On Saturday I emerged from the subway and I saw Thomas Stone at a distance standing outside the Meskerem in Greenwich Village. Though hed been in America more than twenty years, he looked out of place. He had no interest in the menu displayed outside, and he did not notice the students pouring out from a New York University building, instrument cases in their hands, their hair, clothing, and multiple ear piercings setting them apart from other pedestrians. When he saw me he was visibly relieved.
Meskerem was small, with dark red curtains and walls that recalled the inside of a chikka hut. The aroma of coffee beans roasted over charcoal and the peppery smell of berbere made it feel a world away from Manhattan. We sat on rough-hewn, three-legged wooden stools, low to the ground, with a woven basket table between us. A long mirror behind Thomas Stone allowed me to see both the back of his head and people entering or leaving the restaurant. The posters thumbtacked to the walls showed the castles of Gondar, a portrait of a smiling Tigre woman with strong perfect teeth, a close-up of the wrinkled face of an Ethiopian priest, and an aerial view of Churchill Road, each with the same caption: THIRTEEN MONTHS OF SUNSHINE. Every Ethiopian restaurant I subsequently visited in America relied heavily on the same Ethiopian Airlines calendar for decor.
The waitress, a short, bright-eyed Amhara, brought us menus. Her name was Anna. She almost dropped her pencil when I said in Amharic that I'd brought my own knife and I was so hungry that if she pointed me to where the cow was tethered, I'd get started. When she brought our food out on a circular tray, Thomas Stone looked surprised, as if he'd forgotten that we would eat with our fingers off a common plate. To his dismay, Anna (who hailed from the neighborhood of Kebena in Addis, not that far away from Missing) gave me gursha—she tore off a piece of injera, dipped it in curry, and fed me with her fingers. Thomas Stone hastily rose and asked for the restroom, lest she turn to him.
“Blessed St. Gabriel,” Anna said, watching him leave. “I scared your friend with our habesha customs.”
“He should know. He lived in Addis for seven years.”
“No! Really?”
“Please don't take offense.”
“It's nothing,” she said, smiling. “I know that type of ferengl. Spend years there, but they look through us. But don't worry. You make up for it, and you're better looking.”
I could have taken up for him. I could have said he was my father. I smiled. I'm sure I blushed. I said nothing.
When Thomas Stone returned, he made a halfhearted effort to eat. Inevitably, one of the songs that cycled through the ceiling speakers was “Tizita.” I studied his face to see if it meant anything to him. It didn't.
The mark of a native is that your fingers are never stained by the curry; you use the injera as your tongs, as a barrier, while you pick up a piece of chicken or beef sopped in the sauce. Thomas Stone's nails were red.
Tilahoun singing “Tizita,” the cocoonlike atmosphere, and the frank incense brought memories bubbling to the surface. I thought of mornings at Missing and how the mist had body and weight as if it were a third element after earth and sky, but then it vanished when the sun was high; I remembered Rosina's songs, Gebrew's chants, and Almaz's magical teat; I recalled the sight of a younger Hema and Ghosh leaving for work, as we waved through the kitchen window; I could see those halcyon days, shiny like a new coin, glinting in sunlight.
“Do you plan to finish your next four years of residency at Our Lady?” Thomas Stone said, abruptly, breaking into my reverie. “If you were interested in moving to Boston …” So much for his perceptiveness. Just when I was ready to talk about the past, he wanted to know about my future.
“I don't want to leave Our Lady. The hospital is my Missing equivalent. I never wanted to leave Missing or Addis, but I had to. Now I don't want to leave Our Lady.”
Any other man would have asked me why I had to leave Missing. That was my fault—had he posed the question, I might not have answered. And perhaps he knew that.
As she cleared our plates, Anna said to Thomas Stone in English, “How did you like the food?”
“It was good,” he said, barely glancing at her. He reddened as she and I studied him. “Thank you,” he added, as if he hoped that would help get rid of her. She took two packaged towelettes out from her apron pocket and put them on the table.
I said to Anna, “Honestly, it was good, but you could make the wot hotter.”
“Of course we can,” she said in Amharic, a little taken aback by the implied criticism. “But then people like him won't be able to touch the food. Also we use local butter, so even if we make it hotter, it won't taste the same as home. Only someone like you would know the difference.”
“You mean there is no place to get real habesha food? The real thing? With all these Ethiopians in New York?”
She shook her head. “Not here. If you ever visit Boston, go see the Queen of Sheba. She's in Roxbury She is famous. The house is like our embassy. Upstairs, in one room, they sell groceries, and downstairs they serve home food. Cooked with true Ethiopian butter. The Ethiopian Airlines crew bring it just for her. All the Ethiopian taxi drivers eat there. You won't see anybody but Ethiopians there.”
THOMAS STONE HAD WATCHED this exchange, his face blank. When Anna left, he reached into his pocket. I thought he was reaching for his billfold. Instead, he pulled out the bookmark I had left in his room, the one on which Sister Mary Joseph Praise had written her note to him.
I dried my hands carefully and took it from him. I realized that I had missed it; it felt as if it shouldn't be here on a basket table but in a bank vault. It had been my talisman on a harrowing journey, an escape from Ethiopia which he knew nothing about. I read her last lines—”Also, I am enclosing a letter to you from me. Please read at once. SMJP”—and then I looked up.
Thomas Stone fidgeted in his seat. He swallowed hard, leaning on the basket table.
“Marion. This bookmark … was in the textbook, I presume?”
“Yes, it was. I have the textbook.”
He grew stiff, his hands trapped under his thighs as if an electric current were running through him. “Would you … Can I ask if … Do you have … Was there a letter?”
He looked helpless, sitting so low to the ground, like a parent visiting kindergarten, his knees under his chin.
“I thought you had the letter,” I said.
“No!” he said, so emphatically that Anna looked over at us.
“I'm sorry,” I said, though I wasn't sure what I was sorry for. “I assumed that you took the letter when you left. That you left the book with the bookmark in it.”
His face, so expectant a moment ago, collapsed.
“I took almost nothing,” he said. “I walked out of Missing with the clothes I had on and one or two things from the office. I never went back.”
“I know,” I said.
He cringed when I said those words. No wonder he was reluctant to probe my past. No blade can puncture the human heart like the well-chosen words of a spiteful son. But did he really think of me this way? As a son? “But you took the finger with you?” I went on.
“Yes … that's all I took. It was in her room. I went back there.” He looked up.
I said, “I'm sorry. I wish I had the letter.”
“And the bookmark?” he said. “How did you get it?”
I sighed. Anna served us coffee. The small cup with no handle felt inadequate for my task of trying to cover a lifetime for this man. “I had to leave Ethiopia in haste. The authorities were looking for me … It's a long story. They thought I was involved in the hijacking of an Ethiopian Airlines plane. They thought I was a sympathizer for the Eritrean cause. Ridiculous, right? You remember your maid, Rosina? One of the hijackers was Rosina's daughter, Genet. Rosina is dead, by the way. Hanged herself.”