Abraham Verghese - Cutting for Stone

“Of course! But no replies to my messages. The Health Minister intercepted them. So, I reopened the health center myself. It took about ten thousand birr. I got a missionary doctor in a town fifty miles away to come once a week. I had a retired army nurse doing dressings, and I found a midwife to move there. I got supplies. The local bootlegger gave me a generator. The people loved me. The Health Minister wanted to kill me. The Emperor summoned me to Addis.”

“How did you get the money?” Ghosh asked.

“Bribes! People would bring over a big injera basket, with more money in it than Injera. When I used the bribes for a good purpose, they gave me more bribes because they were worried that I would expose them.”

“You told this to His Majesty?”

“Ah! But that is complicated. Everyone is whispering in his ear. ‘Your Majesty,’ I said, when I got my audience. ‘The health center needs a budget to keep going.’ He acted surprised.”

“He knew,” the Colonel interjected.

“He heard me out. Those eyes give away nothing. When I was done, His Majesty whispers to Abba Hanna, the Minister of the Purse. Abba Hanna scribbles in the record. And the other ministers, have you seen them? They are in a state of constant terror. They never know if they are in their master's favor or not.

“His Majesty thanks me for my service to that province, et cetera, et cetera, and then I bow and bow and walk backward. I meet the Minister of the Purse at the rear of the room, and he gives me three hundred birr! I need thirty thousand, or even three hundred thousand, I could use. For all I know the Emperor said one hundred thousand and Abba Hanna decided it was worth only three hundred. Or was three hundred the Emperor's idea? And who do you ask? By then, the next petitioner is telling his story, and the Minister of the Purse is running back to take his position near the Emperor.

“I tried to shout from the back of the room, Your Majesty, did the minister make a mistake?’ My friends dragged me away—”

“Otherwise you wouldn't be around to tell us this story,” the Colonel said. “My foolhardy brother.”

The Colonel turned serious, his eyes on Ghosh as he took Ghosh's hand in both of his. “Dr. Ghosh. You're a better surgeon than Stone. A surgeon in hand is worth two who are gone.”

“No, I was lucky. Stone is the best.”

“I thank you for something else. You see, I was in terrible pain all the way from Gondar to here. The journey going back is going to be easy by comparison. The pain was … I knew whatever this was would get worse, would kill me. But I had options. I came to you. When you told me that for my fellow countrymen, if they have to suffer this, they simply die …” The Colonel's face turned hard, and Ghosh could not be sure if it was anger or if he was holding back tears. He cleared his throat. “It was a crime to close my brother's health center. When I came to Addis Ababa for this meeting with my … colleagues, I was prepared to listen. But I wasn't sure. You could say my motives were suspect. If I wanted to be part of a change, was it for the best of reasons, or just to grab power? I'm telling you things you can never repeat, Doctor, do you understand?”

Ghosh nodded.

“My journey, my pain, my operation …,” the Colonel went on, “God was showing me the suffering of my people. It was a message. How we treat the least of our brethren, how we treat the peasant suffering with volvulus, that's the measure of this country. Not our fighter planes or tanks, or how big the Emperor's palace happens to be. I think God put you in my path.”

Later, when they had left, Ghosh realized how he'd been so predisposed to dislike Colonel Mebratu, but the opposite had happened. Conversely, as an expatriate, it was easy to project benevolent qualities on to His Majesty. Now he was less sure.

MR. ELIHU HARRIS was dressed all wrong. That was the first thing Matron noticed when he closed the door behind him and stepped up to her desk and introduced himself. He had every right to be annoyed, having visited Missing on the two previous days without meeting Matron. Instead, he seemed grateful to see her, worried about intruding on her time.

“I had no idea you were coming, Mr. Harris,” Matron said presently. “Under any other circumstance, it would have been a pleasure. But you see, yesterday, we buried Sister Mary Joseph Praise.”

“You mean …” Harris swallowed hard. His mouth opened and closed. He saw such sorrow in Matron's eyes, and he was embarrassed to have overlooked it. “You mean … the young nun from India? … Thomas Stone's assistant?”

“The very same. As for Thomas Stone, he has left. Vanished. I am very worried about him. He is a distraught man.”

Harris had a pleasant face, but his overdeveloped upper lip and uneven front teeth left him just short of handsome. He fidgeted in his chair. He was doubtless yearning to ask how all this had happened, but he didn't. Matron understood he was the sort of man who, even when he had the upper hand, didn't know how to press for his rights. As he stood before her, his soft brown eyes reluctant to engage, her heart softened to him.

So Matron told Harris everything, a rush of simple sentences that were weighed down by what they conveyed. When she was finished, she said, “Your visit comes when we are at our worst.” She blew her nose. “So much of what we did at Missing revolved around Thomas Stone. He was the best surgeon in the city. He never knew that it was because of the people he operated on in the royal family, in the government, that we were allowed to go on. The government makes us pay a hefty annual fee for the privilege of serving here, can you imagine? They could if they want simply close us down. Mr. Harris, even your giving us money was because of his book … This might be the end of Missing.”

As Matron talked, Harris sank farther back in the chair, as if someone had a foot on his chest. He had a nervous habit of patting his cowlick, even though it was not in danger of falling.

There are people in the world who were cursed by bad timing, Matron thought. People whose cars break down on the way to their wedding, or whose Brighton holiday is invariably ruined by rain, or whose crowning day of private glory is overshadowed by and forever remembered as the day King George VI died. Such people vexed the spirit, and yet one was moved to pity because they were helpless. It wasn't Harris's fault that Sister had died or Stone had disappeared. Yet there he was.

If Harris wanted an accounting of money, she had nothing to show him. Matron submitted progress reports under duress, and since what donors wanted to spend on had no link to the reality of Missing's needs, her reports were a form of fiction. She'd always known a day like this would come.

Harris choked, then coughed. When he recovered, with much throat clearing and fumbling with his handkerchief, he came indirectly to his business with Matron. But it wasn't what Matron imagined it would be.

“You were right about our plan to fund a mission for the Oromo, Matron,” Harris said. Matron faintly recalled a mention of this in a letter. “The doctor in Wollo sent me a telegram. The police have occupied the building. The district governor will do nothing to evict them. The supplies are being sold. The local church has been preaching against us, saying we are the devils! I had to come to straighten things out.”

“Pardon me for being blunt, Mr. Harris, but how could you have funded it sight unseen?” She felt a pang of guilt as she said this, since Harris hadn't seen Missing till now. “If I recall, I wrote to say that it was unwise.”

“It's my fault,” Harris said, wringing his hands. “I prevailed on my church steering committee … I haven't told them yet,” Harris said, almost in a whisper. Clearing his throat and finding his voice he added, “My intentions …, I hope the committee will understand, were good. We … I hoped to bring knowledge of the Redeemer to those who do not have it.”