Abraham Verghese - Cutting for Stone

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.

Undoubtedly, there were other hospitals that were newer and bigger, at least as depicted in their brochures. But you couldn't trust a brochure, I was discovering.

Fifty yards to the side of the hospital stood the two-story house staff quarters to which he led me. On the glass door to its lobby, someone had taped a handwritten sign in thick black felt-tip pen on yellow legal paper.

India Versus Australia, 2nd Test At Brisbane

Special Cable Viewing In B. C. Gandhi's Room

(Pakistanis, Sri Lankans, Bangladeshis, and West Indians welcome,

but if you cheer for Australia management reserves the right to eject you.)

Friday Night, July 11, 1980, 7 p.m.

($10 a person and bring drink and non-vegdish, repeat, non-veg dish only.

If it didn't move before it was cooked, we don't want it!!!

Single ladies free and chairs provided.

If you bring spouse, $10 extra and bring your own chair.)

B. C. Gandhinesan M.D.,

Captain Our Lady's Eleven,

Cricket Commissioner, Our Lady of Perpetual Succour

In the lobby I registered coriander, cumin—the familiar scents of Almaz's kitchen. On the stairs I inhaled the very brand of incense that Hema lit each morning. I heard the faint drone on the second-floor landing of “Suprabhatam” sung by M. S. Subbulakshmi and the sound of a bell being rung, as someone in some other room did their puja. I felt a twinge of homesickness. We paused for Mr. Pomeranz to get his breath. “We had to put industrial-size fans in the hoods above the cooking stoves on both floors. Had to! When they start cooking that masala, forget about it!”

A tall, good-looking Indian man with long hair still wet from the shower came bounding down the stairs. He had big strong teeth, a winning smile, and an aftershave that smelled simply wonderful. (I found out later it was Brut.)