"My hands and arms ache, but I think it’s because I’m using them more," Emilio said, straightening. "Here’s the best part. Watch this."
Sandoz went to a big table meant for sorting and folding the laundry and bent to lay one forearm flat against it. He rocked the arm a little to the outside to activate a small switch and the brace popped open, hinged on the side opposite the thumb. He pulled his hand out and then managed to get it back into position without assistance, although it took a certain amount of frowning effort before he toggled the switch again and the brace reclosed.
"I can do it all by myself," Emilio said with a three-year-old’s lisp. He added in his own voice, "You cannot imagine what a difference that makes."
John beamed, pleased to see how happy the man seemed. Everyone had underestimated how depressing the hasta’akala had been, he guessed, probably even Sandoz himself. For the first time since being maimed, Emilio was finding new things he could do, instead of new things that were beyond him. As if reading John’s mind, Sandoz turned and, with a cocky grin, bent to lift the basket and stood there waiting for comment.
"Very impressive," John said. Sandoz lugged the basket to the screened door, which he pushed open with his back. John followed him out to the clothesline. "That’s got to be what? Seven or eight kilos, huh?"
"Better microgearing," Emilio told him and began hanging out the wash. It was slow going. He did okay, but the clothespins were apt to pop sideways out of his grip. "Miss Marino may need to add some friction pads on the thumb and forefinger," he said a little irritably the fourth time it happened.
This was the same man who’d put up with the old braces for months without complaint! It was nice to hear him ease up. There’s nothing wrong with this guy that a little honest bitching wouldn’t cure, John thought. It was a cheerful oversimplification, he knew, but it was just such a pleasure to see Sandoz do well. "This is going to sound dumb," John warned him, "but those’re actually very good looking."
"Italian design," Emilio said admiringly. He held one hand out in front of himself, like a bride gazing at her new ring, and said in an airy English accent, " ‘Next year, everyone will be wearing them.’ "
"Princess Bride!" John cried, identifying the quote immediately.
" ‘Ah, I see you’re using Bonetti’s defense against me,"’ said Emilio, this time in a bad Spanish accent.
"’Never go up against a Sicilian when death is on the line!’" John declared, sitting on the low stone wall that bordered the side yard. They traded lines from the movie for a while, until John leaned back, locking his hands around one knee, and said, "This is great, man. I never thought I’d see you doing so well."
Emilio stopped moving, sheet in hand, realizing with some shock that he was enjoying himself. It brought him up short. He hardly knew what to do with the sensation. There was an almost automatic response: an impulse to turn to God in gratitude. He fought it down, clinging stubbornly to the facts: he was doing laundry and riffing on Princess Bride with John Candotti and he was enjoying himself. That was all. Paola Marino was responsible, not God. And he had helped himself. When he’d realized what an improvement the new braces were, he’d asked to be assigned to the laundry. He needed to work at something, and this would be good mild exercise, he argued, natural therapy for his hands. He ate and slept better for it, got through the nights easier. And he was getting stronger. Sure, he had to stop every now and then, a little winded by the repetitive stooping and reaching overhead, but he was gaining on it—
John left his perch on the stones, disturbed as always by these sudden motionless trances. "Here. I’ll help you with this," he said genially, to break the silence, and picked up one of the sheets.
"No!"
John dropped the sheet and backed away.
Sandoz stood there a few moments, breathing hard. "Look. I’m sorry," he said. "I was startled, okay? I didn’t expect you to be standing so close. And I don’t want help! People keep trying to help! I’m sorry, but I hate it. If you would just do me the courtesy of letting me judge—" He turned away, exasperated and close to tears. Finally, he repeated more quietly, "I’m sorry. You put up with a lot of shit from me. I get confused, John. A lot of things get mixed up in this."
Embarrassed and ashamed of the outburst, Emilio turned and bent to the laundry basket, going back to work. After a few minutes, he said over his shoulder, "Don’t just stand there gawking. Give me a hand with this, will you?"
Eyes wide, John shook his head and blew out a breath, but he picked up a pillowcase and hung it on the line.
They finished that basketful in silence and went back into the basement gloom for another load of wash. Setting the basket down, Emilio waited until John joined him and then heaved a sigh, looking at the braces once again. "Yes, these are a great improvement but I still can’t play the violin …"
John was halfway through a sympathetic murmur when Emilio’s grin stopped him. "Shit," John laughed, and the tension between them evaporated. "I can’t believe I fell for that. You never played the violin, right?"
"Baseball, John. All I ever played was baseball." Emilio opened another washer and started dropping towels into the basket, feeling that he was back on top of things again. "Probably too old and beaten up to get around a diamond now anyway. But I had good hands once."
"What position did you play?" John asked.
"Second base, usually. Not enough arm to play outfield. I was pretty consistent at bat, mostly singles and doubles. I wasn’t that good but I loved it."
"The Father General claims he’s still got a bruise where you took his ankle out sliding in to steal third once. He says you were savage."
"This is slander!" Emilio cried. Indignant, he pushed his way out the door again and carried the basket to the line. "Serious, yes. Barbaric, quite possibly. But savage? Only if the score was close."
They worked their way through the basket together, listening to the late morning sounds, pots and pans banging in the kitchen nearby as Brother Cosimo started on lunch, and now the silence was companionable. "You follow baseball, John?" Emilio asked after a while, his voice coming through the rows of wet fabric.
"Cubs fan," John muttered. The Chicagoan’s curse.
Sandoz pushed a towel aside, eyes wide. "How bad?"
"Anybody can have a couple of lousy centuries."
"I guess. Wow." Sandoz let the towel fall back into place. There was a thoughtful silence. "Well, that explains why Giuliani brought you over." Suddenly John heard the Father General’s voice saying: "Voelker, I need someone to take care of a hopeless wreck coming back from Rakhat. Get me a Cubs fan!"
"You’re not hopeless, Emilio."
"John, I could tell you things about hopeless that even a Cubs fan wouldn’t understand."
"Try me."
When Sandoz spoke next from the other side of the laundry, it was to change the subject. "So. How’s San Juan doing this year?"
"Three games out of first. They took the Series in ’58," John said, pleased to be delivering good news. Emilio reappeared, smiling beatifically, nodded a couple of times and returned to his work, a contented man. John paused in his progress down the clothesline and looked at Sandoz through a gap in the sheets. "Do you know that this is the first time you’ve asked about current events? Listen, this has been driving me crazy! I mean, you’ve been gone since before I was born! Don’t you wonder how things turned out? What wars are over and who won and stuff like that? Technological revolutions, medical advances? Aren’t you even curious?"
Sandoz stared at him, open-mouthed. Finally, he dropped a towel into the basket and backed up a few steps to the stone wall, where he sat down, suddenly exhausted. He laughed a little and shook his head before looking up at John through the veil of black and silver hair that fell over his eyes. "My dear Father Candotti," he said wearily, "allow me to explain something. In the past fifteen years or so, I must have lived in what? Thirty different places? Four continents, two islands. Two planets! An asteroid! Seven or e
ight ecosystems, from desert to tundra. Dormitories, huts, caves, tents, shacks, hampiys … I have been required to function in over a dozen foreign languages, often three at a time. I have contended with thousands of strangers, in cultures involving three sentient species and perhaps twenty nationalities. I am sorry to disappoint you, but my capacity for curiosity is tapped out." Emilio sighed and put his head in his hands, careful not to tangle the joint mechanisms in his hair. "John, if I had my way, nothing new or interesting would happen to me ever again as long as I live. Laundry is just about my speed. No quick movements, no sudden noises, no intellectual demands."
"And no damned questions?" John suggested ruefully, sitting next to Sandoz on the wall.
"No damned questions," Emilio confirmed. He looked up, eyes on the rocky hills to the east. "And very little potential for death, destruction and degradation, my friend. I’ve had a couple of rough years."
It no longer came as a surprise to John Candotti that people found him easy to confess to. He was tolerant of human failings and it was rarely difficult for him to say, "Well, you screwed up. Everybody screws up. It’s okay." His greatest satisfaction as a priest was to grant absolution, to help people forgive themselves for not being perfect, make amends, and get on with life. This might be the opening, he thought. "Want to tell me about it?"
Sandoz stood and went back to his basket of towels. When it was empty he turned and saw that Candotti was still sitting there. "I can finish this myself," he said curtly and disappeared back into the basement.
VINCENZO GIULIANI WAS not idle during this time, nor did the Rakhat inquiry come to a halt. The Father General used the hiatus to rethink his strategies. The situation required a different tack and more sail, he decided, and called a meeting with Candotti, Behr, Reyes and Voelker. They were charged with two tasks during these hearings, he told them. One was institutional: to gather information about the mission itself and about Rakhat and its inhabitants. But the other was pastoral. A fellow priest had been through an extraordinary experience and needed help, whether he was willing to admit that or not.
"Upon much reflection," the Father General told them, "I have decided to release to you transcripts of the mission reports by Yarbrough and Robichaux, as well as certain private communications from them." He gave them the passwords necessary to unlock the files. "I am sure I don’t have to tell you that this information is confidential. You will find as you read that Emilio has been entirely forthcoming about the mission facts. I believe he means to cooperate fully with us in our first task. He will tell us what happened on Rakhat as long as it does not touch on his personal state of mind, past or present. Which brings us to our second task."
Giuliani rose. "It has become clear to me that there is some private theological aspect to Emilio’s emotional problems. I am, personally, convinced of the sincerity of his spiritual engagement at the beginning of the mission." Giuliani stopped pacing and came to rest directly across the table from Johannes Voelker. "I do not ask you to be credulous as you read the mission reports, but I ask you to accept as a working hypothesis the accuracy of the statements of his superiors on this subject." Voelker nodded noncommittally and Giuliani resumed his circuit of the room, coming to a halt by the windows. He pushed the gauzy curtain back and looked outside. "Something happened to him. It changed everything. Until we know what that was, we are sailing in the dark."
As the days went on, Giuliani observed and responded to the sea change in Sandoz himself. The man’s general health began to improve again, due to some lifting of the depression and to a set of newly implanted semipermeable rods that released steady doses of vitamins C and D as well as calcitonin derivatives and osteoclast inhibitors, directly into his bloodstream. The fatigue gradually lessened, although it was unclear if this was because he felt better and got more exercise or because his physiological status was becoming more normal. Certainly, he bruised less easily. The probability of spontaneous bone breakage began to recede.
On Brother Edward’s advice, Sandoz was given direct access to the drugs he used regularly: Prograine and dHE compounds for muscle aches, which were now more often from overuse, as he reclaimed ground, than from the lingering effects of scurvy. Edward felt Sandoz would use the medication responsibly and would feel freer to obtain relief if he didn’t have to ask anyone’s permission.
Then Sandoz asked about sleeping tablets. The Father General had decided to acquiesce to any reasonable request, but Emilio had mentioned suicide on several occasions and Giuliani could not risk being wrong on this. So he offered a compromise, which Sandoz refused: that he’d be allowed to use the drugs if someone witnessed him swallowing the pills. It was hard to know whether Emilio considered this too humiliating to be borne or only unacceptable because he’d hoped to stockpile the drugs against a future decision to take his own life.
In any case, Sandoz no longer permitted anyone into his room. He found and removed the monitor near his bed. The dreams and their sequelae were his own to manage in privacy. Maybe the sickness had stopped or maybe he had schooled himself to control even that, as he now controlled his hands and face and voice, and vomited in silence, sweating out the nights alone. The only indication that the dreams continued was the hour at which he rose in the morning. If things had gone well, he was up at dawn. If not, it might be ten o’clock before he appeared in the refectory for a small breakfast, which he now insisted on making himself. Brother Cosimo did not offer help after the first morning.
Felipe Reyes inquired about phantom limb syndrome and Sandoz stiffly admitted to this and asked if Reyes dealt with this kind of neuralgia himself. Felipe was fortunate not to, but he knew other amputees who did and he was aware of how bad it could be. For some, Felipe told Sandoz, the pain was unrelenting. This information clearly appalled Emilio, which gave Felipe a measure of the severity of the intermittent problem for Sandoz. Reyes suggested that Emilio simply call a halt to the hearings if he was in distress. A few days later Sandoz asked for and received assurance from the Father General that he could end the sessions at will, without stating any reason. It was, Emilio had evidently decided, preferable to continuing while distracted and taking a chance on the kind of breakdown he’d experienced on the day he broke the cup.
In private, Johannes Voelker was given to understand by the Father General that Sandoz was never again to be accused of malingering. Voelker agreed and admitted that it was not a productive attitude. The others were told as well: when Sandoz balked, no one was to press him. Even gentle handling like John Candotti’s drove the man further away.
WHEN THE HEARINGS reconvened after this hiatus, there was no mistaking the change. They noticed the outward sign first. Sandoz was able to control a razor better now. The neatly trimmed beard was back, still black in the main, but with unfamiliar stripes of gray bracketing the long line of the mouth, just as the dark and now uninformative eyes had come to be bordered by streaks of silver in his hair.
They now saw, for the most part, whomever Sandoz wished them to see. Sometimes they were dealing with a Spaniard, invulnerable and aristocratic, a man who had rebuilt the castle walls and found some bastion from which to defend his integrity, and whose composure could not be disturbed by pointed questions about beloved children, now dead. Or Mephistopheles, dry-eyed and contained, to whom the lower depths of hell were known and familiar and drained of swampy emotion. Most often, it was Dr. Emilio Sandoz, linguist, scholar, a man of wide experience, attending a dreary colloquium that had some bearing on his specialty, after which his work and that of his colleagues might be published at last.
The sessions under this new regime got started with a question from Professor Reyes, comparative theologian, regarding the likelihood that the Runa had some concept of the soul. Dr. Sandoz, linguist, was on home ground and cited the Runa’s grammatical categories for reference to things unseen and nonvisual. Reyes thought this might indicate at least the capacity to understand the concept of soul, even if they had not developed it themselves.
"Quite likely," Sandoz agreed. "In comparison to the Jana’ata or to our own species, the Runa are not notably creative thinkers. Or perhaps I should say, not original. Once a basic idea has been provided, they are often quite creative in elaborating on it."
"It seems to me that this idea of ‘heart’ that keeps coming up might be analogous to soul," Felipe said.
"Understand that ‘heart’ is my translation, yes? It might be close to the concept of soul within a living person, but I don’t know if the Runa believe the essence of an individual persists beyond death—" He stopped. His body tensed, as though ready to stand, but then the Spaniard spoke. "When deaths occurred, I was not in a position to inquire about the Runa belief system." And Dr. Sandoz resumed a moment later, turning to Giuliani. "Anne Edwards sent back several papers on the subject of ‘heart.’ May I summarize her observations, sir? Or does that constitute a form of premature publication?"
"Nothing said in this room is for publication. Please."
Sandoz turned back to Felipe. "Dr. Edwards believed that the concept of ‘heart’ and the Runa’s theory of illness were closely related and both served as a rather benign means of social control. The Runa are not openly aggressive and claim never to become angry. If, for example, someone was refused a legitimate request or was thwarted or disappointed in some way, the aggrieved person would fall into a state of porai. When you are porai, your heart is sad and you may grow ill or become prone to accidents. Making someone sad is very bad form, yes? If you make someone else porai, you feel considerable social pressure to give in to the request or provide compensation to the supposed victim: apologize or make some gift that restores the victim’s heart to happiness."
"There would be a good deal of room for misuse of a concept like that," Voelker commented. "What prevents people from claiming they are porai simply to obtain presents?"
The Sparrow Page 38
