The Sparrow - Mary Doria Russell [111]
Finally the fury had burned down and today, Sandoz seemed simply tired and depressed. The morning had been difficult. They were going over the death of Alan Pace. Edward Behr speculated that the man’s heart might have fibrillated. There’d have been no evidence of that in an autopsy. Emilio seemed indifferent. Who knew? When John offered to redesign the gloves and make a new pair this afternoon, Sandoz shrugged listlessly and seemed willing to sit at the same table at least while Candotti worked on the new pattern.
"I used to make gloves and shoes for a living," John told him.
Emilio looked up. "Everything was mass-produced when I left."
"Yeah, well, it mostly still is but for a while, there were a bunch of us who were going to bring dignity back to human labor," John said cynically, embarrassed to admit this. "Everyone was going to have a trade, and we’d all buy only handmade things, to make a market for it all. We weren’t exactly Luddites or hippies, but it was that kind of thing. Make a shoe, save the world, right?"
Sandoz held up his hands, the braces dull in the shade. "That’s a movement that’s going to pass me by. Unless someone wants to make a market for putting pebbles into cups."
"Well, it’s long gone anyhow. You’re doing better with those," John told him, motioning at the braces with his thimble. Only a few months ago, Sandoz had almost sweat blood just to close his hand around a stone the size of his fist.
"I hate these things," Emilio said flatly.
"You do? Why?"
"At last. A simple question with an easy answer. I hate the braces because they hurt. And I am tired of pain." Emilio looked away, watching bees service daylilies and roses in the bright sunlight beyond the arbor shade. "My hands hurt and my head is pounding and the braces bruise my arms. I feel like hell all the time. I’m sick to death of it, John."
It was the first time John Candotti had ever heard the man complain. "Look. Let me take them off for you, okay?" He stood and reached across the table, ready to unfasten the harnesses. "You’ve done enough for today. Come on."
Emilio hesitated. He hated also that he could neither put on nor take off the braces himself and was dependent on Brother Edward to do this for him. He was used to that and to worse, with Edward, but had rarely allowed anyone else to touch him since leaving the hospital. It was a struggle to permit it. Finally, he held out his hands, one after the other.
There was always more pain when the pressure was released, the blood moving back into cramped, exhausted muscles. He closed his eyes and waited, stiff-faced, for the sensation to ease and was startled when Candotti picked up one of his arms and began to massage some feeling back into it. He pulled away, dreading that someone might see them and make some insufferable remark. The same thought occurred to Candotti perhaps, for he didn’t protest.
"Can I ask you something, Emilio?"
"John, please. I already answered a thousand questions today."
"It’s just—why did they do this to you? Was it torture? I mean, it looks like such a neat job."
Sandoz let out an explosive breath. "I am not entirely sure I understand it myself. The procedure was called hasta’akala." Draping his hands on the rough wood of the table like a merchant displaying a length of cloth for a buyer, he stared at them without evident emotion. "It wasn’t supposed to be torture. I was told that the Jana’ata sometimes do this to their own friends. Supaari was surprised by how bad it was for us. I don’t think Jana’ata hands are innervated as extensively as ours. They don’t do much fine motor work. The Runa do all that."
John said nothing, chilled, but stopped stitching and listened.
"It might have been an exercise in aesthetics. Maybe long fingers are more beautiful. Or a way of controlling us. We didn’t have to work but then again, we couldn’t have. There were servants to take care of us. After. Marc Robichaux and I were the only ones left by then. It was supposed to be an honorable