Cutting for Stone - Abraham Verghese [245]
I reread the Times article late that night. I felt a hollow sensation in my belly this time as I went through it again. The writer's unabashed admiration for Shiva came through, and one sensed she had abandoned her reserve, her usual dispassionate tone, because the man more than the subject so moved her. She ended with a quote from my brother: “What I do is simple. I repair holes,” said Shiva Praise Stone.
Yes, but you make them, too, Shiva.
I HAD MY OWN SUCCESS, albeit a quieter one: I passed the written exam of the American Board of Surgery. A few months after that, I was assigned to take my oral exams in Boston at the Copley Plaza Hotel. After a grueling hour and a half in front of two examiners, I was done. I knew I did well.
Outside, the day was glorious. The monolith of gray stone that was the Church of Christian Scientists stood serene at the end of a long reflecting pool and framed against a blue sky. For five years I had spent my nights and days in the hospital, not seeing the sky, not feeling the sun on my face. I felt the urge to wade through the water fully clothed, or to let out a victory whoop. I contented myself instead with an ice-cream cone, which I enjoyed while sitting by the reflecting pool.
I planned to head to the airport, take the shuttle back to New York. But seeing that my driver was so obviously Ethiopian, and having greeted him in our language, I had another idea. Yes, of course he knew the Queen of Sheba's in Roxbury, and it would be an honor for him to take me there.
“My name is Mesfin,” he said, grinning at me in the rearview mirror. “Who are you? What do you do?”
“My name is Stone,” I said, putting my seat belt on, although I wasn't worried; nothing bad could happen to me on this day. “I'm a surgeon.”
CHAPTER 49
Queen's Move
THE STREET HAD A JUNKYARD at the corner with high walls and barbed wire so reminiscent of Kerchele Prison. A massive dog, chained and asleep, was visible through the gate. Then came a string of vacant lots where ashes and soot outlined whatever had stood there. Mesfin seemed to be pointing the cab to the sole house at the end of the street that survived the blight that had felled the others. Its driveway began in the middle of the road, as if the paving machine had run out of asphalt when it got this far and so the owner took things into her own hands. The split-level house had yellow shingles. The steps, the railings, the pillars, the doors, the decks, and even the drains were painted the same canary yellow. A column of (unpainted) wheel hubs shored up a corner of the sagging front veranda. There were four taxis parked outside, all yellow.
The smell of fermenting honey elicited a Pavlovian response from my taste buds. A dour Somali met us at the door and led us to a dining room six steps down from the front landing. We found a half-dozen men eating at the picnic tables and benches, with room for a dozen more. The wooden floor was strewn with freshly cut grass, just as it would have been if this were a home or restaurant in Addis.
We washed our hands and took our seats, and at once a buxom woman arrived, bowing, wishing us good health, and placing water and two small flasks of golden yellow tej before us. The cornea of her left eye was milky white. Mesfin said her name was Tayitu. Behind her, a younger woman brought a tray of injera, on which were generous servings of lamb, lentils, and chicken.
“You see?” Mesfin said, looking at his watch. “I can eat here quicker than I can pump gas in my car. It's cheaper, too.” I ate as if I had lived through a famine. The waitress in New York who first told me about the Queen of Sheba's had been right. This was the real thing.
Later,