Cutting for Stone - Abraham Verghese [81]
Harris had turned red. He looked around as if for a place to hide. But he wasn't completely done. Men like him became stubborn with opposition, because their convictions were all they had.
“It's actually Houston, not Dallas,” he said softly. “But, Matron, the priesthood here is almost illiterate—Gebrew, your watchman, doesn't understand the litany that he recites because it is in Geez, which no one speaks. If he holds to the Monophysite doctrine that Christ had only a divine nature, not a human one, then—”
“Stop! Mr. Harris, do stop,” Matron said, covering her ears. “Oh, how you vex me.” She came around the table, and Harris drew back as if he worried that she might box his ears. But Matron walked to the window.
“When you look around Addis and see children barefoot and shivering in the rain, when you see the lepers begging for their next morsel, does any of that Monophysitic nonsense matter the least bit?”
Matron leaned her head on the windowpane.
“God will judge us, Mr. Harris, by”—her voice broke as she thought of Sister Mary Joseph Praise—”by what we did to relieve the suffering of our fellow human beings. I don't think God cares what doctrine we embrace.”
The sight of that plain, weathered face pressed against the glass, the wet cheeks, the interlocking fingers … it was for Harris more powerful than anything she had said. Here was a woman who could give up the restrictions of her order when it stood in the way. From her lips had come the kind of fundamental truth which, because of its simplicity, was unspoken in a church like Harris's where internecine squabbling seemed to be the purpose for the committee's existence, as well as a manifestation of faith. It was a small blessing that an ocean separated the doers like Matron from their patrons, because if they rubbed shoulders they'd make each other very uncomfortable.
Harris stared at the stack of Bibles by the wall. He hadn't seen them when he first walked in.
“We have more English Bibles than there are English speaking people in the entire country.” Matron had turned from the window and followed his gaze. “Polish Bibles, Czech Bibles, Italian Bibles, French Bibles, Swedish Bibles. I think some are from your Sunday-school children. We need medicine and food. But we get Bibles.” Matron smiled. “I always wondered if the good people who send us Bibles really think that hookworm and hunger are healed by scripture? Our patients are illiterate.”
“I am embarrassed,” Harris said.
“No, no, no. Please! People here love these Bibles. They're the most valuable thing a family can possess. Do you know what Emperor Mene-lik, who ruled before Haile Selassie, did when he fell ill? He ate pages of the Bible. I don't think it helped. This is a land where paper—worketu— is much valued. Did you know that among the poor, marriage consists simply of writing two names on a piece of paper? And to divorce, why you just tear up the paper. Priests will give out pieces of paper with verses on them. The paper is folded over again and again until it is a tiny square and then these are wrapped in leather and worn around the neck.
“I was happy to give away Bibles. But the Interior Minister saw it as proselytizing. ‘How can it be proselytizing when no one can read? Besides it is the same faith as yours,’ I said. But the minister disagreed. So now the Bibles pile up, Mr. Harris. They breed in the toolshed like rabbits. They spill over into our storerooms and into my office. We use them as support for bookshelves. Or to paper the walls of the chikka huts. Anything at all, really!”
She walked over to the door and beckoned him to join her outside. “Let's take a walk,” she said. “Look,” Matron said when they were in the hallway, pointing to a sign above a door: OPERATING