“I worked hard here, Marion. Quick-Mart—often I did two shifts. Then five nights I worked at a parking garage. I saved and saved. I became the first Ethiopian woman to drive a taxi in Boston. I learned the city. I found work for Ethiopians. Stock boy, parking attendant, taxi driver, or counter girl at the hotel gift shop. I lent money on interest to Ethiopians. Tayitu used to work for me in the bar, so when she came, I rented this house. She cooked. Then I bought the house. Now, my God, there is much to be done: grind tef, make injera, clean chicken, make wot, sweep the house. It takes three or four people. Ethiopians arrive at my door like newborn lambs, everything they have tied up in bedsheets, their X-rays still in their hands. I try to help them.”
“You really are the Queen of Sheba.”
There was an impish grin on her face. She switched to English, a language I had never heard her speak. “Marion, you know what I had to do to feed my baby in Addis. Then in Sudan, I was even lower than that— I was no better than a bariya,” she said, using the slang word for “slave.” “In America they said you can be anything. I believed it. I worked hard. So when they say, ‘Queen of Sheba,’ I think to myself, Yes, from bariya to queen.”
I told Tsige about seeing her on the day I left Addis so hastily, seeing her getting out of her Fiat 850. “Today, what do I see before I see your face? Your beautiful leg getting out of a car. The last glimpse of you in Addis was also your beautiful leg coming out of a car. I wanted to say good-bye to you then. But I couldn't.”
She laughed, and self-consciously pulled her skirt down. “I knew you disappeared right after Genet,” Tsige said. “No one knew if you were part of the hijacking.”
“Really? People thought I was an Eritrean guerrilla?”
She shrugged. “I didn't think you had anything to do with it. But when I saw Genet, she never said anything one way or the other.”
I was puzzled. “How could you have seen Genet? She left the same day I left. That's why I had to go—did you see her in Khartoum?”
“No, Marion. I saw her here.”
“You saw Genet in America?”
“I saw her here. In this house … Oh my God. You didn't know?”
I felt the air leave my lungs. A sinkhole opened up under me. “Genet? Isn't she still fighting with the Eritreans?”
“No, no, no. That girl came here as a refugee, just like the rest of us. Someone brought her here. She had her baby in her arms. She acted as if she didn't recognize me at first. I had to remind her.” Tsige s face turned hard. “You know, Marion, once we come here, we are all the same. Eritrean, Amhara, Oromo, big shot, bariya, whatever status you had in Addis it means nothing. In America you begin at zero. The ones who do the best here are those who were zero there. But Genet came here thinking she was special, not like the rest of us—”
“When was this?”
“Two, maybe three years ago. She said she'd lost touch with you. She didn't know where you went. She acted as if she didn't know you had escaped from Addis.”
“What? She was lying,” I said. “It was the Eritreans who helped me escape. She was their star … their big heroine. She must have known.”
“Maybe she didn't trust me, Marion. I never knew her the way I knew you, never exchanged two words with her. People change, you know. When you leave your country, you are like a plant taken out of soil. Some people turn hard, they can't flower again. I remember she told me she got sick in the field. She got sick of the fighting, too, I think. She had the baby. Some women she knew in New York had a job for her and offered to help take care of the baby boy. So I didn't really have to do anything for her.”
“My God,” I said, sinking back into the sofa. I was glad I didn't know of this before, glad I didn't know she was in New York. “Is she still there?”
“No.” Tsige hesitated, as if she wasn't sure whether to tell me the rest. “There were lots of rumors. What I heard is … she met a man and they got married. Something happened. She almost killed him. I don't know exactly why or how. All I know is that she's in prison. Her baby was given up for adoption …” Tsige saw the shock on my face. “I'm sorry. I thought you knew all this … I could find out if she is still in jail.”
“No!” I shook my head. “You don't understand. I don't want to ever see her again,” I said. I don't want to see her other than to spit in her face, I thought.
“But she was your own sister.”
“No! Don't say that,” I said sharply.
We sat there in silence. If Tsige found my reaction unexpected, I couldn't blame her. I had to wait a few minutes for the turmoil in me to subside.
“Tsige,” I said, at last, reaching for her hand. “I'm sorry. I must explain. You see, Genet was not my sister. She was the love of my life.”
Tsige was shocked. “You were in love with your own sister?”
“She's not my sister!”
“I am sorry. Of course.”
“What does it matter, Tsige? If she was my sister or not my sister, either way I was in love with her. I couldn't change what I felt for her. We were going to marry after we finished medical school …”
“What happened?”
“My own brother betrayed me. She betrayed me.” This was so hard to say. “They were pillows for each other,” I said, using an Amharic expression.
I realized Id just told Tsige what I'd never told anyone else, not even Hema. I'd come close to telling Thomas Stone in the restaurant, but I hadn't. There was such relief now in the telling. I left nothing out—my being falsely accused, Genet's genital mutilation, Rosina's death, Hema's suspicion that I was responsible. In six years at Our Lady of Perpetual Succour, with all the close friends I had made—Deepak, B.C., various medical students—not one of them had I told this tale.
Tsige s hand was over her mouth, her eyes showing her astonishment and empathy. After a while, she put her hand down and shook her head sadly. “Your brother wanted to sleep with me,” Tsige said. She grinned when she saw my jaw drop. “Oh, yes. You both were young then, fourteen or fifteen. Not too young, though. Shiva was so direct. ‘How much to sleep with you?’ “
She laughed at the audacity of this, gazing out of the window, her mind conjuring up that faraway time.
“Did he?” I said at last, my throat so dry that the words could have set fire to the tejin my stomach. She had no idea how important her answer was to me.
“Did he what?”
“Sleep with you?”
“Oh, you sweet thing. No!” She pinched my cheek. “You should see your expression. No, no.” I let out the breath I had been holding. “Don't you know that if it had been you, it would have been different? If you'd ever asked … I owe you, Marion. I still owe you.”
I was sure I was blushing. As quickly as Genet had appeared in my head, she had disappeared. “You don't owe me anything, Tsige. And I'm sorry, I never should've asked you that—it's personal, your business.”
“Marion, you must have lots of girlfriends. A surgeon in New York! How many nurses share your pillow, eh? Where are you going? Why are you standing? What's the matter?”
“Tsige, it is late, I'd better—”
She pulled me firmly down, so that I landed almost on top of her. She held me. The scent of her body and of her perfume had shot up my nostrils. My eyes were on her throat, her chin, her bosom. I had thought of her many a night in the house-staff quarters at Our Lady of Perpetual Succour, never imagining that I might really touch her. I was a board-certified general surgeon, but now I felt like a pimply adolescent.