The Sparrow - Mary Doria Russell [169]
Supaari looked to the others. "Who then is the Elder?"
Emilio cleared his throat, as much to reassure himself that he could make a sound as to draw Supaari’s attention. He turned and indicated D. W. Yarbrough.
D.W., heart hammering, had not moved or spoken since he’d made a dive for the Winchester and, priest or not, prepared to blow the alien bastard in front of him straight to hell. He had thought that he would see Emilio’s severed head fall at his feet and he doubted that he’d ever forget that moment or the flood of blind rage that would have ended Supaari’s life if Emilio hadn’t taken care of the situation himself with such dispatch. "This one is the Elder," D.W. heard Emilio say, "though not the oldest. His decisions are for all of us."
Supaari saw only a middle-sized monster holding a rod that smelled of carbon steel, sulfur and lead. With no intermediary to speak his names, Supaari took the initiative and briefly moved his hands to his forehead. "This one is called Supaari, third-born, of the Gaha’ana lineage, whose landname is VaGayjur." He waited, ears cocked expectantly toward Sandoz.
Emilio realized that, as the interpreter, he was supposed to introduce Yarbrough. Winging it, he said, "The Elder is called Dee, first-born, of the Yarbrough lineage, whose landname is VaWaco."
A warrior, Supaari assumed, quite rightly but for the wrong reasons. Since their common language was Ruanja, he held out both hands, not knowing what else to do. "Challalla khaeri, Dee."
Yarbrough handed his rifle to George with a look that said, Use it if necessary. Then he stepped forward and laid his fingers in the cupped hollows of Supaari’s long upturned claws. "Challalla khaeri, Supaari," he said, squinty-eyed, with a pronounced Texas accent and an attitude that clearly implied the unsaid, You goddamned sonofabitch.
Anne was tempted to laugh out loud but she didn’t; forty-five years of dinner parties will out. Instead she stepped up to their guest and greeted him in the Runa manner without another thought. When their hands parted, she said, "Sipaj, Supaari! Surely you are hungry from your journey. Will you not eat with us now?"
He did. All in all, it was quite a day.
28
NAPLES:
AUGUST 2060
RELYING ON VAGUE directions from the porter and dead reckoning, John Candotti worked his way into the bowels of the retreat house to a dimly lit cellar that had been converted to a modern laundry facility in the 1930s, updated almost a hundred years later and never again since. The Society of Jesus, John noted, was willing to commit to interstellar travel on less than two weeks’ notice, but it did not rush into things like new laundry equipment. The ultrasonic washers were antiques now but still functional. In sunny weather, the wet wash was still line-dried. The whole setup reminded John of his grandmother’s basement except, of course, she’d used a microwave dryer, rain or shine.
He had almost walked past the room when, listening more closely, he realized that he’d just heard Emilio Sandoz humming. Actually, he hadn’t been sure it was Sandoz, since John had never before heard Emilio make any sound remotely like humming. But there he was, unshaven and comfortable-looking in somebody else’s old clothes, pulling damp bed linen out of one of the washers and piling it into a rattan basket that was probably older than the Vatican.
John cleared his throat. Emilio turned at the sound and looked stern. "I hope you don’t expect to walk into my office and see me without an appointment, young man."
John grinned and looked around. "Brother Edward said they’d put you to work down here. Very nice. Kind of Bauhaus."
"Form follows function. Dirty laundry requires this sort of ambience." Emilio held up a wet pillowcase. "Prepare to be dazzled." He managed to fold it remarkably well before tossing it onto the pile in the basket.
"So those are the new braces!" John cried. The hearings had been canceled for a few weeks while Sandoz worked with Paola Marino, the Milanese bioengineer whom the Father General had brought in when Father Singh couldn