Cutting for Stone - Abraham Verghese [110]
A crackly Chinese station faded in and out, a woman's voice with sounds no throat should be able to produce. I thought it was funny, but Genet didn't smile.
“Marion? Will you play blind man's buff with me?” She asked in a sweet, gentle way. “Just one more time?”
I groaned.
“Please?”
The urgency in her voice surprised me. As if her future depended on this.
“Did you come back just for that reason? Shiva's already in bed.”
She was silent, considering this, and then she said, “How about just you and me. Please, Marion?”
I was never good at saying no to Genet. I didn't think she would have any better luck finding me this time around than before. It would only make her more depressed. But if that was what she wanted …
OUTSIDE, the rain had scrubbed the sky free of stars; the black night leaked through the shutters into the house and under my blindfold.
“I've changed my mind,” I said into the void.
She ignored me, tying a second knot to secure the blindfold. For good measure, she put an empty rice-flour sack over my head, rolling up the edges to leave my mouth uncovered.
“Did you hear me?” I said. “I don't want to do this, I never agreed to this.”
“You cheated? You admit it?” The voice did not even sound like hers.
“I won't admit what is not true,” I said.
A gust of wind rattled the windows. It was the bungalow's way of clearing its throat, warning us to cinch up for more rain.
She disappeared again, and when she returned I felt my hands being strapped against my sides with a piece of leather—Ghosh's belt. “That's so you won't remove the blindfold.”
Now she grabbed me by my shoulders. She spun me around. Her hands were paddles, slapping my chest, my shoulders, turning me like a top. When I yelled for her to stop she added a few more turns.
“Count to twenty. And don't peek.”
I was still turning in that inner darkness, wondering why nausea had to be such a firm companion of vertigo. I crashed into something. A hard edge. The sofa. It caught me in the ribs, but it did keep me from falling. This wasn't fair, tying my hands, messing with my balance … She'd tricked me. If she wanted to disorient me, it had worked. “Cheater!” I yelled. “If you want to win so bad, just say you won, okay?”
A sharp sound on the tin roof made me jump. An acorn? I waited, but it didn't rattle down the slope. A thief checking to see if anyone was home? With my hands bound, I was doubly helpless. I sneezed. I waited for the second sneeze—they always came in twos. But not tonight. I cursed the musty sack.
“Screw your courage to the sticking place!” I shouted. I had no idea what that meant, but Ghosh said it a lot. It sounded vulgar and defiant, a good thing to repeat when you needed courage. My heart hammered in my chest. I needed courage.
The scent I had to follow wasn't as distinct as it had been in the morning. Not being able to reach in front of me and being saddled with a sack on my head were huge handicaps. “I'll find you,” I yelled, “but then never again.”
In the dining room, using my foot, I traced the sideboard, saying “Screw your courage to the sticking place” as my mantra. From there I went on down the corridor leading to the bedrooms.
I knew the spots where the narrow floorboards squeaked. There were many nights I'd stood outside Ghosh and Hema's room, listening, particularly when they seemed to be arguing. With them what you thought was a squabble could be just the opposite. I once heard Hema speak of me as “His father's son. Stubborn to a fault,” and then she laughed. I was shocked. I didn't think of myself as stubborn, and I had no idea that I might be anything like the man I sometimes fantasized might come through the front gate. Hema never mentioned his name, and her tone of voice when she compared me to him suggested faint praise. Another night I overheard Hema say, “Where? Exactly where? Under what circumstance? Don't you think we could have looked