Cutting for Stone - Abraham Verghese [200]
He took off with my suitcase and I followed. “But …,” I said, juggling the stuff in my hands to reach for the letter in my coat pocket. I showed it to him. “I don't want to mislead you. I am only here for my interview with Dr. Abramovitz.”
“Popsy?” He chuckled. “Naw! Popsy don't interview no one. You see the signature?” He tapped on my letter as if it were a piece of wood. “That's really Sister Magda's writing.” He looked back at me and grinned. “Interview? Forget about it. Taxi was prepaid. Cost you an arm and a leg otherwise. You're hired. I gave you the contract, didn't I? Yerhired!”
I didn't know what to say. It was Mr. Eli Harris of the Houston Baptists who suggested I apply to specific hospitals in New York and New Jersey for an internship in surgery. Eli Harris clearly knew what he was doing, because as soon as I applied, a telegram had arrived in Nairobi from Popsy (or perhaps it was from Sister Magda) inviting me to interview. A letter and brochure followed. Every hospital Harris suggested had also replied promptly, within a few days.
“Mr. Pomeranz. Are you sure I am hired? Your internship must be competitive. Surely many American medical students apply to be interns here?”
Louis stopped in his tracks to look at me. He laughed. “Ha! That's a good one, Doc. American medical students? I wouldn't know what they look like.”
We rounded a dry fountain, streaked with pigeon droppings. It resembled the magnificent one depicted in the brochure, but the bronze monsignor who was the centerpiece leaned precariously forward. The monsignor's features were worn down like the sphinx's. Also not in the brochure was the iron rod wedged between the rim of the fountain and the monsignor's waist to keep him from falling over. It looked as if the monsignor was using his blessedly long phallus for support.
“Mr. Pomeranz—”
“I know. It does look like his pecker,” he said, wheezing. “We're going to get around to it.”
“That wasn't what—”
“Call me Louis.”
“Louis … are you sure you have the right person? Marion? Marion Stone?”
He stopped. “Doc, take a look at the contract, wouldja?”
My name was on the top line.
“If that's who you are, that's who I was expecting.”
A thought clouded his face. “You passed your ECFMG, didn't ya?”
The exam of the ECFMG—Educational Commission for Foreign Medical Graduates—established that I had the knowledge and credentials to pursue postgraduate training in America.
“Yes, I passed.”
“So what gives? … Wait a minute. Wait just a minute. Don't tell me those bastards in Coney Island or Jersey got to you? Did they mail you a contract? Sons of bitches! I've been telling Sister Magda we should be doing that. Send out a contract sight unseen. The taxi was her idea, but it's not enough.” He came up close to me. “Doc, let me tell you about those places. They're terrible.” Louis was short of breath, his nostrils flaring. His rheumy eyes narrowed. “I'll tell you what,” he said. “Give you the corner room in the interns’ quarters. Has a small balcony. How's that?”
“No, no, you see—”
“Was it the Lincoln-Misericordia folks? Harlem? Newark? You shopping around to get the best deal?”
“No, I assure you—”
“Look, Doc, let's not play games. You just tell me yes or no, do you want an internship here?” His hands were on his hips, his chest heaving up and down.
“No, I mean yes … I do have interviews in other places … This is my first stop. But frankly … I thought it would be difficult to get an internship … Id love to … Yes!”
“Good! Then sign the bleeding contract, for the love of Mary, and I'm not even Catholic.”
I signed, standing by the fountain.
“Welcome to Our Lady, Doctor,” Louis said, relieved, grabbing the contract and shaking my hand. He gestured expansively at the buildings around us. “This is the only place I've worked. My first job when I left the service … and probably my last. I've seen docs like you come and go. Oh, yeah. From Bombay, Poona, Jaipur, Ahmedabad,