Cutting for Stone

  I pulled away once to look at her and say, “You're so beautiful,” because it was a magical phrase, one I knew I should use often, but only if I believed it to be true. I don't know how long we were coupled by our mouths, but it came most naturally, as if I were satisfying a hunger. I didn't realize this potential existed in me. It carried me forward. Whatever was next, I didn't know, but my body knew. I trusted my body. I was ready.

  Suddenly, she stepped away. She held me at arm's length. She sat on the edge of the bed. She was crying. Something had happened about which my body had failed to inform me. Or perhaps there was a rule, an etiquette, that I'd failed to observe. I eyed the door, measuring my escape.

  “Can you ever forgive me?” she said. “Your mother shouldn't have died. Maybe if I told someone she was sick, they could've helped her.”

  This was astonishing. I could feel the hair on the back of my neck rise. I'd entirely forgotten this was my mother's room. I couldn't picture Sister Mary Joseph Praise in here, certainly not with a poster of Venice on the wall, and on another wall a black-and-white poster of a white singer, his pelvis thrust forward at the microphone stand which hed pulled toward him, his face contorted with the effort of singing. I looked back to the Staff Probationer.

  “I didn't know how sick she was.” She hiccuped through her tears, just like a baby.

  “It's all right,” I said, feeling as if someone else gave me those words.

  “Say you forgive me.”

  “I will if you stop crying. Please.”

  “Say it.”

  “I forgive you.”

  She only cried louder. Someone would hear. I didn't think I was supposed to be in this room. And I certainly wasn't supposed to make her cry.

  “I said it! I said I forgive you. Why are you still crying?”

  “But I almost let you and your brother die. I was supposed to help you breathe when you came out. I was supposed to resuscitate you. But I forgot.”

  WHEN I FIRST CAME to this room, I was adrift, feeling as if a part of me was missing, all because Genet was away. Then I'd forgotten all that and found happiness, no, ecstasy, in the dance, a hint of what I wanted with Genet. And now I was adrift again, and confused. Paradise had seemed so close, and now I was clawing through fog. She grabbed my hand and pulled me to her, to the bed.

  “You can do anything you want to me. Anytime,” she said, tilting her head back, looking up at me as I stood over her.

  What did she mean?

  “Do what?” I said.

  Anything.

  She let me go and she fell back on her bed. She was spread-eagled. She was ready. For whatever I might want to do.

  Yes, there was something I wanted to do. If I were given free rein, dominion over her body, I knew I'd discover it by instinct. I had a general idea. I was nearly fourteen after all.

  She was giving me license and still I waited.

  She rolled over onto her belly, showing me her buttocks and peering at me over her shoulder. Her eyelids were puffy, her expression dreamy and faraway She spun one hundred eighty degrees so her head faced me. She propped herself up on her elbows. Her breasts hung down, the nipples barely concealed. She followed my gaze to her cleavage.

  I heard voices and footsteps outside. The other nurses and probationers were back from dinner.

  I didn't want to leave. But the world had intruded. My hesitation doomed me. That and her uninvited confession.

  “I want to dance with you again,” I said, in a whisper.

  “You can …,” she whispered, but as if that were the wrong answer.

  “I do want to do … anything with you.”

  “Yes! That's what I want, too.” She was kneeling on the bed now, brightening, smiling through her tears. “Come,” she said, arms extended, beckoning.

  “But nothing right now. I'll be back another day.” I put my hand on the doorknob.

  “But … how about anything now?” she said, loud enough for the world to hear.

  I slipped out quickly, hoping that if anyone saw me, they'd think it perfectly normal for me to visit.

  The rain hadn't let up. I let it beat on my head. I didn't mind. Rain was familiar. But this balancing on the edge of feelings so powerful they seemed capable of making me fly, this was a revelation. By the time I reached our quarters I was soaked. When I saw the door to Rosina and Genet's room, I longed for the padlock not to be there. I stood staring at that closed door.

  It was at that moment, with raindrops smacking me on the fontanel, that I came to the decision that I must marry Genet. Yes, that was my destiny. What I felt with the probationer, I never wanted to feel with anyone but Genet. There were too many temptations out there, great forces ready to shake me free of my avowed intent. I wanted to succumb to temptation. But with just one woman, and that was Genet.

  If I married her, I'd solve everything. It would keep Rosina from pulling away, it would make Hema, Ghosh, and Rosina happy, and they'd have both of us as their children. I could see us having kids of our own. We'd tear down the servant's quarters and build the twin to the main house, with a linking corridor, so we could all be under the same roof; we'd have a room, or maybe a suite, for Shiva. He'd be happy to have Genet as a sister-in-law. Since Shiva wasn't one to look back, to celebrate the past, it was all the more important for me to preserve the family, keep us as one.

  I STEPPED INTO THE HOUSE, dripping water on the floor. In the bathroom I stripped naked and studied myself in the mirror, looking to see what the probationer saw. I was tall for my age, nearly six feet, and my skin was fair. I could perhaps have passed for someone of Mediterranean ancestry; my irises were brown—I never saw the hint of blue I could see in Shiva's. My expression seemed unduly earnest, particularly when my hair was damp. Once it dried, the curls would return and would have a life of their own, refusing to be corralled. This is what it means to arrive at manhood, I thought, hands on my hips, turning to admire my flanks, my buttocks.

  I dressed and returned to the kitchen, breathing in the scents steaming out of the pots and snatching a piece of meat before Almaz could slap my hand away. She scolded me, but it was a sweet sound, as was the music from the living room with the heavy beat of a tabla, and the thump and thud of Hema and Shiva dancing, of Hema calling out instructions. I heard the rattle of the loose bumper on the Volkswagen as Ghosh came up the driveway. I felt ecstatic, as if I was at the epicenter of our family, missing only Genet and Rosina who surely would come back, and 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.

  CHAPTER 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’è 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 Heart Belongs Only to You.’ “

  I was pleased to find Genet knew nothing of this radio station. The cousins in Asmara couldn't be that cool if they never tuned in to this show.

  The next song began without any introduction. I jumped up. “This is it!” I said to Genet. “This is the tune I was telling you about.”

  In all the evenings of listening to the radio, here for the first time was the song that I'd heard in the probationer's room.

  I was shimmying and twisting to the music, blind to Hema's shocked expression and the stares of Ghosh and Genet. I cranked the volume up; Rosina and Almaz came out of the kitchen. They must have thought I was mad. This was out of character for me, but I couldn't stop myself, or I chose not to, and something told me this was the day for it.

  Now Shiva stood up and joined me, and his dancing was smooth, silky, and so polished, as if all his lessons with Hema had been a way of biding time till he heard this song. That was all it took for Genet to jump in. I pulled Hema up from her chair, and soon she moved in time to the music. Ghosh needed no urging. I tried to pull Rosina in, but she and Almaz fled to the kitchen. The five of us in that living room danced till the very last note had sounded.

  Chuck Berry.

  That was the name of the artist. The song was “Sweet Little Sixteen”—so the announcer said.

  When it was time for bed, Genet said she was going back to Rosina's quarters. Hema looked hurt. “I'll keep my mother company,” Genet said. “I have my own bed now. There were six of us on the floor in Asmara. Having a bed for myself will be a real luxury.”

  The next day in the Piazza, I found the Chuck Berry 45 in a record shop. I realized from the dust jacket that “Sweet Little Sixteen” was a number one hit—but in 1958! I was crushed. The rest of the world had heard this song more than a decade before I knew it existed. When I thought of how I had danced to it the previous night, it felt like the dance of an ignoramus, like the awe of a peasant seeing the neon beer mug on top of the Olivetti Building.

  ON THE EVE of the new school year, Hema and Ghosh took us with them
to the Greek club for the annual gala to celebrate the end of “winter.” Genet surprised me by saying shed stay back and get her school clothes ready; she, Rosina, Gebrew, and Almaz planned a cozy dinner in Rosina's quarters.

  The big band was made up of moonlighting musicians from the army, air force, and Imperial Bodyguard orchestras. They could play “Stardust,” “Begin the Beguine,” and “Tuxedo Junction” in their sleep. Chuck Berry wasn't in their repertoire.

  The expatriate community back from vacations, was out in force, looking tanned. I saw Mr. and Mrs. G——, who weren't really married, and the word was they'd abandoned their spouses and children in Portugal to be with each other; Mr. J——, a dashing Goan bachelor who was jailed briefly for a financial shenanigan, was in full form. The newly arriving expats would quickly learn their roles; they'd find that their for-eignness trumped their training or talent—it was their most important asset. Soon they'd be regulars, smiling and dancing at this annual event.

  I'd always thought the expatriates represented the best of culture and style of the “civilized” world. But I could see now that they were so far from Broadway or the West End or La Scala, that they probably were a decade behind the times, just as I'd been with Chuck Berry. I watched the ruddy, sweaty faces on the dance floor, the childlike brightness in their eyes; it made me sad and impatient.

  Shiva danced first with Hema, then with women he knew from Hema and Ghosh's bridge circle, and then with anyone who looked keen to dance. Suddenly I didn't want to be there any longer; I left early, telling Hema and Ghosh I'd take a taxi home.

  I thought of the probationer as I walked up the hill to our quarters. I'd been avoiding her. When her students were with her, she made no sign of recognition. When she saw me with Shiva, she greeted us without comment. The first time I ran into her alone, she stopped me, and said, “Are you Marion?” From her eyes I knew that nothing had changed, and that her door was still open to me. “No,” I had said. “I'm Shiva.” She never asked again.