Abraham Verghese - Cutting for Stone

“The devil! You cut me, you gap-toothed bitch.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Genet moving. I knew that look on her face so well. She flew at him. He raised his foot, caught her in the chest, and pushed her off before she could get near him. He pulled out his gun again, cocked it, pointed it at Rosina. “Do it again, bastard child, and I'll kill your mother. Do you understand? Do you want to be an orphan? And you two,” he said, addressing us, “stay out of my way. I could kill the lot of you right now and I'd get a medal.”

We all recognized the plastic key chain that he pulled from his pocket. It was in the shape of the Congo. There was only one like it in our world, and it belonged to Zemui.

In getting the motorcycle off its stand, he almost fell over. After straddling the bike, he looked around for the lever and, finding it, he tried to kick-start the engine, but the bike was in gear, and so it lurched forward, almost toppling him again. When he got his balance, he looked to see if we'd noticed.

He tromped on the pedal, trying to find neutral. It was such a contrast to Zemui, who merely toed the lever and who handled the BMW as if it were featherlight. Zemui would prime the cylinders with a slow-motion stroke, followed by a brisk kick, and the motor would chug into life. Thinking of Zemui, who'd fought to the death rather than surrender, I felt ashamed. It made me want to act in a manner befitting the bike's true owner. I squeezed Shiva's hand. ShivaMarion was on the same page, I could tell, because he squeezed back.

The soldier flailed at the kick-start lever, as if he were stomping an enemy, his face getting flushed, sweat pouring off his brow. I smelled gas. He'd flooded the carburetor.

It was a cool day, the sun filtering through a few clouds and glinting off the chrome of the motorcycle. He paused to get his breath, then took off his jacket, slung it on the seat behind him. He shook out the hand with the bloody knuckle. He was a scrawny, thin fellow, I saw. Annoyed and humiliated by the engine resisting him, his lips drew back in a snarl. His frustration was dangerous.

“Let us push it for you. You flooded the engine and that's the only way to start it now.” This from Shiva.

“When you get to the bottom of the hill, just put it in first gear,” I said. “It'll start right away.”

He looked over, surprised, as if he didn't know we were capable of speech, let alone in his mother tongue.

“Is that how he started it?”

He never ever flooded it, I wanted to say.

“Every time,” I said. “Especially if he hadn't started it for a while.”

He frowned. “Okay, you two help me push the motorcycle.” He shoved his gun deeper into his waistband, behind his belt buckle. He tucked the jacket that he had thrown over the seat under his buttocks.

From the top of our driveway, the gravel road leading down to Casualty started off flat and then descended and seemed to disappear over a ledge, beyond which one could see the lower branches of trees that were just within the perimeter wall. Only when you were halfway down did you see how the road turned sharply, well before the ledge, and then went on to the roundabout near Casualty.

“Push!” he said. “Push, you bastards.”

We did, and he helped by leaning forward and walking the machine. Soon he was rolling, licking his lips, happy. The bike weaved and the handlebars made wide excursions.

“Steady!” I called. ShivaMarion was pushing in unison, a three-legged trot that soon became a four-legged sprint.

“No problem,” he shouted, putting his feet on the pedals. “Push!”

We gathered speed on the down slope now.

“Open the gas cock! Open the valve,” Shiva called out.

“What? Oh, yes,” he said and he took his right hand off the handlebars to feel for the petcock under the tank, precious seconds ticking away.

“It's on the other side!” I shouted.

He switched hands. He'd never find it and it didn't matter because there was enough fuel in the carburetor to take him at least a mile.

The bike was traveling at speed now, springs squeaking and mudguards rattling, its weight accelerating it down the hill, aided by our efforts. He'd taken his eyes off the road to find the petcock. By the time he looked up, ShivaMarion was running as fast as it could, adding every ounce of thrust possible to his progress. I saw his white-knuckled grip on the throttle, while his left hand was undecided whether to continue its search or return to the handlebars.

“Put it in gear, quick,” I shouted, giving the bike a last desperate push.

“Full gas!” Shiva yelled.

He was slow in responding, first twisting the throttle all the way, then glancing down to stamp on the gear lever. For a heart-stopping moment when it slipped into first, the bike seized, the back wheel locking, we had failed …

And just when I thought that, the engine sputtered and roared to life, revving to its red line with a vengeance, as if it were saying, I'll take it from here, boys. It surged forward, the back tire spitting gravel at us, nearly throwing the rider off, which only made him cling harder, squeezing the throttle in a death grip instead of letting go.

A howl emerged as he saw what was ahead. He had only a few feet and a few seconds to negotiate the turn before the ledge. It is an axiom of motorcycling that you must always look in the direction you want to go and never at what you are trying to avoid. His gaze, I was sure, was fixed on the approaching precipice. The BMW roared ahead, still accelerating. I raced after him.

The front wheel hit the concrete curb at the ledge and stopped. The back wheel flew up in the air; but for the weight of that big engine, the motorcycle would have somersaulted over. Instead it was the rider who sailed past the handlebars, his howl now a scream. He flew in an arc, shooting over the ledge and then falling until his motion was arrested by a tree trunk. I heard a whump, an involuntary grunt as the air in his lungs was evicted. His momentum snapped his neck forward and smashed his face into the tree. He tumbled down and rolled another ten feet.

The BMW, after standing on its nose, fell back to the ground and onto its side; the engine stalled but the back wheel kept spinning. I had never heard such silence.

I CLAMBERED DOWN. I got to him first. Id wanted this to happen, but now I felt terrible that it had. Amazingly, he was conscious, flat on his back, blinking, stunned, as blood trickled into his eyes and poured out of his nostrils and lips. There was no more army in him. His expression was that of a child whose reach had exceeded its grasp with disastrous results.

His foot lay twisted under him in a fashion that made me want to throw up. He moaned, clutching at his upper belly. His face was a bloody mess. It was a grotesque sight.

Neither his face nor his foot seemed to concern him as much as his belly. “Please,” he said. His breath was short and he clawed at his belt.

His eyes found me.

“Please. Get it out.”

For a moment Id forgotten what he had done to Zemui or Rosina and Genet, or what he'd done to Ghosh. All I could see was his suffering, and I felt pity.

I looked up to see Rosina, her lip swollen and split, a front tooth missing.

“Please …,” he said again, clutching at his chest. “Get this out. For the love of St. Gabriel, get this out.”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

He kept rooting ineffectively, desperately, at his belly, and now I could see why. The pistol butt was digging into him—it had just about disappeared under his ribs on the left side.

“Watch out!” Rosina yelled. “He's trying to get his gun.”

“No,” I tried to say, “the gun handle has smashed in his lower ribs.” I did hear myself say to him, “Hold on. I'll get it out!” I wrapped my hands around the handle of that gun and pulled with all my strength. He screamed. It would not budge. I changed my grip.