The Sparrow - Mary Doria Russell [110]
But the Father General said, "So you memorize the rules and you try not to expose yourself to humiliation."
"Yes."
"And you are stiff and formal in direct proportion to how completely you feel out of your element."
"Yes."
"Thank you. That explains a lot. I should have realized—"
They were interrupted by another shouted conversation in Italian as they hove back in toward Naples and came near another boat. Reyes caught something about the bambinos. Irritably, he asked, "Don’t any of these people actually fish?"
"No, I don’t think so," Giuliani said genially. "They certainly know their way around boats, but they don’t fish."
Puzzled now, Felipe looked at him. "You know all these guys, don’t you?"
"Yes. Second cousins, mostly." Giuliani grinned as Reyes worked it out.
"I don’t believe it. Mafia! They’re Mafia, aren’t they," said Felipe, eyes bulging.
"Oh, goodness. I wouldn’t say that. One never says that. Of course, I don’t know for certain what their major source of income is," Giuliani admitted, his voice dry and soft as flour, "but I could take an educated guess." He glanced at Felipe and very nearly laughed. "And in any case, the Mafia is Sicilian. In Naples, it’s the Camorra. Amounts to the same thing, I suppose," he mused. "Funny, isn’t it. My grandfather and Emilio Sandoz’s grandfather were in the same line of work. Sandoz reminds me a little of my grandfather, now that I think of it. He was also a charming man in his own element but very stiff and wary with people he didn’t trust or was uncomfortable with. And I felt privileged to be a member of his inner circle. I’d have walked across hot coals for my grandfather. Coming about."
Felipe was too dumbfounded to move and Giuliani had to yank him out of the way of the boom. He let Reyes absorb it for a while and then spoke again, reminiscing. "My father was relatively clean but the family money was as dirty as it comes. I found out when I was about seventeen. Very idealistic age, seventeen." The Father General glanced at Reyes. "I never cease to marvel at the variety of motives men have for the priesthood. I suppose originally, for me, the vow of poverty was a way of compensating."
He began lowering the jib and took over the tiller, to bring the boat into dock. "The first cutter I ever sailed was a gift from my grandfather, and dirty money bought it. Probably bought this boat as well, come to think of it. And it’s buying Emilio Sandoz the privacy and protection he needs, even as we speak. That’s why we’re in Naples, Reyes. Because my family owns this town."
"WHERE DID YOU learn to make gloves like this?" Emilio asked John.
They were sitting outdoors, on opposite sides of a wooden table in the green shade of a grape arbor. Servos whirring spasmodically, Emilio was doggedly picking up pebbles one by one from the table, dropping them into a cup, and then tipping them out again to start the exercise over with the other hand, while John Candotti stitched the latest pair of gloves.
John had been almost glad to see that an earlier design was flawed, a seam running too close to the scar tissue between two of the fingers, rubbing it raw. It was an opening, a way to reestablish some kind of peace between them. Sandoz had barely spoken to him since that first awful day of the hearings, except to accuse John of allowing him to be blindsided.
"I thought you were supposed to help me prepare for this shit," he’d snarled when John approached him the next day. "You let me walk in there cold, you sonofabitch. You could have warned me, John. You could have given me some idea of what they said."
John was at a loss. "I tried! I did, dammit! And anyway, you knew what happened—" He thought Sandoz was going to hit him then, as ludicrous as that might have been, a small sick angry man with wrecked hands attacking him. Instead