Children of God s-2

by Mary Doria Russel

  "Excuse me?" Sandoz said, coming to a halt. "The Mother General?" He snorted. "You’re joking!"

  Patras, already a few steps down the hall, turned back, brows up curiously: Is there a problem? Sandoz stared at him, dumbfounded.

  "Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I am joking," Patras said then, delighted when Sandoz burst into laughter.

  "You know, it’s not nice to tease old people," Emilio told him as they resumed their walk. "How long have you been waiting to use that line?"

  "Fifteen years. I have a Ph.D. from Ganesh Man Singh University— mission history, with an emphasis on Rakhat. You were my thesis topic."

  For the next few hours, they concentrated on the process of introducing Rukuei to new companions and new surroundings. In the press of duties, personal considerations were laid aside, but before the end of that long first day, Emilio Sandoz said to Patras Yalamber Tamang, "There was a woman—"

  Inquiries followed; databases were searched. She had, evidently, remarried, changed her surname; had shunned publicity and lived as private a life as wealth could buy and guilt enforce. It was remarkably difficult to find even a minimal actuarial mention of her.

  "I am so very sorry," Patras told him weeks later. "She passed away last year."

  ARIANA FIOR HAD ALWAYS ENJOYED THE DAY OF THE DEAD. SHE LIKED the cemetery, tidy and rectilinear, with its stone paths freshly swept between rows and rows of high-walled burial niches—an island of grace amid the noise of Naples. The vaults themselves, stacked six high, were always brushed and dustless on November first, golden in autumnal sunlight or gleaming in silvery rain. She was an archaeologist, accustomed to the presence of the dead, and savored this orderliness, taking pleasure in the sharp scent of chrysanthemums mingling with the deeper musk of fallen leaves.

  Some of the loculi were simple: a polished brass plaque with a name and dates, the tiny luminos kept burning for a time after the death. The proud and the prosperous often added a small screen that could be activated with a touch, and she’d have liked to go from vault to vault, meeting the inhabitants, hearing about their lives, but resisted the impulse.

  All around her, there were low voices and the crunch of footsteps on gravel paths. "Poveretto," she heard now and then, as flowers were placed with a sigh in a loculo’s little vase. Old affections, grudges, attachments and debts were silently acknowledged and then put aside for another year. Adults gossiped, children fidgeted. There was a sense of occasion and a formality that appealed to Ariana, but the cemetery was not a scene of active grief.

  Which is why she noticed the man sitting on the bench in front of Gina’s vault, gloved hands limp in his lap. Alone among the mourners on this cool and sunny day, he was crying, eyes open, silent tears slipping down a still face.

  She had no wish to impose herself on this stranger, had not even been certain that he would come today. His first months out of isolation were a circus, a whirlwind of public interest and private receptions—every moment accounted for. Ariana had waited a long time, but she was patient by nature. And now: here he was.

  "Padre?" she said, soft-voiced and certain.

  Solitary in sorrow, he hardly glanced at her. "I am not a priest, madam," he said as dryly as a crying man could, "and I am no one’s father."

  "Look again," she said.

  He did, and saw a dark-haired woman standing behind a baby stroller, her son so young that he still slept curled, in memory of the womb. There was a long silence as Emilio studied her face—blurred and shifting in the dampness—a complex amalgam of the Old World and the New, the living and the dead. He laughed once, and sobbed once, and laughed again, astonished. "You have your mother’s smile," he said finally, and her grin widened. "And my nose, I’m afraid. Sorry about that."

  "I like my nose!" she cried indignantly. "I have your eyes, too. Mamma always told me that when I got angry: You have your father’s eyes!"

  He laughed again, not quite sure how to feel about that, "Were you angry a lot?"

  "No. I don’t think so. Well, I have my moods, I suppose." She drew herself up formally and said, "I am Ariana Fiore. You are Emilio Sandoz, I presume?"

  He was really laughing now, the tears forgotten. "I can’t believe it," he said, shaking his head. "I can’t believe it!" He looked around, dazed, and then moved over on the bench and said, "Please, sit down. Do you come here often? Listen to me! I sound like I’m trying to pick you up in a bar! Do they still have bars?"

  They talked and talked, as the afternoon light washed their faces with gold, Ariana filling him in on the barest outlines of the years of his absence. "Celestina’s the chief set designer at the Teatro San Carlo," she told him. "She’s been married four times so far—"

  "Four? My God!" he said, eyes wide. "Has it ever occurred to her that she should rent, not buy?"

  "That is exactly what I told her!" Ariana cried, feeling as though she had known this man all her life. "To be honest," she said, "I think perhaps—"

  "She leaves them before they can leave her," he suggested.

  Ariana grimaced, but then confided, "Honestly—she is such a drama queen! I swear she gets married because she likes the weddings. You should see the parties she throws! You probably will, before long— she’s on tour with the opera company right now, and that’s usually bad news for her current husband. Now, when Giampaolo and I got married, we had five friends and the magistrate—but we really earned the party we had for our tenth anniversary last year!"

  Roused by the talk and the laughter, the baby stretched and whimpered. They both watched, quiet and in suspense. When it seemed likely that the child would not awaken, Ariana spoke again, very softly now. "I finally got pregnant just after Mamma died. You know what we say at New Year’s?"

  "Buon fine, buon principio," he said. "A good end, a good beginning."

  "Yes. I was hoping for a girl. I thought it would be as though Mamma had come back, somehow." She smiled and shrugged, and reached out to touch the baby’s plump and downy cheek. "His name is Tommaso."

  "How did your mother die?" he asked at last.

  "Well, you know she was a nurse. After I started school, she went back to work. You left us very well provided for, but she wanted to be of use." Emilio nodded, face still. "Anyway, there was an epidemic—they still haven’t isolated the pathogen—it’s all over the world now. For some reason, older women were hit hardest. They called it the Nonna Disease here in Naples because it killed so many grandmothers. The last coherent thing Mamma said was, ’God’s got a lot of explaining to do.’»

  Emilio wiped his eyes on his coat sleeve and laughed. "That sounds like Gina."

  For a long while, they did not speak but only listened to the birdsong and the conversations around them. "Of course," Ariana said as though no time had passed, "God never explains. When life breaks your heart, you’re just supposed to pick up the pieces and start over, I guess."

  She glanced down at Tommaso, sleeping in his stroller. Needing the comfort of his warm, little body, she leaned over and lifted him carefully, one hand behind his peach-fuzz head, the other under his little bottom. After a time, she smiled at her father and asked, "Would you like to hold your grandson?"

  Kids and babies, he thought. Don’t do this to me again.

  But there was no way to resist. He looked at this undreamt-of daughter and at her tiny child—frowning and milky in dreamless sleep—and found room in the crowded necropolis of his heart.

  "Yes," he said finally, amazed and resigned and somehow content. "Yes. I would like that very much."

  Acknowledgments

  ONCE AGAIN, I WOULD LIKE TO MAKE KNOWN A FEW OF MY SOURCES. John Candotti’s insight into Exodus 33:17–23 is from the Chatam Sofer (quoted in Sparks Beneath the Surface, by Lawrence Kushner). The geneticist Susumu Ohno has, in real life, converted the genetic code for slime mold and mice into musical notation; the results reportedly resemble something by Bach, although harmony has yet to be discovered in the sequences. The extraordinary autobiographies of Tem
ple Grandin and Donna Williams were windows into autism, as was a searingly honest and beautiful book, The Siege, by Clara Claiborne Park. The poem whose refrain is "The meat defiant…" is "Counterattack," by Wladyslaw Szlengel, quoted in I Remember Nothing More, by Adina Blady Szwajger. Sean Fein and I learned all our chemistry from Bettye Kaplan and from Water, Ice and Stone, by Bill Green, whose prose is as translucently beautiful as the Antarctic lakes he studies. Two songs were often on my mind as I wrote: Robbie Robertson’s «Testimony» and Richard Strauss’s "Beim Schlafengehn."

  Maura Kirby was there at the conception of this book. Kate Sweeney and Jennifer Tucker helped me on a daily basis during its gestation and stood by me during the long labor to bring it forth; they have both taught me a great deal about the ferocity of the artist. Mary Dewing not only taught me to write, she also taught me (and Nico) to appreciate opera. David Kennedy, Aitor Esteban and Roberto Marino helped with details of Belfastian English, Euskara and Neapolitan Italian, respectively. My initial reaction to criticism is always to hide behind the furnace and suck my thumb; nevertheless, the following people told me what I needed to know about early versions of this book, and each of them showed me ways to improve it: Ray Bucko, S.J.; Miriam Goderich; Tomasz and Maria Rybak; Vivian Singer; Marty Connell, S.J.; Ellie D’Addio; Richard Doria, Sr.; Louise Dewing Doria; Rod Tulonen; Ken Foster; Kathie Colonnese; Paula Sanch; Judith Roth; Leslie Turek; Delia Sherman; and Kevin Ballard, S.J. One of the great and enduring benefits of having written The Sparrow has been the friendship offered me by many members of the Society of Jesus; I hope they will forgive me for the kidnapping in this book. Vince Giuliani and I knew it was a lousy thing to do, but we just couldn’t think of any other way to get Emilio to go back to Rakhat!

  No one could ask for an agent more resourceful and canny than Jane Dystel, and I am so glad that her associate Miriam Goderich finally talked her into taking a look at The Sparrow! Leona Nevler and David Rosenthal took the initial leap of faith that made this book and The Sparrow possible, and I will always be grateful to them. The staff at Villard and Ballantine have been uniformly wonderful, but special thanks go to Brian McLendon, whose skill as a publicist is matched by his humor and good sense, and to Marysue Rucci, who accomplished a seamless editorial transition, and to Dennis Ambrose for his cheerful patience with my last-minute changes. Thanks also to the salespeople at Random House and in bookstores, who hand-sold The Sparrow, and to the many readers who were kind enough to tell me that they were glad I quit anthro and took a flier at fiction. I know how much I owe you all, and I hope Children of God lived up to your expectations.

  Finally, immeasurable love and gratitude to Don and Daniel, my very best husband and my very best son, whose support and affection and patience and laughter nourish my soul. Thanks, guys.

  M.D.R

  Children of God

  MARY DORIA RUSSELL

  A Reader’s Guide

  A Conversation with Mary Doria Russell

  Q: How would you describe the themes of this book?

  MDR: The Sparrow was about the role of religion in the lives of many people, from atheist to mystic, and about the role of religion in history, from the Age of Discovery to the Space Age. I suppose that Children of God is about the aftermath of irreversible tragedy, about the many ways that we struggle to make sense of tragedy. It’s about the stories we tell ourselves, and the ways we justify our decisions, to bring ourselves to some kind of peace. And I guess it’s about the way time reveals significance, strips away self-serving excuses, lays truth bare, and both blunts pain and sharpens insight.

  Q: In describing your reasons for writing a sequel, you were quoted as saying, "I left my main character impaled on the horns of a dilemma, and I wasn’t able to let it go at that." What was the dilemma to which you were referring?

  MDR: Well, Emilio articulates this at the end of The Sparrow and in the Prelude to this book: If he accepts that the spiritual beauty and the religious rapture he experienced were real and true, then all the rest of it—the violence, the deaths, the maiming, the assaults, the humiliations—all that was God’s will, too. Either God is vicious—deliberately causing evil or at least allowing it to happen—or Emilio is a deluded ape who’s taken a lot of old folktales far too seriously. That may not be good theology, but at the beginning of Children of God, Emilio believes those are his only choices: bitterness or atheism, hatred or absurdity.

  Q: How is that dilemma resolved in Children of God?

  MDR: About a millennium ago, Maimonides wrote that whenever anything in the universe strikes us as stupid, or ugly, or absurd, it’s because our breadth of knowledge is too narrow and our depth of understanding is too shallow for us to perceive God’s intent. That was the theology I was drawing on in Children of God. To me, it meant that God works on a vast canvas, and He paints with time. It’s only with hindsight, sometimes many generations after an event, that we see the significance of some tragedy or the importance of some obscure turning point in history. Or perhaps it just takes us that long to think up a convincing rationale for why things happened as they did, and then we ascribe it to Providence! Anyway, unlike those of us who live a normal life span, Emilio Sandoz’s life span is almost tripled because of the contraction of time during the voyages to and from Rakhat. He is given the unique opportunity to see the outcome of events that seemed to be unredeemable when they happened.

  Q: Why did you choose Children of God as the title for this book?

  MDR: On one level, the title refers to the powerful notion that if we are all children of God, then we can become one family over time. It’s very subversive, that idea—it undermines hierarchies, erodes aristocracies. It makes the discontent of the powerless and the rebellion of the disenfranchised sacred, because it implies that each soul is sovereign and of value. And it challenges its believers to build a world where the inequities of the past are less glaring and brutal. It doesn’t matter if God is real or not—once the idea exists, it can change history. On another level, this book is about the revolutionary effect of children. The story begins with babies and ends with babies. There are babies born throughout the story. Even Cece the guinea pig has babies! There are children who are rejected, who are difficult to love, who are sure of their significance or ashamed of their heritage; there are children we get to know and others whose potential is only guessed at. Over time, each of them has some role to play in this unfolding drama, and on that level, the title implies that they are children of destiny, children whom God needed to complete the creation of the world He has in mind.

  Q: The Sparrow received lavish praise, won numerous awards, and is still selling steadily and well. How much pressure does such success generate for you as a writer?

  MDR: A ton. A ton of pressure! Now, I put most of the pressure on myself, and did so long before there was any hope that The Sparrow would ever be published. But I admit that I was terrified of getting reviews that started out, "What a disappointment after such a promising debut…" So the reaction to Children of God, particularly from readers, has been a great relief. Personally, I like The Sparrow better than the sequel, but that’s evidently a minority view. I get a lot of mail, and about 80 percent of the people who write liked the second book better, as did a startling number of critics. In some ways, that’s scary because I don’t know what I did differently that made most people like the sequel more. Maybe it’s the sense of closure—The Sparrow left you hanging. Children of God has a more peaceful ending.

  Q: What’s the toughest thing about writing a sequel?

  MDR: I thought of Children of God as the second half of one big book. So the hard part was harmonizing the plots, letting the characters change but in ways that were consistent with who they were in The Sparrow.

  Q: Novelists frequently describe how their characters take on a life of their own, moving the story line in entirely unexpected directions. Were there any similar surprises for you as you wrote Children of God?

  MDR: Well, Sean Fein kind of walked i
nto my head and started kicking butt. He was a real surprise to me, and he turned out to be just what Emilio needed. Shetri Laaks was great fun—he showed up late in the book, but he had such a strong individual voice, and he kept making me laugh. But I’d have to say that the most striking example of characters taking over was in The Sparrow. I practically made Sofia Mendes for Emilio—I was just throwing them together and I had this whole scene in my mind where Sofia would go to Emilio and say, "Serve God. Love me!" And I had a big dramatic confrontation planned, except that Sofia turned around and said, "I would never do that. I’m not stupid—I know what he’d choose, and I’d never expose myself to that kind of rejection." I’m hearing her say this, right? And I’m mentally sputtering, "But, but, but—" when Sofia says, "On the other hand, Jimmy has grown up quite a bit…" I swear, my honest reaction was, "He’s too tall for you!" I was just completely flummoxed by that turn of events, but Sofia was right. And Isaac was born! Just goes to show…

  Q: What do you think will be the most surprising to readers of this book?

  MDR: I hope that they’ll be startled by how wrong they were about Supaari when they finished reading The Sparrow. I admit it: that was a set-up. I gave readers an opportunity to make the same mistakes about Supaari that people on Earth made about Emilio Sandoz when he first came back. Everything you knew about Supaari indicated that he was a decent, honorable man who was doing his best to cope with this wholly unprecedented situation—first contact with aliens. Then he gives Emilio to the Reshtar, and you think, "That scum-sucking social climber! That miserable, no good—" But you’re just as wrong about Supaari as Johannes Voelker was about Emilio Sandoz.