Cutting for Stone - Abraham Verghese [121]
“Does he want to be Emperor?” I asked.
Ghosh shook his head. “No, I don't think that's it at all. What he wants is for the poor to have food, to have land. That means taking it from the royals and from the Church.”
“So is this a good thing he is doing, or a bad thing?” Shiva asked, looking up from the book he had brought to the table. That was Shiva: he hated ambiguity, and he wanted things cut and dried. Often when Shiva asked such a question, it was because he didn't see what was obvious to me. But in this case, it was a good question, one that I wanted to ask, too. “Isn't the Imperial Bodyguard supposed to defend the Emperor?” Shiva added.
Ghosh winced, as if Shiva's query hurt.
“This isn't my country, so who am I to judge? Mebratu has a good life. He didn't have to do this. I do think he's doing this for the people. Long ago he was under great suspicion, then he was the favorite son, and recently he was under suspicion again, and he felt he might be arrested very soon anyway.”
Ghosh said that, as he left the Crown Prince's palace, Zemui had walked Ghosh to his car and given Ghosh something to give to Genet. It was the gold pendant Darwin Easton had taken off his own neck and given to Zemui—the St. Bridget's cross. He'd asked Ghosh to convey his love to her and to Rosina.
After Hema dressed, she and Ghosh left for the hospital. “Stay close to home, boys. You hear?” We were not to leave Missing property, no matter what.
I went to the gate. I met just three patients coming up the hill. No car or bus passed by Missing. I stood with Gebrew, staring out. The silence was eerie, not even the clip-clop of horseshoes or the jingle of harness bells to break the stillness. “When the four-legged taxis stay in their stables, you know things are serious,” Gebrew said.
There were bars, a tailor's shop, and a radio repair shop in the two cinder-block buildings across from us; but there was no sign of life. Ignoring Hema and Ghosh's warnings, and over Gebrew's protests, I crossed the road to the tiny Arab souk, a plywood structure painted canary yellow that sat between the larger buildings. The window through which the souk usually conducted business was shuttered, but a child emerged through the door, which was barely cracked open, carrying a cone-shaped package made out of newspaper and wrapped in twine. Probably ten cents’ worth of sugar for the morning tea. I slipped in. The air inside was thick with incense. If I leaned over the counter I could touch the back wall. The Arab souks all over Addis were like this, as if theyd come from the same womb. Dangling down from the ceiling, on clothespins attached to a string, were single-use packets of Tide, Bayer aspirin, Chiclets, and paracetamol. They twirled like party decorations. A meat hook hanging from the rafters held squares of newspaper, ready to use as wrapping. A roll of twine hung on another hook. Loose cigarettes sat in a jar on top of the counter, unopened cigarette packs stacked next to them. The shelves were stuffed with matchboxes, bottled sodas, Bic pens, pencil sharpeners, Vicks, Nivea Creme, notebooks, erasers, ink, candles, batteries, Coca-Cola, Fanta, Pepsi, sugar, tea, rice, bread, cooking oil, and much more. Mason jars full of caramela and cookies flanked the counter, leaving an opening in the middle over which I leaned. I saw Ali Osman, lace cap glued to his head, seated on the mat along with his wife, infant daughter, and two men. The floor space was hardly big enough for Ali and his family to sleep spooned against one another, knees bent, and now he had visitors. They sat around a pile of khat.
Ali was worried. “Marion, times like this are when foreigners like us can suffer,” he said. It was strange to hear him use the word ferengi to describe himself, or me, because we were both born in this land.
I crossed back over to Gebrew and shared with him some stick candy I had bought.
Suddenly Rosina walked right past us. “Look after Genet,” she called over her shoulder. I didn't know whether