child's portions, which the child can't eat, as well as her portion, and I've asked them to give her an egg every day, and she is getting an iron injection and medicine for hookworm. In a few days we'll find her bus fare and then send her home with this child if he is alive. But at least she'll be healthier, better able to look after the other children … Now this child is awaiting surgery …”

In the male ward, which was long and narrow and held forty people, she kept up her recitation. The patients who could tried to sit up to greet them. One man was comatose, his mouth open, his eyes unseeing. Another sat leaning forward on a special pillow, struggling mightily to breathe. Two men, side by side, had bellies swollen to the size of ripe pregnancy.

“Rheumatic heart valve damage, nothing we can do … and these two fellows have cirrhosis,” Matron explained.

Harris was struck by how little it took to nurture and sustain life. A huge chunk of bread in a chipped basin and a giant battered tin cup of sweetened tea—that was breakfast and lunch. Very often, as he could see, this feast was being shared with the family members squatting by the bed.

When they emerged from the ward, Matron stopped to catch her breath. “Do you know that at this moment we have funds for three days, that's all? Some nights I go to sleep with no idea of how we can open in the morning.”

“What will you do?” Harris asked, but then he realized he knew the answer.

Matron smiled, her eyes almost disappearing as her cheeks pushed up, giving her a childlike quality. “That's right, Mr. Harris. I pray. Then I take it out of the building fund or whatever fund has money. The Lord knows my predicament, or so I tell myself. He must approve the transfer. What we are fighting isn't godlessness—this is the most godly country on earth. We aren't even fighting disease. It's poverty.
Money
for food, medicines … that helps. When we cannot cure or save a life, our patients can at least feel cared for. It should be a basic human right.”

Harris's anxiety about the steering committee had all but gone.

“I'll confess, Mr. Harris, that as I get older, my prayers aren't about forgiveness. My prayers are for money to do His work.” She reached out for his hand and held it in both of hers, patting it. “Do you know, dear man, that in my darkest moments, you have so often been the answer to my prayers?”

Matron felt she had said enough. It was a gamble. She had nothing to put on the table but the truth.

CHAPTER 15
Crookedness of
the Serpent

T
HE NEWBORNS SEEMED UNREAL
to Ghosh, all noses and wrinkles, as if they'd been planted in Hema's house, a lab experiment gone awry. Ghosh tried to make appropriate noises and act interested, but he found himself resenting the attention they were getting.

It was five days since Sister Mary Joseph Praise's death. He had stopped by Hema's house in the early evening before setting out to look for Stone. He'd found his Almaz there, very much at home, immersed in the task of caring for the babies, barely registering his presence. The last few days, he had been forced to make his own coffee and heat his own bathwater. Matron, Sister Asqual, Rosina, and several nursing students were there, too, fussing over the newborns. Rosina, with nothing to occupy her now that Thomas Stone was gone, had also moved over to Hema's. No one noticed when he left Hema's bungalow.

He drove first to the Ghion and the Ras hotels, then to the police headquarters where he sought out a sergeant he knew. The man had no news for him. He drove through the Piazza from one end to the other, and then, after a beer at St. George's, decided it was time to go home. His plans to leave had solidified. He had an airline ticket to Rome, then on to Chicago, leaving in four weeks. By that time, perhaps things at Missing would have settled. He couldn't see himself staying on, not now, not with Stone gone and Sister dead. But he had yet to find the courage to tell Matron or Almaz—or Hema.

It was dark when he pulled into his carport. He saw Almaz squatting by the back wall, wrapped against the cold so only her eyes showed. She was waiting for him just as she had the night Sister Mary Joseph Praise had died.

“Oh God. What now?”

She came to the passenger door, yanked it open, and climbed in. “Is it Stone?” he said. “What happened?”

“Where have you been? No, it's not Stone. One of the babies stopped breathing. Let's go to Dr. Hema's bungalow.”

THE BLUE NIGHT-LIGHT
made Hema's bedroom seem surreal, like a set for a movie. Hema was in a nightdress, her hair loose and flowing over her shoulders. He found it difficult to look away.

The two newborns were on the bed, their chests rising and falling evenly, eyes closed, and their faces peaceful.

Turning back to Hema, he saw she was trembling, her lips quivering. He put his hands out, palms up, asking what had happened. By way of an answer, she flew into his arms.

He held her.

In the years he had known her, he'd seen her happy, angry, sad, and even depressed but, underneath, always feisty. He had never seen her fearful; it was as if she'd become some other person.

He tried to lead her outside of the room, his arm still around her shoulder, but she resisted. “No,” she whispered. “We can't leave.”

“What's going on?”

“I happened to be looking at them just after I put them to bed. I saw Marion breathing evenly. But Shiva …” She sobbed now, as she pointed to the child with the dressing on his scalp. “I saw his stomach rise, then it went down as he exhaled … and then nothing. I watched as long as I could. ‘Hema, you are imagining things,’ I said. But I could see him turning blue, even in this light, especially when I compared his color with Marion's. I touched him, and his arms shot out as if he was falling, and he took a deep breath. His fingers curled around my finger. He was saying,
Don't leave me.
He was breathing again. Oh, my Shiva. If I hadn't been standing there … he'd be gone by now.”

She sobbed into her hands, which rested on his chest. Ghosh held her, her tears making his shirt damp. He didn't know what to say. He hoped she didn't smell beer. In a moment, she pulled away, and they stood arm in arm, Almaz just behind them, gazing at Shiva.

Why had Hema taken on the naming of the babies? It felt premature. He couldn't get his lips around the names. Were the names negotiable? What if Thomas Stone showed up? And why name the child of a nun and an Englishman after a Hindu god? And for the other twin, also a boy, why Marion? Surely it was temporary, until Stone came to his senses, or the British Embassy or someone made arrangements. Hema was acting as if the kids were hers.

“Did it happen more than once?” he asked.

“Yes! Once more. About thirty minutes later. Just when I was about to turn away. He exhaled … and stopped. I made myself wait. Surely he has to breathe. I held back until I couldn't stand it any longer. When I touched him he started breathing as if hed been waiting for that little push, as if he forgot. I've been here for the last three hours, too scared to even go to the loo. I didn't trust anyone else to watch, and besides I could not quite explain it to them … Thank God Almaz decided to stay to help me with the night feeds. I sent her to get you,” Hema said.

“Go ahead,” he said. “I'll watch them.”

She was back in no time. “What do you think?” she said, leaning against his arm as she dabbed her eyes with a hankie. “Shouldn't you listen to his lungs? He wasn't coughing or struggling.”

Ghosh, finger to chin, his eyes narrowing, studied the child quietly. After a long while he said, “I'll examine him thoroughly when he is awake. But I think I know what it is.”

The way she looked at him made his heart swell. This wasn't the Hema who reacted to everything he said with skepticism. “In fact, I'm sure. Apnea of the premature. It's well described. You see, his brain is still immature, and the respiratory center, which triggers each breath, isn't fully developed. He ‘forgets’ to breathe every now and then.”

“Are you sure it isn't something else?” She wasn't challenging him; like any mother, she wanted certainty from the doctor.

He nodded. “I'm sure. You were lucky. Usually apnea is fatal before anyone recognizes it.”

“Don't say that. Oh God. What can we do, Ghosh?”

He was about to tell her that there was nothing one could do. Nothing at all. If the child was lucky, it might outgrow the apnea in a few weeks. The only choice was to put these preemies on machines that breathed for them till their lungs matured. Even in England and America this was rarely done. At Missing it was out of the question.

She waited for his pronouncement. She had suspended her own breathing.

“Here is what we do,” he said, and she sighed. He was making this up. He didn't know if his plan would work. But he knew he did not have the heart to say there was nothing to be done.

“Get me a chair. One of those from the living room. Also give me some of your anklets and a pair of pliers. And some thread or twine. A clipboard or a notebook if you have one. And tell Almaz to make coffee. The strongest she can make and as much of it as she can make and tell her to fill up the thermos flask.”

This new Hema, the adoptive mother of the twins, rose at once to do his bidding, never asking why or how. He watched her dance away.

“If I knew you were that agreeable Id have asked for a cognac and a foot massage as well,” he muttered to himself. “And if this doesn't work … at least I'll have my bags packed.”

GHOSH SAT IN THE CHAIR,
sipping coffee, a string wrapped around his finger, and the house silent around him. It was two in the morning. The other end of the string connected to one of Hema's anklets which he'd cut in half and looped around Shiva's foot. The tiny silver bells dangling from the anklet made a pleasant cymbal-like sound when the foot moved.

He had strapped his wristwatch to the arm of his chair. On the first page of an exercise book, he made vertical columns labeled with date and time. Shiva stirred in his sleep; the anklet sounding reassuringly. Earlier, they had fed the twins, adding one drop of coffee to Shiva's bottle. It was Ghosh's hope that caffeine, a nervous-system stimulant and irritant, would keep the respiratory center ticking. It had clearly made the infant more restless than his identical twin.

Hema slept on the sofa in the far corner of the living room, which was just beyond this bedroom. A floor lamp with a shade that they moved to Hema's room gave him light to see the page.

Ghosh studied the walls. A little girl in pigtails and a half sari stood between two adults. A framed picture of Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru, handsome and pensive, one finger on his cheek, hung opposite Ghosh's chair. He'd imagined Hema's bedroom would be neat, everything in its place. Instead, there were clothes spilling off the bed rail, a suitcase open on the floor, more clothes piled in the corner, and books and papers stacked on a chair. And just inside the bedroom door he noticed for the first time was a crate the size of a sideboard. She did it, he thought, as he leaned closer to read the writing on the outside. A Grundig, no less. The best money can buy. His own gramophone and radio had conked out a few months before.

Periodically he would glance at the child, make sure the little chest was moving. After what felt like half an hour, he yawned, looked at his watch, and was astonished to find that only seven minutes had passed. My God, this is going to be difficult, he thought. He finished his cup of coffee and poured a second.

He stood and circled the room. On one shelf was a bound set of books.
GREAT WORLD CLASSICS SERIES
was stamped in a gold imprint. He picked one volume and sat down. The book was beautifully bound, in a leathery cover, and had gold-trimmed pages that looked as if they had never been opened.

AT FOUR IN THE MORNING,
he went to wake Hema. In sleep she looked like a little girl, both hands together and tucked under one cheek. He gently shook her, and she opened her eyes, saw him, and smiled. He held out the cup of coffee.

“My turn?” He nodded. She sat up. “Did he stop breathing?”

“Twice. There was no doubt about it.”

“God. Oh God. I wasn't imagining it, was I? We're so lucky I saw that first one.”

“Drink this, then wash your face and come to the bedroom.”

When she returned he gave her the thread running to the anklet, the notebook with the pen clipped to it. “Whatever you do, don't lie on the bed. Stay in this chair. It's the only way to stay awake. I've been reading, which really helps. I look up at the end of every page. If I hear the anklet move, then I don't look up and I keep reading. When he stopped breathing, I tugged at the anklet and he started right back up. Little fellow just forgets to breathe.”

“Why should he have to remember? Poor baby.”

HEMA HAD HARDLY SETTLED
in the chair when she heard a strange noise. It took her a second to realize that it was the sound of Ghosh snoring. She tiptoed to where he was on the sofa, dead to the world, looking like a big teddy bear. She covered him with the blanket which had slipped to the floor, and she returned to her vigil. The snoring reassured her. It told her she was not alone. She picked up the book Ghosh had been reading.

She'd bought the set of twelve books from a staffer at the British Embassy who was returning home. She was ashamed not to have read even one. Ghosh had put a bookmark on page ninety-two. Had he really come that far? Why did he pick this book? She turned to the first page:

Who that cares much to know the history of man, and how the mysterious mixture behaves under the varying experiments of Time, has not dwelt, at least briefly, on the life of Saint Theresa, has not smiled with some gentleness at the thought of the little girl walking forth one morning hand-in-hand with her still smaller brother, to go and seek martyrdom in the country of the Moors?

She read that opening sentence three times before she understood what it might be about. She looked at the title of the book.
Middlemarch.
Why couldn't the writer be clear? She read on, only because Ghosh had managed to keep reading. Little by little, she found herself immersed in the story.

THE NEXT MORNING,
as Ghosh made rounds, he wondered if the Colonel made it back to his garrison in Gondar without incident. If the Colonel had been arrested, or hanged, would news ever reach Missing?
The Ethiopian Herald
never wrote about treason, as if it were treasonable to report treason.

After looking in on his patients, Ghosh unearthed an incubator from one of the storage sheds behind Matron's bungalow. Ghosh was Missing's de facto pediatrician. In the early years he'd fashioned an incubator for premature babies. After the Swedish government opened a pediatric hospital in Addis Ababa, Missing sent all the very premature babies there and put the incubator away.

Despite its delicate construction with glass on four sides and a tin base, the incubator was still intact. He had Gebrew hose it off, dust it for fleas, put it in the sunlight for a few hours, then rinse it again with hot water. Ghosh wiped it down with alcohol before setting it up in Hema's bedroom. No sooner had he stepped back to admire it than Almaz walked around it three times making
thew-thew
sounds, stopping short of actually spitting. “To ward off the evil eye,” she explained in Amharic, wiping her lip with the back of her forearm.

“Remind me never to invite you into the operating theater,” Ghosh said in English. “Hema?” he said, hoping she would weigh in. “Antisepsis? Lister? Pasteur? Are you no longer a believer?”

“You forget I am postpartum, man,” she said. “Warding off spirits is much more important.”

The twins lay swaddled next to each other like larvae, sharing the incubator, their skulls covered with monkey caps and only their wizened, newborn faces showing. No matter how far apart Hema put them, when she came to them again, they would be in a
V,
their heads touching, facing each other, just as they had been in the womb.

SOME NIGHTS
as he took his shift by the sleeping infant, exhausted, fighting sleep, he talked to himself. “Why are you here? Would she do this for you?” The old resentments made his jaw tighten. “You silly bugger, you allowed yourself to succumb to her spell again?” Why did he lack the willpower to say what must be said?

He told himself that once the infant, this Shiva, was over its breathing problem, he would leave. Knowing Hema, when she no longer had to rely on him, things would be back to where they had always been. Since Harris's visit, it was unclear if the Houston Baptists would continue their support. Matron wouldn't give her opinion.