Sophie's Choice - William Styron [127]
“Bad luck, two nuns,” she said morosely, then, after a pause, added, “I hate them! Weren’t they awful-looking!”
“I thought you were brought up a good sweet Catholic girl,” I said in a joshing tone.
“I was,” she replied, “but that was long ago. Anyway, I would hate nuns even if I cared about religion. Silly, stupid virgins! And so horrible-looking!” A tremor passed through her, she shook her head. “Awful! Oh, how I hate that stupid religion!”
“You know, it’s really strange, Sophie,” I put in, “I remember a few weeks ago how you were telling me about your devout childhood, and your belief, and all that. What is it that—”
But she shook her head again in a brisk, negative way, and lay her slender fingers on the back of my hand. “Please, Stingo, those nuns make me feel so pourri—rotten. Stinking. Those nuns grubbling...” She hesitated, looking perplexed.
“I think you mean groveling,” I said.
“Yes, groveling in front of a God who must be a monster, Stingo, if He exist. A monster!” She paused. “I don’t want to talk about religion. I hate religion. It is for, you know, des analphabétes, imbecile peoples.” She cast a glance at her wristwatch and remarked that it was after seven. Anxiety edged her voice. “Oh, I hope Nathan is okay.”
“Don’t worry, he’s going to be fine,” I said again in my most reassuring voice. “Look, Sophie, Nathan’s really been under tremendous pressure with this research project, this breakthrough, whatever it is. That strain is bound to make him behave, well, erratically—you know what I mean? Don’t worry about him. I’d have a headache too if I’d been through his kind of wringer—especially when it’s resulted in this incredible achievement.” I paused. I seemed constantly compelled to add, “Whatever it is.” I patted her hand in return. “Now please, just relax. He’ll be here in a minute, I’m certain.” At this point I made another reference to my father and his arrival in New York (fondly mentioning his generous concern for me, and his moral support, though making no note of the slave Artiste and his part in my destiny, rather doubting that Sophie had sufficient comprehension of American history, at least yet, to be able to grasp the complexities of the debt I owed to that black boy), and I continued in a general way to praise the luck of those young men like myself, relatively few in number, who possessed parents of such tolerance and selflessness and the will to have faith, blind faith, in a son reckless enough to seek to pluck a few leaves from the laurel branch of art. I was getting a little bit high. Fathers of this largeness of vision and amplitude of spirit were scarce, I averred sentimentally, beginning to feel my lips tingling from the beer.
“Oh, you’re so lucky to still have a father,” said Sophie in a faraway voice. “I miss my father so.”
I felt a little ashamed—no, not ashamed, inadequate would be better—thinking suddenly of the story she had told me, some weeks before, about her father herded together with the other Cracow professors like so many pigs, the Nazi machine guns, the stifling vans, Sachsenhausen, then death by firing squad in the cold snows of Germany. God, I thought, what Americans had been spared in our era, after all. Oh, we had done our brave and needful part as warriors,