The Sparrow - Mary Doria Russell [151]
"Consulted!" Sandoz cried. "Look: I want that work published and if—"
"Father Sandoz," the Father General of the Society of Jesus reminded him, hands folded on the table, "you do not own that data."
There was a moment of stunned silence before Sandoz slumped in his seat and turned away, eyes closed, mouth hard, effectively check-mated. A minute or so later, one gloved hand went involuntarily to the side of his head, pressing against the temple. Giuliani got up and went to the lavatory for a glass of water and the bottle of Prograine he now kept handy. "One or two?" he asked when he got back. One tablet didn’t quite do the job; two flattened Sandoz for hours.
"One, damn you."
Giuliani placed the tablet in the palm of the glove Sandoz held out abruptly and watched as the man tossed the pill into his mouth and took the glass between his wrists. He could manage some things quite well with Candotti’s fingerless gloves on. The gloves reminded Giuliani of those once worn by cyclists; the athletic allusion made Sandoz seem less impaired without the braces, if you didn’t watch carefully. New braces were being fabricated.
Giuliani took the glass back to the lavatory and when he returned, Sandoz was resting his head on the heels of his hands, elbows on the table. Hearing Giuliani’s steps, he said almost soundlessly, "Turn off the lights."
Giuliani did so and then went to the windows to pull the heavy outer curtains closed as well. It was another gray day, but even dull light seemed to bother Emilio when he had a headache. "Would you like to lie down?" he asked.
"No. Shit. Give me some time."
Giuliani walked to his desk. Rather than open the door and tell the others himself, he routed a message to the front door, asking the porter to relay it to the men waiting outside his office: the afternoon’s meeting was canceled. Brother Edward was to wait in the hall for Father Sandoz.
To pass the time, Giuliani did some of what he still thought of as paperwork, reviewing several letters before signing off on transmission. In the quiet that now settled over the office, he could hear the elderly gardener, Father Crosby, whistling tunelessly outside the windows as he deadheaded the annuals and pinched back chrysanthemums. It was perhaps twenty minutes later when Emilio’s head came up and he sat back gingerly in his chair, the heel of one hand still pressing hard against the side of his forehead. Giuliani closed the file he was working on and went back to the table, sitting in the chair across from Emilio.
Sandoz’s eyes remained closed but, hearing the chair move, he said almost inaudibly, "I don’t have to stay here."
"No. You don’t," Giuliani agreed neutrally.
"I want that stuff published. I could write the papers again."
"Yes. You could do that."
"There must be someone who’d pay me for them. John says people will pay to interview me. I could make a living outside."
"I’m sure you could."
Sandoz, squinting into what seemed to him painfully bright light, looked directly at Giuliani. "So give me one good reason why I should put up with this crap, Vince. Why should I stay?"
"Why did you go?" Giuliani asked simply.
Sandoz looked blank, not understanding.
"Why did you go to Rakhat, Emilio?" Giuliani asked again gently. "Was it just a scientific expedition? Did you go just because you were a linguist and it sounded like an interesting project? Were you just another academic grubbing for publications? Did your friends really die for the data?"
The eyes closed and there was a long silence before his lips formed the word, "No."
"No. I didn’t think so." Giuliani took a deep breath and let it out. "Emilio, everything I have learned about the mission leads me to believe that you went for the greater glory of God. You believed that you and your companions were brought together by the will of God and that you arrived at your destination by the grace of God. In the beginning, everything you did was for the love