Cutting for Stone - Abraham Verghese [147]
“We have the same mother,” the officer said, with a wry smile. “It's true, he looks like me. What was he wearing?”
“Just the army jacket. No shirt. A white singlet underneath. Boots, trousers,” Rosina said.
“Did he look all right to you?”
“He had his gun tucked here,” she said, pointing to her midriff, “instead of in his …”
“Holster?” the brother offered.
“Yes. And he looked … his eyes red. He looked as if he might be …”
“Drunk?” the brother said softly. “Did you ask him why he wanted the motorcycle?”
“Please, sir. He had that gun,” she said. “He seemed very angry. He had the key.”
“What did he say to you?”
“He … said many things. He said he's taking the motorcycle. I said nothing.” She'd departed from the script we had rehearsed, but it seemed to be working.
“Why? What has happened? What happened to the motorcycle?” Shiva said in English, his deadpan expression revealing nothing. I was astonished at Shiva's nerve.
“Well, that's what I don't know,” the officer said. His English was excellent and his manner softened. “He wasn't supposed to take the motorcycle. The army wouldn't have let him keep it, anyway” He paused as if considering whether to say more. When he continued, it was to Ghosh and Hema that he directed his remarks. “He hasn't been seen since he came here. I'm posted in Dire Dawa, and I only found out he was AWOL two weeks ago. He told a woman he kept that he was going to pick up a motorcycle.” He turned to me and Shiva. “So you saw him drive away?”
“I heard the sound,” I said.
He nodded. “Doctor, do you mind if I take a quick look around …”
“By all means,” Ghosh said.
I felt the sky pressing down on me as the officer and his driver went to the back of the house, and then walked down the gravel driveway. Had we come this far, with Ghosh free, only to have the army man send us back to hell? Genet glared at me, while Rosina squatted, applying a eucalyptus stick to her teeth. The two men walked to the ledge, then turned in the direction of the roundabout and disappeared from view. If on their return they went to the toolshed, we were doomed. The motorcycle was well hidden, but not to one who was intent on finding it.
After an eternity they returned.
“Thank you, Doctor,” the officer said, extending his hand to Ghosh. “I fear the worst. The day the Emperor returned, some of our soldiers got their hands on a lot of money. My brother had something to do with that. It's perhaps a good thing he disappeared.”
Once the jeep was out of sight, Ghosh studied us for a moment. He sensed something amiss, but he didn't ask any questions. When Hema and Ghosh stepped back inside, I went to the corner of the house and I threw up. Genet and Shiva followed me. I waved them off. The gastrointestinal system has its own brain, its own conscience.
Inside the tent the folding chairs wobbled on the soft grass. Soon the tables sagged with beakers of tej and plates of food. The kitfo—coarsely ground raw meat mixed with kibe (a spiced and clarified butter)—was my favorite dish. We never served this at home, but from the time I was a baby, I'd eaten kitfo in Rosina's quarters, or in Gebrew's shack. On this day I had no appetite. The injera was stacked on the table like napkins. The gored-gored was the dish everyone went after: cubes of raw meat, which you dipped in a fiery red pepper sauce. The dishes kept coming: meatballs, meat curry, lentil curry, tongue, and kidney. What had been grazing under a tree that morning had, in short order, reached the table.
Ghosh sat on a dais in an armchair. One by one the nurses, nursing students, and the other Missing employees came to shake his hand and to praise the saints for allowing him to survive his ordeal.
Rosina didn't come out, but I found Genet in a corner of the tent. I sat by her. Dressed in black, pushing food around on her plate, she looked like a dour and distant cousin of the Genet I knew—shed hardly left the house since Zemui's death.