The Sparrow - Mary Doria Russell [2]
And then there was Rome itself. At the impromptu farewell party, everyone was so excited for him. "Rome, Johnny!" All that history, those beautiful churches, the art. He’d been excited too, dumb shit. What did he know?
John Candotti was born to flat land, straight lines, square city blocks; nothing in Chicago had prepared him for the reality of Rome. The worst was when he could actually see the building he wanted to get to but found the street he was on curving away from it, leading him to yet another lovely piazza with yet another beautiful fountain, dumping him into another alley going nowhere. Another hour, trapped and frustrated by the hills, the curves, the rat’s nest of streets smelling of cat piss and tomato sauce. He hated being lost, and he was always lost. He hated being late, and he was late all the time. The first five minutes of every conversation was John apologizing for being late and his Roman acquaintances assuring him it was no problem.
He hated it all the same, so he walked faster and faster, trying to get to the Jesuit Residence on time for a change, and collected an escort of small children, noisy with derision and obnoxious with delight at this bony, big-nosed, half-bald man with his flapping soutane and pumping arms.
"I’M SORRY TO keep you waiting." John Candotti had repeated the apology to each person along the way to Sandoz’s room and finally to Sandoz himself as Brother Edward Behr ushered him in and left him alone with the man. "The crowd outside is still huge. Do they ever go away? I’m John Candotti. The Father General asked me to help you at the hearings. Happy to meet you." He held out his hand without thinking, withdrawing it awkwardly when he remembered.
Sandoz did not rise from his chair by the window and at first, he either wouldn’t or couldn’t look in Candotti’s direction. John had seen archive images of him, naturally, but Sandoz was a lot smaller than he expected, much thinner; older but not as old as he should have been. What was the calculation? Seventeen years out, almost four years on Rakhat, seventeen years back, but then there were the relativity effects of traveling near light speed. Born a year before the Father General, who was in his late seventies, Sandoz was estimated by the physicists to be about forty-five, give or take a little. Hard years, by the look of him, but not very many of them.
The silence went on a long time. Trying not to stare at the man’s hands, John debated whether he should just go. It’s way too soon, he thought, Voelker must be crazy. Then, finally, he heard Sandoz ask, "English?"
"American, Father. Brother Edward is English but I’m American."
"No," Sandoz said after a while. "La lengua. English."
Startled, John realized that he’d misunderstood. "Yes. I speak a little Spanish, if you’d prefer that."
"It was Italian, creo. Antes—before, I mean. In the hospital. Sipaj— si yo ..." He stopped, close to tears, but got ahold of himself and spoke deliberately. "It would help ... if I could hear ... just one language for a while. English is okay."
"Sure. No problem. We’ll stick to English," John said, shaken. Nobody had told him Sandoz was this far gone. "I’ll make this a short visit, Father. I just wanted to introduce myself and see how you’re doing. There’s no rush about preparing for the hearings. I’m sure they can be postponed until you’re well enough to..."
"To do what?" Sandoz asked, looking directly at Candotti for the first time. A deeply lined face, Indian ancestry plain in the high-bridged nose, the wide cheekbones, the stoicism. John Candotti could not imagine this man laughing.
To defend yourself, John was going to say, but it seemed mean. "To explain what happened."
The silence inside the Residence was noticeable, especially by the window, where the endless carnival noise of the city could be heard. A woman was scolding a child in Greek. Tourists and reporters milled around, shouting over the constant